breathe...just breathe...

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My surgery was a success, I'm told. Speech-to-text typing is far less so. For the most part, Windows and iOS replace what I dictate with gibberish, but last night was special. I was texting my boss, Sal.

Me: "Steelers play in Oakland this year."

Sal: "Interesting. What date?"

Me: "Unknown. I love you."

The word I actually said was "Pending." Slow clap, Apple.



tendon stumps

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Them thar's two words you never want to hear a surgeon say. Nevertheless, I recently heard them. He was pointing to white blobs two inches apart on my MRI.

Today, I go under the knife to repair my fully severed rotator cuff. I'm told there's a 50% chance of failure, in which case I will never throw anything again. Well, I suppose I could do it left-handed. Hardly seems worth the attempt, really. Anyway, I have no idea how hard typing will be. Not that I've been typing much lately anyway.


unplumbed depths

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Yesterday, I got my first colonoscopy.

I'm back, people.

The cleansing portion was everything I'd heard about and more, but I shan't repulse you in that manner. But when I was looking for a game to play on my tablet, I went straight for Monopoly.

Olga the 300 pound—all muscle—Russian nurse checked me in, angrily.

"And vat eez Allie's number?"

"Um. I don't have it memorized, and you guys told me not to bring my phone." She angrily sighed and wrote something on a form.

"And vat eez Sid's number?"

"Same answer."

Clearly enraged that I had learned nothing since my last answer, she rolled her eyes and muttered something in Russian. I'm sure it was flattering.

Across the aisle was Robert, a guy who checked in two minutes after me. We'd talked in the waiting room. Checking him in was a gorgeous student-nurse. Apple-cheeked, brown ponytail, and a nose you just want to bite. I fumed as they hung out, laughing. At one point she touched his arm. I glared at Olga. She glared back.

I spent the next 30 minutes alone, watching the cutie and Bob show. It was the only thing on.

Soon Olga escorted the student-nurse into my room. "Hi! I'm Brandi!" she said. "I'm going to be observing your procedure."

Two years ago, a woman asked me to build her a web site, costing some 50 hours of my time. When I went to show her, I learned she'd asked someone else to build her a site. She spent 15 seconds looking at mine, then directed me to coordinate efforts with the other guy. I walked out and never saw her again.

Until last night.

"John?" said a woman getting out of a parked car.

"Bitch?" I replied in my imagination, right now.

She hugged me and we briefly chatted. I told her that I live here now. She asked where, and I explained that I'm living in a hotel while I look for a house. This excited her.

"Did you know I'm a realtor now?!"

I went to sleep with dreams of her showing me home after home after home, then not getting a commission. I think about 50 hours' worth will do.


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Sorry for my absence lately. Lots o'girl crap going on, and it's going as badly for your narrator as usual. Our drama is dominating my life of late, and I just can't think of anything else to write about.

Oh wait! Remember the days when you'd be taking an elevator down, and then a guy would get on on 7 and press the button for 6, and he would at least have the courtesy to fake a limp?


My friend Mike was around 10 years ago, when I last went to Portland with a girl, watched things explode, and never saw her again. "It's my new metaphor," he said. "Usage: I thought things were going well, but then the relationship just went to Portland in a hurry."

like a booger on my finger

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A few hours after writing yesterday's Ingrid post, I was having dinner alone in a favorite restaurant, not hers. "Would you like a drink with that?" asked the bartender.

"He's gonna need 12," said Ingrid, standing behind me.

I have to give her credit. She has style.