What's worse is that Doctor Demento wrote a prescription for Vicodin. What if I become a serious pill popper? The research I've done suggests that Vicodin is addictive. I don't have time for a mild prescription addiction.
It seems fairly obvious that the best course of action would be to cancel the surgery, but my mom is coming in, and she's so damn excited about being able to nurse me back to health that I can't let her down. agh.
- - -
Last night during the train ride to the city from O'Hare: I was huddled in a corner, struggling to stay awake as the train passed station after station. There were only four other people on board, and my eyes drifted to t the back of one boy's head. "Oh, now, that's a nice haircut," I thought. Then he turned around, and who was it but the inimitable FRESHMAKER. We smiled big goofy grins at each other, and he sat down across from me. I was worried that I smelled and looked bad after spending the day traipsing around Manhattan, so I was convinced that I had probably stunk up the train like a big pile of dung, and he was probably just coming over my way to be polite, and he would probably notice that pimple that sprouted behind my jaw, and so on.
But of course, everything went well, and we talked from the California stop Division, where we both deboarded. "Do you know of any bars around here?" asked the Freshmaker. "My friend says there's a tiny hole in the wall around the corner from the studio." Instead of taking this potential date bait, I said, "I always want to go to Polish bars and hang out with little old Polish men." And now the Freshmaker probably thinks that I don't want to get it on with 27-year-old megafoxes, but 77-year-old incontinent Poles.
We talked all the way to Chestnut and Ashland, where our paths split. "I'll call you soon," he said before hugging me goodnight. If I were suave, I would have said, "Cool, talk with you lata." But instead, I smiled and squawked, "Okay! Hey, you should come over for dinner sometime. I like to cook for my friends. I'm a good cook. All this (I point to my general body area) and I can cook, too." He grinned and we parted. God, even David Hasselhoff is smoother than I am. DAVID HASSELHOFF, people.
Knowing of the family's mole problem, a neighbor jokingly suggested that the rodential ruckus would endif only my mother were to "shoot the dang things." All of the adults got a chuckle from this outlandish idea. All except one. When we looked at my mother's face, it was as though she had been divinely blessed with great rodent-murdering insight.
Betty bought a Smith and Wesson pistol within a week, and then she began to plan her kills. She preferred to hunt in the morning, "when they're really moving." She would gingerly stomp the mole runs flat and patiently wait for one of them to pop up again—a sure sign that a mole was busy burrowing. She'd carefully aim her pistol at the ground, pull the trigger, and then, BLAM! BLAM! BLAM! BLAMBLAM! BLAM.
Originally, these shots were followed with her call: "Bob! Baaaa-ahbbb. I need you to dig the mole up!" My father, a patient and peaceful man, would grudgingly comply. He and I both disliked being drawn into my mother's murderous plots, as we did not share in her bloodlust. When he expressed this to my mother ("They're just doing their job, and I hate to see the bloody little things") she agreed.
"You're right," she mused, gently caressing the cold steel of the pistol. "If we leave the dead ones in there, it'll be a message to the other moles." After that summer, we never had a mole problem again.
This week’s contestants: driver of the gigantic teal SUV who almost hit me on Division yesterday, flipping me off though I inarguably had the right-of-way; the lad who talks about how he’d be sad if we didn’t stay friends after dumping me, but only monosyllabically acknowledges me at the Empty Bottle before winning a gold medal in the avoidance Olympics; pushy guy who pressured Karinsa to play video poker with him, but turned surly when she politely and kindly declined.
To keep the program somewhat cheery, we will also feature Good Egg of the Week. This week’s nominees: the boys of Italo, for looking irrepressibly happy while playing their instruments; the cheerful cashier at Target, for managing to be genuinely nice to people even though she doesn’t have to be; Miles, for seeing that I was about to come apart on Wednesday, and pulling me back together with a kind squeeze of the shoulder.
The good thing is that it was harder to come up with a list of meanies than sweeties. But you know, you don’t win the Nielsens with tales of love and happiness.
I dropped the sacks of books on the floor as Grumpycute looked at me with terror in his bespectacled eyes. I mean, he usually regards everybody with a certain level of disdain, but this time his face was unmistakably full of horror. I started to make small talk ("Ha ha, how 'bout that Faulkner, eh?"), but Grumpycute just looked as though he'd rather be slathered with creamed corn than be anywhere near me. I decided to leave this strangely unfriendly place, and bent over to pick up the books. Then I realized my horrible, unintentional mistake. The weight of the messenger bag had tugged on my shirt, pulling all but three buttons open. Worse, I was wearing my only clean braa sheer number that had never seemed scandalous until the moment my breasts popped out to greet the patrons of Myopic Books. "Ohmygodohmygodohmygod," I said to the reddening Grumpycute. "I'm so sorry. I didn't mean for this to happen. I didn't know. They just kind of got out somehow, it's this shirt, I knew it wasn't trustworthy ohmygodohmygod I didn't mean for you to see my boobs I'll put them away and will come back another time bye."
I started moving through a rack of some shirts, standing about four feet from a woman in her late thirties. She looked like your typical blue jeans & t-shirt kind of Chicagoan, the kind of person who wears Oakleys and rocks out to Foreigner when she’s feeling saucy. She was browsing and coming my way, as I was going her way. When we were about two feet from each other, I excused myself and moved to her right. She glared at me. I started flipping through the racks again, when suddenly the woman violently shoved the blouses my way. I jumped a little as she yelled, "GET YOUR OWN DAMN BLOUSE RACK! THIS IS MINE! I WAS HERE FIRST!" I then realized that I was dealing with the modern equivalent of the Jabberwocky.
"I’m sure there’s room for both of us," I offered meekly. Because let’s be honest, Jabberwocky didn’t need the whole 6-foot rack to find the finest in poly-rayon blends. "YOU LISTEN HERE, MISSY," growled Jabberwocky. "MAYBE NOBODY EVER TAUGHT YOU ANY MANNERS, BUT YOU NEED TO KEEP TO YOURSELF." I suppressed the urge to inform her that one of my favorite columnists is Miss Manners, and instead, evenly explained, "Oh, but you’re the one being rude." The rabid Jabberwocky then snarled and continued her shopping. I could have given her a saucy comeback, but then I thought, "What would Audrey Hepburn do?" For starters, Audrey Hepburn wouldn’t be shopping at the goshdamned Salvation Army. So I left, hopped on my Vespa, and pretended to ride down the streets of Rome.