Every Wednesday during my psychology lecture about sex, there is a flamenco dance class in the studio next door. Today, while we tried to hear our teacher talk about boners, I listened to the rhythmic stomping of the dance class.
I turned to my friend sitting next to me and told her it sounded like sex. She considered and then shrugged, not finding it quite as amusing as I had.
When the tempo increased and the stomping got louder, I gave her a meaningful look.
Oh... yeah, I take a class about sex. And guess what? It's fun to learn about sex! Who would've thought? As I learn more and more about arousal and the penis from a detailed biological perspective, I feel like more of an expert. I then think to myself, "Know your enemy." I then laugh at my own joke. Penises are definitely not the enemy; I have more trouble looking at the diagrams of vulvas than the penises.
My professor is really awesome, and in every class he tells us an anecdote from his personal life. This usually ends with him trailing off and leaving us to our imaginations, which delights me because he usually looks embarrassed. Today he was talking about a woman he dated one summer who wore Coppertone sunscreen all the time, and said that every time he smells Coppertone now, he instantly thinks about sex/intimacy/her. I've never experienced the same thing, but... Has that ever happened to you?
Wednesday, January 31
Every Wednesday during my psychology lecture about sex, there is a flamenco dance class in the studio next door. Today, while we tried to hear our teacher talk about boners, I listened to the rhythmic stomping of the dance class.
Monday, January 29
Today I met my better half. Or as I like to call her (always with an internal sneer), the other intern.
Okay, I just met her today. How can I hate her that much? It turns out I have a good reason:
They hired two interns because they wanted someone to be there during business hours every day. Naturally, this means I have to compete with her to be the more outstanding intern (not that I'm competitive). Usually, I am the master at this. I don't brown nose, but I'm pretty damn charming (I hope... it's either that or I brown nose unknowingly). The problem in this case is that she started working on January 5th, whereas my first day was January 25th.
Twenty days may not seem like a big difference, but when you're doing the same job it really is. Since this is an internship, I already have only 3 months to prove myself as a valuable worker. On my first day I was subjected to comments like "I don't want to teach you this; the other intern will show you how. She has a system." Clearly I have no say in the matter. Since she already knows how to do everything, our superiors will probably prefer to give assignments to her over me. Then it will look as though I'm not a "go-getter". Little do they know, I love going-and-getting. Love it.
Oh. And also I'm still recovering from surgery, so even though walking around a bunch isn't a medically sound idea, people might still interpret that to be laziness. Perhaps I should tape a sign to my face that says "I am temporarily crippled" and one on my back that says "No, seriously." If I do that, though, maybe I should also put up witty bumper stickers or the Sunday comics.
So even though I met the [sneer] other intern and she was really nice, and she was sympathetic when I complained about being in pain... all I could think about was how irritating it was that she knew how to do everything. That and her shirt was way too low-cut. Skank.
Saturday, January 27
So I guess if you can't get your heterophobic gay friend to tell you you're hot, the universe will send someone else to do it.*
I saw that I had a message when I logged into facebook. Usually I get junk mail from groups that are sending mass emails to everyone about upcoming events, but this one was from an acquaintance who graduated last year. He wrote:
by the way, i always thought you were absurdly hot. no disrespect intended, just a statement of fact. it's possible that we'll never see each other again so you might as well know. PLEASE don't take it the wrong way. good luck in life and all that you do!
I was flattered. My impression of him was that he had been a pretty popular guy and a talented musician. Also, a friend of mine freshman year was obsessed with him. His message was kind of adorable, and I always love it when guys clarify that they're not being creepy. So I wrote him back:
Thank you :) I always thought you were an absurdly nice guy. I wish I could have gotten to know you better while you were still here. If you're ever in town we should hang out!
Afterwards, I realized that I may have insulted him by not calling him absurdly hot in return (who likes the "You're such a nice guy" response?). Still, if I had called him hot, he probably would have assumed that I'd like to have sex with him. This way it sounded a little more platonic. I remembered that he didn't live in the city, so I assumed I might never see him again.
So I was a little unsure whether to be excited or nervous or terrified when he replied:
i'm in town about half the time. i have to travel alot for gigs and such but i'm around. i'll hit you up on facebook next time i have a good chunk of free time. see you!
