Sometimes, you just need a little encouragement. Welcome to a journey I’m calling “The unintended road trip on the serendipitous path of lung-wrenching discovery.”
*
It is the Fourth of July and the crabby son needs quelling; so into the car we hop. My child barks directions: “left,” “straight,” “more” from the back seat. We drive south along Highway 196 headed nowhere in particular–when someone suggests ice cream.*
We brave the lovely town of Saugatuck packed to the gills with red-white-and-blue spangled holiday goers. Quirky shops nestle along the Kalamazoo River. While the pre-teen scarfs gelato as if I hadn’t fed him in weeks, I manage a quick interlude at the Saugatuck Tea Company. Decorative teapots and art-inspired mugs lure shoppers in. A huge Russian Samovar painted in bright, enameled colors squats in a corner behind a room divider–the space manages to be bright and airy despite its modest dimensions.
In addition to tea paraphernalia, one entire wall offers loose-leafed teas with elaborate names like ‘Dragon Tears’ and ‘White Monkey Paw.’ I exchange words with the proprietress. She waves me to the wall of glass jars and lets me sniff the various contents. When I mention a favorite tea I purchase from a rival gang Teavana and how expensive it is, she suggests I get the list of ingredients next time I’m there and she can try to reproduce the results.
After smuggling my score out of the store in an attention-getting paisley bag, my child and I meander. With no great plans, we are unbound by expectation. It is very carefree and relaxing. I suspect this is what leads to the eventual cacophony epiphany to come.
We pass the gazebo in Wick’s Park and I can’t help myself, I have to stop and photograph the beautifully painted cinder block building that houses the public restroom. Who wouldn’t want to pee here?
Then, it is along the water to the nearby point of local interest–the chain link ferry. I brought my son here many years ago, when he was just a little guy. In a fit of nostalgia, I drag him to recreate the experience.
College students busk for tips, joke with passengers, and lure small children into photo ops turning the hand crank that churns the small boat across the river on a rickety chain. It is a swift journey and we are deposited on the other side to seek the experience that will make our day: the climb to Mount Baldhead.
As we leave the small boat, the crew encourages us to: “Be careful as we disembark.” And in passing, they say, “Oh, enjoy the 302 steps up! Don’t worry, it doesn’t get hard until the last two!”
No, the photo is not distorted–it really is that steep…and sideways.
Join me in the ascent. And like the experience itself, I will let the view speak for me…mostly because I am wheezing and turning magenta as I make my way up the vertiginous climb.
My son quickly leaves me in the dust. He prances ahead a spastic, loping blur of red–I am struck by the fanciful notion that for once, the sun/son rises in the West. Hypoxia sets in very quickly it seems.
As if climbing a sheer-faced cliff, the higher up I get, the less oxygen there seems to be–despite the valiant effort my lungs make imitating a wounded bellows. I get dizzy by the fourth flight and feel as though the signposts are talking to me***:
Cautionary warnings mark the trail, if only you know where to look:
At first, I thought, “How nice. Tears ahead-zero!” then I realized…it was a drawing of a tear.
With artwork like that, how will anyone tell a tick from a hollow raisin with bad hair?My name is Iniego Standish, You killed my father…
I pause frequently to admire the view/find peace with the inevitability of death.
A 12-step program sounds much easier in comparison.
Before long, the signs of the prophets speak their words of wisdom–no subway walls required:
Try not to infer sexual innuendos as you go. It’s hard…see…but try.
Many have come before us…
We marvel at cave drawings–why not this?
Some found love to hold and keep them strong–quite recently it seems:
It’s been less than a week, I wonder if they are still together?
Some return with their love to mark the passage and constancy of their union:
Remember what I said earlier about not finding suggestive interpretations: “We did it!” At least their initials are not S & M. That would have just nailed it.
Some are a bit defiant about it:
Note: It is 2016 and they have been silent for three years. One hopes it is not the end of love for Janna and Todd.
Step-by-gasping-step, life lessons are revealed…though the truth is somewhat debatable:
“I have never left any of you” is crossed out to read “I have always left of you.” Personally, I’m going to agree with the one who has a better grasp of the present perfect tense.
Some who wander the path share their pain with the world:
A brave girl, that Summer Weersma.
