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This too shall pass "The soul shrinks "That's just the way it goes, I have no words of my own right now, but I’ll be back as soon as I do. truth about enzyteTo everyone who commented or emailed to make sure I was ok, thank you again. This too shall pass... Home :: permalink Phone Spam T. and L. are two acquaintances of mine who have been on a misguided mission to set me up with someone, and just the mention of their names told me what the phone call was probably about… All I could think was, I hope you have something--a newspaper subscription, life insurance, ANYTHING--to sell me because I did NOT just get dragged out of bed, subluxate my knee, and incur numerous bruises so I could be asked out on a blind date that I would never agree to. Sorry to say, it wasn’t some sort of telemarketing call. I politely explained to the caller that his friends were out of line and apologized that he’d been misled, but I am positively livid right now! Maybe sitting here fuming over a such a brief phone call is silly, but for many reasons, I have a very short fuse right now. To name a few: T. and L. know I was in a serious long-term relationship, they know that it was a “bad” relationship, they know that I haven’t dated since I ended it, and they know that I emphatically refuse to have anything to do with men (in the romantic sense) anytime soon. However, they’re of the opinion that over a year of not dating is “too long,” and have taken it upon themselves to remedy the situation. So, thank you, T. and L. Thank you very much for this latest intervention, which could not have been more ill-timed or better coinciding with the current crapload of drama and my frayed nerves. Now I’m too pissed to go back to bed, which is unfortunate because my next opportunity to sleep won’t be until Sunday morning--and that's if I don’t have insomnia to contend with. I’ll concede that I’ve been pretty vague with them about the unhealthy (read: abusive) nature of my relationship with my now ex, but I have made it abundantly clear that my current dating hiatus is non-negotiable, and I fail to see why I have to justify myself to them or anyone else. I really shouldn’t have to provide all the gory private details to get them to respect my decision. At the very least, if I explicitly tell you not to give out my phone number, is it too much to ask for you to, I don’t know…maybe not give out my number??? Just what the hell are you hoping to accomplish by doing that? I mean, I did mention that I DON’T WANT TO BE WITH ANYONE RIGHT NOW didn’t I? Yeah, I’m pretty sure I did. Repeatedly. And getting unwelcome calls from random guys at inconvenient times is not going to do a damn thing to change my mind. Nor will listening to you go on and on about how 24 is “too old” to have only had 1 boyfriend and how I “need” to find someone. What I really need is for you to shut the hell up and mind your own damn business, because I think I’d know better than anyone else when I'm ready to date again. (Like when I stop having nightmares about my ex, for starters.) Until then, if Jesus himself comes down from heaven to introduce me to a guy, it still ain’t happening. So make no mistake about it, I don’t care if you’ve known him since the cassette tape era, if he interned for Mother Theresa, if he's David Boreanaz's identical twin, or if he's a Nobel Prize winner--I'm not going out with him. Do. Not. Give. Him. My. Number. Maybe you don’t think there’s any reason to respect my wishes, or that my opinion on the matter isn’t at all relevant, but what about the guys you’re trying to set me up with? Have you even stopped to think about what’s in store for them??? Nothing good, I promise. Which is yet another reason why I don’t want a boyfriend right now--because it wouldn’t be fair to him. I can’t yet trust myself at this point not to irrationally and unfairly misdirect all of the negative feelings I have towards my ex at someone else. As much as I hate to admit that about myself, it’s the truth, and it would be irresponsible of me to become involved knowing that. No good could possibly come of it, and you’d be an idiot as well as a bad friend to send any of your male friends my way right now. You may be convinced that you could do a better job than me of running my personal life, but for women your age, you sure have some naïve misconceptions about relationships and happiness, and I’m not buying any of it. Nothing will ever convince me that happiness is contingent upon being attached, nor will I ever see the wisdom of placing my happiness in the hands of someone else. Life isn’t some stupid romantic comedy, folks. No one’s going to come along and miraculously restore your faith in love and humanity just by being charming, persistent, romantic or whatever. It’s up to you alone to work through whatever issues you need to work through or to seek help doing so--it most certainly is not the job of some mythical knight in shining armor. And the way I see it, that’s a GOOD thing. Because right now I’m doing my best to glean something positive from that mess of a relationship, to hang on to the lessons I’ve learned from it, and to just brush off the rest. And when I’ve succeeded in getting myself mentally and emotionally where I want to be? I’ll have no one to credit for getting me there but MYSELF. Home :: permalink In Memoriam
The tide recedes, but leaves behind Home :: permalink Misadventures in Egypt: The night that wouldn't end I’ve decided to preface my Misadventures in Egypt installments with current news. If you have no interest in the latest developments in my life and would rather just laugh at my misfortunes, simply skip to the cute little asterisks about halfway down. See how easy I make it? :) First of all, I still haven’t made it to NYC. My plan to spend a day there has again been thwarted, this time due to my body’s non-cooperation rather than my parents’ non-cooperation. Out of the blue, my shoulder started giving me problems. For about three days, I couldn’t move my arm even an inch away from my body without my shoulder exploding in pain. Utterly random. And inconvenient. Secondly, May was Ehlers Danlos Awareness month. I didn’t do anything here to mark the occasion, but I’d like to think I made a small contribution to raising awareness last month by being a guest speaker for my sister’s high school biology class. There are now 37 more people in the world who know what the hell Ehlers Danlos Syndrome is. Does that count for anything? I’m quite the introvert and more than a little uncomfortable being the center of attention, so of course the idea of standing in front of a class of 9th and 10th graders for an entire hour was incredibly daunting. But, I couldn’t in good conscience pass up the opportunity to educate people about EDS when I’ve been complaining for so long about how the lack of awareness can make life so difficult sometimes. If that wasn’t enough of a reason, my sister also provided further incentive for me to talk to her class by threatening to beat me up if I didn’t. (She also threatened to beat up anybody who didn’t come to school that day.) When I mentioned to Bug's Mom what I was going to be doing, she asked if I’d be using humor in my presentation. Humor plays a very big role in how I cope with EDS as well as with the non-medical tumult in my life, so naturally, in between all the facts and figures and careful demonstrations of my joint flexibility and skin stretchiness, humor did find its way into my mostly improvised presentation; I couldn’t help it. By no means did I turn the whole thing into a big joke or trivialize the syndrome, but I figured a little humor would make them more comfortable asking questions and perhaps make some of the information more memorable. So, yes, there was laughter, but it was obvious from their attentiveness and the nature of their questions that they were also taking it seriously. Overall, it went shockingly well. To be honest, I was waiting for the students to either drift off to sleep or be overcome with ADD, but lo and behold, they were awake the entire time and asked tons of questions. AND not only did they ask my sister and their teacher if I could come back again, but I’m told that they’re still talking about it a week later! Now my sister wants me to let her review the rest of my medical history for future guest speaking material. Lastly, yesterday I got an email from a grad school informing me that I’m not cool enough for the program I applied to. HOWEVER (the email had that word in caps, so clearly caps lock must be necessary here), they are offering me admission to a similar master’s program, which has a different area of concentration and format from the one I applied to. However--ahem, HOWEVER--I’m not sure if it will work for me, and I’m still waiting to hear back from a couple other schools, but I'll be looking into this--to see if they're cool enough for me. A very mean and very nasty reaction from a certain family member notwithstanding, I’m quite pleased with this new possibility! * * *Ok, back to Egypt.