... This could get rather uncomfortable, since I haven't decided if I would actually want to see him when he comes to town.
*I will eventually stop talking about how hot I am.
Thursday, January 25
After meeting one of my bosses at my new internship today, I've been a little man-crazy - he is so cute it boggles the mind. You know how some guys are cute, but they're not really hot; they're cute? He is so cute that it spills over into the hot. It may even spill over into something beyond hot.
Oh, and he's married. Fuck.
So I came home from my internship and gushed about him forever, then watched Grey's where George is sex-crazed, and then looked at pictures of hot celebrities with my friend HP (heterophobe).
We got a call from a mutual friend and decided to go over to her place. At this point, all I could think about was looking as attractive as I could (as if there would be any guys for me to meet there), and I turned to HP and whined: "HP, what am I going to wear? I'm not going to look any good!"
HP, who was on his way out, stopped for a second. I quickly remembered that every time I have requested some friendly encouragement about my body from him, HP utters the dreadful words "I'm gay, I don't know" and my pleas for help are frustrated.
Before he could answer this time, I yelled "I know you're gay, just tell me I look sexy and that everyone wants to do me!"
... I'm never asking him for reassurance again. Some friend he is.
Wednesday, January 24
One of the classes I'm taking is a history class about beauty in the United States. Today, someone mentioned high heels and we ended up debating over whether heels are considered necessary in 2007 (compared to the 1940s). I argued that while they are no longer required at the office (not everywhere at least), they are still standard fare in many workplaces and still the footwear of choice when we think of a sexy outfit.
One girl told us about a conversation she had with a bunch of male friends.
Her: "So, why do guys like it when women wear heels so much?"
Guy 1: "Well... honestly? We kind of like that it hurts your feet."
Guy 1: "Yeah, that's definitely part of it."
She turns to another guy friend incredulously.
Guy 2: "I have to admit, I agree."
Tuesday, January 23
Ladies, have you ever wondered if the guy with whom you're sharing an innocent good time is being sincere? Have you ever thought, "He seems really nice... but is he just trying to get into bed with me?"
Gentlemen, have you ever pretended to be a nice, charming guy so that a woman would sleep with you? ... That was a hypothetical question.
Since this thought often occurs to me, I have to wonder: would it be better to just sleep with a guy so I can find out what he's really like? If he's still a good guy, he's a keeper; if he's an asshole then I find out right away.
PS. Condom donations appreciated.
My flight back to New York was at 9am, which means I woke up at 6:30am. By the way, I'm not a morning person. I rode the wheelchair to my gate, since I decided not to risk hurting my hip by trekking around the airport a mere two weeks after surgery. I got to pre-board, and found my seat in the second to last row next to the window.
I'm a friendly person and all, but I've always been pretty reserved on airplanes. Ever since my mom berated me when I was ten for giving personal information (i.e. the town I'm from) to strangers, I've played it on the safe side. I try to read; usually end up sleeping. Almost always succeed in ignoring the people next to me.
So as everyone else boarded the plane, I got my book out. I saw someone set stuff on the aisle seat, and snuck a tiny glance. Wow, he was cute... right? Or maybe I didn't look long enough to evaluate. I peeked again as he set something in the overhead bin, quickly looking away. Yeah, he looked cute. I think. It's hard to tell when you only looked for half a second. Crap. Was he cute? All I could tell was that he was well-dressed and had blond-ish hair. That definitely doesn't mean anything. I tried to look again, and then realized that I had basically just done a triple-take without gathering any information, so I whipped open my book and ignored him.
"Hi, I'm Jason." I looked over in surprise to his hand. Finally, an appropriate moment to look at him without seeming like a creepy staring person. He was cute. I smiled and shook his hand, then prepared to turn back to my book.
"So are you going to New York to visit or go home?" What was this? He wanted to talk? Incredible. I figured it wouldn't go much beyond that, though.
I was wrong. We talked literally nonstop for the entire five hour flight. He had the most entertaining stories from traveling with his friends through Europe, and we talked about things like bar etiquette and the third date rule.
