THEY PUT TUBES IN ME
And everything is normal. Yay, no massive bleeding intestinal tumors; boo, I still have crappy blood and no one knows why. It is up to the internist now to probe further (please no: endoscopy + colonoscopy was PLENTY OF PROBING)* or prescribe me a steak a day or whatever. This had better not be anything serious because I really do not wish to be a medical journal case report or a Lifetime Movie of the Week. Would much rather remain a dull, regular-folk, blogging-for-free-like-it’s-1999, reasonably healthy, relatively sane individual. Thanks.
*Not that I really remember any of it. I have a vague recollection of being unhappy with something in my mouth (frat party joke goes here), and I do have a bit of a sore throat like something poked me, but beyond that it’s all blank. Mercifully blank, in the case of the colonoscopy portion, I am sure. Apparently I hummed a lot in the car on the way home, then went upstairs to bed. LT woke me up an hour later for a grilled cheese sandwich and then I went back to bed. I was lucid by the time Nora came home from karate, and then we ordered pizza** and watched the Bulls suck. In between quarters I worked frantically on a work project that is so FUCKING ANNOYING I DON’T EVEN WANT TO TALK ABOUT IT. A girl gets a camera shoved up her bum and she can’t even take a proper day off, because OMG MEDICAL PUBLISHING WORLD FALLING APART EVERYBODY DO ALL THE WORK RIGHT NOW. I guess I did end up talking about it. Fuck.
**Does anyone else find it hilarious that I whined and moaned about all the crap I was “allowed” to eat during bowel prep, and how it was light-years from my normal healthy-ish diet etc, and then I come home from the hospital and have grilled cheese and pizza? I guess the melty floppy anesthesia made me want melty floppy food. I am back to my usual oatmeal-almond milk breakfasts, quinoa-bean lunches, and wine-fueled dinners now.
I am supposed to keep getting my blood suctioned out of me at regular intervals, and if said blood continues to be thin and wan they are threatening me with a “capsule endoscopy,” wherein one swallows a magical robot camera that goes on a fantastic voyage through your intestines and blah blah blah. DO NOT WANT. However, I remember a Joan Didion essay where she talked about having the same test. That comforts me somewhat. I shall tell my doctors: don’t give me anything that a National Book Award winner hasn’t had.
FUNNY (TO ME) PHRASES FROM THE MAY ISSUE OF VOGUE
- Witty felt-and-velvet creation
- Today’s radical brides
- Imaginary jabots
- Those hamsters were sterile by the third generation
- Beige boring?
- This look is meant for dry land only
- Legless turkey
- Over a micro-sandwich
- Monkey and banana prints
- Black shiny bugs on orange tweed
THINGS I DON’T CARE ABOUT
- The May issue of Vogue
- The Presidential election (dear god, make it stop—I will vote for whoever is less likely to fuck over women and poor people and I will decide who that person is more or less on my own, no need to make like a foie gras farmer and force all this fatty propaganda down my throat)
- Space (sorry astronomer friends)
- Knitting (sorry yarn friends)
- Baseball (sorry boring friends)
- The theater (sorry dramatic friends)
- Traveling to Australia (if you give me a free ticket I will certainly go, but it’s not high on my list of places to see)
- Running a marathon (running is medium-fun but that is too far)
- Micromanaging my kid’s homework (some of the parents on the school email list are insane)
- This meeting (see below)
WEEKEND NOT STARTING WELL
I am posting this from a work meeting, yes on a Saturday, and this only happens once a year but somehow it always sneaks up on me and makes me resentful. If you’ll turn to Tab M in your agenda book you will find your managing editor, slightly hungover, trying her damndest to give a damn.
—mimi smartypants really is trying (your patience).