She has a lot in common with a fellow traveler:
And then, there is the impetuous voice of youth speaking to the ages:
We may never know all of life’s mysteries, but at least we know someone has much love for “Dick & Balls.”
The stair treads pass slowly. I pause more frequently and try not to feel as if one quick shove would send me over the edge. The signs urge me on….
I reach the top victorious where my son hands me his lemonade to open. I stagger over to admire the view which is truly spectacular–if somewhat buried in the surrounding trees.
I get mere minutes to enjoy the splendid view before my child hares back down the path as if gravity has no greater significance than a propellant to urge him onward. I am more cautious–and cognizant of how difficult it would be to get a gurney up to retrieve my broken ass if I fell.
There you have it. Wooden aphorisms mark a trail for the intrepid explorer to follow. You can be your own Magellan–circling the world to find answers to life questions. You can take the wisdom of others–picking and choosing to see what fits.
You can wear your epiphanies on your chest–much like my son’s perspicacious porcine persuasion.
My son’s love of bacon has led to a variety of pork-related t-shirt slogans. He no doubt has bacon epiphanies.
Or you can wander off the path to make new discoveries and record them in out-of-the-way places to be discovered or not as the universe sees fit.
As for me, I follow the signs that speak to my heart:
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*It might have been me.
**I now have ‘connections’–so, if you need some prime, illicit loose leaf, you know who to call.
***Actually, I did not see most of these signs until I was making my way back down. Call it ironic hindsight.
Words have power. The language we use tells people more about us than we like to think. Which makes you wonder why we don’t try harder not to sound like idiots.*
###
I was having a discussion the other day with my friend and we started by bantering back-and-forth about expressions we are too old to use or that are so overdone they should be retired. (This exchange went on for several minutes. We think we are very funny when we haven’t had our caffeine yet.)
Everybody’s Saying It
Me: “I can’t stand the use of “What happens in (Blank) stays in (Blank). The Las Vegas board of tourism should fine people whenever it is misused.”
Her: “I’m sick of hashtags. I run across one and think “Why do people throw them at the end of everything they post? I’ve used one ONCE, and then only ironically.” #overdone
Me: “Text speak should be outlawed altogether. We could force people to wear an emoticon or the @ symbol as a sign of penance. It would be red and we’d call it The Scarlet Symbol!”
Her: “The Hashtag is better.”
Me: “I think the @ symbol is closer to the letter A.”
Her: “You should definitely use the HASHTAG!” #Opinionated
For the sake of our friendship, we drop it. You’ll notice, however, that I eventually agreed with her. Another pet peeve rears its English head.
Me: “The phrase ‘Keep Calm and [Blank] On!’ where people fill in the blank with whatever thing they like. I saw one that said ‘Keep Calm and Bake On!’ with a cupcake instead of a crown. Stop just stop!”
Clerical Errors–Not Just For Clergy Anymore
We discussed what we were tired of seeing in writing.
Her: “I’m tired of seeing single word sentences. You know, where the author puts a period after every word for emphasis?”
Me: “Or, if you put it ironically: Overused. Periods. Must. Go.”
I couldn’t think of an example to complement this at the time, but since then, I would submit another particular annoyance—the word ‘Not’. Where people make a statement and then negate it with the single word ‘Not’ afterward. I just love this. Not.
Insults Add Injury
Then she proved to me exactly how far out of the loop I am, slang wise.
Her: “I’m tired of ‘Throwing shade.’ ”
Me: “What? I’ve never heard of that one.”
Her: “It’s an insult.”
Me: “Like ‘dissing’ someone?”
Her: “I don’t think anyone uses that one anymore.” (I swear she snickered when she said this.)
Her: “And ‘Butthurt’. I’m tired of ‘Butthurt’.”
Me: “That’s what she said.”**
Her: “Hah hah. Very funny.”
Me: “No, I’m tired of the phrase, ‘That’s what she said.’ I don’t really know the expression ‘Butthurt’ is it like ‘Asshole’?”
We devolve into a nattering Google search trying to confirm the origin of that one.
Her: “It means: ‘Overly annoyed, bothered or bugged because of a perceived insult; needlessly offended.’ I would have thought it had a more sexual meaning.”
Then she looks a bit further; she is scrolling the text when she stops.
Her: “Oh…someone here uses it to be degrading, as if it means rape.”