He even has the same political ideas as I do. And I know he wasn't faking because he showed me the book he had stashed in his seatback pocket, which was about politics. In the middle of that conversation, he referenced a book that I had read, and we had one of those "No kidding! That's so cool!" moments.
I told him about my surgery and he told me about his past surgeries, complete with funny stories of course. Every time we finished a topic or the conversation lagged for 10 seconds or so (which only happened about 3 times during the whole flight) he picked it up and asked me a question.
The problem? He knew that I'm 21, but I had no idea how old he was. All I have to go on is that he referred to 23 as the past, and he said the absolute oldest woman he would date would be 32. So he must be 30 or younger. Unfortunately I forgot to ask about how young he would go. Not that I'm completely in love with him.
Except that he was perfect.
As everyone filed off the plane and I waited for a chance to run to the bathroom, we just waved goodbye.
I know he's only in town for a week, and he's on business. But for some reason I was disappointed. He had definitely seemed interested, and we could easily have met for drinks. I have to wonder if he was deterred when I told him about my surgery. Would he have tried to meet up with me if he thought I might sleep with him? Or was he just friendly?
Whatever the case, I am now optimistic that I will be able to find non-creepy men who can carry a conversation and make me laugh. Or I could move to Seattle. I mean, he works for Microsoft... not bad.
Monday, January 22
How was my 21st birthday? Not too drunken, unfortunately.
My parents took me, along with my aunts and uncles, to a fantastic restaurant for dinner. The type of restaurant where all I could think about was how rich everyone in the room must be, because everything was so expensive and so classy. Due to the finery of the establishment, there were also very few men my age to gaze at. However, I was pleasantly drunk during the entire meal thanks to the strength of my cocktail (a cosmolini).
In the beginning of the day I had received a phone call from my older cousin who wanted to come party with me in Seattle, and when dinner was over I gave her a call. My mom was against me going out because I had an early flight the next morning, but I convinced her with my "responsible face" (and a small lie to ease her mind). I had my outfit planned and had made sure I could stay awake by drinking some strong coffee with dessert. Just as I was about to get ready my cousin called me, crying. "Whoa, what's going on?" I asked. She explained, pausing periodically to sob, that her friend couldn't drive anymore and she only had a two-seater (her boyfriend was going to drive). I heroically reassured her that it was all right and got off the phone.
So, not a boozy birthday. But now that I'm back at school, plans are being formulated (perhaps featuring Manhattan..). Unfortunately most of my friends are younger than me, so I sense some changes coming: my friends with fake IDs will be promoted to "closest friend" status, while those without will be demoted. Perhaps even laid off. Seriously, I only have so many positions available. I'm currently shopping for a replacement for S. Any takers? Send resumes to firstname.lastname@example.org (Just kidding, S. No one is as entertaining as you)
And... tomorrow I will tell you all about my plane ride back, which was 3 million percent better than my birthday. Hint: there is a cute guy involved.
Friday, January 19
My 21st birthday is tomorrow, Saturday. All of my previous life experience has informed me that this means I should be partying with tons of friends at a bar, a club, or both. I should probably puke and stumble around a lot, maybe have sex with a stranger, and definitely blog about it the next day.
There are a few problems with that rosy picture.
1. I'm still at my parents', and all of my friends from my hometown are back at school.
2. The friends who are in the area/could come are younger than me and therefore would not be able to join. And I think a 21st birthday girl alone at a bar is a pretty sad picture.
3. I had surgery and am afraid to walk around from bar to bar or dance at a club. Even falling down is probably off limits.
Knowing all of this far in advance, I came up with a plan B that's about 50% as cool: I asked my mom to treat me to a fancy dinner at this gourmet restaurant, where each food course has a wine course. Unfortunately, we are on the wait list.
When we were at dinner at my aunt's house the other night, my aunt said: "So, you're almost 21 TAB! How exciting! What are you going to do?"
"I'm not sure anymore," I responded. I explained the reservation problem, and then meekly said "I don't really care where we go, I just want to get a drink out somewhere to celebrate."
After my mom offered a few equally fancy (and probably boring) restaurant alternatives, I revealed that I would prefer to drink cocktails rather than wine. My aunt exclaimed "Let's take her out to all the Seattle bars and force her to down as many drinks as we can think of!"