* * * Finally drifting off to sleep was awesome. Getting a full night of uninterrupted rest after what we’d been through that day would have been awesomer. Instead, a few hours later my grandmother and I were jolted awake when we found ourselves under attack by a madly clucking ball of feathers. It was like Hitchcock’s The Birds. Two chickens had escaped from the coop in the balcony, come in through the broken shutters, and headed straight for the bed we were sleeping in. My grandmother and I tried to swat them away, but mainly we just succeeded in swatting each other. We only started gaining the upper hand after getting out of bed, but until our eyes began to adjust to the darkness (the power was still out), we remained on the defensive. For a few minutes, wings flapped, feathers flew, and stuff crashed to the floor, but in the end we prevailed and the chickens were back in the coop. It was almost morning, and one doesn’t easily drift off after being attacked in their sleep, so I only went back to bed to stay warm under the covers and so I’d have something to pull over my head if the psycho chickens came back to finish us off... because I was in no condition to do battle again. I spent the rest of the night/early morning trying to ignore my full bladder. It was so damn cold! I really didn’t relish the prospect of pulling down my three layers of pants and sitting my butt down on an icy toilet seat. But after the sun came up, I told myself that it would be ok, because surely the sunlight had warmed up the apartment a little. Considering I could see my breath in the air as I was thinking this, it was one of the bolder lies I’ve ever tried to tell myself, ranking right up there with “I’m fine, really” and, “I’ll only eat one brownie.” Still, if I waited any longer to go to the bathroom, I risked having to walk around with a solid block of iced pee in my bladder until Spring. The bathroom turned out to be even colder than the rest of the apartment because part of the roof was missing in there. Incidentally, this “sunroof” did provide a pretty view of the sky from the toilet. Until it started raining that is. When I came out, my aunt and the cousin who’d gotten engaged the night before were sitting on my grandmother’s couch. Naturally, the engagement was the main topic of discussion, and my cousin asked me what I thought of her new fiancé. I have very strong, very negative opinions about arranged and semi-arranged marriages, but I tried to come up with something nice to say. Problem was, I’d merely shaken hands with him once at the engagement, and probably wouldn't even recognize him if I passed him on the street. Come to think of it, I wasn’t sure if my cousin would either, given that she’d only seen the man two or three times before the engagement. Still, she was able to rattle off a whole list of qualities that made him a good suitor: 1.) He goes to church and observes Lent, St. Mary’s Fast, the Apostle’s Fast, etc., 2.) He doesn’t smoke, 3.) He comes from a good family, and 4.) He's polite. Yes, in that order. I’m hoping--for her sake--that he has more going for him than his ability to make church-mandated dietary changes a couple times a year. My aunt then asked me what I thought about pharmacists. “Pharmacist? I thought he was an engineer,” I said. To which she replied, “No, I’m not talking about her fiance. I’m talking about someone for you!” Oh joy. First it was the pervert fundamentalist taxi driver from hell, then the accident, then the psycho pounding on the door at 2:00 in the morning, then the crazy chickens, and now, this. I thought we'd finally made it out of the Twilight Zone, but the insanity just would not end. My aunt started telling me about a man who’d seen me at the reception and wanted to know: a.) how long I’d be in Egypt, and b.) how he could reach my father so we could get engaged. Oh and he wanted to come over and meet me that day. I immediately started formulating an escape plan in my head--one that involved begging the U.S. Embassy for help--but one of my uncles unwittingly came to my rescue by showing up to take me to the train station. Soon, I was on my way back to the city where the other side of my family lives. As far as I know, the guy never did talk to my dad, so it’s most likely safe to say that I am not currently betrothed to some dude in Egypt. Otherwise, I probably would have received an invitation to my engagement party by now. Coming soon: public bathroom fun, an odd unsolicited psychic reading and, if I can get my crap together, some pictures. :: Posted by Girl, Dislocated at 11:14 :: 27 Offered duct tape :: Home :: permalink Misadventures in Egypt: Candlelit memories First, some current travel news: Saturday should have been spent in New York City with my sister, but my permission to take her to NYC was randomly and mysteriously revoked by our parents. I was going to go alone, but I didn’t have “permission” to do that either--which makes even less sense when you stop to consider the fact that I’m 24 years old. I could’ve ignored them and gone on this much needed excursion anyway, but as it is, I've already reached the limits of my drama tolerance threshold and figured it would be better in the long run if I didn't do anything to instigate more of it. Instead, I’m aiming for a solo trip next weekend, and a trip with my sister when things settle down around here. Or after she turns 18. In other potentially brighter news, I’m currently internet dating. Well, not really, but that’s what Kate from Walking Kateastrophe hilariously compared our efforts to arrange a meet-up to. I was actually the one who did the "asking out." For weeks, I mulled over the possibility that she'd think I was a weirdo or laugh mockingly at my suggestion that she would want to hang out with me--not that she’s a snob or anything, that's just the reaction I expect by default. Finally, I bit the bullet and emailed her to ask if she wanted to meet up while I was in her part of the country next month. I braced myself for rejection when I saw her reply in my inbox, but to my amazement, she said yes! So, we’ve spent almost a week emailing back and forth about our schedules. Then this weekend she was like, "So um. . . I don‘t know your name." That's because I'm socially retarded. I’m an anonymous blogger and all, but come on, you’d think in the course of asking someone to meet up it would occur to me to tell the person my name. Could I be a bigger idiot? Probably, yes. (Hopefully not on our first date though.) Now it's time for another installment of my Misadventures in Egypt odyssey, because it would be nice to get to the end sometime this decade. This one’s going to be relatively short though, since my calendar consists entirely of application deadlines, and my recent self-inflicted corneal abrasions (not a good time) have been somewhat of a setback. Powdered coffee creamer is the devil in a flip-top container. In case you missed it or have forgotten some of the recurring themes, my first two days in Egypt can be summarized as follows: unceasing harassment from family members about finding a husband beginning roughly two seconds after I stepped off the plane, freezing my butt off because there’s no such thing as indoor heating in Egypt, taking a confusing train ride to the small town/village where one of my cousins got engaged to a man she'd met just two weeks prior, and leaving the engagement in a taxi with my aunt and grandmother. The ensuing taxi ride currently holds the title of Worst Taxi Ride Ever in my book. This is not a permanent designation mind you, because in my life the term "worst ever" is constantly redefined in new and exciting ways, but I have a feeling the title will stick for a while. First, I got felt up by the driver. Then, thanks to my retaliation and a comment my aunt made, we got to listen to him yell religious slurs at us until his anti-Christian tirade was cut short by us colliding with another car. My aunt and grandmother were unharmed, and aside from a couple joint dislocations on my left side and a small cut on my forehead, I was fine too (at least according to my definition of "fine.") Naturally, we decided to complete our journey on foot rather than call someone to pick us up. Yeah, because it’s not weird at all to climb out of the wreckage of a car and wander the streets at 1 o’clock in the morning. As we dragged ourselves up the stairs to the apartment, we could hear the phone ringing off the hook inside. My aunt, thinking someone was freaking out because we weren’t home yet, climbed ahead so she could get the phone. It turned out to be one of my uncles calling to tell us not