We’re both silent for a minute tacitly agreeing this isn’t funny and maybe we should just drop this line of thought. But, we aren’t over finding ourselves terribly amusing in general, if not in this particular instance.
You’ve Been Served
Me: “I hate it when I use slang that I am wayyy too old to be using: ‘My Bad!’”
Her: “I’ll confess, with a pre-teen running around the house, I’ve been known to drop a ‘Whatevs’ on occasion.”
Me: (Gasp) “No!”
She nods sadly and I shake my head in disbelief. We pause for a moment to digest how much respect we have just lost for each other.
Then we momentarily veer unto serious grounds. I may have climbed on a soapbox for a moment or two, before being overwhelmed by the dizzying heights of intellectual pursuit and falling off again.
Brown Shirting It
Me: “The use of the phrase ‘Nazi’ intending to be a clever slur for whatever someone feels like making fun of: ‘Grammar Nazi’… ‘Soup Nazi’…”
Her: “Feminazi.”
{Non-Sequitur Alert}
Me: “Speaking of Nazis, I just watched a memorial show about the holocaust this week in which two sons of Nazi war criminals met and talked about their respective fathers’ part in the genocide. It was shocking how much one son denied his father’s involvement—even with evidence put before him—he refused to believe his father was a bad man.”
My friend no doubt said something very smart and insightful in response, but alas, I have forgotten what is was. Enjoy this Holocaust meme instead:
I love it best for the typo it contains.
And this one:
On a side note, I wasn’t aware there was a Holocaust Day of Remembrance. This week, all anyone could talk about was an album by Beyonce–something having to do with fruit juice. Instead, I watched a documentary about Niklas Frank and Horst van Wachter–sons of two high-ranking Nazi officials. PBS presented this in advance of Holocaust Remembrance Day which was May 5 this year. The Last Picture of Hans Frank aired May 2 and it was an excerpt of a larger documentary: My Nazi Legacy: What Our Fathers Did. An article in The Telegraph provides insight into the conflict surrounding those who remember and those who still deny the Holocaust–in part or whole.
Now Back to Our Regularly Scheduled Blog, Already in Progress
Me: “I have wondered how entire countries could have participated in the atrocities during the Holocaust; how did so many people fall in line with the belief that killing people was a moral and just act? And now, listening to the bile spewed by Donald Trump, I see how it can happen.”
We stumble through the hazards of discussing politics on a gray day. It helps that we are both Die-Hard With a Vengeance liberals but the topic should come with a trigger warning:
Danger: discussing the buffoons currently running for office may result in catatonia, convulsions, or the desire to hurl yourself off a tall building. If over-exposed, seek the nearest bi-partisan affiliated medical center or move to Canada.
Just the day before, Ted Cruz took his campaign off life support, and as a nation we were equal parts relieved and horrified by the confirmation that Donald Trump was the de facto Republican candidate.***
Me: “I heard what’shisname dropped out of the race, finally. I can never remember his name. You know, the first runner up?”
Her: “Cruz. Ted Cruz.” [Read this with a James Bond 007 emphasis]
Me: “And now the Republicans are fighting about whether to back Trump or not. I am terrified of the prospect of a Trump presidency.”
Her: “I just can’t watch the election coverage any more. I am so sick and tired of hearing the hateful things Trump says and then there are his supporters who are proud of their racists, sexist, bigoted views. I’d rather go work in my garden.”
And on this, I have to agree. After listening to people sling political bullshit, it’s nice to find a use for it by going and fertilizing the plants—metaphorically speaking.
Our conversation drizzled to a halt and we signed off Skype and returned to the minutia of daily life. But the conversation stayed with me.
The Skinny
I’ve been trying to parse out the meaning of it all—what I think about the mixed bag of ideas: well-worn aphorisms, iconic statements (#oversimplification), misused marketing jargon, and the fact we’ve reduced the election process to tweet wars. It’s become a contest for who can fling the most monkey dung without having any stick to them! When I couldn’t wrap my head around an answer, I did what most people do. I looked to the internet.
NPR offers a meaningful look at the effect of a meme-oriented mindset by reporting on the comparison of Donald Trump with Adolph Hitler. The article references Godwin’s Law of Nazi Analogies—and it gave me a momentary pause for thought to consider my own eagerness to pass on a witty slam against a political adversary. Am I part of the problem when I partake in the Olympic event that is the hundred-yard dash to judgement on something the other side has said?