This turned into a conversation about "way back then," when they used to drink all kinds of booze late into the night. They started reviewing different drinks, none of which I've heard of. I listened in delighted shock. "We're going to get you wasted!" My aunt cried, giggling.
I grinned. "This is why you're my favorite aunt."
Thursday, January 18
I went to my post-op appointment on Monday, still limping a little and very sore. Overall, though, things seemed to be healing. I was concerned because they hadn't found what they were looking for: a tear in the cartilage of my hip socket. Instead, they found things that seemed insignificant, and a chunk of missing cartilage "of uknown importance."
So I was a tad nervous walking into the room. Had anything been fixed? Would I ever be able to walk again? Screw that; when can I have sex again?!
The post-op doctor was not my surgeon, who I trusted the most. I decided to ask her a million questions. Here is a good sample of the conversation:
"Are you having any problems?" She asked while taking out my stitches.
I winced and waited for elaboration. When none arrived, I prodded: "Problems...?" Like... a T-Rex coming out of my stitches? Soreness? What's the scale, here?
She refused to give me any options. "So I guess you don't have any, then."
I was pissed off. Clearly she didn't mean T-Rex, but... "Actually, there's a piece of skin that's irritated..." I hesitated.
"Where?" She asked.
I glanced at my mom, who was in the corner. I then pointed as best I could with my pants half down, to the spot. Riiiight next to my va-jay-jay. "Y'know... down there kind of." I was hoping she wouldn't tell me to take my clothes off in front of my mother.
"Oh, yeah. Sometimes that happens." She proceeded to explain exactly what they did to me after they knocked me out. They pulled my naked legs apart, set one still and pushed my other one as far away as they could. Basically, they tried to dislocate my leg. And when they were done, they set my leg, the tender part right next to my va-jay-jay, right up against a pole that must have been coated with something akin to sandpaper. "Some people get a little sore and chafed."
Part of me was relieved; my hip was sore because they basically threw my legs around as they saw fit. Y'know, probably punched me in the groin a few times. At least it wasn't an actual complication, and no wonder I was so sore. The rest of me was horrified. While she explained all this, she pantomimed by thwacking the place that was next to the pole and spreading her legs open. Her clothed legs. Mine had been naked. No panties. They had ripped my legs apart and were standing right next to my crotch for the whole procedure. When someone got bored, did they try to stare inside me? Why hadn't I trimmed and shaved before going in?
I smiled and moved on. "So, they didn't find a tear when they went in. What did they find?"
"There was an abnormality in the joint." I had watched the surgery video. That abnormality was so tiny and seemed so insignificant.
"That was enough to cause the problem?" I asked skeptically.
"Oh, yes. Of course."
"Oh, good! Wow, that's relieving..."
She explained my recuperation very vaguely. "You should start going walking, to increase strength and flexibility."
"When should I start doing that?"
"I don't really have an answer for you; it's different for everyone." Was she glaring at me? No... what's the step just below a glare? That's what she was doing.
"Um, so how long should I walk for?"
"It really depends. You'll just have to see what hurts and what doesn't and respond to your body." She looked like she wanted to leave. Did she have lunch plans? Diarrhea?
The rest of the appointment went pretty much like that. I kept trying to get information, and she gave me no answer other than a variation on the phrase "listen to your body." Somehow I still felt much better walking out of the building than I had walking in.
As my mom and I got into the car, she remarked "That doctor really seemed to know what she was talking about."
I agreed and then realized we thought her to be so competent even though she barely gave us any of the answers we were looking for. "Listen to your body"? Is it me, or is it getting easier to be a doctor these days?
Wednesday, January 17
Warning: this post is rated R by the MPAA (aka me). You're welcome for the warning.
Even though I have TWO ideas for other posts, a bunch of people commented after my last post that they wanted to hear about my handjobs. And though I love to tease, I think in blogland anticipation lasts only so long before it turns to apathy (about one post, to be exact). So I decided to save those brilliant ideas for later (if you don't like my next two posts, it's your own fault for delaying inspiration) and talk about handjobs.
