Why Yes, I'm a Loser, Thank You Very Much

I've run out of excuses.

I have no excuse for this long absence other than I've been piddling about with one thing or another, and the miniscule amount of blogging time I have squirreled away for the day or week gets divvied out to other projects: paint the bathroom brown, pull-up the carpeting in the living room, macramé a plant hanger, etc.

Do I really macramé? No. Of course not. Although, I had you wondering, didn’t I?

But yes, I did in fact paint my bathroom brown. I hesitated on this one. A brown bathroom. There’s something a bit odd with that. I mean, let’s face it: when you see brown on a bathroom wall, your first thought has to be “poo”. And it doesn’t make any difference if you happen to know that the name of the paint color is actually “Espresso No. 3” and that I paid $25 for a gallon of the special one-coat kitchen/bathroom blend. Brown on a bathroom wall still makes you think “Poo No. 2”. However, the tiles in the bathroom are a greenish color the exact hue of vomit, so why not just be open about the fact of the matter: there is a room in my house that is dedicated to bodily excrements. No use trying to fancy it up or divert attention with gingham or contemporary pastel watercolor borders or idyllic Thomas Kincaid prints of thatched outhouses surrounded by hollyhocks and posies vibrant in the summer twilight of fairyland.

It is what it is. And people's continued attempts to diguise the poo room as a la-di-dah powder room only serve to further explain why Freud is still raking in the big bucks.

Okay, enough said on that topic and onto other things. I feel as if I have a few loose ends to tie-up here before I begin tackling a longer entry on theme.

My stress test.

Well, you’ll be happy to hear that I passed with flying colors. My heart is whirring along as it should, and I immediately celebrated the good news by eating a Big Mac and smoking a pack of Camel No-filters.

The test itself was fairly straightforward: wake up at an ungodly hour after fasting for 12 hours, drive to the hospital in a caffeine-deprived stupor, sit in a waiting room with four extremely overweight, elderly men who you know are looking at your knees…

I have to interject here. I was given the directive to wear “something athletic” to the stress test since I would be jogging and probably sweating. Athletic? I haven’t owned anything vaguely resembling athletic attire since the short-lived Flashdance craze in the ‘80s. And even then I only ever wore my fashionably-ripped sweatshirts to keg parties. The sole article of clothing I own and which could be called athletic by any definition is a hot pink skort that sort of looks like something Venus Williams might wear…to a keg party. So, here I am, 7:30 in the morning, prancing about in the cardiologist’s waiting room, looking like a middle-aged cheerleader.

To continue…I get injected with radioactive salts, lay in a big tube that takes pictures of my heart for twenty minutes, get hooked up to wires and bells and whirligigs and start walking on the jogging machine while a cardiologist watches the EKG to make sure I’m not going to drop dead.

Well, let’s be honest here…that’s what he was watching for.

By the way, the cardiologist was very charming and more than a little bit handsome. And I’m not only saying that because my life was - at that point - in his hands. Or because I knew that he was most likely fabulously wealthy.

I must admit, however, that he didn’t have much of a sense of humor, and that's always a turn-off for me.

For example, at one point he said, “We’re going to increase the speed of the treadmill until you have to start jogging fairly fast. We want to see how your heart deals with stress.”

And I said, “Jogging machine, nothing! If you really want to see stress, just tell me my dishwasher is broken!”

Crickets.

Mental note: If I’m ever the keynote speaker at cardiologists convention, leave the clown shoes at home and don’t even bother with the mitral valve prolaspe knock-knock joke.

Anyway, then there was an injection of a slightly stronger radioactive solution and more pictures in the big tube.

I did ask the nurse whether or not the radioactive injections would have any side-effects, and she smiled and said, “Nope. None whatsoever” and of course we both knew she was lying and had a good laugh. Then she asked whether or not I might be pregnant, and I said, "Doesn't that involve dinner and a movie?" and we both had another good laugh. And she asked whether I worked at Three Mile Island or at a Federal building of some sort because, if so, I could possibly set off their radioactivity alarms for the next few weeks and so she'd need to give me a little card to carry that explained why I was setting off the Geiger counters. And this time, we laughed so hard I think we both tinkled.

And then I asked whether she thought terrorists might schedule stress tests just to get the radioactivity “free pass” card and so gain access into Federal buildings or nuclear power plants and thusly blow the place sky high with a homemade dirty bomb, and ain't some terrorists just tricky like that.