Democrats like to vilify the enemy as much as the Republicans like to burn Democrats in verbal effigy. Tit-for-tat backstabbing is the mother tongue of politics. Rhetoric, polemics and personal insult take the place of a real discussion. Issues are boiled down to a symbol and a word or two.
In the political arena, center stage is given to the loudest actor with the best lines. (Who remembers anything Guildenstern said? Anybody? No? No, it’s all about Hamlet. Hamlet said this. Hamlet stabbed Polonius. Hamlet left Ophelia to drown. Hamlet has fake hair and his wife is an immigrant. Hamlet, Hamlet, Hamlet! No one mourns poor Guildenstern, except maybe Rosencrantz and even then it was probably laced with self-pity. In this analogy, Guildentstern and Rosencrantz are played by Ron Paul and Jeb Bush.)
#BitPlayersDie
When all you have are sound bites, it is hard to digest and regurgitate an educated opinion—and apparently no one really wants a nine-course, fact-laden meal when they can swallow nuggets of pseudo truth instead. Sadly, the toy that comes with this Un-Happy Meal is whoever is elected. It is the Age of Oblivious and the one with the most likes wins.
#Spoiler:WeAllLose
Where was I heading with this? I’m not entirely sure. This started out funny and lighthearted and then spazzed into a quasi political rant half-way through. Suffice it to say, there is something dangerous about relying on pat answers or worn-out catch phrases to represent our opinions. It is just too easy. And as the poster hanging on the wall of my social studies classroom in high school said: “For every complex problem, there is an answer that is clear, simple, and wrong.” H. L. Mencken****
#IronicFootnote
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Donald Trump, I’m talking to you.
**Okay, I’m totally making up this reply. I only came up with it much later when my brain gives up all the wittier things I might have said if I only could have thunk them up at the time.
***De Facto is an abbreviation, the long form is: Eligendi asini, de facto producit ventum de inmundo. (For those of you too lazy to use Google Translate: Electing an ass in effect produces a foul wind.)
****And just to prove how dangerously full-circle this reference is, Wikipedia describes H. L. Mencken thus:
“His diary indicates that he harbored strong racist and antisemitic attitudes, and was sympathetic to the Social Darwinism practiced by the Nazis.”
So, I can understand how Donald Trump could cite an opinion which originated with Mussolini without knowing it. But, once you know, you have to realize your words might not be conveying the message you think.
Sorry, I was sucked into the vacuum that is Spring Break with a hyperactive child who has an overdeveloped sense of curiosity and underdeveloped sense of self-preservation.
The brain trust is drained.
For your amusement, pictures I took with my Samsung phone at work today:
This entire post is in response to something at Writers of the Rain said about there not being an interesting picture of a stapler. I disagree! I now challenge everyone else to find or create their own interesting stapler photo.*
Have you ever watched a cup of water? Not in a cloudy-clear glass sitting still on a Formica table at a diner where you expect 1950’s bobby socks and poodle skirts to walk past, and where the waitress wears a mustard yellow uniform in unflattering polyester and has the nametag Flo or Madge stitched crookedly across one breast. No, I’m describing a hot cup of water in a black coffee cup carefully monitored as you carry it back from the tea pot or microwave, water that is potentially scalding, where a wary thumb and forefinger clutch a handle tight to avoid brushing the surface of the mug. Have you ever wondered what the water was thinking?
Ripples quake in the ceramic depths as you navigate the stairs—equal attention on the precarious balance of supporting the contents without it sloshing over and making sure you don’t trip on the risers causing the same outcome. The water is a mirror which reflects glimpses of the outside—a winter white light bounces and then catches your surprised face staring back at you. An impermanent, liquid mirror. And then it is gone again, in the ripples and splash of a miniature storm. This is probably where the expression comes from—a tempest in a teacup. Someone somewhere tripped and an expression was born of momentary carelessness. Will anything I ever say have the same lasting impact? Or must I bruise myself first and stumble my way to clichéd fame?
Does the water care that it once rocked oceans and ruled tiny coastlines—terrorizing small fishing boats, tossing them like broken toys to sink to the sandy bottom? Does it remember falling from the sky and running free through rock-ripped currents and over cataracts, emerging in tranquility to form a volcanic basin on tropic isles? Did this water wash the blood of battle fields and soothe the wounded and dying? Is there an echo of tears in every drop? Does the world weep when it rains?