I don't purport to be an expert at the handjob, or as the French say, 'le handjob'*. Let me start by saying that the only times I've given handjobs to anyone I wasn't dating, it didn't work out. (In my defense, this only happened twice and I was drunk both times. Also there were technical difficulties, including - ew - sweat) I also disregard the balls entirely. If it was absolutely integral and I loved the guy, I'd do it. Otherwise... too bad. I know, "the balls are so important!" Blah, blah. Move on.
However, I've heard enough "Oh my god"s and "That feels amazing"s to believe that I have some reason to be proud. On that note, let's begin.
The first trick of the handjob is to want to give one. It may sound stupid, but I only give absolutely fantastic handjobs when I have an intense desire to do so. Have you ever found that the best way to express how horny you are is to get someone else off? Giving an amazing handjob makes me feel sexy and powerful, and the more horny my victim is, the more horny I get.
More importantly, without that intense desire, it's all mechanics. I'm a great actress, but it's no fun to play and tease when it's not coming from the heart. I just don't do as good a job, and I'm not sorry about it.
When it's in my heart, and I really want to give a spectacular handjob, I start on the outside of his clothing. You can only tease for so long before it's not fun anymore, and at the very beginning it's definitely still fun. I know there's appeal to ripping a man's pants off, but like I said at the start of this post, I love to tease.
So I start by rubbing his thighs, tracing the seams of his pants with my fingers. I innocently brush my hand up against his penis. I run the palm of my hand up and down the length of the penis (head-shaft-base-shaft-head-repeat), which is usually hard or semi-hard by this time.** I apply enough pressure for him to feel it through his denim or whatever material he has on, but not too much: my hand should be gliding, not hurting... I play with the button of his pants. I slip my fingers under his pants, over top of his boxers,*** and lightly stroke the area next to his hips. I return to the outside of his jeans, stroking along the zipper of his pants. I use the tips of my fingers, slightly separated, to stroke him through his pants. I'm kissing his chest and his stomach intermittently. I might reach underneath and touch him over his boxers before I unzip the pants.
When I do, I unzip them slowly. I struggle with the button first and allow his hard-on to push his pants out further when the button is finally free. Then I unzip and pull his pants away from his package. I usually tease him outside his boxers for a little bit, but not for too long. I pull the hardware through that convenient little hole in the boxers and basically play with it like I just opened my best birthday gift ever: a penis!
I usually start with a lighter touch and move into a firmer grasp. Things like exploring the length of the shaft with my fingertips, tracing the edge of the head, etc. turn into some actual hands firmly encircling the penis and some solid strokin' action. If it's around, this is when I pull out the lube. Not the crappy lube; the warming KY. I love lube, but when I say lube, I mean this lube. Wow that was a lot of lube usage.
Anyway, when the spirit moves me, I speed up or slow down. The spirit usually moves me to slow down or stop the actual stroking when he seems to be getting close and I want to play around more. Then I can stop and tease more, or slow the pace. I like to twist my hand a lot, especially when the lube is involved. I like to vary the positioning of my hand, to straddle him and use both hands, or to lay next to him and kiss or lick his stomach while I go.
When I'm ready for him to come and he's close, I increase the speed and basically just go as fast as I can. Then he comes, and I watch with a smile on my face (not a fake one, I assure you). When he's done, I kiss him and go get a wetted towel to throw at him.
... And I'm spent.
* Not actually a French phrase...
** Don't forget about the intense makeout session before this pretend handjob. And the fact that I'm not wearing all my clothes. That usually gets me an instant hard-on****
*** That's right, boxers. I don't care about your briefs.
**** Just kidding... maybe.
Monday, January 15
Saturday, January 13
As I recently mentioned, The Ex invited me to go home with him for the weekend. Not only would I like to see him before I go back to school, but I recently moved with my parents to an island filled with doll shops and retired people. The view is gorgeous, but my boredom is rising. I see this two days as a vacation filled with The Ex's endlessly amusing family and hopefully some nice cuddling.
I realized that it might be hard to convince my mom that I'm ready to leave for two days, since I just had surgery a week ago. And at the beginning of the week, I was equally concerned. At that point I had to be served every meal and got up only to pee and go back to bed.