to freak out because he was late getting home. Apparently, he and his family had an interesting drive home as well: they got a flat tire halfway to their apartment. While my aunt and uncle compared horror stories, my grandmother and I started getting ready for bed, only to discover that there was no running water in her apartment. The second she commented that it wasn’t a big deal because we were going to bed anyway, the power went out too. Being used to power outages, my grandmother had no trouble finding her matches and candles. My aunt wanted us to spend the night at her nearby apartment instead, but my grandmother and I were both of the opinion that even if we weren’t too sore to make our way back down the stairs, we were better off staying put, rather than pressing our crappy luck by attempting to do anything or go anywhere else that night. Actually, my aunt wasn’t going anywhere either. Just before she could head out, while we were getting ready to blow out the candles and go to sleep, someone started pounding on my grandmother’s door. It was major déjà vu for me, except without the nakedness, shampoo, and 4-inch heels this time around. We tried looking through the peephole, but it was like looking into a black hole because the light bulb in the stairwell, like every other light in the building, was out. The person at the door started yelling, "Open this door!" and wouldn’t answer when we yelled back, "What do you want?!" We went back and forth-- There was no way any of us were going to open that door until it was daylight, so we went about re-dividing up the sleeping areas for three people instead of two, while my aunt and grandmother joked (I think) about sending me back to the U.S. to see if the "curse" would be lifted. My grandmother and I ended up sharing a bed, unfortunately for her. It was literally 50 degrees inside the apartment, and though the blankets served as some kind of insulation from the draft coming in through the wooden shutters, I was still shivering, which I’m sure shook the bed--in addition to completely counteracting the minimal effect of the naproxen and Tylenol I’d taken to make the left side of my body forget the crash. Despite the ruckus I was making with the chattering of my teeth, my shivering, and my continuous attempts to somehow find a "warmer" position to lay in, we both eventually drifted off to sleep. But not for very long. :: Posted by Girl, Dislocated at 04:08 :: 28 Offered duct tape :: Home :: permalink Great Eyeballs of Fire This is where the continuation of my Misadventures in Egypt saga would be... if I hadn't managed to assault my corneas with a thick cloud of powdered coffee creamer. I expect to eventually make a full recovery, but my eyeballs don't seem to be making the distinction between what is essentially powdered milk and a real corrosive like boric acid or something, so right now they're a most unattractive shade of red and they burn so badly that I expect my eyelids to burst into flames any second now. When the raging blaze in my eye sockets dies down enough for me to put my contacts back in (thereby enabling me to see more than 3 inches in front of my face) I'll be back to tell you all about the, uh, fun that was had on my third day in Egypt. In the meantime, if you think I'm in anyway dismayed with myself over this latest injury, you're quite mistaken. On the contrary, I feel a great deal of pride that so far I've only done this to myself once. Go me! Home :: permalink Change of scenery! I did my first guest post ever today! Despite how very busy I am with constantly updating my own blog every single day, I managed to find time to fill in for Wickedly Scarlett. Sarcasm aside, I feel so special that she entrusted me with her blog for a day! Go swing by! Home :: permalink Excellence, e.g. ME! As decreed by NYCWD and Nobody (who were both kind enough to overlook the fact that I post like, twice a month):
Wickedly Scarlett also conferred this award upon her entire blogroll, and I’m going to take the liberty of assuming that she reviewed her blogroll before making that proclamation and therefore didn't just inadvertently include me. Over at Dawg’s blog, I had various dancing banana smileys at my disposal to express my excitement. There are no such smileys here, so I’ll have to use capitalization and excessive punctuation to convey my delight at receiving the award: YAY!!!!!!!!!!!!! As expected, such an honor comes with responsibilities. When it comes to internet memes, awards, and other things, I’m not very good at following the various rules, “tagging” the appropriate number of people, etc. Fortunately, the rules are quite simple in this case: 1. Identify the originator of this award, and link so she can get her well-deserved traffic: Kayla at Project Mommy You know what I love about that last rule? It says AT LEAST! Which means I don’t have to decided between all of the excellent blogs I read. However, although this isn’t stated in the rules, I will limit my choices to blogs that to my knowledge have not already been recognized for their excellence. By the power vested in my by NYCWD, Nobody, and Wickedly Scarlett, I hereby pronounce the following blogs Excellent: (In alphabetical order, because I’m a nerd like that) *15 Minute Lunch *A Chronic Dose *Benefit Scrounging Scrum *Drowning on the Prairie *Not Your Typical Granny *Odyssey of an Oddity *Our Journey with Ehlers Danlos Syndrome *Queer Chef *Rizlablue. . . Sand between my toes *Street Watch: Notes of a Paramedic (I have to say I originally started reading this blog for the sole purpose of learning as much as I could about my then-boyfriend's day to day life as a paramedic. The author of this blog, Peter Canning, is also the author of two excellent books, which I read for the same reason. Considering just how bad that now-defunct relationship was, the fact that I still enjoy reading this blog speaks volumes about the quality of P.C.’s writing and his story-telling abilities.) *Things to Say *To Do: 1. Get Hobby, 2. Floss (Yes, I'm aware that this blog hasn’t been updated since September and probably won‘t be updated again, but the hilarity of the posts on there still earns it a spot on my list. Besides, I'm hanging on to my irrational hope that she'll start blogging again.) *To Infinity And. . . *Walking Kateastrophe *Yet Another Never Updated Blog ~ I'm not nearly done writing about my shenanigans in Egypt (so far I've only covered 2days!) and I've yet to upload pictures, but since returning to the U.S. I’ve been scrambling to meet grad school application deadlines (which I can't afford to miss because I need--no, desperately need--student health insurance coverage ASAP), working extra hours to make enough money to cover all the application fees and interview travel expenses, dealing with some surreal drama (more on that soon), and trying to ignore my inexplicably escalating pain levels (because what else can I do about it without health insurance???) Provided that a certain person comes back to the land of the sane rather than driving me insane with him, and assuming that I survive the side effects of all the OTC pain relievers I'm loading up on taking responsibly, I'll be updating shortly. Home :: permalink Misadventures in Egypt: The shoe Before I pick up where I left off, I need to ask a favor of any EDSers who happen to be reading this blog: Several children in a family Mrs. RW is friends with have been diagnosed with EDS, and they are in serious need of an orthopedic surgeon. They are going through hell trying to find someone willing to treat them, an experience most if not all EDSers can relate to, considering how rare EDS is and how sadly uninformed and misinformed much of the medical community is with respect to this syndrome. Mrs. RW, in an effort to help, asked me if I knew any good doctors. Unfortunately, my surgeon is in California and they live in Illinois, so I wasn't much help at all. I didn’t find any Illinois orthopedists on the EDNF website either, so if you know of an orthopedist who treats EDS patients in/near the Chicago area, somewhere in Illinois, or even a neighboring state, it would be very much appreciated if you could send me an email at d_i_s_l_o_c_a_t_e_d at yahoo dot com or leave me a comment here with the information so I can pass it on. Also, if you know any doctors (not just orthopedists) anywhere who treat EDS patients, I’d like to know about them too so I can compile a list. Thanks so much, everyone! And now, the next part of the saga: After the engagement, my aunt, my grandmother, and I tried to take a taxi to my grandmother’s apartment where I was going to spend the night. My last experience in an Egyptian taxi -- which involved a door flying open, a driver who didn’t feel it was necessary to pull over, and me leaning out of the moving cab in an attempt to pull the door shut -- was still