Falling...

When I get drunk, I fall. It's not a graceful fall, it's more of an I-can't-really-support-my-own-body-weight fall.

Yesterday this girl said to me, "Don't fall," and I still did.

One time I kicked a realty sign, broke my foot, and then fell. The bones are still sticking out and they gross out some people.

Another time, I tried to click my heels, and instead of clicking my heels I clicked my face on the ground. I got a black eye and then someone said they saw me at Target.

Most of the time, I don't even know I fell until I wake up and make sudden movements that lend way to me finding the bruises. Bruises tell me the stories that I've forgotten until I check my voicemail.

I woke up this morning, and I said, "I fell didn't I?"

"Yep."

On a side note, I apparently was so inebriated that I accused my dude of flirting with a girl at the bar and trying to reach into her pockets...

... to steal all her tampons.

Top Ten Things That You Didn't Do This Weekend (And I Did)

10. Drunkenly intended to jump into bed with my roommate after returning home from the bar, but instead jumped onto some chick who I did not see sleeping underneath the covers and was not wearing pants. Proceeded to sleep with the both of them, anyway, until I had to make a phone call.

9. Later found out that said chick was my friend, whom I did not realize was sleeping with my roommate. Hmmm. 

8. Outran a paddy wagon driven by two officers who propositioned us for sex in the back of said paddy wagon. My girfriend said, "Kris, I sooo do not want to fuck them in the back of a van," to which I answered, "Run!" And we did.

7. Took this picture, in front of above-mentioned cops.

6. Made some people gyros outside of the bar on the street vendor cart.

5. Got pulled onto a stage during a concert at the Ohio State game, and was forced to dance to the Rolling Stones' Start Me Up in front of thousands of people at Hineygate.

4. Gave my phone number out to some Black dude named Isaiah, who referenced himself as "isaiah the black dude" when he text messaged me at 3:46 in the morning the same evening. I also received this message the following day: Hey whats up so u dont want me 2 have this number cause u and ur girl danced wit me and my boy

3. Woke up at 10am to get ready for a promotion I was working at the Ohio State game, and was promptly fed a bloody mary, then another, then some Jager, then some beer, then I couldn't feel my legs. Which made #5 very entertaining for everyone. Came home to get some rest in between shifts, and set my alarm for 6am instead of 6pm. Got ready for my next shift by downing a bottle of Savingnon Blanc at Lu Pon-Xi.

2. Got the phone number of a guy who sells foam for a living. 

1. Took photos of a huge jar of urine that my friend found in the basement of an apartment into which he just moved. It was actually marked Grand Jug of Urine and dated 2004. Scary.

Unemployment vs. The Dancing Banana

It's bad enough that the economy is just now recovering from 2001, with employers being extra hesitant to hire new employees. It's even worse that the ex-employees that got laid off back within the last three or four years are having trouble getting hired back into the workforce. So some of them have apparently turned to placement agencies.

Somewhere, someone decided it would be a good idea to do three things: promote their apartment rent specials, decide a budget for advertising, decide that within that budget there was enough money to hire a dancing banana.

That poor woman.

Most of us have bad days, whether we lose clients or someone yells at us on the phone. She has to go home having been a banana all day. And not a particularly cool banana, either. This is the banana version of the Penn State Nittany Lion suit from the 1970s. Moreover, when someone asks how her job hunt is going, she has to pretty much say that she's 'working the corner'. And, it's not like she can hide her identity, because on one of the busiest corners in Northwest Columbus, the outfit has a cutout for her face. And she has to wave colored flags. As if she weren't drawing attention to herself already.

I'm not the smartest person, but I don't think that a dancing banana is going to make me rent an apartment.

Wonder what the "work now, get paid now" catch is?

Now you know.

Just Don't Stalk Me... Please

Given our random midwestern weather, it's no surprise that at night when the budding flowers are frosting over and dying, the daytime temperature flirts with 80 degrees. This is Ohio. Which, yeah, is weird, but I have visited a lot of places and I think that Columbus is one of the most rewarding cities to be in when the weather suddenly gets nice because the people suddenly get nice, too. The tightly-zipped Columbia fleece people are out in tank tops with their hands out the car window catching the passing wind. The black-rimmed coffeehouse people are laying out on a towel in the park with their dogs. And the bloggers, taking a break from their daily content writing, are also out in the park playing basketball with the Creepy Chesters.