By Wednesday, it was a different story. I was making my own breakfast, sitting at the table for dinner, and off the heavy duty painkillers. Deeming myself able to leave, I popped the question to my mother. My aunt and uncle (two doors down the road) had come over for dinner, and I caught my mom alone for a moment in the office.
"So, I've been invited to spend a couple days at The Ex's this weekend, and I'd like to go" I started. "What do you think?"
She looked startled. "Do you really think that's a good idea?" she asked, and proceeded to orally wag her finger at me for visiting an ex. "You seem very off-and-on with him. I don't understand why you won't just break up and move on."
I explained to her as best I could the status of my relationship with The Ex. (Summary: If we didn't have to deal with the distance, we would be together (maybe not forever, but at least right now). So since I'm here, it'd be nice to see him once or twice before going back to school.) Mom was not enthused.
Neither was I. "Whether I continue seeing him or not, I feel that it's my decision to make" I said reasonably. "Some relationships end abruptly and cleanly, and other people decide to remain friends after they break up. There isn't one way to do it." I couldn't believe I had to explain my behavior to my mother; I'm twenty years old. If we hadn't moved and I hadn't just had surgery, I easily could have simply told her I was leaving for the weekend. It felt like a formality to ask her at all.
Finally, she moved on to the more valid argument: "I don't think it's a good idea, since you just had surgery. What if you injured yourself?"
I explained to her that this was why I had waited to ask her; I wanted to make sure it was something my leg could handle. "I'm walking without crutches, I can take care of myself at this point. We're going to be sitting indoors for the whole time." I knew it would be just as relaxing to hang out at his house as it had been at ours; the scheduled events included football games and the 24 premiere. And it's not like I couldn't ask for a favor if I wasn't feeling well.
She briefly went back to her former argument, the emotional one. I stopped her. "What is this about, mom? Is it about my health or you disapproving of my relationship with The Ex?"
She was caught. In a wild conceptual leap, she said "Remember when you were there that night, playing with the dogs and you hurt yourself?" Two and a half years ago, I had run into a huge rock in their backyard because there were no lights on and had to get stitches in the emergency room.
"What's your point?" I asked, confused.
"Well, my point is... you could do it again!"
I wanted to laugh at her. Instead I said, "Mom, it's not like I hurt myself before I started playing with the dogs. It's a completely different situation. I'm not going to play with the dogs at all. I'm not trying to sabotage my recovery, okay?"
After a minute more, my mom excused herself to tend to the company. I joined my mom and aunt for a game of Upwords, and felt triumphant for acting completely normal. I wasn't spiteful or rude; I made jokes and laughed with my aunt while my mom ignored us.
I took a quick bathroom break while we were playing, and as I rounded the corner on my return I heard my aunt ask, "Well do you think they're sleeping together?"
Unfortunately, it was too late to hide and listen, so I pretended I hadn't heard anything and joined them. Shame on mom, but fortunately I had already discussed The Ex situation with my aunt and she was on my side (my uncle and her had gone through something similar before they got married).
After my relatives left, I watched Grey's Anatomy with my mom. As it ended, Mom said "Well, I'm going to bed," but made no move to get up. She was leaving the next day for the weekend, so I knew I would have to refresh her memory soon.
"When do you want to talk about the visit?" I asked innocently.
After a few reasonable questions about timing, she very undramatically relented. So undramatically that I have no idea what she said. Still, success! I love having the better argument, especially with my mom.
Thursday, January 11
Wednesday, January 10
After my surgery, I saw it as my goal to sit on my butt for days on end. Luckily, this was also doctor-recommended, so I could easily justify such a decision. The one unfortunate piece is that sitting on my ass actually hurts after a while. The few times I looked in the mirror, I could see the deep lines imprinted in my skin as a result of simply not moving for hours. And my heels ended up hurting because I was sitting with my feet up for hours on end. My heels! Who would have thought? Ah, I learn new things every day.
Today I haven't taken any percocet at all, and it's a nice change of pace to feel alert for the first time in days. I hung on for a few hours this morning to my 'I'm recovering' card, until I got a call from The Ex asking if I can hang out when he's back in town this weekend. That's when I remembered the perks of being recovered. (Of course, I was also aware of them when I wasn't able to walk or shower with ease, but this was another reminder.) So I stopped asking for favors and walked around a little more. Now I feel like my goal is to prove to my parents that I'm healthy enough to leave for two days. Unfortunately, I can't do that and insist that they bring me juice. Too bad.
