OK, not so fun

FUCK IT.

I stuck a semi-funny post I was just trying to write in the draft folder ’cause that’s not where my head is right now. I was trying to be a good girl at work today; no IM, no internet, straight work. Then my mom’s number showed up on the caller ID.

Hi moooooooom!!!

Juliana. It’s dad. Your mom had a small accident, she fell down the stairs and hit her head. She’s awake and answering questions now but she was unconscious for a little bit after the fall so the paramedics are taking her to the hospital.

I froze. My dad told me not to worry, insisted everything was perfectly fine and that he was on the way to the hospital too. I had a lot of work to catch up on, so I decided to stay put. Twenty minutes later it dawned on me; my dad speaks horrible English. I called him to see what was up and he said he had just gotten to the hospital. He is an extremely proud man and though he wouldn’t admit it, I could tell he was feeling kind of lost. I told him to find his way to the emergency room, sit down and wait for me to call him back. I got in the car and called the hospital.  The operator transferred me to the nurse who was caring for her. She told me my mom was OK and I asked her to relay the message that dad would be there in a few minutes and I was on my way as well. Then I called my dad.

Go up to anyone behind a desk and say: “My wife is in the hospital. Please help translate.” Then hand him/her the phone.

I spoke with a hospital attendant who looked up my mom’s info and told me he’d guide my dad to where she was. I called again and my dad confirmed he was with her. Two cigarettes later I cried a little bit. My parents have been the most SOLID ROCKS in my life. My mother is a superb woman who takes equally good care of my father as she did (and does) with her children. My dad is an intelligent, kind, and protective man who, at that moment, couldn’t exactly be much help to her.

Seeing your mom on a hospital bed with an IV is not cool, but my dad despises drama, so I didn’t cry. I accompanied her as the staff moved her around for an x-ray and CAT scan, and went into the bathroom with her when she needed to go. I didn’t want to leave her side until she was back home with clear test results.

I’m in the kitchen now, my mom, dad and sister are watching American Idol in the living room.

Juliana, you need to go home. It’s getting late, Tori needs you.

Be quiet, woman, you hit your head, you’re confused.

It’s fucking scary to think “what if” scenarios, so I won’t. I’m just happy to be here, I’m happy to have a fucking amazing family, and I’m already happy for all the moments we still have ahead of us.

True Story

Woke up at 7 because I want to try to do a little morning writing from now on – it’s what I do on the weekends and I’d like to develop the habit Monday-Friday as well. I gave up after realizing today’s attempt was doomed to drudging nonsense dripping from my fingertips and started my morning routine. Took the dog outside and she ran (ahead of a caffeine-free, thus not very attentive version of me) to the back of the house, where she normally sniffs, pees, marks, poops, chases squirrels… except this time I was extra slow to get back there, and once I did, she was face-to-face with a skunk.

NO! TORI, NO! NO! COME HERE! NOOOOOO! YOU STUPID DOG, NOOOOOO!!!

The skunk turned around, a second later Tori winced. She then took off, ran past me and back to our doorstep. The skunk went merrily and slowly on its way and I ran back to Tori, who had a sad, WTF look on her face. Her right eye was shut. I couldn’t leave her tied up outside to check the internets for what one does with a skunk-sprayed dog (she’s a shelter dog, was DEFINITELY once abused, is very shy, and freaks the fuck out if I leave her tied up anywhere for more than .5 seconds), so back into the apartment we went. I kept her in the kitchen, opened all windows, and read that I’d need hydrogen peroxide and baking soda for an anti-funk concoction to wash her body. Her face, however, should be rubbed with douche. Fan-fucking-tastic. Back to CVS Pharmacy and its chipper feminine hygiene section.

Still without any caffeine and now smelling like road kill, I wandered the aisles in search of peroxide, baking soda, and rubber gloves, trying to avoid people. Score. Then, three shelves below vaginal liquibeads I found CVS-brand Triple Cleansing formula Disposable Douche.
a. I’ve had disposable douches before, but never from a pharmacy, and I certainly never had to pay for it. In fact, I think I should’ve demanded recompense.
b. ladies! what are we (read: you) putting up our (your) vaginas to justify the need for a Triple Cleansing formula?
The world can be a very confusing place for this simple girl and her curious dumb dog.