This water is unaffected by the arts and schemes of human interference. It can be frozen but thawed, steamed but reconstituted, filtered but retains its elemental blueprint: two hydrogen and one carbon, atomic grace notes on a cosmic scale. It can be changed, but never altered. Added to, but never taken away, not really. For it returns from the hidden depths, the wellspring of glacial deposits and melt waters, pressing from the Earth like a sponge squeezed from the reservoir retained in once-living cells. If you drink it, you can taste the memory of its birth. The cooling sun of millions of years ago heated the first molecules to form atmosphere and fill in the gaps of a rocky ball birthed of pressure and centrifugal forces.
I stare into the cup and the universe stares back.
I drop in a teabag and go about my day.
In my TARDIS Cup, the tea is bigger on the inside.
Write a brilliant novel. They said. How hard can it be? They said. (Artwork borrowed from http://xkcd.com/971/)
You are ready to publish? Congratulations! But are you prepared to face the literary gauntlet? The Herrick Library Get Published! 2016 conversation continues from last week’s fantastically titled Session I with insights from all the presenters on what constitutes the write right and wrong ways to approach a publisher or literary agent.
Query letters are similar to the cover letter which accompanies the curriculum vitae or résumé in a job application. How hard can a letter be? You may ask. The panelists caution that the letter is the first thing a potential editor or publisher sees of your work—some writers are rejected solely on the basis of a poor cover letter. Think of it like a dating profile—you’ve got to put forth the best version of you (and your work) possible. The best way to learn is by example…and here is a definite worst-case scenario:
Count the Mistakes in this Sample Query Letter
Dear Meow Mewo Productions:
I know you aren’t excepting submissions right now, but I have a number one best seller which will make the DaVinci Cod weep with envy. You would be a fool not to hear me out. I have thousands of pages of notes and all I need is a $50,000 advance to begin writing. I have sent my summary to several of your competitors, such as Harlequin Romance, Field-N-Stream, and Publisher’s Clearing House, so time is of the essence. He who bites first gets the fish.Continue reading QUERY ME! QUERY ME REAL GOOD!→
This is how my brain feels on Christmas. Any Questions?
The holidays come around every year and every year I struggle to get through them despite depressive inclinations. The DSM V (Dismal Scrooge Manual) describes it as a tinsel-bedecked, window-flocked, overly-piped Chipmunk Christmas Album version of Seasonal Affective Disorder.* On occasion I have had to suppress the urge to strangle someone with tangled Christmas lights if they so much as Ho Ho Ho in my direction.
Based on the theory that which does not kill us makes us stronger, in the past, I have responded by leaping maniacally manically into the holiday spirit with an elaborate annual letter with photos and captions, holiday cards, and a cookie party inviting all my friends and their children to festoon my carpet with a thousand and one sprinkles.
But the stress of my life has had an accumulative toll and this year, I seriously wondered if I was going to live long enough to see my child grow up. So I got help. I’ve been seeing a therapist (because all the cool kids are doing it) and for months now I have been trying to embrace a very simple philosophy that gives me a headache when I try to employ it. Repeat after me people:
“I am not my thoughts or emotions.”
The therapy in question is called A.C.T. a lovely acronym which stands for Acceptance and Commitment Therapy. During months of weekly visits with a very nice therapist through the V.A., I’ve managed to grasp the ideas behind the program. There’s even an APP for that on the VA website. But it’s like chess, you can learn the rules pretty easily, it’s becoming a grand master that takes practice.
Describing A.C.T., as it turns out, is harder than I thought, but here goes:
OBSERVE
First, I learned that you step outside of whatever thought you are having (good, bad, indifferent, the emotional context doesn’t matter) instead you focus on recognizing that all thoughts are separate from who you are. You accept that you have thoughts of worthlessness, failure, depression, whatever, and then you say, “Okay. I see myself thinking X, Y, Z.” The goal isn’t to get rid of the thought or even dispute them.** After you accept that you have had a thought, you are to ask yourself “Is that thought helpful?”
