Saturday, November 11, 2006

please help me.

It has been a Carnival of Pestilence here at Rancho FirstNations. Bacteria roam freely, breeding in uncontrolled wads. Virii are forming herds of brackish evil. The trail of pain is written in effluvia, phlegm and befouled towelling.
Yes, I am sick again, yes, I have bronchitis again; or rather, I still have bronchitis, and it is resisting all antibiotics. Next week I will be rippin down the Cephalexin, most likely, and that means I'll be blogging between frantic sprints to the toilet and frantic trips to the quickiemart to buy Ritz Crackers to forestall frantic trips to the toilet. Because Cephalexin and my lower intestinal tract are not the best of friends, friends.
Yesterday I juggled Germans.
In this corner at upwards of seventy the Playboy of the Western World, his walker and his overly complicated, day-long series of nuclear cardiac assesments!
...And in this corner, weighing in at none of your business, The Yummy Biker and his amazing Blooping Bellybutton! Bloop, purple! Bloop, not purple! Bloop, outie! Lookit! Bloop, innie! Are you looking? Look!
Both of them were scheduled for their procedures
And I was barely able to walk without pausing to huff and blow and drool and pant and watch the pretty fireworks go off around the sides of my field of vision and try not to pass out.
Guess who had to drive?
First up, the Playboy. We pull up in front of his residence and there's a fire engine and an ambulance out front and a gurney in the lobby, which was full of interested wrinkly observers. No, it wasn't the Playboy's turn, but I didn't know that before I took a sprint into the place and almost passed out in front of the receptionists desk and rolled down the stairs. It was like a goddamn wedding reception and how we managed to get the Playboy out of there I'll never know...A tiny little old lady with blue lips was the star of the show and she was doing the Rose Festival float wave as they loaded her onto the gurney, everyone was chatting and re-establishing old acquaintance with the firemen and the emt's, people from different floors and dinner schedules who hadn't seen each other for a few hours were catching up, and the Playboy in the middle of it all announcing to everyone at random 'I have to get a Nuclear Assesment!' and receiving the admiring congratulations of everyone in earshot.' Wow! I've never heard of that before! A nuclear assessment! '
We bundled him into our tiny car, folded the walker into the tiny trunk, bungeed it shut and headed off to the lab, which was running late. OF COURSE.
Left him there with some magazines.
We got there and made arrangements to meet at noon, assuming (naiively) that since his procedure was scheduled for five minutes hence, that it would be over and he'd be all straightened up from the anaesthetic.
I was NOT looking forward to this part of our program. The man reacts very badly indeed to general and becomes combative and loud. That kind of behavior from a sober person his size is frightening, but coming from a disoriented man who is both incoherent and unable to walk a straight line who I am married to i's hilarious, because I am kind of a bitch like that. I mean fall on the floor hysterical, too...but god help you if you laugh. Because THAT, he'll remember. He won't remember asking you at the top of his lungs to 'Ma fa gub wha voobuh nuh gub" in the lobby and he won't remember trying to enter the car by the drivers side door and then denying loudly and publically and repeatedly and semicoherently that he had any thought whatsoever about driving as he attempts to sidle past you and sit behind the wheel... oh, but he will remember that when he tried to put a chew in, and he missed and poked himself in the side of the face, you laughed. Yes. That, he will remember, and you'll never hear the end of how you ridiculed him while he was helpless.
Marry a German. Do it now. I'll wait.
Drive back across town to the Playboy, who is finished with his first procedure. Since he hasn't eaten since 6pm the previous day we go out for lunch at the olde englishe halfe timberede lesbian bar. Outside, we were greeted by a wino who was scavenging cigarette butts off the pavement. He followed us inside and began loudly trying to bum a pancake off the bartender. ( Hey! I want a pancake! How mush I got fo a pancake! Gimme one! Gib me a pancake!) While the company was iffy, the food and service remained excellent and we had fun people watching and cracking each other up with outrageous observations.
Then back we go to the same clinic for his second procedure, which is running late, of course. We kill time reading magazines and criticising all the recipes.
Then I have to leave him cooling his heels while I go back to get my Biker out of pawn.
It is noon.
Please come back in 45 minutes, he'll be all done by then, I am assured. Oh, he'll be completely out of the anaesthesia too, I am promised.
Yeah. Right. Ok.
Back across town to get the playboy.
The Playboy has ONLY JUST GONE IN FOR HIS PROCEDURE. Come back in an hour. he should be done by then.
Back across town to the Biker.
By now I am nervous as a stripper in a room full of lacrosse players. I am expecting to have to drag him out of the office with him three sheets to the wind, trying to steal all the candies off the receptionists desk and slurring 'Wheres my chew? Go get me some chew! I forgot my chew! They took my chew! Go look for my....' you get the picture.
I go back.
He's done.
You want to come on back and we'll give you all his post-op instructions?
They make me.
And he's fine.
Apparently once they FINALLY got around to making the 1/2 inch incision and taking the three tiny little stitches, they only used a twilight anaesthetic and lots of local. He's lucid. He is ambulatory.
And he wants to drive.
I do not let him drive.
He wants to eat. In a restaurant.
I make him sit in the passengers seat and watch me order him a small shake from a drive-thru. All the while he is clutching the grabhandle as though AT ANY MOMENT I will floor the gas and drive off uncontrollably into oncoming traffic and hit a fuel tanker and explode and roll in a ball of flames into a grade school full of crippled orphans and DIEDIEDIEDIEDIE... yeah. By the time we are partway down the road the fabric around this handle is beginning to tear from him grabbing it like a spazmodeus every time I slow down for a corner.
Grab the first German you see and marry him. Really. You'll thank me.
Baaaaaack across town to the Playboy.
The playboy is still cooling his heels. While I am commiserating, the biker roams off while I'm not looking. When I get up to look for him, I come back and the Playboy is gone as well.
Where is my father in law? Oh, they took him back for the stress test a minute ago. He'll be right out.
I decide to stay in one place. I figure that will make me easier to find, in case either one of them is so inclined. I am also experiencing the coming attractions of an asthma attack, so I take a couple big woofs off my inhaler and wonder whether or not passing out and being hospitalized might not be the better option at this point.
The Playboy returns.
He looks like he has seen a ghost.
He is walking very, very slowly.
You can see the white all the way around his eyes.
He died again.
When they injected him for the stress test.
While all this is being explained to me, the Playboy and I both sit down, wheezing and gasping and holding our chests and shaking our heads.
The biker returns and everything is explained all over again.
The procedure is rescheduled.
We leave.
The Biker wants to drive.
No. I realize that is been almost an hour and a half now since you had abdominal surgery but no, you cannot drive. I know this is both unreasonable and mean on my part. Sit in the back seat and grab the headrest every time I slow down for a corner. Ok? Ok.
All the way back to the Playboy's residence he and the Biker make plans about how they're going to go shopping together the next day.
Right. And run the Boston Marathon and conquer Everest and fight rabid republicans in a steel cage suspended over a pen of starving zombies, yeah, yeah, yeah.
Today, the biker, as predicted, is lying on my sofa watching SpongeBob Squarepants, moaning and clutching his tummy and asking me to bring him shit, refusing to take his pain medication and stumbling around like Frankenfrickenstein.
However I think I was able to convince the Playboy yesterday that the isotopes they shot him full of would make his whiz glow in the dark, and the thought of him turning the light out every time to check the contents of the bowl is the only thing that sustains me.
That's all I have left.
Pray for me.