Ok, maybe that is just me.

I have this weird idiosyncracy, if that is what you want to call it, where if it's sunny outside I too must be outside. It doesn't matter if I'm tired, or busy, or whatever. If I waste a nice sunny day, I feel guilty until the next nice sunny day comes around. Refer back to the living in Ohio thing. So, this week I decided to dust off all of the hairballs and weird fur that had been collecting on my Rollerblades this year and go test out the trail for the first time this spring. I felt pretty good putting on some shorts that I haven't been able to wear in a number of years, pairing them with a form-fitting UNC Nike tank that I got on sale at some discount store. I had gotten a slight tan from the previous day so as I bladed I could see my tan darkening with every ten minutes or so. Life was good.

I finished the trail and decided that I hadn't had my fill of skin cancer-causing sun, so I drove up to the basketball courts to shoot some hoops and get some more sun. Now, maybe this is the same kind of thing that makes it difficult to pee when someone else is in the restroom but I hate playing basketball when someone else is just hanging out watching. First of all, why drive over and park to watch to some people you don't even know playing basketball? That just strikes me as kind of weird. There were three guys down on the other end playing half-court, and since I really didn't feel like playing with them either, I cleaned out my truck instead - a task much overdue. Sure enough, the strange basketball-watcher decided to leave. 

I decided I could deal with the three other guys being down at the other end, so I got out my ball and started to bank some shots. I think nearly three seconds went by before they stopped their game and were staring at me.

"Hey," the fat one yelled, "Do you want to play?"
"Um, dribbling is not my strongest point, but thanks," I lied. 

Looking at his shirtless chest glistening in the sun, I was immediately reminded of my senior year in college, playing basketball for the school team. We had daily practices, as all teams do, but our coach strongly advised that we play some pick-up games with the locals during our down time for some extra practice. When you go to school in the country, playing a pick up game with the "locals" meant that about five of us girls from the team would show up, and about fifty beer-swilling, uncomprehensibly-sweaty-for-so-little-moving-around, old men would also show up. They would then try to sweat on us as much as possible, guarding us way too closely and throwing up an armpit when completely unnecessary. Am I still trying to get that smell out of my clothes? Yes. So do I want to play? Hell no.

I was doing pretty well, over there on my own half-court, when a minivan drove up parellel to the parking spots and stopped. The passenger side window rolled down and I saw an older man in the driver's seat staring at me. Just what I love. People I don't know staring at me. 

I sank a couple more baskets from the elbow, and the third one I missed. I heard a voice from the van.

"Keep your elbow straight and follow through!" The man yelled.

Was I getting coached on how to shoot a basketball from a man in a minivan? Why, yes I was! I had to defend myself.

"Basketball isn't my first sport," I said, walking over to the van. The man laughed, as if he sensed my defense.

"Is that right? Well what is your first sport?"
I, too laughed, "Ice hockey," I replied, "Different part of the body."

We then had a nice conversation about his grandson, who was going to some East Coast prep school near Princeton to play hockey. We also talked about the Frozen Four and about my hockey team and my hockey background. He asked if I was going to public skate. I said no. He apologized for coaching me, but he said as having been a former coach, he missed it a lot. I said it was totally cool and thanked him. Aw.

I went back to shooting hoops with my newly-aquired advice. I sank the next shot effortlessly. Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the group at the other end of the court dissipating. The two younger, more in-shape guys started up the bank back to their cars, while the fatter conversation-initiator started toward my end of the court.

If you've ever seen Kevin James' Sweat the Small Stuff standup special, you know what he was talking about when you know someone you don't want to talk to is about to talk to you. 

The guy approaching was probably about in his late 30s or early 40s, not in bad shape, but sporting an impressive beer belly. His hair was not balding, but graying and he had crows feet around his eyes indicating maybe that he was a smoker or just hadn't gotten enough sleep. He kind of sounded like a stoner.

"Hey," he mumbled, "Can I play over here with you?"
I couldn't really say no.
"It's just so nice out and I don't want to go inside yet."
I have to admit he had a point. His name was Doug. Doug had a point.