When paying for my supplies, I was asked the customary “how are you?”

Fine, thanks. My dog just got sprayed by a skunk. I have to wash her face with douche and the rest of her body with a peroxide and baking soda mix.

She didn’t need to know that. I needed her to know that. I needed her to know that my vagina was in tip-top shape, thanks, and the douche was certainly not for her.

Oh man, that SUCKS! What a way to start your Friday! Good luck!

Thanks, have a great day!

On my way home, I stopped by Dunkin’ Donuts for a medium-hot-black so Tori could have my brain fully functioning to care for her. I know Dunkin’ is shit. Spare me your [caffeine-fueled] diatribe. I usually make my own coffee as soon as I get into work, but I didn’t make it to work first thing in the morning, did I?

When I got back, Tori’s right eye was really watery and she had crazy-face; that’s when her eyes (well, just the left one this time) get really wide open and she breathes fast through her mouth in a slightly psychotic way – that’s what she does when she’s stressed out. I rubbed the douche solution on her face, dropped some saline solution in her eye and got her in the bathtub for the peroxide-baking soda-liquid soap treatment. She was happy when it was all over, but 10mins later she started closing her right eye and looking miserable again. My boss (an angel in Russian man disguise, bless you, Dadya Borya) told me not to worry about coming in at any specific time; I could even take the day off if I felt like it.  I decided to take Tori to the Merwin Memorial Free Clinic at noon. It was 10:30, so in the meantime I ”worked from home” via Gmail chat:

“co-worker”: did you ever send so-and-so the $500?
me: i dont know who that is
“co-worker”: the broker. from wellesley. for her consultation.
me: again, i don’t remember who she is, i’ll have to look at records
“co-worker”: well she says she never got it
me: wait a second, that’s the lady i had to chase for two weeks to get an address so I could pay HER, right???
“co-worker”: i think so
me: if that’s her, then yes i sent the bitch a check. i’ll confirm if she cashed it when i get in

At the clinic, Tori, even with a bum eye, imposed her massive attitude on all the miniature-whatevers, sorry-excuse-for-dog looking things that yapped incessantly inside their Coach-brand carriers (angry sidetracking: if you can afford $800 for a rat-dog and however much else for that hideous mobile cage, you shouldn’t be at this clinic. You’re probably the visitors who don’t contribute anything. Why are you always so loud and obnoxious? Tori is a GIRL, don’t call her a “he.” Don’t you see the pink harness? I despise your kind). The vet gave her a rabies booster shot and applied an anti-bacterial ointment to her eye, which I’m to apply 3x/day for five days. Visit: $18 for the shot, $13 for the ointment, and $14 donation. Comfortable and healthy pooch: Priceless. Now it’s time to get the funk out of my apartment while Tori naps on the couch. What a stressful day for my little old lady.

Merwin Memorial:
This is a fantastic clinic with a helpful and friendly staff of volunteers that is run solely through donations. Visitors pay cost price for shots and meds – that’s it.  But if one dares to use their services without dropping at least $5 into the donation box, I hereby curse him/her to an abysmal case of diarrhea post consumption of his/her next pint of beer.

Anal beads and microscopic warfare

I’m sick, slightly delirious, and am having a hard time finding energy to focus on an attempt at quality writing. But I’m trying to write at least once a day, so here go a bunch of words thrown together until I’ve sufficiently bored myself.

I’m a pathetic miserable sight right now. The loudness of my frequent sneezes makes my dog jump each time. Breathing out of my mouth with a tissue stuck up my nostrils, sweating all kinds of nasty, and munching on Lindt chocolate. I remember something about healthy eating habits in a distant past, but the memory escapes me.

Being sick can be a drag when you live alone. I remember when I had the stomach flu a couple of months after I’d first moved out on my own. I was so miserable and tired of vomiting, I cried sitting on the bathroom floor in my underwear with my head barely out of the toilet. Seriously, how fucking sad is that? It’s all my mother’s fault. She was too good to me; setting alarms so I could take my antibiotics right on time in the middle of the night, homemade soups, whatever-I-wanted for breakfast… clearly trying to set me up for lifelong failure.

