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Archive | health insurance

Hello from the hospital

Hi everyone! As many of you know, one of my family members has been going through some unexpected medical stuff and whereas I like to blab my news to everyone whose path I cross, especially online, this person isn’t ready to be treated differently and to have people come up and say, “How are you feeling? Are you ok?” with a concerned look on their face and so I can only vaguely talk about it. In fact, I’ve decided I’m going to give this person a fake name: Marvin. Except Marvin might be female or might be male. I’m not saying just yet. Anyway, Marvin was admitted to the hospital on Wednesday to have a big operation and while doing the operation they found the thing they were looking for, or rather, the thing they suspected might be there (a pastrami sandwich, a parakeet and a personalized keyring) and so Marvin is now recovering from surgery. Once Marvin fully recovers a plan will be put in place for how to treat aforementioned pastrami, parakeet and keyring. Also, in case anyone is wondering: this all sucks. I’m sure there’s a positive way of seeing this and I’m presenting the very positive way of seeing this to Marvin since it’s important when discussing parakeets to stay focused on the present but I really hate seeing Marvin all drugged and weak and scared and also Marvin fell over the morning of the surgery so Marvin has a cut and a bruise on his/her forehead from falling from the toilet into the shower. That has nothing to do with the parakeets or Marvin’s condition, just that Marvin was tired and wobbly and half awake and fell asleep on the toilet so poor Marvin has to wear a wrist bracelet that says “fall risk.” I keep joking that I’m going to change it to “fart risk” because I feel, in situations like this, it’s best not to overwhelm them with anything close to actual humor.

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Goodbye, thumb modeling career

A lot of people I know are expecting me to hurt myself on a bike but I totally showed them by hurting myself on a vacuum! It all happened very quickly as I was trying to change the belt. One minute I was huffing and puffing and forcing something, as you’re supposed to do when dealing with machinery, and the next minute I was yelling “ouch!” and holding my thumb and watching the blood pool where a flap of skin used to be—skin that was scrunched up but still attached like a little skin ruffle. It was quite demure and charming.


Now I’ll never be a thumb model! (photo taken during healing)

Being a doctor’s daughter I kept my cool head and suggested  I have a seat in the waiting room where I perused Highlights magazine and some outdated issues of Outdoor Living. Then I called my name and asked myself to fill out some paperwork. “Is this really necessary?” I asked? “It’s for our files,” I said while filing my nails. “Whatever,” I mumbled and then took my seat again. Then I counted ceiling tiles. What could be taking me so long? Finally my insurance cleared and I was called in to see  myself. After answering a battery of questions which I really don’t think pertained to my thumb injury at all (When was my last menstrual cycle?  Any history of pulmonary dysfunction? What’s my favorite color?) I began to get testy. Seeing as I was getting testy, I shot myself with a tranquilizer dart and wheeled myself into the ER. “Let’s save a life” I said, staring at my thumb. Then I washed the cut with soap and water and hopped around because it was stinging and then I very carefully pushed the flap of skin back over the wound, first seasoning it with paprika and putting a pat of butter in there so it would bake to a crisp golden brown. My dad commended me on covering the cut with the skin—”that’s the perfect dressing”—he said, eating a salad. Then I covered it loosely with a bandaid because you shouldn’t cover a cut tightly with a bandaid. Then I jammed my thumb into a wall to see if it was all better. It wasn’t! My God, how long was it going to take to heal? I began to weep because modern medicine had failed me.

Oh, and then I vacuumed the hell out of the two rugs I have in here and I have to say looking around the apartment it was totally worth it.


Clean carpet.


Clean carpet.

And now that I’ve semi-cleaned my apartment I feel so much better about everything and considering how  much better I feel it’s a wonder that I ever let things get so messy in here. See, I’ve discovered two things. I feel good when my apartment is clean and I’m starving myself. I feel bad when my apartment is messy and I feel fat. So why do I eat twinkies and smear the wrappers on the walls? Gotta stop doing that.

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An important warning about shoestring eggplant

Sour; deadly

Should you be considering enjoying shoestring eggplant in vinegar marinade which you probably wouldn’t consider eating anyway—I have a thing for weird foods in jars which few of my fellow humans share—but anyway should you be making this bold lifestyle choice I beseech you to make sure you do not have any cuts or broken skin in your mouth because the eggplant will get in there, get into your bloodstream and then turn you into an eggplant. It’s how eggplant works! One minute you’re trying to introduce Mediterranean cuisine into your diet, the next minute you’re an eggplant. Some of my best friends are now purple.

Wait, come back, that’s not what I meant to say.

See, I bit my lip a couple nights ago so I have one of those things inside my lower lip where it feels like the skin is puffed up to the size of a marble but then I look into the mirror and really it’s much smaller. So I stupidly decided to try this shoestring eggplant because hell, why not? I wasn’t even put off by the strange lack of color, as if Bunicula had gotten to it (anyone?). It looked like bits of pre-chewed albino vegetables, so I decided to dig in. Anyway, the vinegar marinade went straight into my cut and hitched a ride through my face and then shot straight into my brain. “Oh my God!” I yelled at no one, pawing at my lip. “Oh my God Oh my God Oh my God” I said, jumping around. I’m surprised I didn’t start drooling. Maybe I did but I didn’t notice because there was an eggplant-borne vinegar hole in my brain? It’s possible.

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