He threw me the ball and I had a pretty good showing. I told him we could just play HORSE. Refer to sweaty man-belly store above.

After he started speaking, I began to think that playing HORSE with Doug was not such a good idea. He said something to lead me to believe he might start preaching to me about Jesus or something.

"Hey," he started, "What are two of the worst things that you think came out of society?"

I thought about it. I also thought about how much I didn't want to answer it. I came up with some lame answer about what I thought. He was looking for something way more shallow, I guess, because he shook his head and replied matter-of-factly,

"Computers and Cell Phones," he nodded, "They have hurt society. Like, all aspects of society. When Armaggedon comes, it's going to be because of computers and cell phones. It's overkill."

I was trying to process all of this, when he asked me another question.

"What do you think is most important in life?"

I considered answering, "Playing basketball and not talking to your Weird Ass." Instead I said something like, "Being happy".

He then went off on this tangent about how he had partied too much when he was younger, blah blah, and etc., and how he hadn't listened to the people who were telling him to stop drinking and doing drugs (hey - you did drugs? shocking really!) and how he'd wished for ... something. I don't know, I was more busy being creeped out than listening.

I said that ever since the current administration I'd been living my days to the fullest because I thought we were going to get bombed.

He grabbed the ball and looked at me and honestly said, "Oh really? Do you want to get naked then?"
I must have looked horrified, because he grabbed the ball and his knees dropped and he put his head down and rolled back in totally forced, totally weird laughter. Like a crazy person.
I can't even remember what I said, but it must not have been too threatening, because he didn't leave. Instead he asked me about my work. I should have lied, but I told him that I work in bars at night doing promotions.

"Well where are you going to be tonight?" He asked, stopping play.
Thinking of someplace not close to where the park was, I said, "Gahanna". 
"Well what specific bar?" 
I said I didn't know. I started to feel cornered, despite the fact of being in an open court in an open park.

Ironically, he had H-O-R.

Uncomfortable silence filled with the hollow sound of the dribbling ball followed.

"Well, after you're done working, then what are you doing?" 
"Going to bed!" I said, visibly irritated.
"Well what about on days you're not working?"
I started to think that perhaps I was in a bad movie. Where it's so obvious to anyone outside of the situation just how painful it is to be within the situation.
I started to throw the game so that I could lose and go home, which under all other circumstances, I'm totally against. 

"Well what are you doing after this game?" 
The questions kept coming.

H-O-R-S... and E. Finally.

We started walking up the bank, with me hoping that he hadn't glanced at my license plate. I was pretty sure I had made myself clear about being creeped out, but apparently not.

"You can give me your number if you want," he said as if he absolutely expected me to give it to him.
I looked at him flatly, "I have a boyfriend."
He laughed - probably used to getting rejected.
He said some other stuff about meeting back at the park, but I just took note of what kind of car he drove, and took off.

Moral of the story: Creepy people hang out in parks during the day.

Sweating the Small Things

So call me a cold-hearted bitch or whatever, but I really don't care that Terry Schiavo is dead. I didn't know her before she was dead, and I don't know her after. I have my own personal beliefs about how I want my body "processed" in such a given situation or post-mortem, however, I don't really feel as though the entire universe needs to know about it. If this happened to my mom, for example, I'd have yanked the feeding tube and pulled the plug 12 years ago. Even better, I would have taken her to Oregon before this shit even happened and helped her commit suicide as to avoid the whole thing. I mean, there's just no need for machines to inhibit your body. When it's over, it's over.

And so I'm really sorry to all of the people that called and text messaged me informing me of Johnny Cochran's death as well, but I guess I have to ask - why? Yeah, it's sad, but why are you calling me about it? Do you think I don't have access to getting current and up-to-date information? I'm not really sure what that was all about. It's not like I am a close personal friend of his, nor am I really a fan. Quite honestly, I didn't even really follow the O.J. trial to even tell you which side he was on. Sorry. I mean, sorry that he has passed, but everyone will eventually. 