When I started taking less painkillers, I started reading more. There was a stack of books on the table next to my recovery chair (aka my ass buddy) that I intend to read before I go back to school. I finished reading Catch-22 finally, and with a twinge of guilt I selected a 'fun' book, called Stupid and Contagious. I read it in two days. Though I was taking less painkillers than before, I was still taking enough to alter my state of mind.. that's my excuse at least. Because I really liked the book, the style of writing and all that... and now I kind of want to be one of the characters.
Shut up, I know.
The thing is, we already have so much in common that it's almost like she is me. (Though I am better, of course) For example: I would definitely buy three donuts at once, no question about it. Or was it four... well, I would eat four too (my max is 8, I think). I have also looked up diseases and thought that I had them, only to find out that I was wrong (apparently I'm not bipolar? whatever..). Most importantly, I am a horrible waitress. Just awful. I could be a fabulous waitress if I only had two tables; give me three and I will freak out.
However, she also got the guy in the end, and she got a dog. So far, it's not a perfect match. *sigh* Unfortunately, I am not the main character of Stupid and Contagious. Consolation prize: I am the main character in my blog!
Tuesday, January 9
Okay, so... I know I kind of promised a drugged-up post in my last post, but I'm pretty much done taking drugs that will screw me up.
In my defense, when I wrote that "promise post," I was high on percocet. So... that'll have to do.
Oh so the surgery went well... except for afterward. All of the pre-surgery was great. I got along famously with my nurses, hung out with my IV coming out of my arm, complimented my surgeons on their cool hat things. The last exchange I had before going under was between me and the anesthesiologist:
"So in about 20 seconds, you'll feel a stinging sensation..."
"Wait, are you going to tell me when you do it?" For some reason, I wanted to know when to start the countdown. I didn't want to just suddenly lose control and be unable to get out my last words in case I had something really important to say. Which I did not.
"Oh, you wanted me to tell you?"
Shit! I could go at any instant. "Yes I want you to tell me!" I started feeling a stinging sensation behind my nose while he informed me that he had already administered the anesthetic.
One of the nurses came into view and said "Has anyone ever told you that you look like Angelina Jolie?"
"Yeah," I responded distractedly. "Okay, goodbye now!" I announced. Right before losing consciousness, I remember hearing "She's really pretty."
Waking up was not quite as fun. I was greeted by a nurse holding an oxygen mask over my face, asking me about the pain, which was horrendous. "It hurts!" I yelled with as much restraint as possible. They didn't warn me about that part.
She ran around and returned with some drug to put in my IV. "There you go, it should start to work soon." I waited for the flood of relief.
By the way, those painkillers they use in TV shows are fake because this crap definitely did not work immediately. That or the hospitals should really take notes from TV doctors. The pain didn't go away. "How is it feeling now?" asked the nurse.
"It still hurts," I whined. Why didn't she give me the imaginary, quick medicine? I had drip running right into my vein; why was it taking so long? She could at least leave the room so I could cry by myself (sorry, there was an old man next to me who I'm pretending wasn't there).
"I can't give you any more painkillers," she explained soothingly, "I've already given you two doses."
I glared at her and grudgingly accepted her offer of cranberry juice and pudding. She then wheeled me over to a recliner, forcing me to move (more glaring), and then brought my family back. I was not pleased. All I wanted was some more anesthesia, or a room alone in which to cry. Bringing concerned people to me was not my plan B.
When the pain died down (finally) I asked my mom, "So, what did the doctor say when he came out to see you after the surgery?"
"What were his exact words?" My mom asked, flabbergasted. As though this were an outrageous and unexpected question.
"Uh yeah? What did he tell you?" You know... how'd it go?
"Oh, I don't remember."
Superb. "Well, generally then. What did you find out?"
"He said they didn't find a tear like they thought they would, and they were able to clear out a lot of irritation that was there, so that's good."
That's it? What was wrong with me then? Why did I just have surgery? They weren't really sure. "They did find that you have a missing piece of cartilage, though."
