They say "the best predictor of the future is past behavior", and it is with deep regret that I'm going to have to say that "they" might be onto something.
June 25, 2004 my sister Emily had a destination wedding in Bermuda (oh, yeah, Happy Anniversary, Em). It was a small group of us in attendance for the wedding: immediate family, spouses and significant others and a few friends. Most of us landed a day or 2 in advance of the wedding to hang out, golf, get pedicures, read US Weekly by the pool, work on the tacky suntan/sunburn lines for our strapless numbers, and watch Em micromanage take care of last minute wedding details as we knocked back our Coronas.
In short, we were dealing with a lot of shit.
I was so excited to be in Bermuda. I hadn't been away on a real vacation in awhile, I was thrilled to be somewhere warm with gorgeous beaches and Dad's credit card to pick up the bar tab to hang out with the people I loved most. Which means that it was PERFECT timing for me to get sick. Like sick-sick. The day I left for Bermuda I could feel I was getting a sinus infection and, as these things do, it just kept getting worse. I didn't want to bother anyone with my troubles (as it was not "MY DAY!") so I kept my trap shut about it, but the day before the wedding, when I realized that I was feeling feverish and that my sinuses were so backed up that water was spilling out of my nose whenever I lifted my head, I thought maybe it was time to mention it to someone to that I needed medical attention before shit starts in on my asthma and things get really fun and exciting.
It was during all this that Bermuda was enduring Day Two of a countrywide taxi strike. So even when I FOUND a doctor who would see me on a last minute basis, there was the minor detail of getting me there. And back. Just thought I'd mention that. So I'm a little ...concerned.
Long story short, after finding a doctor who'd see me last minute and a rogue taxi driver to take me, the good doctor gave me the good stuff (Zirtho-pack) and after a pill and some R&R by the pool, I was feeling better almost immediately. I was GIDDY with joy that, unlike Stateside, I didn't have to beg for "the good antibiotics", and I could now get back to important things like, you know, not dying. I was also extremely comforted by the fact that I would neither be wiping my green ectoplasm snot into my bouquet nor spitting hucktueys into the sand as I walked down the beach thereby ruining the picturesque ceremony.
The day I went to see the doctor, the boys (BIL, BIL-to be, Mike, my Dad) had been out golfing since 6:00 a.m. and they returned late afternoon to find us girls lounging by the pool. I was feeling so much better after 1 dose of the Zithro, that I bounced over to the guys and told them as much (for you see, they worry) and asked Mike how he'd done, if he had beaten my Dad at golf. He had.
Oh a Z-pack high and hepped up that it was my guy was able to beat my father at golf (who is very good, by the way), I randomly 'rapped', "Go Shorty, it's yer birfday!", which, one should know, was not a phrase I was known to drop.
And it was with launch of those words, that my fate as Family Space Cadet was sealed forever.
"As a matter of fact, it is."
"Um, wh......[5,4,3,2, 1] Oh, shit."
This was in front of my 2 brother-in-laws, my Dad, my stepmom and my 2 sisters. My face went white. In the midst of everything, I had forgotten. I was the asshole girlfriend and there were witnesses to attest to this fact.
I had nowhere to go with this but downward, gut first, onto the sword.
Suffice it to say, I ate of lot of shit over that weekend.
But as I started out here, history is an excellent resource for predicting the future.
June 23, 2007:
Mike and I are in a cab on our way out to dinner and are having a little tiff over me being hours away from not meeting a deadline he'd set. A deadline, he contended, he'd imposed to line up with his birthday. After some back and forth over when the actual deadline was (I thought I had until the end of this week), he asserted no, it was a birthday deadline because he wanted to be able to tell his mother a definitive answer when we saw her on Sunday (June 24). Miffed that I was being wrongly accused, I spit back, "Well, you had said end of the week after I saw my sisters and besides, your birthday isn't even until TUESDAY."
"Uh, no it isn't; it's Sunday."
"Um, noooo, Sunday's when we're celebrating your birthday with your parents."
"Um, no, my birthday is the 24th."
"[dead silence] oh ...heh...well, ....this is embarrassing."
