buns of steel

If a doctor offered me today to replace my bones with steel, or perhaps a titanium alloy, I would have to say go for it. Because although my body has been generally kind to me over the years, I've been having a few problems with it lately. Last week it was my hand, causing me to spend the four-hour car ride to Tahoe with my left hand cupping the mangled right one, an ugly bruise spread across the palm and the fingers curled in and unable to straighten out. God knows what happened to it (this is why you should listen to your mother when she tells you not to drink. It really isn't becoming of a lady) but I do remember some fighting. I was pretty sure it was broken, but having never broken a bone in my life and having just canceled my health insurance two weeks before, I had no way of confirming this. So I adapted to my claw-hand, comforting myself with the fact that lots of things cope with three digits.





So I'm ok with my three fingered lifestyle, although it was depressing to learn that I can no longer eat with chopsticks. But last Friday, I started having pains in my left side whenever I breathed. Which happens to be quite a lot. I didn't worry about it too much until I woke up Saturday, still unable to breathe without wincing. I started to get a little worried, so I did what anyone without insurance has to do to diagnose their ailment. I went on WebMD.com to see what I had. Turns out, according to the little clickable body, it was either a miscarriage or some sort of imminent kidney failure. I should mention that I am somewhat of a hypochondriac, so I was immediately convinced I would need a kidney transplant and started mentally listing possible kidneys to harvest. When I still couldn't laugh without screaming by Monday, I decided to reinstate my medical coverage and go to the doctor.

As it turns out, my kidneys are fine and this is most likely a muscle strain. Possibly from my sedentary career path, but also and more alarmingly, possibly from the salsa dancing I did last Thursday night. This is frightening because the class is beginner level and there is no explanation for the intense pain I am in merely from being twirled around for half an hour. If this is what my thirties have in store for me, then I may as well order my Rascal now...although I'm not sure how well I'll be able to operate the controls.

another day, another person I want to strangle

I'm tired. Really, really, tired. But that is to be expected I guess from splitting a week starting a new job and working half days at the old office. I haven't had a lunch break since Monday and the stress of trying to remember to-do items from both companies is starting to make my eyeballs pop out. But...I'll get used to it.

Now, on to the strangling.

Last night, Hector told me he was taking me out to dinner (somewhere far away, he said, and our reservations were at 8). I changed from my work clothes when I got home, and since I had no idea where we were going, I looked to Hector to tell me what was appropriate attire. I ended up wearing a sweater-y top and jeans, with my converse, which I was pretty sure would be too informal for Ruth's Chris (there went THAT hope). We then drove down the street and into the Outback parking lot.

Now don't get me wrong, I love me some Outback, but it's certainly not worthy of going to all the trouble to keep it a secret for a week that Thursday night I would be eating a 7oz Outback Special with a side salad and baked potato (hold the sour cream). So I was understandably confused as I walked into the restaurant, thinking maybe that once we got in there, the real surprise would be that all my family and friends had been gathered surreptitiously to help me celebrate...Thursday? Getting through four days of a new job? Going a whole day without spilling anything on my shirt? Instead, the only surprise was that we sat down to eat and commenced one damn fine meal.

I won't put you through the suspense I had of trying to figure out what the hell was going on. After we ate, we drove downtown and I learned that we would be going to the Sharks game. Hector bought tickets for us because he knew I'd wanted to go for a while now, and so we went. It was a surprise, and a very nice one. He got the good tickets too, the ones on the bottom where I didn't need my glasses to make out the puck and Setoguchi's sweet lips.

Unfortunately, no amount of money could have been paid to prevent us from having seats near the assholes who ended up behind us. As soon as they sat down and I heard the first piercing shriek of the woman and lame baritone "witty" commentary of the man, I knew that I would hate them with every fiber of my being, as I do various strangers at least ten times a day. But, instead of my hate passing as it does when I zoom past some jerk who cuts me off on the way to work, or when I loudly whisper to Laura "I hate someone in this yoga class", or when I let the air out of an inconsiderate neighbor's tires, this hate was to last for three periods, one overtime, and a shootout. The woman was loud, drunk, and knowledgeable of the player's names, which was a very upsetting combination. For every single play, every single time the puck was touched, my ears would ring with screams of "Come on, Marleau!" or "Get it out of there, Boyle!" or the truly enraging, "Stop fucking up, Ehrhoff!" Even Hector almost snapped at that one, since we could hear both her and her stupid male counterpart complaining how awful Ehrhoff was and how he's been screwing up all season. I certainly didn't see her fat ass on the ice doing any better for the team.

Aside from that, it was nice to be able to see the Sharks play, even though they did lose. I got to see my first ever shootout, which was interesting. And I got to eat an entire king size kit-kat to myself, which was glorious. We came very close to being on the monitor several times, which makes me think maybe I should have worn more revealing clothes or brought a baby to dress in a shark costume for crowd appeal. But there's always next time. One thing I'm thankful for, I didn't wear heels to my fancy surprise dinner.