What? When the surgeon came by, I tried to ask him about the meaning of all of this, and he just smiled and said we would talk later. Thanks, hero! I'm going to rest easy now that I have no clue what's going on.
I tried to spend the drug daze of the next 48 hours reading, but it's kind of hard to stay awake when you're on drugs. I would have blogged, but I couldn't sit up to type. So I watched my surgery video, finished one (count it!) Sudoku puzzle, and let my stepdad teach me the rules of football.
Yesterday I became frightened when I saw only half of my painkillers left, and started devising ways to ration them out to make them last as long as possible. By my calculations, I should have finished most of them today, but I skipped a few doses for reasons unknown, so I can either enjoy them later or sell them to classmates. Or feel guilty about considering using them recreationally and refuse to sell them in case I decide to change my mind and do it anyway.
Until my post-op appointment with the surgeon (a week), all I can think about is being a 20-year-old cripple. Sexy.
Saturday, January 6
Sorry for the lack of posting while I recover from my surgery!
I will try to write a post while I'm high on percocet... just for you.
PS. The reason The Ex did not return the favor in the last post is because I was on my period. He returned it later... I'll tell that story... later. Maybe.
Tuesday, January 2
For part one, see below or click the link.
I drove The Ex to the video store where he was supposed to pick up some game rentals for the new X-Box. On the way, we talked about how we had broken the news of our split to our family.
"That's one thing, my family loves you" he reminded me. It was a consolation prize that almost consoled me.
We found the games and as we waited in line, we stood a foot or so apart. "See, this is the thing that bothers me," he confided suddenly. "I should be holding your hand right now, or have my arm around you."
"I know..." I wanted to tell him to do it anyway, because it just seemed right. Instead, we stepped to the front of the line and rented the games. It was clear that he was respecting my wishes, even though it was very hard for him.
Back in the car, I said "The problem with 'dating' right now is that we haven't had time to adjust to being broken up, so it wouldn't really be dating... it would be the same as our old relationship."
He agreed with me. I parked the car outside his house. "I mean, I wouldn't go so far as to have sex with you, but I don't think either one of us thinks that being affectionate means we're a couple again."
We held hands, still sitting in the car. He leaned over and hugged me, a real hug this time. We looked at each other and said a few more things. Then he sighed and mumbled something under his breath.
"What?" I asked.
"I really want to kiss you," he told me, "but I don't want to confuse you."
"Kissing you isn't going to make me think that we're getting back together," I assured him. Still, kissing seemed far beyond hand-holding and hugging. It was more than affection. I couldn't decide whether I should kiss him or not, and though he was close to me, he wasn't making the first move. It was my decision to make. Before I could actually rationalize any decision, I kissed him.
He leaned his seat back and said "come here." I squeezed onto the seat with him and we cuddled and made out.
"You know I want to be with you," he said as we held each other, his voice quiet. I looked at his face; it looked sad. "If you lived here, I would want to be with you. Why can't you just move here?"
"I know," I whispered, resting my head against him. How fucking unfair.
We went back inside and I stayed for a while as everyone watched TV or played cards. The screensaver on his computer came on and a bunch of pictures of me popped up. He pointed at them as they came up. Yeah, he's totally over me. I smiled.
At about 11:30, I told everyone I was leaving. I said goodbye to the family and The Ex walked me out to my car. "What are you doing for lunch tomorrow?" He asked.
"I have a 45 minute lunch, it's at 11:30."
"I'll come visit you for it," he promised.
We kissed each other goodbye and I went home.
I woke up to my phone, and only as I looked at the caller ID did I realize that it wasn't my alarm. It was The Ex. "Hello?"
"Hey, I'm coming over."
"Because I want to spend one last night with you in your house." (I'm moving by the way)
"What time is it?"
"About 3am. I'm halfway there, so I'll be there soon."
Great. I took out my sexy retainer and walked down to meet him. Actually, I was pleasantly surprised at how determined he was to see me again, even though it was very inconvenient (the roads were icy). When he arrived I ushered him inside and pulled him up the stairs into my bed. I was all set to go to sleep, and then of course ended up giving him a blowjob (by the way, I can't resist penis).