Musings of Me

"Winter Storm 2005"

What goes around comes around.

I suppose I am getting my just desserts for making numerous calls to Michigan and laughing hysterically into the reciever after asking how the weather is (I need a new gag, really).

My personal favorite had my twin sullenly whining about being plowed into her apartment complex, leaving her with nothing to survive on save string cheese (this is no different from the norm, but I can sympathize wholeheartedly). Like any caring sister, I laughed until she hung up, then I called her back and did it again.

I think she hates me.

To make a long story short, I spent my weekend holed up in the house, watching exclusive coverage (by 4 TV stations) of what is being marketed by the networks as "Winter Storm 2005." There is even a theme song.

Suffice it to say that when anything resembling ice, sleet, or snow hits Georgia, the natives go crazy. The average speed limit in Atlanta is 80+mph, and no one bothers to slow their humvees for something so insignificant as the forces of nature.

Day one, Saturday, started off great. I sat on the sofa eating ice cream (actually, all I ate Saturday was ice cream and Captain Crunch. Rock on), and watching the neighborhood children haul out sleds and slide down the road (I wanted to join them, but I have no sled, cardboard, or anything. I have an armchair Grandma gave me, but that would be too much work, and may rip out my stitches. More on that, later).

Following the happy children, the crazy unicyclist was out and I watched him bite it several times, as did the kids. Even from a distance, their frozen little faces were of shocked bewliderment that an adult would be out trying to ride a unicycle in this weather (Perhaps he is an Olympic unicycle contender, and needs to practice on two inches of solid ice on a hill.....)

There are interesting people down here. Perhaps I will go into more detail about the unicyclist later.

After about an hour of watching live cams of real-time accidents occuring on GA400, I75, and I85, I thought I would be better served watching the carnage inflicted on drywall by some stainless steel cutlery on a random infomercial. Cabin fever set in about ten minutes later.

So, after completely wasting my Saturday (AND there were brown outs all day because of the ice weighting down the lines) I have decided to dedicate part of Sunday to whining about the cold, the ice, and how I ran out of Captain Crunch so I am being forced to live off Oat Bran. At any time feel free to call and laugh.

Part of the reason I am so grumpy about my cabin lockdown is because I couldn't go play outside even if I did have a sled. My surgeon gave me explicit instructions to not rip my stitches from Thursday's surgery, and quite frankly she scares me. (So, instead I have been sitting on my butt, eating like a pig, and charging my cell battery between brown-outs for the next round of 'calling MI and laughing my ass off.')

Perhaps I should talk about my surgery, as it is rather funny.

Thursday, I was happy. Not only was I finally having the lump in my arm removed, I got half a day of work off in which to do it. I was GLEEFUL skipping out of work (I literally did skip). After several months of uncertainty, and medical trial-and-error, I was having my biopsy.

I arrived at the office, and was ushered into this lovely little room with an exotic chair reminiscent of the pyschotic Dental office of Little Shop of Horrors. My surgeon began the niceties of polite conversation, while the surgical assistant prepped me for surgery. They were both very nice, and not once did I have the urge to run screaming.

Once the surgery began, I really couldn't see. I did manage to peak over, and the view was not what I expected. The doctor, who assumed I would probably freak out, immediately said, "you don't want to see this!" It was at this point I made a comment comparing the sterile field to a food product, which immediately had the surgical assistant exclaiming in horror, "oh god, she's right! I can never eat that again!"

The surgeon started to laugh.

"Well, if you think THAT is bad..." I launched into another story concerning college anatomy lab, and a similar situation which soon had both women in stiches. I am glad I was locally numbed, because the next sound I heard was my surgeon, still laughing, exclaiming "oops!"

At this point, I reflected, perhaps I should not be making these people laugh.

Before the operation was over, we hit many topics. these ranged from: Birth control, George Bush, acne, Carrots as a source of nutrition for women over 25, Sea World, Engineers, Atkins, Idiot boyfriends, medical school, IHOP, and cats.

Speaking of cats, I finally named mine. He is Jonesie von Clawed. He responds to Fluffy. I am a bad mother.

I am now sporting a 7 stitch wound, and have been forbidden to shave or use deoderant. I have been threatened with extreme pain should I not care for it properly or if I rip my stitches, and I am still amused with the care my surgeon took about my scar. Between fits of giggling, she mentioned suturing with the curve of my skin, so my scar would not be so noticeable.

I am glad she took such care, but I doubt anyone will look at my underarm in a social environment. Or at all. But, thanks to her, my underarm will not look absolutely Frankenstein-like if I choose to roll up my sleeve and demand that everyone look at my cool scar.

What am I, eight? (It is kinda cool, though)

There is still some of Sunday that is salvageable. I think I shall go recondition Fluffy.

posted by Jill @ 1:49 PM