I don’t mind sickness alone anymore. I just make sure to change my bedding so my nasty germs don’t get recycled, shower twice a day (for the same reason), take meds, drink water, wear my glasses to give my eyes a break from the contacts, and rejoice in the extra time to catch up on my readings and movie watching. I still take the dog on (shorter, slower) walks, so I get some fresh air too. When necessary, I stumble into CVS Pharmacy looking like a drugged out hoodlum version of Rudolph and wander the aisles talking to myself until I find all the things I can buy to feel better. Walking by the feminine hygiene aisle is always a blast; why do we need so much crap for our vaginas? Take this, for example:

"exploding quietly inside you for unparalleled comfort"

What the hell IS that? Reminds me of what I once found at the gynecologist’s office:

now that I think of it, I shouldn't have touched them.

Those are anal beads and I won’t hear otherwise. I just wasn’t aware of the liquid vagina beads. But then again, a quick search for “fetish” on PornHub should render one un-fazed by most things.

Where the hell was I? I don’t know and my brain is tired. I sign off with an excerpt from the most righteous of dudes, a man whose words everyone should read, especially if they like intelligence, satire, badassness, truth, common sense, hilarity, and distinguishable writing. It’s from his book Kingdom of Fear, which I so fortuitously just picked up on Saturday and will have the pleasure of reading as my immune system and its chemical allies wage war against this Nazi virus. This bit made me laugh because, as a writing enthusiast, I’ve found myself guilty of lame “wrap up” attempts too many times…

The Author’s Note – if it exists at all – is invariably the worst and lamest part of any book, my own included. That is because it is necessarily the last and most blind-dumb desperate “final touch” that gets heaped into a book just before it goes to the printer – and the whole book, along with the two years of feverish work and anguish, is doomed to failure and ruin if the author won’t produce the note in time for publication.
- Hunter S. Thompson

Tori, the destroyer, and overcoming inexplicable laziness

Friends who come over and see my laptop wonder how the fuck I live with myself. I guess I have a high tolerance for shit (and lots of love for my dog). I mostly use my laptop on the couch or in bed, with Tori right next to me. Sometimes she decides I need love, so she jumps on my lap, puts her front paws on my shoulders, licks my face and/or rubs her neck on it. I call it face-raping. It’s pretty gross and I usually wash my face after, but you can’t deny it’s super cute.

On the way to or off my lap, if I’m not careful, she steps on the keyboard and may yank a key or two. The first key to go was backspace, two weeks after I’d purchased the laptop four years ago. I was furious. Then went the left side ‘shift’, the z, the +, and the o. The o was the worst. Do you know how often that letter is used? It sucked. I had to copy and paste it each time. The majority of posts you see on this blog were written without the o key.

For some reason, without researching I had decided that replacing a keyboard would be costly, so I never bothered to check prices. After someone told me they were super cheap, I got one on Ebay for $14 including shipping. It arrived on Wednesday and I thought I’d bring it to my dad on Sunday for him to install it.

This morning, as I sat on the bed with the laptop, Tori started howling at the noisy ambulance driving on our street. I love it when she does that, so I barked a little to encourage her. She jumped on me and started face-raping. I had a coffee in my hand so I wasn’t careful when removing her off me… she pulled out the e and d keys with her nails.

How the fuck can I write without an e, d, o, or z? It’s way more than I can handle. Drastic circumstances call for drastic measures, so I found online that I might easily be able to replace the keyboard on my own. I skipped a couple of steps that I deemed to be extraneous/difficult, but the new keyboard works. I’d been avoiding the word ‘crazy’ like crazy but now I can go crazy with it.

I was quick to brag about my MacGyver-ish self-reliance to my friend (oh, and everyone on Facebook).

For a while you were the only writer I know without a [proper] keyboard. Quite an accomplishment. I congratulate you.

I congratulate myself too.

“What’s in the plastic? Is it food?”

I hope I don’t need screws ’cause I just lost them

TA-DAAAAAA!