I’m not dead.
Yet.
So I drove down to Milwaukee on Monday in preparation for my flight out at some godforsaken time on Tuesday morning. I was all weird and weepy, since I was playing the martyr role, the strong yet tragic heroine bravely going forward despite her impending death. The entire maudlin mindset was exacerbated when at one point the only radio station I could get in played a demented set including the death songs from Armageddon, Daredevil, and Pearl Harbor. Apparently it was a Audio Daily Double and the question was ‘What are schmoopy songs from seminal Ben Affleck movies?’
Oh heee, my mind just said in a Sean Connery accent ‘I’ll take ‘The Rapists’ for 400, Trebek.’
Had one of the worst moments of my adult life when I had to put in a wake up call for 3:30. In the morning. I mean, I’ve been OUT that late before. No human should have to wake up that early.
Then I scurried to my very favorite Mayfair mall where I frolicked at Torrid and then exercised my charge it muscle at the Prescriptives counter with the lovely Ginger Lee and the adorable girl whose name has left my poor beleaguered brain. Ginger also gave me an impromptu brow reshape, which made me want to marry her and have her babies. I adore it when people are just as compulsive about my eyebrows as I am. Because that means they care. I gave them each a cherry blow pop because somehow that made sense, you pluck my eyebrows and I give you candy.
Back to the hotel and managed to fall asleep for what had to be about seven minutes before my wake up call. On the shuttle, the hottie chose to sit next to me. How are YOU doin’, Mister Hottie? But then, my eyes were hardly open, he might very well have been a drooling troglodyte and I wouldn’t have known.
The flight was uber packed but I managed to be seated next to one of the very few empty seats. Yay! Although I sort of slept or watched the movie instead of using my laptop, my normal method of self-amusement during long flights. And God, seriously, the flight to the coast is long like a summer car trip in the back of a stationwagon with wood grain on the side. And the dog just farted. And Dad? He has had ENOUGH.
Which reminds me: In other news, I got an in-flight crush on a man who was traveling with his incredibly adorable children. He actually walked the entire way to California, pacing the three feet of the galley in full-on baby bounce mode. He was smiling the entire time. My crushes are inexplicable, as he looked like a young Colonel Sanders. I can’t help it. It was a pleasant way to pass the time, watching him with his baby. I decided that he was either an independent film maker or a writer, mostly because of his glasses and eccentric wisps of hair, like Beaker on the Muppets. I also decided that he was probably a vegetarian, but secretly really enjoyed a good Black Angus steak. And that he hyphenated his last name with his wife’s name but he probably was not willing to hyphenate in the bedroom. If you know what I mean. And if you don’t, I’m talking about his sexual practices. Because apparently this diary needs footnotes on some days.
Fuck.
That word has been tossed around quite a bit this week and it’s only Wednesday!
Got to the hotel, but the room wasn’t ready, so strolled around Union Square, got a salad for lunch, browsed around some galleries, where they mistook me for an eccentric wealthy lady who lunches. It was a strange thing, as I often pretend that I must exude an air of snobbery when in a strange and pretentious place, but I highly doubt that I ever actually achieve that aura. Then, when I wasn’t really paying attention, when I looked rumpled and yet polished, mismatched and yet matched, one of the gallery guys schmoozed me, gave me his card, asked about my art collection, offered to give me a private showing of their new works, treated me like I perspired droplets that formed perfectly shaped pearls. I wish I could bottle that whatever it was. Because seriously, I couldn’t have done it again if I tried.
