no concussing

For those of you who weren't summoned Monday, we had all the King's horses and all the King's men here to put Humpty Dumpty back together again. (In case there is any doubt at all, I play Humpty in this--and pretty much every other--scenario.)

Early that morning, I had bent down to kiss Quinn good morning on the bottom bunk, and when I stood, I cracked my head on the top bunk, and down I went like the twin towers. (A tribute to my cherished fellow heathens Brandy and Adam, who love a good 9-11 joke.) Quinn says I blacked out for a couple seconds, and when I came to, I could hear them trying to figure out whom to call. Ultimately, (surprise!) they called B, who was home with a gaggle of children and no car. And yet, I assure you, she was the logical choice. So after some logistics the likes of which I will never comprehend (I just know it involved passports, syphoning gas, and I think robbing a convenience store), B arrived to save the day, which, sadly, has become second nature for her. I insisted I was fine, but uneven pupils, slurred speech, and vomiting gave me away and she called the EMTs. Obviously this 20-man brigade staring down at me brought out the absolute best in my confidence level/ability to speak, to say nothing of the fact that I hadn't showered or put on a bra that day, so I was trying to pretend that I looked the same in my cami and yoga pants as (insert cute popular actress) does. Sigh. We refused the deluxe $900 ambulance ride and B drove me instead. Meanwhile, we had more children running around than that compound in Texas, only with less supervision. We immediately set out (and by "we" I mean B) to determine which of our friends we would saddle with this brood, and we ultimately settled on Karen, who I suspect will never answer her phone again. She arrived in 2.5 seconds, and I swear she screeched into the driveway in a cartoon car, ready to be of service, and dressed to the nines, natch. (Please let's not forget that, true to my injury tradition, I was unshowered, mostly undressed, with no make-up, and not even a morsel of wit with which to compensate for my pitiful state. So thanks Karen, for having just gotten your hair done, and for having perfect mascara (which I noticed with my one good eye), and for having the girls nicely displayed, as my own were splayed out all over the floor, much like an octopus' tentacles.)

We were well-advised to go the Silverton Hospital, where a nurse was waiting for us upon arrival. I was in a room within five minutes, and talking with the doc within ten. Mind you, I have no idea what he said, except that I "really got (my) bell rung," lol, and had a major concussion. Then B and I had a misunderstanding about getting a burger, and we headed home in record time to relieve Karen of her zoo-keeping duties.

Meanwhile, it had become unexpectedly sunny and B had a rabbit frying outside so she needed to pack up and leave too. never take my own injuries very seriously, and I always assume I am exaggerating because when I tell stories, I generally go heavy on the hyperbole. You'd think I would have learned when I got cut in half, but I didn't. When B left I started sweeping the floor, and Karen got all authoritative, which I must confess, has changed the dynamic of our relationship, and told me to sit. She made me promise to rest blah blah blah, and enlisted my kids in her Nazi regime, and bid us adieu.

Later that night I went to B's so she could keep an eye on me, which I felt really bad about because she hasn't been feeling so hot herself. I kept her awake the entire night with all my twitching and repeatedly asking if she has a car. She got no, and I mean NO, sleep. I slept the entire day, which was really a slap in the face to B, who hasn't slept since 2005. I'm still really dizzy, and if my speech was a Scrabble hand, my tiles would be blank, except for one B. Maybe a G. And I would just put the on the board all by themselves, unconnected, and hope that you would know what I meant. Sweet sweet B, she knows what I mean. Her text to me this morning was, "Good morning, you little rung bell." Hee hee.

So the doc said I could feel dizzy for a few weeks, and have the blurred vision that long too. I'm taking a gorgeous vicodin/oxycodone cocktail for the pain, and once again, I am so extraordinarily blessed to have my people around me, offering everything they have. (Getting emotional) It wasn't so long ago that I had the emotional/social aptitude of a rock, and valued relationships right up there with compost. These days, I am surrounded by the highest quality men and women friends an old stone like me could ever hope for. Seriously. You guys bring tears to my eyes. (Perhaps in part because I'm listening to Air Supply.) I'd be some shivering rock (with a concussion) without my primo posse. So thank you guys, from my sedimentary core, and my rung bell.

