Friday, May 20, 2005


This morning my mother came over and organized my closet, rearranged my chest of drawers, and folded all of my underpants.


I've had to distract her from bringing her graspy hands over to my bedside table, but the Lacto Pescetarian, who is much cleverer than I, instructed me that this is the wrong idea. Rather than freak about her rummaging through drawers, let the woman find "something" she won't like and she'll quit opening things at my house altogether. So I may have to go online and find the biggest, gnarliest, glow-in-the-dark dildo known to man. That'll learn her.

And if that fails, I can always chase her around with a vibrator and clonk her over the head with it. WHAM!

Yeah, I'll do that in my "free time." ...Free time, my ever expanding patootie. Everytime I check my e-mail, I get buried under another avalanche of work. And I'm concerned because my doctor today told me it's going to take TWO WEEKS not just one before I can get out of bed.

First of all, I'm going to get fired. Secondly, I'm going to go insane. So I'll be unemployed and schitzo, but my apartment will be organized numerically, alphabetically and color coordinatedly by my even more psycho mother...including my brand new collection of glow in the dark sparkly sex toys.

The doctor changed the dressing on my foot today. It's currently attached to a vacuum device that is keeping my skin graft from, er, falling off. I was expecting either a plastic bubble or some sort of black rubbery sock (since most medical devices, case in point, my former walking boot, are EXTREMELY unattractive). But my foot looks like it's been shrink wrapped with a very long irritating tube poking out the wrapper and this ice cream sandwich box-sized black vacuum that croaks like a frog once per second. It gets very angry if I stretch and sounds like a duck. If I'm lonely and want a cuddle, I imagine it's a purring cat. K.Lo, I wish you could bring Miss Kitty for a visit. She might think my foot was friendly.

Anyway, this device is called a Wound Vac. You have no idea the humiliation it has already caused. I had them deliver it to work the day before my skin graft, because I figured it was small (portable) and easier than waiting for four years at my apartment like waiting for the cable guy. So I'm typing away at my computer and I hear this redneck hollering "WOUND VAC" for the whole office to hear. I pop my head over the cubicle walls, eyes rolling and see him showing the damned thing to the horrified receptionist and shrieked, "Shut it! Shhh! Get over here." So here he comes over looking like fucking Father Christmas of the medical supply world with a little black case PLUS a ginormous clear bag filled with 45 boxes of medical shit. Lord have mercy. So he sat there blabbing away about wounds and seepage and sponges and other unsavory things in a very loud and indiscreet fashion, while I pleaded with him to go away and be quiet. I looked over at the team near my desk and they're all wide eyed, watching me and mouthing, "What IS that?" The horror!

Apparently some air conditioner repair guy invented this thing from some AC foam and an aquarium filter, and it heals wounds 50% to 70% faster and is now living on his own island somewhere. My surgeon, who is the best in the state at reattaching hands and fingers and such, swears they're amazing. They also have a surgical device called a Bear Hug that is nothing more than a plastic quilt attached to a hairdryer that keeps patients' body temperatures up on the operating table better than anything else ever invented. I had one of those too, but I don't remember it. Apparently I also had a big tube shoved down my throat too, which I am glad as hell I don't recall, but my throat still hurts like a sonofabitch.

Architecture Stud is being very sweet to me, other than not wanting to spend the night (keeping me company only) because the wound vac is so annoying. He brought me flowers and fetched stuff from work and other things. He is snoozing here beside me right now, and I'm afraid the approaching thunder storm and the stupid asshole neighbor outside on my porch and the skil saw half a block away are going to wake him up. He looks so pretty when he's sleeping. Well, he's pretty all the time. He hates it when I say he's pretty.

I am trying my damndest to get along with my mother, but I swear she thinks the surfboard cut off my head along with my foot. I was getting out of the car, and cracked the door while cars were still whizzing past and she SHRIEKED at me, "AHHHH, OHMIGOD, WATCH OUT! BE CAREFUL!" I jumped 45 feet and hissed at her, "Good God, woman! Just because i'm on crutches doesn't mean I've gone retarded too." She makes me feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest and all my veins are standing out like a thoroughbred's and my brain will explode and my nostrils will suck in a car...and all because she is trying to HELP me. I need therapy. And while we were at the doctor, she was acting self righteous about something and said, "I really think know-it-alls are the worst kind of people." I snorted and though, "Takes one to know one, bitch." Of course, I'm one too, which is something A.S. can't stand, and I TRY not to do it. Mom has no clue.

The place where they took the skin off my hip is about four inches long, and probably was about an inch and a half thick, although they've sealed it all up, of course. It actually hurts much, much worse than my foot. But the glue they use nowadays makes it safe to shower, so at least I don't stank.

1 comment:

Elysia said...

Ain't nothin' worse than a stankin' gimp.