fresh in my mind. However, my grandmother is in her late 80s/early 90s and my aunt is in her 60s, so I wasn’t going to suggest walking to the apartment and have one of them slip in the mud, fall, and break her hip on the way. Yeah, I know I’m not so sturdily put together either, but let’s just pretend that my joints are in better shape than my grandmother’s, okay? Because it was almost midnight, it took longer to get a taxi than it would have taken us to walk to the apartment. We’d been standing outside in the cold the whole time so, when a taxi finally did stop, it took the three of us a great deal of effort to get ourselves into the car with our frozen stiff, creaking joints. Add the fact that we were all wearing skirts and dresses, and you can imagine what a production it was. You’d think the driver would be less than thrilled with having to wait for us, but no, he looked perfectly unperturbed as he quietly watched us me scoot across the seat. I would like to say he was just a patient guy trying to make sure we were all seated before he started driving, and not a pervert waiting for an up-skirt glimpse, but his subsequent behavior really made me doubt that his patience was rooted in his concern for our safety. Once we got ourselves situated in the back seat, my grandmother announced that her shoe had fallen off her foot. My aunt told her we’d look for it before we got out, but she didn't really like that plan. I don't know if she thought she was going to forget it in the cab or what, but she insisted on ineffectively trying to reach for the shoe, so I leaned down and started feeling around under the seat for it. The taxi driver heard what was going on, cheerfully announced that he was going to help look for the shoe, and reached back to feel around too. Except instead of feeling around the floor, he felt up my leg and pretended not to realize where his hand was. “What’s this?” he kept saying. I don't think I have to tell you how pissed off and disgusted I was. Naturally, something like this is a bigger deal in the middle east than it is in the western world, and in order to avoid upsetting my grandmother, I didn’t yell or otherwise let on to what he was doing. Instead, I moved his hand to the floor, and dug the heel of my shoe into it while innocently wondering aloud, “What am I stepping on?” In all honesty, my reaction surprised me very much, but I think it’s safe to say that he asked for it. My aunt, totally oblivious to what had just happened, picked the worst moment to ask the now-pissed off driver why he had the window open when it was so cold outside. He flew off the handle. He turned around and shouted at my aunt that he had no choice but to "air out" his cab because it was full of "infidels" (non-Muslims, i.e. us three Christians). Yeah... our cab driver was a real winner. A pervert and a fundamentalist. When I heard my aunt tell him to let us out anywhere on the side of the road, I lost interest in trying to understand the rest of his tirade and went back to trying to find the shoe so we could get out as soon as he pulled over. And then we crashed. If I had to describe how I felt the first minute or so after the accident, the word “slow” would come to mind. My aunt had already gotten out and gone around to the other side of the car to help my grandmother, while all I’d managed to do was just sort of sit there. I noticed my aunt helping my grandmother out of the car, and I was uneasy about her being moved before we were sure she wasn‘t hurt, but I just couldn’t form the words to an objection. When the mental fog cleared, and my grandmother was already standing with my aunt, I tried to scoot myself towards the door. It was only then that I noticed that something was wrong with my left side. It wasn’t cooperating with me at all. I was willing my leg to move over, but it wasn’t moving, and I could barely move my left arm. Thinking I was paralyzed or something, I went into a brief panic... until the pain hit me, and I realized why I couldn't move my arm or leg. I have never been so relieved to discover that my limbs were dislocated. At least it was something I could fix! I took care of my shoulder first, and began the arduous process of self-extrication with my hip still subluxated. All the adrenaline that had apparently made me numb to the pain a moment earlier had completely worn off, and my aunt turned her attention away from helping my grandmother with her shoe just in time to look over and see me struggling. I really didn’t know what to say that wouldn’t freak them out, nor did I have the presence of mind at that moment to translate my predicament into Arabic, even if I’d wanted to. I got as far as “My leg--” and my grandmother screamed, “Your leg?! What’s wrong with your leg?!!” “Nothing, nothing. It fell asleep and now I have pins and needles,” I said. It wasn’t a total lie, I did have some tingling due to who knows what nerve or blood vessel being compressed by my errant femur. While they tried to decide if we were close enough to the apartment to walk the rest of the way, I finally inched myself over to the door and managed to stand on the good leg. I tentatively put a little weight on the other leg to gauge how far out of place it was and how likely it was that I’d be able to limp to the apartment. It wasn’t going to be fun, but it was definitely doable. I mean, it wasn't like my 60-year-old aunt and my 90-year-old grandmother were going to be power-walking. There were no police on scene (they likely hadn't even been called) and the two drivers were busy screaming at each other, so the three of us shuffled away from the accident totally unhindered and unnoticed. I don't know what ever became of the drivers, but my aunt and my grandmother were fine, my leg popped back into place right before we got to the apartment, a little Neosporin took care of a small cut on my forehead, AND something good actually came out of that hellish taxi ride… For the first time since my arrival in Egypt, people talked about something besides me getting married. Labels: Egypt Home :: permalink Misadventures in Egypt: Week 1 Considering how long-winded my posts tend to be (and how action-packed my life tends to be), there’s no way a month’s worth of shenanigans in Egypt is going to fit into one post, so each week I spent there will get its own post. Of course I say that now, but you see that 5-part Road Trip to Hell post in my sidebar? It covers less than 24 hours. Yeah. . . an entire month probably isn’t going to fit into four posts, but we’ll see. I’ve already mentioned much of the drama that took place during my first week in Egypt, but both safety concerns and time constraints put a limit on what I could write, so I’ve decided to revisit week 1 rather than move on to week 2. * * * * * In the one post I managed to write from Egypt, I mentioned there was talk of marriage floating around. It came up when I was there over the summer too, and since I’ve stubbornly held onto my status in the family as the only female over the age of 15 who‘s still single, I obviously expected to hear about it some more. However, the impending engagement parties and weddings of a handful of my cousins made it even worse this time, and from my very first day in Egypt, it became apparent that I’d underestimated the severity of this obsession with me getting married. Before I’d even made it out of Cairo airport, a family member said to me, “You’ll be engaged or married by the time you come back next September, God willing.” (Apparently, me being willing is optional.) I worried they’d be talking about marriage for the entire 3 hour drive to Alexandria, but they switched things up a little. We talked about marriage for the first hour, but then we moved on to their second favorite subject: how I need to gain some weight. Of course I vehemently opposed that suggestion as I always do, and my aunt’s response was, “You won’t stay this thin your whole life. At some point, you’ll end up gaining weight. You know when?” “When?” I asked. “When you get MARRIED!!!!” she exclaimed, effectively steering us back to their favorite subject for the rest of the ride. My second unpleasant realization that first day was that I hate winter just about everywhere in the world. No, it doesn’t snow in Egypt, but they make up for it by not having indoor heating. So, when it’s 40 or 50 degrees outside, guess what? It’s 40 or 50 degrees inside too, and usually colder because you don‘t get the warmth of sunlight indoors. Over there, you don’t bundle up to go out. You bundle up when you get home. Outside, I wore a single jacket to stay warm. Inside, I transformed myself into a giant marshmallow with legs as I piled on 5 or 6 layers of sweatpants and sweatshirts to keep my blood from freezing solid and my bones from getting shivered out of their sockets. With the vast majority of apartments in Egypt