Finally, the room was available, so I pitched all of my luggage in the room and immediately took a nap. I was startled by the maid bringing me ice, and when I took it from her, I dropped it all over the floor and then stood there like an utter tool as she picked up the ice and then refilled the ice bucket again and put it away herself. I sacked out again. Finally, I woke at 6 or maybe 4, depending upon which of my clocks I look at, and realized that not only were my hives driving me crazy but I was definitely having a hard time breathing. I called my doctor’s answering service, hoping the doctor could just prescribe me some drugs or cream or something. My doctor called back and recommended that I visit the emergency room as soon as possible. Grrrreat. I frightened the hotel staff (Jesse, lovely concierge, who has not only set up my wireless internet connection by which you and I are communicating, but also given me several tips for various stores and locations) but they managed to find the nearest emergency room and put me in the town car with concerned looks upon their faces. So I found myself in the most disgusting and overused emergency room I have ever witnessed, although honestly, I’ve only ever visited Wisconsin emergency rooms and only in moderately sized cities, so perhaps I am underexposed to the horrors of US urban medical care facilities. But still. Gross. My cellphone rang no fewer than 5 times while I was in the emergency room, which, according to the staff, was fine. I found that suspect, honestly. I’m beginning to think that I wasn’t in a real hospital, but perhaps a movie set, specifically because the main players were all gorgeous and Harold, who gave me my breathing treatment, was straight from central casting. There were even some rather dramatic screams coming from elsewhere in the hospital. I have never been in a hospital and heard screams, particularly from two different sources. A very hot doctor checked me out. No. I mean, he checked out my very sexy hives ( oh yes, my hives are simply dripping with sex appeal) and listened to my lungs AND unhooked my bra. No. Really. He did. But probably not one-handed. And he did not resemble Colonel Sanders either. I was lobbying for the anti-histamine shot, which is the best shot you can ever get and I would like to have that shot on a GOOD day. He did, however, prescribe a breathing treatment right away, another inhaler,
some miscellaneous pills handed to me in a little paper cup, and massive doses of Prednisone. Two of the three pills were benadryl and prednisone, one of which makes you sleepy and the other makes you stay awake. It was like a Don King sponsored pharmaceutical fight going on in my system. The Beatin’ in the Weetin’ or something. He also prescribed an epi-pen, feeling that I was having a rather unusual allergic reaction and I also have a history of reactions to bee stings which have been gaining in severity. Wow. I am just one big tragedy waiting to happen. I now must carry a totem against impending doom. Is it any wonder that I feel like I’m about to die? No. I think not. I took a cab back to my hotel, having told the town car that I would be fine and wasn’t sure how long it would take in the emergency room. I tried to fill my prescription but the Walgreens was closed and I wasn’t in the mood to seek out a 24 hour pharmacy. I went back up to my room and ordered room service so that I could watch America’s Next Top Model.
And that’s when the peppy kicked in.
Prednisone: the official sponsor of all of my trips to San Francisco. Yes, if you’ll remember, I was on this lovely steroid the last time I was here, which was responsible for two of three specatularly poor nights of sleep. And I took a big dose at 8 pm. Life was not looking so good. Then my lovely friend who will go by the pseudonym Patsy Cline, despite the fact that he is a boy, called and asked if I wanted company. Then while I was waiting for Patsy Cline, Mopie called and asked if I wanted to come down to a dive and drink with them. Who was I to refuse the beguiling nature of Ms. Pie? Patsy and I took a cab to the Haight. There we hooked up with Jenfu, Mopie, and Jen Wade, where we admired La Wade’s lovely chest, I pissed off the bartender, La Wade wisely fled our collective presence and then we took pictures of all of our cleavage. And I think there’s a picture of my face pressed into Mopie’s chest. Which I do not believe is in my possession. Yes. It was the ‘sone. I blame the ‘sone. I think there’s also a picture of me making devil fingers. I believe also not in my possession. Mopie and Jenfu came away unscathed, of course, because they are photogenic like supermodels of journaling. Digital cameras love them. Digital cameras make me look a) tired b) speckly c)in possession of 42 chins or d) like the singerslashactor Meatloaf. And, from what certain people tell me, different in every single picture.
Then Mopie drove me home in the Watermelon!!! And it does smell like watermelon!! That is so cool that it required more than the normal allotment of exclamation points.
Then I went up to my room and laid in bed listening to the people on the street argue about hooker prices until finally I fired up my laptop, sent out some emails, and then fired up a bunch of mp3s and drifted off around 3 am, which was about 26 hours after I woke up, if you account for the time change and don’t count the nap.
Do not laugh at the powers of the ‘sone. The ‘sone is not your friend. The ‘sone borrows all of your favorite CDs and then months later, says ‘What? Those were mine, dude, you must have lost yours.’ The ‘sone orders expensive appetizers and bottles of wine at dinner and then says ‘Why don’t we just split the check in half, it’s easier that way’ as you look forlornly at your dinner salad and glass of water. The ‘sone borrowed your bathing suit and then you got crabs the next time you wore it. The ‘sone laughed at you and said ‘Crabs! Dude! Crabs, that is so nasty! Eeeuw. Crabs!’ The ‘sone demotes you to be wingman when it hits on the hotties who have friends who might very possibly be circus freaks. The ‘sone talks during movies. The ‘sone secretly slept with your date after prom. The ‘sone is not your friend.
So that was Tuesday and now it is Wednesday evening at 11 pm and the hookers are giggling outside my window and I have had even more adventures today but that will have to wait. Unless I die. Then no soup for you. Because apparently I couldn’t break my rhythm of including at least one Seinfeld reference in the entry, even though I never really watched the show. Life is a mystery and I am a mediocre writer. Now to sleep. And curse the ‘sone.
