GO DJ, THAT’S MY DJ
The “day camp” my kid attended last week was Girls Rock! Chicago, where she was learning how to match beats, spin records, rock the party that rocks the body, etc. Camp ended with all the camper bands playing at Bottom Lounge, which is a venue you should frequent for their good sound system, deep-fried tater tots, and Ms. Pac-Man machine. Of course, every good show needs a dance party before the bands take the stage. Preferably one featuring a small Asian girl who will tear the motherfucking roof off:
You’re going to have to forgive my bragging here, but oh! So great! Such a dear serious expression! Such skinny legs! Such enormous headphones! While her music was less deep-cuts hip-hop and more the radio-friendly pop beloved of 9-year-old girls, her transitions were great and she did what a DJ needs to do—got everyone dancing and screaming and hopping up and down. It was marvelous.
WHO NEEDS A SPINE ANYWAY
LT had back surgery (microdisectomy) recently. He had been having pain all down one leg for a while—two epidurals did nothing, physical therapy was not helping other than the placebo effect of having a hot athletic woman manipulate his limbs once a week, and after he had an MRI his doctors were pretty much like holy shit how are you even walking around and sent him to the surgeon. The surgeon was Armenian,* had a bunch of improbable consonants shoved together in his name, and was kind of sexy in a stern/dominating/patrician sort of way, assuming you like that sort of thing.** He seemed okay, and after thoroughly sleuthing him we concluded he knew what he was doing and so forth. However, he did end up doing one really jerky thing, upon which I will elaborate as soon as I get those extraneous asterisked digressions out of the way oh man I have had some caffeine.
*I am normally pretty good at geography but there is always a split second where I get Armenia and Albania mixed up. Armenia = repeatedly invaded, tragic history, their food is quite similar to Turkish food but don’t tell them that. Albania = lost their entire country’s economy in a pyramid scheme. I remember watching the riots and demonstrations on the BBC in 1997 and one image that really stuck with me was an angry old man in the crowd shaking a leek. I guess he was really outraged and grabbed the nearest vegetable to wield.
**I don’t. Vaguely hot in theory, but the minute anyone tries to dominate me in bed I’m like STEP OFF. REMEMBER WHO’S IN CHARGE HERE.
Anyway, Dr Stern Consonants scheduled the surgery for this past Friday. It took forever. I read nearly an entire book in the surgical waiting area. I half-listened to many afternoon “talk” shows where people scream at each other in the surgical waiting area. I ate some snacks in the surgical waiting area, I played Peggle on my iPhone in the surgical waiting area, I dozed off to the Soma FM drone-music station in the surgical waiting area. I watched at least five or six families get updates on their loved ones’ procedures in the surgical waiting area. Each time, the surgeon would come out, sit down next to the person, and say some version of “Everything went well/you can see her in about an hour/we’ll wait for pathology results but it looks really good” blah blah blah.
Eventually LT’s surgeon came out, all Armenian and stern, and asked if I was LT’s wife. When I said yes, he made a beckoning gesture with his stern Armenian finger and said, “Please come with me.” THEN WE WENT TO A LITTLE ROOM. A LITTLE ROOM WITH A BOX OF KLEENEX ON THE TABLE. He said, “Have a seat” and I was trying to breathe deeply while thinking I’m in the cry room. They don’t want the widow to make a scene.
Of course, as soon as we sat down Stern Armenian surgeon started saying things like, “Everything went okay, the disc material blah blah blah” but I was not listening anymore. Holy hell, don’t DO that.
(I just read this over and it seems like I am making a big racist deal about the surgeon’s Armenian heritage, but I really couldn’t care less. I am merely amused by “stern” and “Armenian” as descriptors.)
LT had to stay a few extra days in the hospital because his incision kept “draining.” This was a bummer in some ways but probably a blessing in others—there is only one bodily fluid I will accept from LT, and it is not blood or ghastly “wound fluid.” Keep your drainage in the hospital where they are equipped to deal with it, thanks. Those extra hospital days, at last count, have pushed the inpatient totals alone up above 30K, with so far nary a contrary peep from the insurance, and let us all just bow our heads and give thanks for decent HMOs and managed care in general and hey, why not manage it even MORE, why not manage the FUCK out of it, shhhhh you goddamned socialist, are you advocating single-payer health care or something? Uh, maybe.
The patient is home now, walking around very slowly, napping a lot. He claims to not enjoy the narcotics, to the point of not even wanting to fill the prescription, and is managing with Tylenol. I insisted on getting the prescription filled because some of us enjoy narcotics just fine, thank you.
(Kidding. I’m leaving his post-op painkillers alone for the time being. But if we don’t end up having a booze-and-pills piñata party, maybe we can sell them to teenagers or something. Make some cash for these co-pays.)
—mimi smartypants is a controlled substance.