[Mike trying not to pee himself in cab]
"[in a small, cracking voice] oh...sna - ap. I swear I didn't forget! I just remembered it wrong. I mean, I have it marked on my calendar at work for the 26th and everything!"
(Seriously, 'Defense' Exhibit A:)
"Oh my God, you did it AGAIN. I suppose this means you didn't buy me a card yet either, huh?"
"Wait, are you surrrre it's the 24th? "
Happy Birthday, Mike. I'm sorry I keep doing this to you and you're a good man to see the humor in all this, but maybe we should consider moving it to another day? How does 6/30 work for you?
Do not agree to arm wrestle a coworker. With your broken wrist.
The wrist does not and will not magically repair itself for those few seconds. It will still be broken. The brace will not grant you strength or power.** And you will lose, pretty much on contact. And then you will sit there looking and feeling like a total loser.
A really, stupid, dumbass loser.
In completely unrelated news to this event, Wendy's has hands-down the best hangover food.
(**And neither will 8 dozen vodka tonics for that matter. Allegedly.)
Spending the better part of what amounts to ALL FLIPPIN DAY, I have uploaded all the photos from my trip to Hawaii...that were, uh, on the D80 (that is scarily to say there's more). So, depending on your take, the narrative will be favorably light.
I MUST. STEP.AWAY. FROM THIS COMPUTER.
I believe I have a little something for everyone: gorgeous views, inspiring landscapes, postcard street scenes, a few flowers, some half-naked men, some half-naked women, me biting it on a surfboard, me getting dirty looks from Mike, a Lotus vehicle and a pineapple. I think that just about covers it.
In the hopes of getting the elusive solid and comfortable night's sleep (unable to achieve due to the moderate pain of my newly minted wrist fracture), I decided to bite the bullet and take one tablet of the Oxycodone prescribed for me. As is second verse, same as the first, the results were a repeat with my past experience with narcotics (Vicadin over a year ago when I was having wisdom teeth issues, something stronger when I had the deviated septum surgery in my 20s): unbelievably underwhelming. Other than feeling a little fuzzy, the pain remained the same. Thinking the 5 mg might be a low dose, I took another one 2 hours in from the first pill (instructions are to take every 4-6 hrs). Again, other than feeling a little fuzzy, the pain level remain unchanged. Maybe drug's M.O. is to not work on the pain itself, but have the patient not give a shit it's there. This is my new theory.
By my lack of sleep, the fact that I still ache, I would say this drug stuff is complete bull. How do people get addicted to this stuff? NOTHING. HAPPENS. Maybe I'm of the 1% who don't respond to opiates, I don't know, but this stuff is total junk and I swear Advil Liquidgels treat me better than this. In comparison, my Advil Liquidgels make sweet, sweet love to me and does my all ironing. Jesus.
However, what did make me feel much better, with the only side effect being feeling "warm and fuzzy", was a house-call Monday from my primary, Dr. Savah Von Cutenpie.
Holding a "medical-ish" degree from the School of Nursery (graduating Dora Cum Explora. yes, her parents are quite proud), Dr. Von Cutenpie is the right mix of no-nonsense attitude and a gentle, caring bedside manner. She's one of Southeastern Mass's finest, truly.
For example, upon arriving and with barely a hello, Dr. VC asked her ride if she could put on her "outfit" (scrubs, lab coat, etc) right away. Okay, fine, maybe she had the time for a hug but that was it because she definitely had to change into her medical garb straight away. An example of her ability to separate business from familytime. Girlfriend is all business.
Also, when she took the "stessascope" to my heart, focusing intensely on finding my heartbeat, she did not become hysterical or over the top with dramatics when she matter-of-factly rendered, "I think it's stopped a little bit." As a result of her calm demeanor, I did not (understandably) flip the fuck out upon hearing such shocking news as this. I was more, "Huh, well, there you go." When her chauffeur (coincidentally my sister) nodded along and offered from the kitchen the possibility of "I don't think that's good", she did not let ego or pride get in her way of making sure she was giving her patient the correct diagnosis. No, no sir. She graciously went back to my heart and second opinion-ed herself. For free. "Oh, yeah, it's back on now. Okay, it's good." Where else you going to find that kind of service?