  1. it could be worse; it could be raining.

    oh, wait...

  2. cb: thanks. just, thanks.

  3. Anonymous6:53 PM

    Goodness woman. You do have your hands full with those two, doncha?

    And did you hear? We're getting
    another storm in tomorrow. More wind, more rain,


  4. I feel your pain, but it doesn't stop me laughing like a spaz at your discriptions.
    I do love you. *pfft* Really.

  5. sending you a (virtual) medal for fortitude in the face of extreme adversity...I'll attach the application form for sainthood as well...

  6. Oh dear.
    Well I will not be taking your advise and marrying a german , one beer and a bratwurst too many , and they get over excited , rush off and invade poland.

    The last time I had a general I woke up with cut feet , and the nurse said rather grumpily , that thank god I was awake as I kept jumping up and running off , one time they managed to catch me trying to board a bus in the car park (hence the cut feet) , I had on one of those nice gowns with a cut away back , so the whole of the hospital SAW MY ARSE.....
    I hope it all calms down and you feel better soon :-)

  7. Anonymous5:00 AM

    Why is it the large men who always go funny with an anaesthetic?
    Sounds like you have your hands full, I married a half-Belgian. Same as German but with an inferiority complex.

  8. you have my sympathies i have bronchitis as well grrrr hope you feel better soon

  9. Just shoot the pair of them, and come out to Thailand. There's even more idiocy here. You'd have a bloody field day.

  10. sending virtual beer, sympathy and chocolate. it's all i gots.

  11. (still giggling) You should have married a Brit. Mine has an inguinal hernia that's bigger than our toddler's head (that we can't afford to get fixed), and yet he never complains about it. He's from the Old School, "Tis but a flesh wound!" camp.

    I bitch and moan all the time, and he tells me to gurn up, sure, someone has it worse.

    Yeah, I'd like to kill him. Just let me enjoy the misery of my sinus infection, and shut up about the starving Africans already.

  12. That was a fantastic story..and I am married to a German thankyouverymuch!

    HA! You killed me with your description of the scene at the Soylent Green Rest is another world isn't it. It is a twilight universe where a conveyor belt to the great hereafter is on full speed, just a heartbeat away and everyone knows it.

    I am sorry that the Biker was not sufficiently tranquilized (like some giant Tiger getting his nadgers yoinked at the zoo) you could of had a lot more fun watching him dematerialise.
    What is up with that driving thing?

    I hope that you feel better soon..I guess that I don't have to ask about the level of care that you can expect to receive for all of your good deeds???
    Viral Bronchitis can be cured by drinking hundreds of gallons of Rum...or does that only apply to Pirates and Sailors on shore leave?