being like frigid iceboxes in the winter and sweltering ovens in the summer, I couldn’t help but think how unconducive to sexual activity the whole set up is. Just how much sex are they having during the fall and spring that Egypt’s population is over 80 million and growing? It's sad, but of all things, that's what I fell asleep thinking about on my first night there. On the morning of day 2, I packed a small bag and took a 2-hour train ride by myself to the town (almost a village, actually) where one of my cousins from the other side of my family was getting engaged. One thing I don’t like about the train is how there‘s no indication of where you are when it stops. Experienced riders simply know what the stations look like and get off after a quick glance out their window. I fail to see any differences between stations, and the more I ride the train, the more they all look exactly alike. To make things even more challenging, not every train makes the same number of stops to get to the same destination, and it seems that no one except maybe the conductor himself knows exactly how many stops there‘ll be on a given route. When I bought my ticket, I asked the guy at the counter how many times my train would stop before my destination. He told me once. The announcement I heard while I waited on the platform mentioned three stops before mine. The person sitting next to me on the train said there’d be just one. The guy who was collecting tickets said, “Maybe two, maybe three.” Seeing that I wasn’t getting anywhere with that approach, I decided to ask about each stop as we got to it. This basically amounted to me asking random people “Are we there yet?” Sure, I made a nuisance of myself, but what else was I supposed to do? Besides, I only asked 5 times. Fortunately, no one lied to me just to get me off the train, and I disembarked at the correct station, which looked like it’d been recently bombed. My uncle met me on the platform and led me through all of the dirt and rubble as we headed to my grandmother‘s apartment. The area outside the train station was even worse, and I seriously asked my uncle if there’d been a bombing. No bombing, he said, they just started some renovations and never finished because they ran out of money or something. As I climbed over a mound of broken concrete, my knee cap momentarily slipped out of place, and I would have fallen if there wasn’t a car parked right next to me. My uncle was completely oblivious to the fact that a small disaster had just been narrowly averted, and I intended to keep it that way. I didn’t want my limping to clue him in, so I tried to stay slightly behind him. It wasn’t that hard because we had to walk in single file anyway to stay out of the way of cars, horses, and donkeys, but every once in a while he’d turn around and I’d have to stop walking until he turned back around. My grandmother’s home wasn’t far, but the 4 flights of stairs leading up to the apartment were killer. Again, I stayed behind my uncle, so he never saw the faces I was making. I did put a big smile on my face just as my grandmother opened the door though. Once inside, I got through the usual greetings and the requisite lecture about finding a husband soon, then told my grandmother that I was going to start getting ready for the party. After locking myself in one of the bedrooms, I got an instant cold pack and an ace bandage out of my dislocation survival kit, carefully took off my pants, ace bandaged the ice pack to my knee, did my hair and makeup, and stayed in there for as long as I thought I could without arousing suspicion. By the time I unwrapped my knee, the swelling had gone down enough that it wouldn’t be noticeable underneath black pantyhose and a mid-knee length dress. By the time we left for the party, the pain had greatly subsided. Luckily, we went in my uncle’s car, and all I had to worry about were the stairs and the short distance from where we parked to the entrance. The engagement was at a small hall owned by the church. It was nice, but the whole affair seemed a little surreal to me because my cousin and her fiancé had only met like two weeks before that day, and only seen each other two or three times. That said, my cousin wants to get married, is fine with the semi-arranged marriage process, says she likes the guy, and will be allowed to call off the engagement if there are any major problems (but don’t ask me what qualifies as a “major problem”), so I’m happy for her. It would be nice if everyone respected my views on the subject just as I respect theirs, but predictably, there were dozens of comments--even from people I’d never seen before in my life--about how I‘d surely be getting engaged soon because I‘m “next in line.” Did any of these people stop to think that maybe I’d rather bungee jump with a cord made of dental floss than go down that path right now? No. No, they didn’t, as evidenced by their thinly veiled displeasure with my response, which was: “God forbid.” And don’t tell me I should have just smiled and nodded to keep the peace because had I done that, they probably would have shopped for a groom from among the single males in attendance that night and then mailed me an invitation to my engagement party as soon as they’d worked out all the details. At the end of the night, it was decided that my grandmother, my aunt, and I would take a taxi back home. As it turned out, I had very good reason to be uneasy about this. . . Home :: permalink Goodbye sand, hello snow I’m back in the U.S. of A., and I have almost a month’s worth of drama and mild calamity to get up to date with here. This time it's not my typical sporadic posting that's at fault. Finding a computer with internet access in one of the households I was staying at was a pleasant surprise, and I'd planned on taking advantage of not having to post from various shady-looking, hole-in-the-wall "net cafés." I was able to post once before someone turned off the internet in Egypt. Because God forbid anything should be easy. Somehow a bunch of fiber optic cables under the Red Sea were cut, and a large part of the middle east lost internet access. We heard all kinds of explanations for this: it was an earthquake, Russian submarines deliberately cut the cables, the Egyptian government destroyed the cables to restrict contact with the western world, ship anchors were dragged across the ocean floor during a storm and tore the cables, someone stole pieces of the cables, etc. As far as I know, while some percentage of the middle east has regained internet access at this point, they’re still trying to repair those cables. Whatever the cause, it was a bit inconvenient...though I suppose there were other consequences that were slightly more significant than my not being able to post in my little blog. Rather than getting started on my month in review right now (because I’m cranky and tired as hell after going from the airport straight to work and then to a drama fest at my parents' house) I’m going to bed. Twelve hours of sleep would be heaven, but I'll settle for 5 uninterrupted hours--1 hour for each of the days I've been awake. That sounds fair, right? To maximize my chances of staying asleep I will be loading up on sleeping pills, since it’s not like my insomnia's going to go away just because I haven't slept in a ridiculous amount of time. I'll be back with stories and pictures after my mini hibernation. Home :: permalink Trapped in a telenovela I thought I'd have a chance to post before leaving, but well... you saw my to-do list. Anyway. I had a strange experience in the U.S. airport I flew out of, which is old news by now, but still notable I think. I got to the airport two and a half hours before my flight, and checked in at the airline counter with no problem. Then, I went through security before getting to the gate area, where my carry-on bags were X-rayed, I walked through a metal detector, and two different people checked everyone's boarding passes and passports. No problem there either. When the plane began boarding, all of the passengers' travel documents were checked again by the gate attendant. Again, I was allowed to proceed with everyone else. THEN, as I was about to walk onto the plane, a security officer--TSA I'm pretty sure--literally yelled, "You! Come here!" Several of us turned around, looked at her, looked at each other, and asked, "Me?" She made sure her reply was as unhelpful as possible--"Not you, YOU!"