This sucks sweaty donkey dick.
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."The word I actually said was "Pending." Slow clap, Apple.
Sal: "Interesting. What date?"
Me: "Unknown. I love you."
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.
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?"
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.
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."
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.