So just to summarize the week so far: I watched a “comedy” that left me sobbing, I forgot my vagina story, and instead of finding a loving supportive group, I discovered I’m one of a whopping three people that vacuums their oven. And I haven’t even told you about my cat Lucy’s latest debacle involving brussel sprout leaves and Rocco’s suede jacket.
Frankly, it’s only Wednesday and I’m starting to seriously worry about what the rest of the week holds.
But let’s face it, if I don’t finish the post I had intended to write yesterday (Remember? The one that started out about Thanksgiving and then turned into you guys dousing my dreams of being a normal girl? *sigh*) I’ll never get it done.
So here we go – Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving: Take Two.
One of the very first years we were living in this apartment, our rowdy neighbors across the hall invited us over to watch some football and partake of their allegedly delicious Turducken. Everyone knows what those are, right? A de-boned chicken inside a de-boned duck inside a turkey? I know. *shudder* It sounds an awful lot like a horror story to me. In fact, ever since I heard about that horrible “Human Centipede” movie (And NO I will not link to it because I love you, Interwebz. And I refuse to expose you to anything THAT disturbing.), I think of it every time I think about Turduckens.
Shit. Well maybe I haven’t been thinking about Thanksgiving at all. Maybe I’ve been thinking about Halloween. Shit, here we go again – Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving, Or Was It Halloween: Take Three. I should really pay more attention sometimes.
Does anyone else feel like we’re sliding off the rails again? Have I mentioned I’ve been having a wee bit of trouble sleeping again? I think its best that I not tell you too much about the dream I had last night where A Vapid Blonde, while wearing Mildred’s cone, diagnosed me with a raging case of Rabbit. (FYI, in Elly’s dream world, a diagnosis of Rabbit is VERY serious and not at all as cute as it sounds.)
Oh for the love of vagina! Let’s try this one more time from a completely different angle – Why I’m Thinking About Thanksgiving, Or Was It Halloween, Never Mind – Here’s a Gwen Story Instead: Take Four.
I’ve been a little upset with my friend Gwen (remember Bridezilla?) because she foolishly passed on the chance to be a prison nurse. I mean, a prison nurse! As in a nurse that works inside a prison. Like with a syringe in one hand and a billy club in the other. How can a person pass on a chance to do something like that?!? Think of all the great stories I would have had to share with you, Interwebz. I mean, it’s like she doesn’t even think about our needs. Sheesh.
So I’ve sort of been avoiding her because how could she possibly have any good stories to tell now that she’s working in some bourgeois clinic on the Upper West Side, right?
Me: I’m bored.
Gwen: Well then this guy came in with heart palpitations.
Gwen: Shortness of breath?
Me: Bored. *pounding table* WE WANT VAGINA!
Gwen: I didn’t even see any women today.
Gwen: *sighs with defeat* Well…
Me: YES! *shouts to waiter* Another round!
Gwen: Well it’s not really my story. It’s a “I heard it from a girl who heard it from a girl” kinda thing. It probably isn’t even true.
Me: This is getting boring again.
Gwen: Well at some clinic somewhere, there was this woman who had a reputation for coming into the ER with things in her…You aren’t going to blog about this, are you?
Me: *crosses fingers behind back* Would I do that?
Gwen: I guess it was some sort of mental thing where she wanted to be pregnant so she gave birth to these…objects.
Me: Like what? A tennis ball? A lampshade? A stuffed animal?
Gwen: All kinds of things I guess. All I know is that the ER staff would make the new residents deal with her. So this brand new gal goes into the exam area, gets the patient in the stirrups, and finds a…
Me: A what? What?!? Balloon animal? House slipper? A cell phone?
Gwen: A chicken.
Me: A chicken?
Gwen: A chicken.
Me: Like a cornish hen?
Gwen: No, a regular full size chicken.
Me: That’s a lot of chicken. Was it cooked?
Gwen: What is wrong with you? Of course not!
Me: I’m the weird one because I want to know if it was cooked? A woman is shoving raw poultry in her kayak yet I’m the weird one? A chicken gets smaller after it’s cooked, right?
Gwen: It might have been de-boned…
So now, between this story and the “Human Centipede” thing, I really never want to hear the word Turducken again.
Even worse, I can’t think of a single witty name for a chicken inside a chick. I mean, chickchicken isn’t funny at all.
Thank goodness I have you people…