Sunday, July 11, 2010


I slept well, last night; it was the second good night's sleep I've had in about three weeks.

I ended up skipping Radio's birthday party because I wasn't well enough to go. Sure, I guess I could have gone, if I'd loaded up on oral muscle relaxers and injected myself full of the other ones, and I did have someone who offered to drive me there and back, but I knew I'd still be in pain, and that my would-be-driver - who we'll refer to as Jonah - would have been forced to dance attendance on me all evening. And by "all evening" I mean "for the one hour I probably would have lasted before either 1) falling asleep curled up in a corner or; B) demanding I be taken home because the pain had grown unbearable."

I have a hunch Jonah wouldn't have minded his role as attendance-dancer-on-er, seeing as he offered to skip the party altogether to come entertain me at my apartment, but my emotional state is somewhat volatile, right now, what with all the trauma/drama/ramalamadingdong going on, and I think the last thing I need is another potential upset, or the guilt from potentially upsetting someone else.

So after skipping last night's soiree, I arose at 8:30 am Sunday - which is a miracle, and I think I should be canonized for it - dressed, and was at La Madeleine by 9:15 for breakfast. I decided I should eat something healthy involving a jam-slathered-croissant before I took my oral muscle relaxer, and La Madeleine is usually a nice quiet place to eat breakfast.

USUALLY being the key word, here. Because on this particular Sunday, it was full of loud blowhard men (I will not call them gentlemen, judging by their coarse language in the presence of ladies) who had no concept of the sanctity of others' solitude or their potential need for quietness. It's a very small La.M., so sound travels very easily. I tried shooting a couple of dirty looks at one of the tables, but that apparently led the corpulent 60-something leading the hard-blowing charge to think I was enamored of him as he just winked at me. I sneered and went back to (vainly attempting to) read my Economist. A few minutes passed and he walked by my table en route to refill his coffee cup.

"Watcha reading?" he inquired.

"I'm trying to read The Economist," I replied.

"Yeah, it's a difficult magazine."

I lowered said magazine. "It's not the magazine that's difficult, it's the loudness of the other patrons and their interruptions that makes the reading slow going." I raised said magazine. He walked off to refill his coffee. He didn't stop by again on the way to the table. In fact, he took a decidedly circuitous route to avoid passing near my table, and I can't imagine why. I'll chalk it up to the dark circles under my eyes and my Seek and Destroy Metallica shirt. The winged skull with fangs is fairly intimidating to the uninitiated.

By the time I left, just a few minutes after my encounter with the corpulent interloper, I was starting to feel weak again - the opposite effect desired after a hearty breakfast of eggs, bacon, tomato, croissant, and a potato galette. I drove home, took the elevator upstairs, grabbed a glass of iced tea, and fell into bed. The pain was staggering and so was I, despite the fact that I'd given myself an injection before I left for breakfast, hoping to stave off the pain long enough until I got back from eating. I took the oral muscle relaxers, and settled down to read some more of my Economist.

Do you have any idea how difficult it is to follow the stories in The Economist when you are half stoned out of your mind? Incredibly difficult. I know who Nicholas Sarkozy is. He's the president of France. No. Wait. He's the prime minister. Damn it. Which one is it? Which one is more important in French government? I should know this. But at present, the only thing I know is that his wife is gorgeous, he's short, and his name is involved in a scandal surrounding the L'Oreal heiress' fortune, but I'd still accept a date from him if he offered it. You know, once he's tired of being married to a supermodel/renowned singer, 'cause I'm next in line.

What am I going to do this next week when I return to work? I can't take the oral muscle relaxers before I leave for the office, since I can't drive for 6-8 hours after ingesting them (neat!), so after taking them at work, that should give me a good solid 30 minutes of work at the office before my level of concentration drops to nil and I start twiddling my thumbs and singing Frere Jacques to myself.

I also have no idea what will happen if I'm on the muscle relaxers and I have to sit up all day. Will they be as effective as they are currently, when I take them and then lie in bed, reading biographies of aristocratic women and trying to focus my eyes on pictures in the shelter magazines that constantly arrive at my house? Would it be unprofessional to set up a cot in my cubicle and move my computer to a cardboard box next to it? Or could I just talk to Oldsmosbile and Radio and see if I can work from home for a couple of days?

And most importantly, will I have to wear pants? I'm pretty sure part of my comfort level at home is the lack of pants involved - I'm taking my cues from the likes of Wonder Woman and Lady Gaga on this one - and I'm afraid wearing pants will interfere with the healing process.

I think the pants might definitely interfere. Think a more Gaga wardrobe could pass muster?

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