BE MINDFUL
Second – be present in your life. Practicing mindfulness is what I like to call the “Woo Woo” portion of ACT. This involves active observation either of a task or meditative relaxation where you might hear a soft-spoken speaker tell you to listen to your breath while imagining leaves floating on water carrying any extraneous thought away from your observer state.*** After learning mindfulness came what I consider the more concrete portion of the therapy: Commitment.
BEING COMMITTED
Third – Values versus Goals. I was given a few different lessons in determining what really matters to me—defining the way I want to live my life. Once I decided what values matter most to me—health, being a good parent, writing—I wrote goals as steps that life. Goal: I will get to sleep by 11:00 p.m. (in progress), Goal: I will not swear at my child. (Damn.) Goal: I will value my writing and make time in my day to respect my creativity. (Ta dah!)
PRACTICE
Okay, but what happens when your week sucks bilge water? I’ll give you an example of one day I reported to my therapist:
Me: “…child has been sick …. I haven’t slept…today he flooded the kitchen AND the bathroom, he emptied the liquid dish soap into a garbage can—twice— and then, he turned on the stove past the click-click starter point, filling the house with gas, and he turned off the refrigerator…blather…blather…hysterical tears…
[My therapist always gives me time to have a mini-meltdown and she makes comforting noises before redirecting me to our opening woo-woo practice. Her voice is a soft monotone and very hypnotic as she reads from the page.]
Therapist: “Okay let’s do a mindful relaxation session. Get comfortable. Focus on your breath, but you do not need to change your breath. Breathe as you normally would. You are comfortable. You sense your hands, your feet, and your head is centered on your body….”
This goes on for a bit and then I heard the following sentence:
Therapist: “…you do not need to fix yourself.”
Me: “Bwa ha ha ha ha hah!”
I laughed so hard I was crying. I laughed so hard, I almost peed myself. I laughed so hard, the therapist started laughing. She broke out of ‘robo-voice’ to say, “Well…there isn’t anything wrong with you that needs fixing.”
It took an effort, but I finally stopped snorting and threatening to burst into manic laughter every time I thought of that sentence. Somehow we got through the exercise. Afterward, I told her it was the best session I had and it was worth it just to be able to laugh like that.
A.C.T. doesn’t pretend to be a solution to any problems you have in your life. I like that about the program. My goal isn’t to try and ‘fix’ my thoughts, or make them go away, or pretend they aren’t there. A.C.T. is teaching me that, yeah, I may be depressed, I may have negative thoughts or feelings of worthlessness, but, I’m not going to let that stop me from trying to have a better life. It’s teaching me that I can choose to act in my best interest in spite of my mental illness.
One of my favorite lines from a movie, comes from A Beautiful Mind. In this movie, Russell Crowe plays John Nash, a mathematics genius who is nominated for the Nobel Prize for his theories in economics in spite of the fact that he is a diagnosed schizophrenic. In the scene I’m remembering, Nash is meeting a member of the Nobel Committee who is there to see whether awarding Nash the prize will lead to embarrassment.
Nash say that he might embarrass the Nobel Committee, and when asked, admits that he still sees the hallucinations that mark his schizophrenia.
Nash says, “I still see things that are not here. I just choose not to acknowledge them.”
He further explains: “I’ve gotten used to ignoring them and I think, as a result, they’ve kind of given up on me. I think that’s what it’s like with all our dreams and our nightmares, Martin, we’ve got to keep feeding them for them to stay alive.”
From now on, I am going to try and feed my dreams instead of my nightmares; take the actions that will help me to live my values; and acknowledge that some days will be easier than others. I pledge to be as kind to myself as I would be to a friend who felt this bad. And I will remember “I do not need to fix myself.” In truth, I already possess a beautiful mind.
Asterisk Bedazzled Footnotes:
*Not to make light of people who actually have S.A.D. No Joke.
**Although A.C.T. has some nifty terms for handling destructive ideas–like ‘cognitive defusion’–that makes it sound like your brain is a bomb about to go off.
***For some reason, I always imagine floating elephants down a river on a leaf. I have no idea why.
_____________________________________________
Anyone truly wanting information on the subject can check out the following links:
Advisory: the following contains irreverence for Star Trek, reference to bodily functions (aka toilet humor) and nearly-naked photos. You have been warned.
*
Just days before I was to undergo my hip replacement, this arrived in the mail.