After checking my pulse and applying an ice pack to my wrist and making me forget about my soreness of my "bew-bew" for most of the time she was there, I'd have to say final score: Worthless Pile of Crap Narcotics 0, Dr. Von CutenPie 1...meellion dollars*.
* I may have watched Austin Powers again over the weekend. sorry.
writing this with left hand only, so this will be brief (for me).
in my indoor soccer game last night, while getting checked into the boards, I received my 1st broken bone (my right wrist). a pretty impressive run considering all the sports I play, how old I am and how clumsy I can be (just like lindsay lohan, didn't she have 3 wrist splints in 1 year? "uh, I tripped over Paris's dog...yeah, that's it.").
I didn't know that I had broken it, I knew it hurt like a bitch, but after taking a sub I went back on the field....and played some more. thought it was a little weird that I kept my hand balled up in a weak looking fist though.
the nurse on my team thought I could ice/advil it out to the a.m. "they're gonna have to wait for the swelling to go down if they're gonna cast it anyway." But after talking to my sister (also a nurse), she said i could have done some ligament damage and sleeping on it unsplinted could do more damage and for peace of mind go to the ER right away.
After waiting for awhile, and witnessing some interesting characters, one in particular being a homeless man and the Nurse Practitioner asking him, 'how much you drink a day, sir?", "a pint." "And pint of what?" "wild turkey." (nice), I was diagnosed with a non-displaced distal radial fracture. This is the good kind to get, because it means they DON'T HAVE TO RESET IT. I know I would have been a big baby had that had to happen.
Yeah, I got bored waiting, so I snapped some photos.
Here, you see the swelling has gone down a bit since the first photo:
So after they diagnosed me, they gave me the Michael Jackson splint and La Lohan Oxycodone script (which I really don't think I'll need/use) and now I have to see a Orthopedic surgeon.
So basically what this all comes down to is this:
MY HAIR IS GONNA LOOK LIKE CRAP FOR THE NEXT FEW WEEKS.
This commercial for Cingular. The creative powers that be who came up with this dialog are genius and the impact of this commercial on my psyche has been noticed both around the office and at home as I am always declaring "I d k, my bff Jill?"* when I don't have an answer. I also banter with "OMG, t i s n f!"/"Me paying this phone bill, that's what's s...n f!"** when I feel like I am being wronged. Which, in Corporate America, is pretty frequent. Also, the girl in the spot is the spitting image of my manager's daughter which makes it even better for some reason - like you can see into his future or something.
The Starter Wife - Starring Debra Messing on USA Network. I'd say this was a satire of Hollywood wives and how they operate but I have a feeling there are actually wives like this, so...um, what do you call that? Reality based campy fiction? Oh, did I mention there's a character named Cricket? Uh huh. Anyway, for those of you looking for summer TV fun without the commitment, this 6 part series is tailor-made for you . It premiered last night (5/31) and I'm sure USA be rerunning Hour 1 & 2 if you need to catch up. Summer beach book novel adapted for the small screen perfection.
* (in case you are of the few who haven't caught this or can't view You Tube from where you are)
"I don't know, my best friend forever Jill?"
** "Oh my God, this is so not fair!/ Me paying this phone bill, that's what so...not fair!"
In other non-television related awesomeness, I brought back a few gifts from Hawaii for my nieces & nephew, and I had also bought Owen his birthday present from there as well. What I thought I was buying him was a uke' and a Hawaiian shirt (I don't know what it is about grown up clothes shrunken to kid size that I find so funny but when I saw a little kid Hawaiian shirt, I knew I had to get it). Not so much. When I got it home, I took out all the gifts out of my luggage and a pair of matching Hawaiian print shorts fell to the ground. The shirt was really a 2-piece outfit. I hadn't realized I bought Owen an old-man tourist get up.
Say hello to my leetle friend, Don Ho.
Now all I have to do is hook him up with some black socks and sandals and the look is complete.