But that time, she didn’t think it was so funny and instead made some sort of note in my chart with a red pen.

Hey, next time someone cites “failure of imagination” as a reason for anything, don’t look in my direction, would ya?

But, I will admit that I wanted to try sneaking into the courthouse just to see whether I could make the Geiger counters go clickety-click. I mean, who wouldn’t?

So, all is well with the ole ticker. I’ve been given the go-ahead to walk, jog, run, dance, prance, kick-box, aerobicise, and otherwise shimmy till the cows come home.

And I didn’t really smoke a pack of ciggies.

But, I did have a cheeseburger with extra mayo, hold the pickle.

What, me worry?

Okay…I’m going to try to get back into the blogging habit. Don’t expect much at first. I’m just going to sign-on once a day and tap out some random thoughts. Not that I’ve been doing more than that throughout…I’ll just put down my thesaurus and shoot from the hip as far as the mechanics. Bear with me. Things might get weird.

8 comments:

Bradley Cooper, Winemaker said...

It's not important that you blog frequently; it's just important that you do blog. Always worth my time to read you. Cheers!

anne said...

Hey Sis-

Glad to hear you passed your test.

Two things:

1) Brown is ok for bathroom walls - you don't have to clean as often. EEEWWW!

2) I have a bush party/wedding reception to go to this weekend. For real. I might need to borrow the skort.

Hope to see you this weekend!

Bradley Cooper, Winemaker said...

I was thinking . . . could you get an RSS feed button or something like that so's I could put your site on my Sharpreader? The outcome would be: everytime you post I automatically receive the goods on my newsreader. That way I don't have to remind myself to check your site.

Beth said...

Jozet, just visiting from Julie's and I have to say, you are extremely funny. Your post about the informal book store survey and the 4-month old driving a column stick, too effing funny!

Now this, OMG, poo #2, the dishwasher! Tears rolling down my cheeks! My sides hurt.

I actually prefer people who don't post every day, it's easier to keep up with them. Man, I wish I had time to read your archives right now, be back later! ;)

Anonymous Mama said...

I think you should have gone for the Thomas Kinkaide print so you could have a total poop/vomit theme going on. Does he do brown and green?

Jeannine said...

My beautiful sister (one of them anyway) was in an unfortunate automobile accident and hit her head. Cut her scalp open, in fact. She has the same problem as you have. So when the plastic surgeon came in to see her in the hospital he asked how she was.

It was like one am and she had been sitting there for hours. Instead of ripping him a new one (which might or might not have been her big sister's MO) she said mildly, "Well, I have a splitting headache,".

Not only did he not laugh, that little quip cost her an overnight stay for observation and a visit from the neuro to boot.

Final diagnosis: doc with absolutely no sense of humor.

I thought it was hilarious, myself; but apparently the hostile and aggresive MO gets you out of the hospital while the more civilized passive aggressive one makes you stay there.

Word to the wise.

Jozet said...

Mr. Cooper -

Many thanks, as always. I'd send you a bottle of wine in gratitude for your continued support, but I fear that 1) I could never match the quality of anything curently in your cellar and 2) I'd get arrested for sending alcohol through the mail. But, the thought is there.

RSS feed button, eh? Give me a sec to Google that and figure out what Greek your speaking. I'm a smart girl I'll get it...RSS feed button, on the way.

Seestor of the Cafe au Lait bathroom -

I'll be up tomorrow. I have to work, but then I'll make a quick stop for illegal fireworks, pick up my skort at the dry cleaner, and we're off!

Beth -

Thanks for stopping by! Read more, read often! I hope Julie is weathering her storm well. A sense of humor is priceless when it comes to mothering. Expecially if you intend to hang out with other mothers at all. ;-)

Anonymous Mom -

I don't think that Thomas Kincaide "Painter of Light" has brown in his paint box. Only happy flower colors. However, his brother, Larry Kincaide "Painter of Barstools" has a painting entitled "Dirty Frank's Cafe - Men's Room, 3 AM" that might work. :oD

Jeannine -

Well now! What problem might that be, exactly!

And concidentally, I was in a car accident yesterday - well, a fender bender. My fender got very bent; the other car a little more so. No one was hurt - except possibly my ego. Two words: blind spot.

Anyway, thank you for your words of wisdom. And nice to see you around!

Josette

Theresa said...

1. Great blog.
2. I have a bathroom that I painted brown. Poo brown. I love it.
3. I also love haluski.
4. My ass shows it.
5. Great blog.

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