--and pointed her finger in the general direction of about 8 different people. This led to another round of everyone asking, "Me???" Eventually, with no help from her, and after the line of passengers was totally backed up, I figured out she was addressing me. So, I turned away from the door of the plane and walked towards her to see what she wanted. Until she started her barrage of questions, I figured she was just going to tell me I dropped something. "Let me see your passport!" she barked at me. She read through the pages for a second before beginning her interrogation. "Where are you going?" "How long are you staying there?" "Why are you going there?" "Are you married?" "Do you work, or are you going to college?" "What college did you go to?" "When did you graduate?" "Do you have money with you?" "How much?" "Did anyone give you anything to carry?" "Are you SURE?!" I've never had a problem with having to go through extra security or somehow always coincidentally being chosen for "random" searches because I have nothing to hide, and it makes me glad to see there's more to airport security than metal detectors and X-ray machines that no one really watches, but this particular woman seriously irritated me with her attitude. Did she really have to yell, "You! Come here!" from 10 feet away? There are so many other ways she could have asked to talk to me that would have been less rude and just as effective. And the nasty tone she took with me as she practically yelled all of her questions was completely uncalled for, especially given how polite and forthcoming I was with my answers the entire time, in spite of my increasing irritation with her and the stares I was getting from other people getting on the plane. I considered the possibility that her rudeness was actually some kind of scare tactic or something to keep me from lying, but she maintained that attitude even after she concluded I wasn't a security threat. I'm also pretty curious as to what prompted the TSA to pull me aside at the last minute like that. I should have asked the woman why she was questioning me, but I was really caught off guard by the whole thing and at the same time preoccupied with stuff going on at home and what was going on that day with my uncle, so I did nothing besides stand there and answer her questions. Maybe any other day that encounter wouldn't have bothered me, but I was flying to Egypt on the same plane as my uncle, who was released directly from the hospital to the airport in terrible shape. No one in his condition has any business getting on a plane, but he's terminal, and it was important to him to get to Egypt and be around his family. Honestly, I was worried he wouldn't make it through the 11-12 hour flight, most of which was over the Atlantic Ocean, where there was nowhere to make an emergency landing if something happened. Fortunately, nothing did happen during the flight, and an ambulance was waiting for him at Cairo airport as planned. In more recent (and random) news, I've been here for less than a week and already I've been to an engagement party on one side of the family, been to a funeral on the other side of the family, made several international calls to my credit card company in the U.S. to try to reverse unauthorized charges on my card, probably been a prospective kidnapping target (I can't write about that until I'm back in the U.S.), got felt up by a taxi driver pretending to look for something under the seat, been the subject of marriage discussions which I promptly put an end to, and talked to my ex's dad about some things that are going on. By tonight I will have submitted an application to medical schools (D.O.) all over the country. (Anyone have any connections? :-P ) In about two weeks, I'm going to a wedding. By the time I get back to the U.S., my parents may no longer be married. I don't remember what a normal day feels like. I just want one 24 hour period where nothing bad, ridiculous, dumb, bizarre, dramatic, nonsensical, or crazy happens. Someone let me out of this damn telenovela! Home :: permalink ADD much? It’s after 4:00 A.M and I‘m trying--or supposed to be trying--to get ready for another stay in Egypt. After a few postponements, my departure date has been re-set for this Tuesday. Before then I have to: do laundry, refill my blood pressure prescriptions, pay currently due bills, set up automatic payments for the next set of bills, shop for a gift my brother can give his girlfriend for her birthday, call U.S. Citizenship and Immigration Services for my uncle in an attempt to sort out a gigantic dilemma, research charitable organizations for my father to donate his car to (I never got a clear explanation of why he couldn‘t do this himself), help my father sort out a billing dispute with his cell phone company, write a speech for my mother, buy my cousin a router, help my sister with a biology lab report, finish writing my personal statement for some applications I’m sending out, and I guess pack my suitcase at some point. But it’s amazing how a dumb little Bryant Park flyer carelessly left on my desk at work has spun me off on a ridiculous tangent. All I can think about right now is ice skating. Of all things. I’m dying to skate. If you’ve read even one post on this blog, you know how ludicrous that sounds. I know I don’t exactly seem like the skating... um... “type,” but I wasn’t always this loosely held together. When I was younger, before my EDS progressed to its current state, my joints (though flexible) were stable enough to allow me to be physically active and participate in several sports. In elementary school, it was ballet, karate, basketball, and soccer. In middle school and during the early part of my high school career, I was on the cross country running team. I was even in gymnastics at one point, and although I’d probably dislocate something just watching the sport on television now, back then, in between the mysteriously increasing sprains and injuries, my milder EDS and flexible joints definitely gave me an edge that made me the envy of the other girls. I also went ice skating or rollerblading on a weekly basis. Presently, skating is not completely impossible--I’m capable of producing the movements required to propel me across the ice/ground--but the risk of falling, making a wrong move, or ending up at the bottom of a five-person pile up makes it an activity I should avoid. I can easily come up with tons of reasons why I have no right to complain about having to give up sports--like how I can still WALK for one thing. And how so far my EDS has made itself known through soft, stretchy skin, joint dislocations and a few minor blood vessel ruptures rather than aneurysms and organ ruptures. Not to mention the fact that EDS is not the worst disorder out there. I can think of conditions I’d rather have instead, but I can also think of many more I wouldn’t rather have. And it’s silly for me to whine about skating withdrawal, but despite my realization that my physical difficulties compare to other people’s difficulties like a fender bender compares to a high speed head-on collision, sometimes I can’t help trying on my ice skates or rollerblades and imagining what it would be like to skate again. I’ve followed my doctors’ advice not to take up wrestling or join the NFL (you have no idea how many million-dollar contracts I‘ve had to turn down :-P), and I wouldn't dare do any of those back-handsprings or flips that I so loved to do a few years ago, but I get so tempted to skate that I end up trying to rationalize taking the risk: I’ll tape all of my joints before going, I'll go when there aren't a lot of people, I’ll be extra careful, I'll only skate for a few minutes, I'll skate slowly, etc. That kind of reasoning looks pretty flimsy in writing, yet somehow sounds so reasonable in my head sometimes. I haven’t skated in years because, well, facts are facts: Fact #1: Although the gliding motions involved wouldn't be as traumatic to my joints as running and splits and cartwheels would be, skating will put me at a higher risk than usual for dislocation because of the abovementioned reasons. Fact #2: While kneecap dislocations are not excruciatingly painful, most of my hip and shoulder dislocations hurt like $@*#$%--no, no actually more like $#@%$ %@%#$ #@!$%^#@!$%^ @$%^#$!!