Random Esquire

1.  Instigator sent me an IM on Monday that said, “Random, I had a terrible dream about you.”

Inwardly, I flinched, wondering if she was going to relay the gruesome details of my demise from her dream.  I said, “What happened?”

She said, “You spur of the moment decided that you were moving out of Chicago. Like, to L.A. or something. You are not allowed to move. F.Y.I.”

I blinked.  That’s it? I moved out of town?

I said, “I thought you were going to say I died or something.”

Instigator responded:  ”Same thing. You leave, you are dead to me.”

2.  After relaying more of my cut finger saga (which I am now referring to as the Finger Flesh Flap debacle) to a friend, I asked how her day was going.  She said, “Great! Glad you’re having a good day, too!”

I paused.

I asked what part of FFF lead her to believe that I’d had a good day.

She politely informed me that she was being sarcastic.

D’oh!  I said, “I’m too literal!”

Her response?

“More like gullible.”

3.  Nurse at Urgent Care looking at my FFF wound: “Why didn’t you come in for stitches?”

RE: “I don’t know. I figured it had to stop bleeding sometime.”

Nurse: “Did you clean it with anything?”

RE:  ”Ummm… Vodka.”

Nurse:  ”Vodka.”

RE:  ”Yes. But, I didn’t use a flavored kind.  I could have used blueberry, raspberry or vanilla. But I used plain.”

Nurse:  ”Had you had some to drink before then?”

RE:  ”No…why?”

Nurse: “Because you make decisions like a drunk.”

You may recall that I once sliced off the tip of my finger with a mandolin while cooking. I bandaged said finger and did not let it sufficiently air out, so to speak – resulting in a rather unsavory finger which I then offered to Little Filthy to smell – and he promptly licked my open wound.

Well, this time… I was cleaning a carving knife, it slipped and I watched in slow motion as it began to fall downward.  My first thought was that Little Filthy was probably below me and so I scrambled and reached for the knife.  That… was a mistake.

The result?

Crime scene in the kitchen.  I took my bloody fingers from the kitchen into the bathroom and attempted to stop the bleeding.  I admit, I paused to watch it bleed because I just so rarely cut myself and this is the first time that I could see it bleed…with a pulse.  I was strangely fascinated by the amount of blood and how quickly it clotted along my fingers.  See?  Eating steak does pay off. Anyway, once I had my fingers wrapped up, I made my way back into the kitchen where I witnessed Little Filthy kindly cleaning the kitchen floor.  Of my blood. With his tongue.

A friend called and I explained said situation to her.  I like that her first reaction was, “Are you fucking with me?” because there’s nothing better than being reminded that you’re a bit of a prankster while your lifeblood is steadily pumping out of your fingers.  I decided against stitches and realized I have no antiseptic. She suggested I pour vodka on it. Not one to argue, I proceeded to grab a bottle and splashed some on my fingers.  She mentioned cauterizing it but I’m pleased to say that I politely declined in favor of some antibacterial crap and multiple bandaids.

Finally, I went to sleep, tired after a less then stellar day and Little Filthy crashed next to me.  I woke up a few hours later and found Little Filthy, wide awake, staring down at something on the bed.  Turns out that blood does not agree with his stomach and the contents of said stomach were now about a foot from my face.

You know, I’ve had better days.  I’m going back to bed.

1.  When people show you who they are, believe them the first time.  Also known as:  When someone feeds you a shit sandwich, don’t bother asking for a second helping.

2.  Spend your money on things that can’t be taken away from you: Education, piano lessons, vacations, time with family, etc.

3.  How to cook. You know why? Because I eat. Duh.

4.  If you need help, ask for it.

5.  Don’t let pride get in the way of an apology.  In fact, don’t let anything get in the way of an apology.

6.  The less tolerant you are of dishonesty, the more tolerant you have to be of human frailty.

7.  People will believe anything if they 1) want it to be true or 2) are afraid that it is true.

8.  Most people just want to be heard.

9.  Until someone said to me “just be yourself”, I hadn’t realized there was an option.  There really isn’t.

10.  First Rule of Women: Be funny and bring money.

[Edited to add:  11.  Sometimes a feeling is just a feeling and not necessarily the way things really are.]

