Tuesday, June 9, 2009

Dogmatics in Retrospect

I want something from today. But, I’m not sure what that is. I’ve spent the past month drowning in a blow up pool of unemployment: Sleeping in, drinking coffee, taking frequent naps, binge eating from boredom. Essentially everything I do when forced to attend the Americanized institution of the “Holy Baseball Game”. The only covenant I partake of there is communion with a mound of edible amenities which, never fail to make me bloat and squirm in my seat.
As I stare out my bedroom window, the overly pudgy mailman, dressed in a muscle tee and ripped cut off shorts, (I know the post office is trying to cut costs by not requiring uniforms, but God Almighty, there has got to be a better way) shovels heaps of junk into an already stuffed mailbox. I think I even saw cans of spam pushed in along with the mix. It reminds me that I haven’t eaten all day. And I am suddenly grateful.

I want something from today. But nothing comes to mind as I sip my coffee from the 101 Dalmatians mug I didn’t even know I had. Laziness does have its upside when it forces me to rummage through cupboards to see what avoided being sent to the packed WWII internment camp of my dishwasher. Coincidentally, or even ironically, the Dalmatian mug was made in Japan. “How did it dodge that one”, I think laughing as I often laugh at my own jokes. I stop when I realize I’m like my grandmother on the telephone. She always says something, laughs, and resumes to prior conversation with an ‘aye ye ye’ or an ‘Aye Dios mio’ transitional interjection. Naturally, I never know what she says; partially from her muffled Spanglish and partially from the heckling ha ha’s. So I always laugh-a-long like she’s a sing-a- long karaoke machine playing a Disney song I don’t know the words to: “Hmm hmm best of both words/mocking the ho, cause there’s no place to mow/Best of both words.” And so forth.

I want something from today. Like maybe a tan. There is NO excuse for being unemployed and white. And yet my inadequacy continually exudes itself deeper and farther into my life and seven layers of colorless pigment. Awesome, Michelle. Of course New Jersey’s precipitational diarrhea is somewhat to blame. I actually woke up this morning to its thunderous gastrointestinal ka-booms. Pooping on our land like it used a urinal because all the toilets were occupied. Slashes of lightning followed in a suit, or they prefer the term ‘gi’, and karate chopped the sky like a Bruce Lee flick. What a mess!

An unrelated thought popped back into my head while I watched the exhaust fumes whistle out of the pipe and the mail truck accelerate forward. Earlier this morning I thought a fair replacement for the word “masturbation” should be ‘unifucking’; as in, the solo-wheel cyclist, not like the mythical creature. Like I said, just a thought.

I want something from today, but I feel selfish. How could I expect something great and completely edifying to occur while my mom is lying in her hospital bed? Here, I am venting to the blog gods –which I consider my pseudo prayer for her recovery –while she’s the one that should be complaining. Not me, Lazy Suzy, whining about how I spun some mediocre slab of grilled chicken the night before instead of a refined something a la something. I waited with my mother in the emergency room along with all the local sickos: the lame, the elderly, and the coughing flu advertisement billboards that had to wear disposable masks in order to stop soliciting. This germ-hole was packed like the fictitious inn Mary and Joseph were allegedly turned away from.
“No Room, Mr. Sniffles!” I think I heard one of the nurses yell at an inquisitive sicko. The man had been waiting since 2:30 pm and it was rapidly approaching 6 pm. The man sat back down in the row of seats in front of us. He gagged a little, and sputtered out what could be either Jesus’ language or the rulebook of Candy Land in Bahasa Melayu, the official language of Malaysia. Either way it was completely distracting from my focus on the television’s distorted image of the Bachelorette. I heard Jillian say something about not having cocktail parties anymore, but I wasn’t certain if she said ever or just for the night. By the expression of the men’s faces, I assume she meant ever. I tried to figure out how she would benefit from not having cocktail parties before the rose ceremonies or how that served as a punishment for the men, but some of the details remain fuzzy. I guess I’ll have to find out next week.

Sitting in the waiting room for five hours was painfully absurd. From 5:00 pm until 10:00 pm I dazzled my attention with my wit and maybe even my spit (blowing bubbles never really gets old). The boredom reminded me of adolescence as an only child. The only way to survive is exotic imagination. And when I say exotic I don’t mean naked. However, I suppose nudity defeats boredom in different ways and on different websites. If that’s your thing… or your husbands’.
When I was younger, I read frequently which gave me an avenue of adventure where my mind learned to channel, create and develop plot. In the waiting room, I exhibited the same skills as I unraveled a piece of gum, channeled it between my saliva and developed a very anticlimactic thriller. First it was a romance, then it turned into a comedy when it made pooping noises, then a mystery when it started to break off into tiny pieces and disperse throughout my mouth, then a drama when my jaw throbbed of child labor, then a horror when I thought about all the bacteria gum grabs up like a leaf blower mating with a pile of seagull droppings. It’s a relief to know my parents have spent their money well on my education.

I want something from today as retribution for the emergency room’s injustice. I’ve never seen a more pathetic bunch of professional medical providing staff members. My mother was sent to the E.R. by her doctor because of her heart’s risk for entering cardiac arrest. Somehow that was not a priority for the professional hospital providers. Note to Toms River: this is where your tax dollars are going. Or maybe just select individuals and corporations private funding. I wanted to punch a nurse in the face after she raised her voice at my exhausted mother who limped her way to the main desk to ask where she stood in the queue of waiting patients. I thought about purchasing some brass knuckles in case we ever had to return.
Attention nurses of any emergency room sect: I don’t care what kind of long shift you had or how many complaints received from the waiting room mob; the patients have suffered more and have it worse. Since when did you as “medical professionals” get to take your unhappy lives out on the sick? The sick are already ill, why add to their miserable lives? You work in a hospital and you can’t get some hormone balancing drugs? What happened to the Hippocratic Oath?

My mother recently changed her eating habits to contain low-salt items because her kidneys leaked protein throughout her body, causing massive bloating and making it difficult for her to execute simple tasks, i.e. walking. Instead of sucking the Jelly out of her usual donut, her Lupus induced Anemia created a need to satisfy her vampirical diet of human blood via IV. I joke with her that she’s the star of the up coming movie, “Blue Moon” or wait, I think its, “New Moon”. Stephanie Meyer fanatics will probably comment on my ignorance but I will gladly remind them that they are obsessed with a teen romance series written at the fifth grade level and with the same level of stylistic skill. How does the term “teeny bopper” translate into the literary world? Something to think about.

The hullabaloo of moans and complaints finally died down in the waiting room. The noise fell into a flat line hum that softly buzzed like background music. The patients waned out of the room until the majority of seats were vacant. It made the atmosphere more tolerable. It made the germs less visible.
Finally, around 10 pm, my mom was taken into a room in the e.r where she was given a blood test to determine whether or not she needed another transfusion. The results showed that her hemoglobin count was freakishly low at 6.4 instead of the normal 12. Since it was already after midnight, she needed to be admitted overnight. So I left the hospital, after 2 a.m, and walked to my car alone and dejected about my mothers worsening condition. Hoping to God, that a hospital bed opened so she could be transferred into a private room where she received her three bags of blood through the IV.

Now I realize I’ve marred the flow of this sardonic post by taking it down south like a flock of nomadic, lesbian geese during the winter ( We all know the flying "V" is for "Vagina"), for which I must apologize. And in my horror and complete self involvement, I still want something from today because I think it owes me, something. Anything.

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