  13. pam: they need someone whose near ancestors ate the hearts of their enemies to ride herd on them.
    noshit: well? get busy! pray! sacrifice a kiwifruit to poseidon or something!
    hendrix: thanks, but one of those tickets to southeast asia will be fine.
    beast: omg!! my darling, you HAVE to blog that episode. and yes, just last week my german strafed Bromley's Market after a plate of nockerln.
    realdoc:half a limey and half a belgie? sort of a boiled steak and great beer combination then. mines a green bean casserole and great beer combination.
    midgetarse! welcome lovey! and my sympathies right back atcha. bronchitis is a tough one to kick.
    tim: hell yes, a little southeast asian idiocy is just what i need. and a side of larb guy with that, please.
    surly: i'll take it and thank you. if you give me your phone # i can prank call your elephant neibors and cough at them at 2:am.
    fatty: oh. my. god.
    i looked up hernias on the 'net and i thanked the god of hernias that all my biker had was an umbilical one. inguinal??? isn't that where you, loops of gut sloshing around in his, with his, and distended, and, balls? omgomgomgomgomgomgomgomg.

  14. ******runs off clutching bits******

  15. Let's see...Reichert is a German name for sure. How about Troyer? Maybe?

  16. "By now I am nervous as a stripper in a room full of lacrosse players"


  17. It is an established fact that men have twice as many pain receptors as women. So a little more sympathy towards biker wouldn't go amiss.

    Your a hard woman

  18. oh crap. well, it sounds like you've had a fun couple of days. i have to say that i love how he's watching spongebob. isn't that just the epitome of helplessness.

    poor you. poor them, too, but mostly poor you.

  19. You got a funny post out of it, and that's all I care about.

    But seriously, glad you got through it semi-intact. When YB is up and around, have him wait on you hand and foot for a day, just because.

    I was going to rant about disgusting men and why they always have that thing about driving, when I remembered that the rather feminine Mrs. Nator has it, too. Nevermind.

    Glad the Playboy made it. BTW, I am now convinced that nothing is more likely to stress one into heart failure and death than a stress test. My mother had one and her blood pressure spiked so high that they were rushing around looking for Tetracycine and baby aspirin. My mother - the original New Age yoga and wheat germ hippie, who is in better shape than most people half her age! Well, two thirds, anyway.

    Please send bronchitis. I'm in a foul, foul mood, and it would match it. At this point, I'd rather be hocking my lungs out than at my job. Seriously.

    Hang in there, kitten!

  20. homoE: just missed ya. you are not the only person i've had suggesting lots of rum. i may have to try this (like i need persuading at this point)
    beast: THE DEVIL WEARS PRADA?????? that'd give anyone an inguinal hernia. it gave me one laughing!(rock on, ratso!)
    kristy: noooooow you got it!!!reichert makes my butt itch.
    spin: thankee. those poor lacorsse players were TERRORIZED by that woman.
    frobi: i have all the sympathy in the world for my poor bear bear. actually no i dont. well, maybe. no, you're right, i'm pitiless. KU-rack that whip!
    claire: my martyrdom is up for nomination at the next synod.
    danator: remember whinger? (lovelovelove her!) her Partner was the same damn way too. I think you get any dyad and one has to be the driving nazi or else the cosmic balance will be unwhackered.

  21. Well, gosh dang it, here I was thinking my life had me pretty much tied by the ankles.
    Hope all is better soon, and just in case needed, I am sending a ton of vodka, tic tacs, mentos, pepsi, a loaded burrito and lots of sour cream and honey. Do with it as you wish. :)

  22. Anonymous9:11 PM

    Whoa, I step out for a few days and all hell breaks loose! Damn men! Scissors is the same way with anesthesia and painkillers. So why do we fill the prescription if not to take them? And does the same thing - "It's not funny G, I don't feel well". Who's laughing? Go to bed - so I can laugh some more.

    Sorry about all the troubles - although the nursing home stuff is pretty priceless. And of course, you not feeling well, doing the turkey trot all over town. Go get some rest.

  23. James Bond opens this week
    **** running round house excitedly making shooting noises****

  24. "fatty: oh. my. god.
    i looked up hernias on the 'net and i thanked the god of hernias that all my biker had was an umbilical one. inguinal??? isn't that where you, loops of gut sloshing around in his, with his, and distended, and, balls? omgomgomgomgomgomgomgomg.

    Yep, that would be the one. I have seen a doctor push his whole hand, and half-way up to the elbow, no less, into the Spouse Sparrow's abdominal cavity.

    The Spouse Sparrow's remark: "Well, there goes my virginity."

  25. awaiting: THANKS! *chomping and slurping commences*
    *moreso than usually, I mean*
    Beast: woo HOO! Sure to be a cgi-fest full of explosions, kung fu and explosions! I'm there.
    g: the fantasy continues unabated here in the northernmost region of East Pestilence.
    fatty: after that explaination I've done a complete 180. that's kinda cool. you know theres gotta be a way to make money off that, especially in california. put on your thinking caps! he's a goldmine waiting to happen! (complete with Tunnel, apparently)

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