I was invited to attend the Food and Wine Magazine Expo at the Museum of Contemporary Art last night and thought I’d take some pictures for you to enjoy.  Click to enlarge.

End of year means I end up spending the rest of my flex pay stocking up on various OTC medications lest my immune system fail me and I suffer a cold.  I studied a box of cold medicine today.  A couple of things struck me.

First, it said “Keep away from children.”  What do these people take me for, an idiot? If I have a cold, I’m obviously not going to be playing with children and infecting them.  Duh.

Second, the directions said “take with a full glass of water.”  I have two sizes of glasses in my cupboards.  One is about 10 ounces.  The other is around 16.  I wondered which one they meant.  I suppose they don’t even know what sizes I have so there must be some generic equivalent of a glass.  So I did what any red blooded American would do.

I googled that shit.

“Depends on the size of the glass” was a popular response.  Thank you, Google. But apparently, most people take a glass as the equivalent of a cup – 8 ounces.  So, take with a full 8 ounces.

Which made me wonder why a pharmaceutical company wouldn’t find it in their best interest to be more specific?  For instance: “Take with at least 8 ounces of water.”  Maybe they were more concerned about specifying that it should be water instead of, say, the generic ‘liquid‘ which I readily admit may allow me to interpret this loose language by chasing my medication with a beer.  And since a beer is 12 ounces, I’d feel rather like I’d complied fully as directed.

This then made me wonder what would happen if I tried to dry swallow the pill.  Or just suck on it until it melted away, like hard candy.  Surely, I’d swallow at least a few ounces of my own spit doing that, wouldn’t I? Though, honestly, the idea or recollection that we spend much of our day more or less swallowing our own spit was distasteful enough to think about that I briefly considered just becoming an open mouth drooler.

This then got me thinking about open-mouthers – a.k.a. Mouth Breathers.  Perhaps I’ve judged them too harshly.  While I previously just assumed that they had little concern for things other than rolling 16 sided dice and getting in line for the latest Will Shortz book, perhaps they are just hoping that they will swallow less spit purely through evaporation.

It occurs to me that I overthink some things.

1.  I have just decided to refer to masturbation as ‘self-soothing.’

I don’t masturbate.  I self-soothe.

Life skills, people.

2.  I went to dinner with a friend last week who insisted I not dare her to do something because she can not resist a dare.  Naturally, I dared her to steal some silverware.  Without hesitation, she picked up a serving spoon and stuck it in her back pocket without a second thought.  I laughed.

I mean, I laughed until she went to go use the restroom and walked across the restaurant with one of their huge serving spoons sticking out of her back pocket.

She returned and said softly, “I don’t even want to tell you what happened in the bathroom.”

Apparently, she forgot about the spoon until that split second before touchdown, when she heard it *plop!* into the toilet behind her.  I laughed, picturing the many people who would be wondering why a serving spoon was at the bottom of a toilet.

She looked at me and said, “I felt bad! It could have ruined their plumbing…”  I lifted my eyebrows.

Yup.  She retrieved the spoon.

I didn’t ask any questions.

3.  FAP FAP FAP.

My sister is worldly as can be yet suffers from a complete lack of pop culture knowledge.  She works a ton, has traveled the world, raises kids… but didn’t know what a MILF was when someone told her she was one.  When she tried a book club (of predominantly stay-at-home moms, they all talked on and on about a movie until my sister inquired, “What the hell is Twilight?”

SO, my sister was at a work event at which a gentleman was describing a contest of sorts in which the employees would be completing. He said, “The prize is a gift certificate to Tiffany’s! It’s quite sizable. You could get your wife a pearl necklace!”

Afterwards, another employee informed him that his comment made it sound as if a man was sure to win.  My sister, believing herself quite worldly and proud of her open mind, informed the room, “That’s not true!  A woman could give her wife a pearl necklace, too!”

A woman in the room snorted and said, “That’s not gonna happen.”

Someone politely explained the term to my sister.

Tell me an embarrassing story, please!

October was a crappy month filled with crappy days.

I managed to get through it in a slightly drunken haze.

Sad with grief and loss it was – but also with a reminder.

That when you feel you’ve lost your way, you simply must go find her.

So I am back to write again and torment QTMama,

to something something something something something Obama.

Sincerely,

RandomEsq.