shoesonwrong

My Foot Got Squished By A Guy Racing Towards 99 Cent Eggnog

We went grocery shopping yesterday at a Walmart Supercenter. Any time I go into one of those big stores like Meijer or Target or Walmart it's like getting hit with a tranquilizer dart. I don't know if it's the people, the lighting, or the overwhelming amount of crap for sale, but my brain gets overloaded and starts flickering like a bad television set. It doesn't help that now we have to shop either in the evenings or on the weekends like normal working people. (I temporarily can't drive due to medication. There's a chance I'll forget where the brake pedal is or swerve to avoid that big purple elephant in the middle of the road.)

As soon as we entered the store, I had a feeling it was going to be one of those experiences -- the kind where I find myself huddled behind a pile of ninety-nine cent socks, wielding a spatula as a weapon and screaming for backup. My first clue was that I was nearly ran over by a woman pushing a cart and screaming at her child WHILE EATING FRIED CHICKEN OUT OF A BAG.

We fought the crowds to get groceries for over two hours, and eventually we had only one item left on our (extensive) list: macaroni and cheese. We covered the entirety of the grocery section FOUR TIMES. The first time, we were optimistic. The second time, perplexed. The third time, we did it because we didn't want the first two times to be a complete waste. By the fourth trip, we were compelled by a Walmart induced madness, I think. I was ready to give up, but Ryan wouldn't. He parked me and the heaping cart by a display rack in the main aisle and went hunting and foraging. I leaned exhaustedly on the cart and  glanced at the display rack next to me.

It was all desserts. Every single dessert in existence. All dessert, all the time.

Ryan managed to locate the macaroni and cheese (inexplicably located in the Mexican and Middle Eastern foods aisle), and when he came back, my arms were full of desserts and my eyes were wide with glee. (We settled on two because my lame-o husband insists on keeping me out of a diabetic coma.)

Checking out took half an hour and by time I had to actually pay for the groceries, I was so completely dazed that I tried to pay with my library card. Surprisingly, it was declined.

Based on current behavior, another side effect is eating pepperoni right from the bag

Monday, I went to a specialist who gave me a flu shot, signed me up for physical therapy, and got me started on a pill the size of my fist. When I swallow it, you can watch the lump as it slides down my throat. This drug is used to treat:

• epilepsy
• neuropathic pain (a chronic pain due to nerves misfiring constantly)
• chronic migraines
• bipolar disorder
• anxiety
• social anxiety
• obsessive-compulsive disorder
• pain associated with MS (multiple sclerosis, not Microsoft, but I can see how you would get confused)
• treatment of methamphetamine, cocaine, and alcohol addiction
• insomnia
• that annoying paint that is flaking off the roof of your car but nowhere else on your car*
• partially-inflated basketballs*
• the ebola virus*

*I assume, anyway.

I'm going to leave you to guess amongst yourselves about which of these conditions I'm being treated for. (Hint: There is no way I'm giving up my crystal meth, so it's not for addiction treatment.)

The possible side effects include drowsiness, dizziness, unsteadiness, weight gain, and constipation as well as swelling of the limbs. LUCKILY, my doctor also put me on a higher dose of a medication I'm already on to treat my diabetes, and the side effects of that are diarrhea and weight loss. So here's hoping some thing cancel themselves out and I'm just left exhausted, dizzy, and clumsy with big puffy limbs. Keep your fingers crossed for me because mine will have swelled to the size of sausages.

Frankly, so far, the worst part of the visit has been the flu shot. I have that nasty post-flu shot cold and I keep babying my arm where they put the needle in. Now, I am not one to prone to dramatics, so you know that when I grab my arm and keen loudly that it hurts so bad, and the needle was three feet long, I am telling the truth.

Topics not related to my crappy health.

The IMAX theater at the Henry Ford is offering tickets for five dollars until November sixth, so Ryan and I are seeing a lot of shows there. One day soon, I will be brave enough to see the dinosaur one (THEY HAVE SUCH BIG TEETH).

My vacuum cleaner smells like parmesan cheese when I turn it on. I haven't vacuumed up parmesan cheese in three years.

I'm nearing in on a decision regarding grad school. Stay tuned for further updates.

Still Alive?

I got two (2) emails that basically said, "Hey, are you dead yet?" It occurs me that after my last post that went something like, "THE PAIN THE UNBEARABLE PAIN MAKE IT END OR I WILL SHUFFLE OFF THIS MORTAL COIL," I went silent and hadn't blogged again. Instead of making good on my threat and offing myself, I just started reading a lot of books. I made it through six this week.

But anyway, yes, I am still numbered among the living. My brain didn't explode out of my ear, and I didn't accidentally do myself in with a makeshift ear-scratcher made from a coat hanger. I do appreciate, though, that two (2) people on the internet cared enough to inquire after my current state of livingness. I also appreciate all the advice left for me in the comments. It did help reduce the pressure; the raging infection had already set in of course, so it didn't do anything for that, but I am now armed with ways to stave off a future infection.

A note about Detroit: The city is doing its best to bring back the downtown area, and it's going pretty well. I go out at night with no qualms, there's a nice park with fountains downtown, etc. But there is zero useful shopping nearby. I'm swimming in wig shops but there's no grocery store for miles. Frankly, I've become rather attached to food and toilet paper, though, so we have to head to the suburbs to shop. Here's the thing: I hate suburbs. Haaaaaaaaaate with a passion that burns like that rash you got from that dirty frat boy one semester in college. There's too many cars all crammed in together, which is ironic given that at least 73% of any given suburb is a giant parking lot. There's too many Wal-Mart stores. EVERYTHING is a drive through (drive-thru). The suburbs are that wasteland I pass through when going from city to country and the place I grudgingly go to buy sustinence and butt paper.

The point of that suburban rant is this: could you remind me to buy the following

• Vacuum bags
• A new, mold-free shower curtain
• Toilet paper
• Scotch tape

Because we need that stuff, like, way bad.

I think his offical title is Head Super Nerd in Charge of... I don't know. I haven't been paying attention.

Ryan is having a bit of a lie down currently because apparently being a geek for pay is exhausting during the day. All those bits and bytes get heavy. It's hard to be THAT NERDY all the livelong day.

He really seems to enjoy his job, though, which is almost as good as the fact he gets a paycheck. (We buy food! And pay our bills! It's crazy.) In all honesty, though, his job sounds to me as though it is a mind-numbing study in tedious precision. Sometimes, I try to be a good wife and ask him what he's doing at work. Then he gleefully launches into a ten minute monologue about tables and committing changes to a server until I'm all Dear God please stop. I thought I could do it to be a good wife but no. Just no. Being supportive is not worth this.

He loves his job and I love not having to hear the specifics of it. It's win-win, really.

On second thought, I'm not sure why fancy underpants were necessary

I had my first-ever real job interview the other day. Prior to this, I have interviewed with two places: Michigan Tech's Summer Youth Program wherein the interviewer told me they were "desperate for people" and "hiring almost anyone," then I threw up mid-interview because I had the flu, and Hardee's, where the hardest question they asked me was, "Do you think you are capable of taking orders and pushing the correct buttons?" (Sidenote: turns out that this question was actually pretty relevant, as the cash registers at Hardee's were missing half the labels and still had buttons for peach cobbler -- which they stopped selling 13 years ago.)

So I bought a suit and some nice shoes, gussied up and walked to my interview, complaining internally the whole way about how shoes hurt my feet and why do all fancy underwear ride straight up my butt. During the walk, the adrenaline kicked in and by time I got to the interview, I was almost vibrating out of my skin. Turns out that I managed to finesse my squirrel-jacked-up-on-diet-pills energy into extreme enthusiasm because the interviewer was way energized by the end and said he liked my positive energy. Which almost made me piddle, but I didn't tell him that.

I'm a little nervous about the position I'm interviewing for because I've never done it and have zero experience with it. But what I'm really excited about is the company itself -- it's a great place with good benefits and great corporate ethics. Health insurance, vacation time, and something called a four-oh-wunk. Supposedly there's a chocolate river and a meadow filled with unicorns in the basement, even. Plus, they would apparently give me money every two weeks. CRAZY TALK. It's a pretty obscene amount of money, too, given the relative ease of the position.

I have a second interview on Wednesday. That's a good sign, right?

Friends, Romans, Blog Readers

Because it occurs to me that this blog is also semi-autobiographical as well as being a place where I weave amusing stories out of the crap pile of my daily endeavors, here's what's been up with me the past few months.

In May, both Ryan and I (finally) graduated -- with honors, no less. The school awarded me an actual degree in mathematics despite my inability to do basic arithmetic. At least it looks real -- it's made of super thick, cream-colored paper that's absolutely perfect for writing WILL WORK FOR FOOD on the back. All the other bums on the street corner are jealous.

Luckily we don't have to depend solely on my questionable math skills for income. Ryan got a job with a great (and shall remain nameless) firm in Detroit. He's been there for just over two months, and he really loves his job so far. The best part is the stellar health insurance; now I can get that new leg I've always wanted and Ryan can finally get a liver.

In order to be close to Ryan's job and save on gas money, we moved to downtown Detroit. In the process, we had to give Cassie away to my parents, which was hard. Downtown Detroit is no place for a dog who likes wide open space and dislikes noise, people, and concrete. Because Momo, taking after me, dislikes change, he walked around the house screaming and clinging to us after we moved until we decided to go out and get him a kitten to focus his nervous anxiety and energy on. Enter Wicket, the dumbest kitten in the entire world. He's afraid of us half the day and cozies up to us the other half, occasionally pulls on his own tail hard enough to knock himself over, and will startle himself when he meows. However, Momo loves him and instantly took to being a mother cat, so even though Wicket is clearly mentally retarded, Momo loves him anyway.

Downtown Detroit isn't as bad as everyone says. There are sketchy areas of Detroit, for sure, but where we live is safe and well lit, fenced in by skyscrapers and tourist attractions. There's always something going on, and the city is beautiful at night. Just make sure you give the mayor a wide berth.

I'm in a bit of a transitional period, which is a fancy way of saying that I'm not sure what I'm going to do with my life. Grad school or law school are currently at the top of my list, but I have become very fond of using money for things like paying bills and buying food, so I wouldn't turn down a paying job, either.

Talk about a rocking Friday night

When did I become such a lightweight?

Ryan and I went to a late showing of a movie in Dearborn, and on the drive back, I started complaining about how many street lights were on. Hundreds of zillions of street lights, to be precise. Why would anyone need all these street lights at two in the morning, I'm thinking. It's wasteful and no one is awake this time of day.

Then, to my horror, I see that there are people. Everywhere. They're streaming out of clubs, they're walking hand in hand, they're in bars, and -- worse yet -- they are all WIDE AWAKE. My eyelids are being held up by toothpicks, but apparently everyone in Detroit can still go out and party after they've worked hard all day long. Hey, I worked hard, too. I took that nap. And then talked on the phone to my mother. Whew, I need to lie down even just typing it.

The real insult cherry on the top of my you're-getting-old-you-big-pansy sundae was when we passed by a restaurant on Lafayette street that was teeming with people and sitting at the tiny table in the center of the big window at the front of the restaurant was a really, really old couple holding hands and eating. They could not have been a day less than 85, and they were just eating their disgusting chili cheese fries, looking fresh as daisies, not even noticing the sleepy old hag driving by in her car.

We got back to our building and I was exhausted enough that I held the door open for a homeless person, thinking it was just Crazy Old Lady Hutchins from the 17th floor who always wears that old dirty housecoat. Then the building security had to shoo the poor homeless person out and I got a foul look from the doorman.

I have the same problem with Winnie the Pooh

My plane for Louisiana leaves in less than 12 hours, and I am fully packed and ready to go. I've never flown alone before and while I have full confidence in my own abilities to navigate the airport, catch my connecting flight, etc. But, well, here's the problem. What if I do that thing I do where I have an uncontrollable urge to say the EXACT THING I am not supposed to say. First of all, Ryan won't be there to stomp on my foot and divert my attention from screaming out BOMB! BOMBBOMBBOMBBOMB!! Second, assuming I am unable to keep my mouth shut and end up in that little TSA jail where they strip search you, I will have no idea what to do and no one will know where I am. It's, like, worse than a third world country there, man. At least in some war-torn African country in the midst of a genocide you have a snowball's chance of getting in contact with an American Embassy and they might be able to get you out. Or at least in some Turkish prison some woman would come and press her bare breasts against the glass, like in Midnight Express. That TSA holding area is no-man's land.

There's this statue of a dude in downtown Detroit. He's nude, sitting cross-legged, and holding an angel in one hand with the sun or a star or something in the other hand. Well, when the Wings won the cup, they sewed this huge Red Wings jersey on him. You know, there's nothing so unsettling as partial nudity. Full nudity is okay. You can roll with it. You maintain eye contact. But when they're partially nude, all you can stare at is the part that isn't clothed but should be. So now when we drive past this statue wearing only a jersey, I get upset because all I can think about is his big, marble junk and why it's not covered.

Tour

If you have a burning desire to see my new abode, see the pictures below. And maybe go to the free clinic and get that junk checked out.

And now for something entirely different

I am sick of talking about comcast. COMCAST, COMCAST, COMCAST.

When we weren't waiting for the cable guy to show up, we actually DID leave the house and wander around. You know, until the sun started to sneak behind the skyscrapers, and then we scampered back inside like we were afraid the zombies would get us. More specifically, that the zombies would mug us. Seriously, it's like a ghost town after dark. I sometimes stare down from our apartment at night and try to find a pedestrian. So far, I've seen one very scared looking person a bicycle.

(Also, we can see Comerica Park and the Fox Theater from our windows, too.)

Anyway, while we were wandering around, we came across this indoor waterfall-colorful-arty-shiny thing:

Water! Colorful! Shiny!

The apartment is great. Still small, but slightly more floorspace than we previously had. Plus, it has wood floors so that the cat keeps skittering around and falling over. We have our bookcases set up, and then we spent the better part of an afternoon alphabetizing all our books.

GLORIOUS. GLOOOOORIOUS!

Of course, we ran out of shelf space and had to buy more bookcases. That makes five new bookcases and the two we brought with us.

The bathtub is really deep, and I've pretty much set up camp there. Also, we tried to drown the cat in it one day, but decided it was really just too much work to do that and we'll just push him out a window instead.