--and may lead to further joint damage. Fact #3: Dislocating something in a public place such as a rink or a park often results in majorly freaked-out onlookers, resulting in embarrassment and often necessitating the “No, for the love of all that is good and holy, do not call 911” speech. Fact #4: It’s a great speech, but it’s not a guarantee, so by placing myself at risk for dislocation in a public place, I also assume the risk of having EMS tangled up in my mess. Sometimes, I can’t get the words out fast enough because my mouth is initially too busy forming four-letter words, so in the meantime, bystanders will see my hand turning blue, or one of my limbs stuck at an odd angle and decide to make the call before I can voice any objection. Plus, there are also what can only be described as drama seekers--the ones who whip out their cell phones and are already calling 911 before I even realize I’ve dislocated something. (And then of course I‘m the one who ends up looking like the idiot when the paramedics and fire department get there.) Fact #5: If my reduction attempts are unsuccessful and I have to drive myself to the ER, there’ll be a lovely bill waiting for me at the end of the adventure. As you can see, there’s a very compelling case for putting my skates out with the trash. But there’s one nagging thought I can’t get rid of: I don’t know how my body will be holding up a couple years from now. If the faulty “glue” that holds me together continues to deteriorate and I end up having trouble simply walking, will I wish I had taken my chances skating while I still could? Sometimes I feel like it’s time for me to accept that my days of participating in any kind of sport are over, yet other times I wonder if I should be eeking out as much as I can from my joints, rather than squandering the capabilities I have now. I haven’t reached any sort of epiphany about this issue in the course of writing this post, but what I do know, looking at what time it is, is that my father’s either going to have to deal with having the extra car until I get back, or explore the wonders of Google on his own, because all of that crap is not getting done by Tuesday. Something’s gotta give. When I post my progress on Monday night, we can all look back at what I expected to get done and laugh. Home :: permalink Abandon all hope ye who enter the mall {Backdated because Blogger was being a temperamental little bitch the last couple days, and I've been too busy packing to deal with it} I use to wonder if maybe I missed out a little by only making one friend the entire time I was in college. I know what you‘re thinking, but yes I did shower everyday and no I didn’t have funky breath. I was just too busy working the graveyard shift full time at one job, working the day shift part time at another job, and being a part time ER patient, so all of my free time went to bathroom breaks, sorting through bills, trying to attend lecture, studying (last minute, of course), and sleeping (on Tuesdays and Fridays). Every holiday season though, as I watch everyone around me frantically scramble to find presents for all the people on their 3-page list, commit vehicular manslaughter over parking spaces, steal stuff from other people‘s shopping carts, and have a conniption over delayed shipping, I can’t help but laugh mockingly smile because by November of every year, I’ve finished shopping for all 4 people on my Christmas list: my sister, my brother, my best friend of 15 years, and my one college friend. I got that smile wiped off my face this year. In past years, I’ve never been reckless enough to try to make my way through the mall less than a week before Christmas. While I’d like to claim temporary insanity as an explanation of why I voluntarily threw myself into the Christmas shopping fray at its most violent stage this year, temporary retardation would be closer to the truth. In my defense, there were a few things that made shopping seem necessary. First of all, I was informed that I was expected to attend a wedding in less than 36 hours. More importantly, it was also brought to my attention that I look like a slut wearing the dresses I already own because some of them don't cover my knees and -- oh my! -- some are even sleeveless. In addition, the only closed toed shoes I own have about 8 hours of wear left in them before they disintegrate beneath my feet. Actually, almost nothing in my wardrobe is east coast winter compatible because I keep trying to forget the fact that I'm in NJ, but while denial is a great psychological defense mechanism, it's not very effective against frostbite. Then there was the time constraint due to the fact that I’m leaving the country in a couple days (pending the resolution of certain issues). So, what choice did I have but to grab some supplies from my Dislocation Survival Kit, hug my sister and tell her I love her, and leave for the mall? There were some minor calamities. Minor because medical attention wasn't required, but sufficiently unpleasant nonetheless. The first occurred on the escalator. There was an elevator, but because of a serious head injury I sustained several years ago, I always feel like I‘m on a boat sailing through a hurricane when I get off an elevator. So, unless I’m with someone who won’t mind if I use them as a walker for a few minutes, I don’t do elevators. Attempting to go up the stairs, which were overrun by an army of people wielding shopping bags and/or children, would have basically been like participating in an American Gladiator challenge. Since I wasn’t about to hold onto some random stranger’s arm after getting off the elevator (although they probably wouldn‘t have gotten any more annoyed than my ex use to get), and since I’m not exactly in gladiator shape, the escalator was the most sensible choice. Unfortunately, if you’re in the wrong place at the wrong time, you’re screwed no matter how thoroughly you think things through... They were standing on the escalator holding opposite ends of the stroller, which thankfully contained shopping bags rather than a child. The guy on the higher step was facing the wrong direction, leaning over, and holding the stroller with one hand, but to him it seemed like a good time to call up his buddy and tell him about some ski trip. Of course there was no way this critical phone conversation could wait 30 whole seconds until he was off the escalator and standing less precariously on stationary ground. To be fair, I don’t know if he lost his balance first or if the woman holding the other end of the stroller did, but I think we can make an educated guess. In any case, they both ended up losing their footing, and the lady who started out two steps above me was suddenly on top of me. Naturally, I fell on the guy behind me. The people behind us were spared from the domino effect only because the guy managed to support my weight without falling himself, so order was promptly restored. However, while everyone else could simply give the stroller people dirty looks and carry on with their lives, I was left with a dislocated shoulder. This just 10 minutes after I'd walked into the mall. As soon as I got off the escalator, I found a large column to try to hide behind, rolled up my sleeve to get a look at where exactly my bone had ended up, and got to work popping it back in. Any other time of year this would have brought horrified stares from passers by, but I was lucky that most people are far too preoccupied this close to the holidays to notice much of anything besides sale signs. If my arm had completely fallen off, I doubt I would have gotten more than a passing glance from anyone. It being the “good” shoulder that doesn’t have 4 metal screws in it, popping the arm back in was accomplished in only about 10 minutes with minimal mascara streaking. Still, the entire time I worked on it, I wondered if I should just go home and resign myself to trudging through the snow in these shoes all winter, but decided that I need all 10 of my toes. I had about an hour of (relative) normalcy before incident #2, a random hip subluxation. I realize that almost all of my dislocations/subluxations seem pretty random -- like sneeze-induced shoulder dislocations -- but these hip subluxations are particularly unpredictable. I’ll be strolling along normally and then for no apparent reason my leg will slip out of its socket mid-step. I can avoid falling down if I shift my weight to the other leg fast enough (like I was able to do this last time), but I can’t bear weight on it or walk until it pops back in, which fortunately happens fairly quickly. That‘s just awesome if I‘m walking alone somewhere, but not so awesome if I’m in the middle of a huge crowd of people on a shopping mission, in which case fairly quickly is not nearly quick enough. I was in a busy area when my leg popped out and forced me to come to a complete and sudden stop, so all the expletive-peppered expressions directed at me were quite understandable. But you live and learn, so next time I go out, I’ll be sure to stick a “Makes frequent stops. Keep back 300 ft ” sign on my back. The final incident took place in the privacy of a fitting room… thank God for small favors. First, my hip popped out again as I was stepping out of a dress (I use that term loosely, it looked more like ill-fitting lingerie). I really can’t think of a precise way to describe what happened next because I don’t actually know what happened. I‘ve never felt such strange discomfort in my neck before. I hesitate to say that my vertebrae shifted in a way they weren’t supposed to--because I imagine the pain would have been much more severe, and because I'd like to think that dislocating my head is one thing I don't have to worry about--but that’s the best way I can think of describing the sensation. It felt very...wrong. Whatever