Jesus I may have gone overboard on the vicodin...ya think?

lady of the rings--fellowship of the rings

I was all ready to let Pam stick her 14 gauge needle through my ear cartilage tonight, but when I went to buy the ring yesterday, I was assailed with horror stories about the perils of doing it myself, and how I'd die of infection, but not before going blind, etc. Ultimately I found myself in Addictions, a fab little shop downtown, where my fears were allayed, and this bitchin waif named Megan made me an offer I couldn't resist. I couldn't betray too much fear, as Quinn and Reilly were with me, but they knew I was nervous and Megan spent a long time putting me at ease. At long last, I was in the chair. Giant swells started rolling across the walls, my blood turned into lava, and I became mostly unable to decipher English, but I was brave for my kids. Rei was poised with the camera phone, and Quinn, my priest-in-training, was in the corner, emitting disapproval. By this point I was hoping to get two done, one representing each of my children. This seemed like a peculiar homage, given Quinn's solemnity about the situation, but it made sense to me to honor them that way, just like I incorporated their initials into my tattoo. (Quinn was less than bowled over by that gesture as well.) I was waiting to see how bad the first stab was before I committed to a second, but it was surprisingly tolerable. I immediately told her to do it again. Holy crap the second one hurt so much more! ("You can't sneak up on the body twice in a row," explained Megan.) And so it was done. Rei picked out a black jewel, and Quinn, in spite of major reservations, finally picked out the green one. ("Having your cartilage pierced makes you seem young and unresponsible," he told me that morning.) Sigh. The adrenaline rush was really intense, and I can definitely see why people go back for seconds...and thirds. But for me, two rings is just young and "unresponsible" enough for me.

stretching it to 16 minutes...

My friend Devarshi was kind enough to direct me here, to relive my sputtering-beached-whale-about-to-die routine again, and my mom sent this link, which I must admit, was a nice salve for that wound inflicted by the Whoregonian yesterday. (Look at the seventh paragraph down or so.) Lastly, my hero Mike sent me this page, certain that a phone call from Barack Obama would soon be forthcoming.

Knowing that people saw merit in the question really helps console me when I can't shake the image of me up there, sinking like the Titanic (only bigger).

lose, your blues, everybody cut footloose...

Today was the big reunion. We parted on awkward terms, seeing very little of each other before the big break. I was even paying for the offending party to stay away from me. So this is a big deal. I finally found it in my wicked little heart to reconcile...

...with the gym, duh! You guys thought my life had reached soaring heights of drama, and I was really just talking about the gym. Sheesh.

So I went this morning, with all of the accoutrements that make us feel bad-ass there, but really just slow us down. (ie iPod, water bottle, phone--because God forbid I am inaccessible for one hour)

I had my playlist all set. It's called "no shoe dropping," which is a reference to my crippling depression and my subconscious obsession with the other shoe dropping in any and all circumstances. Of course my loyal readers (hi Mom!) will remember that Footloose is the absolute highlight track, and I rocked out to it while doing calf raises, lifting 90 pounds--a very big deal for me.

My workout began with the gluteal interval course on the treadmill, which really got me pumped--pardon the cliche. Between completing that course, and Survivor blasting Eye of the Tiger in my ears, I practically swaggered into the weight room, thinking I was Arnold Schwarzenegger, except he would never have a pink iPod arm band. After completing my set, I returned to the treadmill and selected the most intense incline track, with which I have had a severe love/hate relationship for four years. I should mention that I hadn't showered yet, which is extremely uncomfortable, and I also kept mouthing the words to my music, which wasn't helping me earn popularity points, but the real fun started when I had to clutch the bar with all my might when the incline reached its summit. I suddenly became keenly aware of my greasy hair, my bra straps showing, my pathetic loserness.

But oh well. I refuse to cheapen my proud achievement with negative self talk. There'll be plenty of that on other days. Today I'm basking in the glory of bettering my life. (Queue music)

Still, I was really disappointed afterward when I looked in the mirror and saw Kirstie Alley.

hairesy?

Last weekend when B and I were shopping for Pam & Gab's party, we happened into Claire's, that heinous accessory store full of cheap, made in China trinkety crap. Ostensibly, we were there for a hair clip for B, which I concede is totally legit. But somehow, in this sea of gawdy horror, I found myself inexplicably reaching for a headband. Somehow I felt it might accent my outfit, in spite of its distinct contrivance, and the fact that it is about ten years too young for me. Maybe even fifteen. In any event, B liked it, and being that I was all caught up in pre-party grandiosity, I bought it. And wore it. And, as long as we're being honest, I took it off halfway through the party.

Cut to today. I was preening for an appointment and noticed this headband I thought I retired onto a shelf. Somehow, it spoke to me again, insisting it was just what my outfit needed. I was helpless against its persuasions, and before I knew it, I was wearing it. But I'm skeptical about wearing it to this appointment. I'm afraid this specialist will take one look at my teeny-bopper headband and immediately attribute all my problems to my apparent need to pretend I am fifteen.

So against all my vanity-borne objections, I am posting pictures of it here and letting you guys decide whether or not this look is edgy or desperate.

And, you know, don't let my extreme vulnerability become any kind of factor...

Behold.: