And what do the Voices tell you?

I was having a day.

Ever have one of those? It's nothing terrible, really. And you recognize it, you do. You know that your reactions are just a wee bit overblown, your feelings are just a teensy bit overwrought, your voice is just a note too shrill. You know it. And yet....

I knew it, too. I could hear the Voice Of Sanity in my head, letting me know that I was having a day, but sadly the day continued. The Hideous Emotional Cow who was rampaging through my brain was confronted by the Voice Of Sanity.

"Hey, HEC, how's it going?" VoS asked.

"Horrible! Hideous! Just like me!!" HEC shrieked, high drama punctuated by a storm of hysterical weeping.

"Mmm." A careful pause. "Do you think you might be a little overemotional right now?"

A dangerous silence ensued. "What are you saying, VoS?"

VoS brightened, happy to be asked. "Well, if we look at this logically, we can see there's no rational---"

And that's when the beating happened. VoS, although logical, has a terrible sense of timing. And frankly, when HEC is on a roll, there's no good time to use the L word. No, not love, silly. Logic.

I could blame hormones for HEC's ridiculous behavior, I could. But I refuse to believe that I'm a victim to my emotional tempests or chemical huricanes. Sure, we all have visceral reactions to the world, but I don't think we have to stay in that reactive place. We can feed that beast or we can starve it. Right?

Now, if only I could apply this attitude to my job.

Frankenfinger!

Pretty, huh?

The stitches are out. Okay, yeah, it's still poofy. And sore. And I can't really grasp anything yet, which is going to make holding a needle to draw blood a bit....tricky. But...oh, heck. That's only 50% of my job. So no big whoop. Right?

I am delighted to be returning to work, though. It'll be super to be awake at 0530. It'll be awesome to punch that timeclock. And oh, I cannot tell you how I look forward to my first cranky patient!!!

Don't worry. I'll tell you all about it. I will. Yes, I will!

[By the way, to get to the Irishmen, take the Pacific exit off of I-5, go west to Pacific, turn right and go down two blocks. The pub is on the right side of the of the road. Give me a five minute heads-up and I'll meet you there.]

Recovering Nicely, Thank You!

Oh, darling invisible friend. It's been an interesting week. My surgery was profoundly unremarkable, requiring only MAC anesthesia, or "twilight" anesthesia. Nooooo, no pretty little vampires or precious werewolves involved, it was essentially like getting a little tipsy and falling asleep, and waking up midway through the party.

But without the hideous, my-friends-drew-on-my-face-as-I-was-passed-out aspect. Although...I was in a hospital gown with the ridiculous bonnet thing on my head. What more could they have done to make me look silly? No, don't answer that.

So the bandage is nutty-looking. And I'm to keep it dry and clean and intact. The bandage. Pay attention, silly. Other than a few ouch moments, it's been not too terrible. [NB: Whapping knuckle after surgery is not recommended.]

All right, it's time for an obscene amount of ibuprofen, again. Sigh. But better than narcotics!

Oh, and the Yeti....yeah. No. No. Just...no. It was almost painful.

Remind me not to date forest creatures, won't you?

Under The Knife

Well, dear invisible friend, this may be the last snippet of conversation from me for a while. Blogged conversation, that is. As far as I know, my mouth will still be functional after surgery.

Did I not tell you I was getting surgery on the moose-related injury? Oh, surely, I must have done. Really? Hm. Must have been a conversation we had in my head. All right. Here's the outline of events.

When I hit the moose in May, some glass shards lodged themselves into my knuckle. [NB: It is inappropriate to refer to my injury as "moose knuckle." Evidently, it means something entirely different.] What? No, I didn't punch the moose, I ran into it with my car. Remember? Yes, I did tell you that. Yes, I did. Go check, then.

See?

Anyway. The first picture is my post-accident injury, almost immediately after I arrived at the cabin. Note rustic decor in background. That's genuine faux wood paneling, I'll have you know. The second is the same hand, a couple of days later. Again, take a moment to enjoy the newly recovered chair and ottoman that was my grandfather's, also featured in the photograph. And by newly recovered, I mean within the last twenty-five years. The last is a comparison of injured and uninjured knuckles, taken today. At work. Where I will not be for two weeks.

I shouldn't be gleeful about that.

After all, after the surgeon gets done monkeying around in my knuckle and taking out the icky bits, and yes, these are technical surgical terms, I'm supposed to keep said digit dry and immobile for the time I have off. This concerns me a little, as it is my left hand that is injured and unlike Inigo Montoya, I am left-handed.

Immobile. And dry. I can do that. Right?

Right?

A Date To Remember

Ah, dear invisible friend, here we are again. I know, it's been too long, or even not long enough, but oh, how I've missed you. No, really. I have. Don't roll your eyes, they'll freeze that way.

It occurred to me, dearest, that I haven't blogged about a particularly memorable date I had in the beginning of this year. It was this date, in fact, that helped prompt my need for a blog, despite my friend Connie's response of "Because you...don't....talk....enough?" Don't fret, I wasn't hurt by this. Much. No, no. At all. Because really, we've met, right? You know Connie wasn't wrong.

Anyway.

I had been on eSchmarmony for a little while when W contacted me. He seemed pleasant enough. We had a few conversations via email and IM, a few nice phone calls. While talking to him didn't make my heart pound or cause my computer browser to pop up gift registries, as if by magic, I tried to keep an open mind and a hopeful heart.

Perhaps I should have canceled the date when, after hearing that I was driving to Vancouver, BC, for my great-aunt's memorial service the day before our meeting, his immediate response was to ask me to smuggle some Cuban rum back across the border for him. That might have been a wise thing to do. Live and learn.

But I didn't cancel my date. I met W at a cute little neighborhood restaurant/bar, conveniently close to his home. Not that I mind driving. That's fine. He was waiting for me in the bar, having a drink. We chatted a bit and when the server came over to take my order, he spent a little time trying to gauge the bartender's comfort level with preparing "pre-prohibition era cocktails."

May I just say, here and now, that I think it's super that people have interests and passions that make them seek out the unusual, be it in food or drink or art or music. That's great. But I wouldn't go to Native American museum and complain about the lack of European Impressionist masterpieces. I'm just saying.

As the date/conversation progressed, my work in the medical field was discussed, and W lamented his inability to shock me with anything, given my job. I assured him that despite my exposure to all things icky, plenty shocked me. [No, I didn't bring up the rum request. Yes, it would have been brilliant. No, I was still trying to be nice.] W then asked what shocked me. I told him people shocked me. A delicate tendril of mockery tickled my ear as W called my answer an evasion.

Yes. I know. But he asked.

Perhaps telling him an anecdote about a child's death at my first hospital was inappropriate. But it really was one of the most shocking things I've ever encountered. And when I think of the circumstances, nearly twenty years later, I am still shocked. And he asked.

The next day at work, my lovely coworker Stephanie asked me about the date with W and the first thing out of my mouth was:

"I made him cry."

W, hereafter and forever more known as The Weeper, became the benchmark for bad dates. And I remind myself of this as I go to have a coffee date with...

...the Yeti.

Pray for me.