ENGAGE!
I cannot tell you the relief of receiving the oddest looking thing ever to grace a commode. My first thought upon seeing my elevated toilet hover craft? “It looks like something from Star Trek.” Embracing my new command chair, I was able to boldly go to Spectrum Hospital and face the unknown. So sit back and enjoy this week’s episode of: Hip Trek. (Not a copyright infringement, at all.)
Spaced-Out: The finale to my front and rear! These are the voyages of the starship Enterpoop, Its six week mission: to explore embarrassing losses of dignity, to seek out new ways of putting on socks, to sleep like there’s no tomorrow…
Star Date: 0413.2015
Acting Captain’s Blog, First Officer Reporting: The captain has been relieved of duty by the medical officer. We arrived at the planet Spectrum for a brief layover to augment the captain’s hyperdrive by installing a new dilithium crystal stabilizer.*
Staff arrived disappointingly clothed in green jumpsuits—a total breach of Hip Trek protocol which dictates that medical personnel wear tight, crushed velvet blue shirts with black pants or mini dresses with Go Go boots. As the procedure would take some time, the captain donned a space suit designed to make her look like a Macy’s Day Float…appropriate considering some of the drugs later prescribed.
As expected, the Captain’s bloated ego becomes more apparent out of uniform.
A nurse—most likely a vicious Romulan—by the name Phlebo ToMist attempted to excavate blood using an unnecessarily pointy object.
SHO’VA SHAK! (Okay, help me out, I think this one is from Star Gate) Let’s try Klingon: Qu’valth! P’tok!
The Romulan seemed disappointed when she finally hit a vein only to discover the blood wasn’t green after all. The captain suffered this all in silence.**
According to tricorder readings, Bones (aka the surgeon)–plotted a star chart on the captain’s hip.
Insert your own ‘map to Uranus’ joke here.
It looked as though he’d trained with Picasso. The captain was relieved to later awake from sedation to discover her nose reassuringly undisturbed.
The side effects of the procedure included a foggy-headed delirium wherein aliens appeared at odd intervals to monitor the implant and offer to take the captain to the head. The captain may have professed love to the anesthesiologist at one point. Fortunately Bones insisted she maintain near incapacitating level of narcotics in her system so any embarrassing details are but a blurry memory.***
Stardate: 0415.2015
Captain’s Personal Blog: Against medical advice, I have resumed my post. I will admit, Bones may have been right and the frag-bickle-lorum suggests I haven’t all my flurguls in a row. I won’t give him the satisfaction of knowing he is right though.
It seems as though my body has been taken over by an alien force that requires me to relearn all of my former functions using a variety of odd devices.
There is the sock-o-nator which works only in one direction apparently—which required repeated humiliating lessons before I figured out what I was doing wrong. Fortunately the crew was much less medicated and on hand to help out.
Please ignore the First Officer’s lack of uniform–it was pajama day on the bridge.
I have a new transporter that, while of limited distance, allows me to move my leg from the floor to levitate at a level that alleviates the pain in my port nacelles.
One to beam up, Scotty!
There is the claw-like apparatus I call the ‘payload retrieval device’; it has a myriad of uses but primarily helps me locate the Captain’s briefs.
Panties pictured may or may not actually belong to the Captain–she’s not telling.
Lastly, there is my space shuttle which helps me to drag my carcass from one staggering location aboard ship to another until my body finally remembers how to function as a single, albeit sore, working unit.
I have the most humiliating habit of referring to this as my ‘stroller’.
And now, my moment of reflection must be cut short as we are on course to the planet Vex-Lax; it’s time to resume my captain’s chair and boldly go. Captain’s log out.
Make it so, Number One!
Asteroid Bedazzled Footnotes:
*In other words, to have an anterior hip replacement—dilithium crystal stabilizer sounds much cooler, doesn’t it?
**A total lie, but at least she didn’t scream “Get it out, get it out, get it out” as she did during a past similar hunt for a saline portal whilst preparing to produce her progeny. (This is 100% true. In my defense, the phlebotomist hit a nerve that to this day is funny when touched.)
***This entire post is brought to you by hydrocodone, tramadol and diazepam without which hallucinations such as this would not be possible.
Stay Tuned for Next Week’s Adventure: When the captain gets mortally impaled with a Bat’leth!