happened, it was suddenly fixed on its own, but it was time to wave the white flag. Three hours and three dislocations since I’d entered the mall, I abandoned hope of finding size 5 shoes that appealed to my picky taste, finding a winter jacket, or finding a dress my size that didn't make me look like the entertainment for the bachelor party. I shifted my focus instead to just remaining vertical until I made it out of the mall. But first, I treated myself to an iced white mocha and a hot, freshly-made almond pretzel. Those peaceful 15 minutes I spent sitting alone enjoying my 10,000 calorie dinner were enough to make me forget my errant limbs for a while. I hope everyone has had a fabulous Christmas and that all of you are done with your shopping. Because I'm not. And the less people out there crowding the stores while I shop the better. :) Labels: Why do I leave my house? Home :: permalink Why I need a butler...or a bouncer At the time of my chaotic move from CA to NJ and my relatively unplanned stay in Egypt, I mentioned that there was a mishap I’d have to post when I got back. When I got back, I became distracted by a bunch of silly things like opening 4 months worth of mail, paying (and sure as hell not paying) bills, tracking down my diploma, working, etc. I’m already planning my next stay in Egypt (I’ll probably be leaving on December 24th), and I realized I still haven’t gotten around to writing about this little mishap, which took place this past June when I was living alone in California. I was in the shower when I heard someone knocking on my apartment door. I was very dismayed and slightly alarmed for several reasons: In my experience, knocking on a door is usually done using an amount of force proportional to the urgency or seriousness of the situation. I decided, based on the fact that the pounding on my door was violent enough to make my windows rattle, that California must be sinking into the ocean. So, despite the visible stubble on my legs (shut up, it was finals week), I got out of the shower, went into the living room, and stood there dripping water and shampoo while I waited for whoever it was to yell something about an evacuation. Or a warrant. Nothing. Just louder banging. The logical thing to do in this type of situation is to look through the peephole. Unfortunately, where I use to live, that's only possible if you're about 5'6. If I was half a foot taller, the story would end here. But I'm not 5'6 even with my highest heels on. I know this because I put them on to see if I could reach the peephole. When it didn’t work, I decided to get my cell phone and call the manager, since I didn't have the new security phone number. As soon as I walked away though, I heard a different sound: keys. And then, even more alarming than the ruckus being made before, a key being put in the lock. I rushed back across the living room towards the door, and lunged for the lock. I held the deadbolt in the locked position while the person outside kept trying to turn the key. When he couldn't turn the key, he went back to banging on the door. For several more minutes I stood there holding the lock while the pounding and the key turning continued. As soon as I heard his footsteps going away from my door, I made another attempt to get my phone. Now, I had no intention of parading around like a stripper, but for the next couple minutes, I walked around my apartment trying to find my cell phone wearing nothing but 4-inch heels. It simply didn’t occur to me to take the shoes off. (Again, shut up. Not only is leg shaving a non-priority during finals week, but so is sleep. You would make some judgment errors too if you didn’t sleep for a week.) The phone wasn‘t in the living room or the dining room, so the kitchen was my next stop. While it hadn’t been a problem when I was standing on the carpet, the shampoo dripping from my hair onto the vinyl kitchen floor did certainly create a problem, especially with high heels added to the equation. One minute I was relieved to see my phone on the counter, the next, I was horizontal, with a view of the secret world of dust bunnies and long-lost recipes underneath my fridge. The pain from my hip slamming into the floor and from the dislocation that had occurred on my way down was so intense that, for a minute, I wasn’t sure if my inability to move was due to the dislocation or if I’d actually broken something. After a couple minutes of being very still, I decided the latter was unlikely. There are a lot of thoughts and questions that might occur to someone who’s on the ground and unable to move while their door is being broken down: Who the hell is out there? Is he high? Drunk? What does he want? Why did he have a key? How am I going to keep him out if he comes back while I'm still on the ground? What's he going to do if he gets in? What if he has a weapon? Will my neighbors hear my screams over their obnoxiously loud television? Will they wait until a commercial comes on to call the police? I'm sure all of that crossed my mind at some point, but I was also looking at my feet. How am I going to get these damn heels off??? I was already in a sufficiently compromising position, and if the police were going to be paying me a visit, I did not want to have to explain my kinky outfit too. However, to avoid additional unnecessary pain, I decided to deal with the shoe issue only if there was any sign of the police, such as an approaching siren or the sound of a police radio. When the knocking started yet again, I stopped trying to put my leg back in its socket and used a broom to knock my phone off the counter so I could call the manager. I asked her if she knew anything about the lunatic trying to put his fists through my door, and she said that nothing came immediately to mind, but she'd ask the maintenance supervisor to walk by my apartment. The pounding on my door ceased a couple minutes after I hung up with her, only to recommence just as I'd started to relax. Well, as close to relaxed as I'd managed to get with my leg not properly connected to my body. I knew an axe-murderer probably wouldn’t knock first before coming in and dismembering me, so that was some consolation, but like an hour (ok maybe only 45 30 15 minutes) had gone by, and I was getting anxious waiting for the manager to call me back. I tried to call her for an update twice, with no answer. I had the non-emergency police number on speed dial because of some stalker issues I was having (someone kept breaking into and ransacking my car without ever stealing anything, writing obscene messages on my window, and occasionally leaving me lingerie tucked under the door handle), but I was only willing to call the police as a very last resort. It never came to that because the manager must have suddenly remembered what kind of predicament I was in and decided to answer her phone the third time I called her. Which was just fabulous, because I wouldn’t have been able to come up with anything less stupid sounding to tell the police dispatcher than “someone’s knocking on my door too loudly.” "Oh, that was just maintenance," she told me quite simply. "They mixed up the work orders and went to your apartment by mistake. The residents who put in the request had given them permission to enter if no one was home." This was a major relief, but considering the painful aftermath of this little oversight of theirs, I was just a teensy weensy bit annoyed. Her defensive, accusatory response: "Well, I did send the maintenance supervisor to your apartment to apologize afterwards, but you wouldn't answer the door." Oh, is that who the last person banging on my door was??? Because I had to turn my attention back to my dislocated leg, I never did get to ask some of the questions her explanation had raised: Exactly what kind of a maintenance issue was it to warrant that kind of frenzied assault on the door? And couldn't they have identified themselves by yelling "maintenance!" while they knocked, or would that have ruined the fun surprise for the residents when they opened their door? If I call you and tell you some crazy person is banging on my door, how does sending yet ANOTHER person to bang on my door solve my problem?! After my leg was back in its socket, I realized my thigh was numb. It was still numb a few days later, and since I'd never had that happen before, I grudgingly went to the doctor. Leaving out some of the fun superfluous details, I told the doctor what happened, and he concluded that I’d injured a nerve when I landed on my hip. Fortunately for the manager and me both, I just started regaining sensation in my thigh a couple weeks ago. Of course I'm glad to have survived with no permanent disfigurement or disability, but was any of this really necessary? Home :: permalink About the mutant Recent Misadventures
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