What I do care about, is the fact that yesterday, my neighbor of nearly 15 years dropped dead in a parking lot. Apparently, he had just had his heart checked out and received a clean bill of health just to suffer a major heart attack just days later. Now that is fucked up. This guy is the same age as my father, and had a son my age, a daughter my sister's age, and another daughter even younger, not to mention a wife. Now, those are the kinds of deaths that disturb me personally. I can't even imagine what the family is going through, having had no warning or preperation for his death. 

To paraphrase a friend - it makes you wonder why we sweat the small things.

If You Think She's Hot Now, You Should Have Seen Her Two Years Ago!

Men already have a way of having their head up their ass when they talk, which is fine, unless you're trying to impress somebody. Throw in a little alcohol and then it's really obvious why you're going home alone. Me, I don't really care too much about being impressed, nor do I honestly think that people really try too hard to impress people anymore. I think instead, they buy $500 purses and stupid shoes made by some guy I've never heard of (but was in Sak's catalogue) or drive around some impeccably cared for (by someone else, of course) new Mercedes with plates reminding me that yes, it is in fact, a Mercedes. This takes the personal responsibility off of them to impress me, and instead I'm just supposed to, passively, be impressed by it all.

Well, I think it's stupid. Moreover, I think it's sad.

This is why I appreciate the effort, even through your alcholic facade. These are my two favorite backhanded compliments this week so far:

I ran into a guy at this bar that I really used to find interesting and attractive. Not really sure what happened with that whole thing, but we still give each other favorable looks when we hear about or happen to run into each other. I saw him as soon as I walked into the bar and made my way over to say 'hi' with a hug. He stepped back and looked me up and down.

"Wow, you really lost a lot of weight," he said, almost too increduously, "You look really good."
I opened my mouth to speak, but was interrupted by another, "Wow, I mean you really did lose a lot of weight."

Gee thanks. As if I was a total fatass before? You could have just started and stopped with, 'You look really good'. Put that in your mental bank for next time.

While I was working earlier this week, I went up to two gentlemen sitting at the bar to offer them a free shotglass and a round of beers. It was my first account, so I weakly offered up some conversation about what kind of beer they were drinking. I knew I was in trouble when I offered the man the shotglass and his friend looked down at it and told me that, "That shotglass is the only thing he has to his name right now!"
"Well good," I said, "Then you can set it right up there on the windowsill," I tried to make my exit.
"She toook everything," the other man grabbed me around the waist (which I hate). Not having the foresight to anticipate his response to my next action, I held up a free sampler CD that we were giving out. 
"Would you like one of these CDs to make you feel better?" I was in a trap and didn't even know it yet.
He took it and let out a hearty, bitter laugh. Holding it up, he scowled, "The bitch took the CD player, too!"
I bit my bottom lip. I looked up at the bartender. He gave me a look that seemed to say, "I feel sorry for you, but yet, you're the one that pretty much brought this upon yourself. Please allow me to stand back and revel in the fact that it is for once, happening to you and not to me." He crossed his arms and gave me an empathetic smile.
"I'm, um, sorry to hear about all..." I was interrupted by his monologue, that seemed to begin with the phrase 'you women', which are my favorite kind.

"See, you women," he started, but surprised me when he said, "you get better as the time goes on. At least for a little while." 
I shifted my weight.
"Take you for example," he looked me up and down, "you have ass and legs and that's what matters..."
I smiled, but rolled my eyes at him and started to turn away when he grabbed me around the waist again (ugh!). Once again looking at my ass, he added, "And that's the good stuff."
His friend nodded. The bartender waited.

"Take you for example, you're young," he squinted his eyes, "About 23?"
"24," I corrected.
"Okay, so 24. Give you fifteen years, and," he looked me up and down again, "And you'll be hot."
My neck inched forward as if to comprehend what he'd just said, when his friend added, "Yeah, ten or fifteen years and you'll be at your peak."
The man kept going, "But, after your peak, it will all be downhill. Your stuff up top will start dragging around and all your skin will just be drooping."
They looked at me, as if waiting for me to agree with them.
I didn't really have anything to say, so I frantically looked toward my coworkers and began to point to them but was still thinking of something to say.
The man looked back up at me, knowing my plan, and told me that in fifteen years he was planning to be in Arizona and that if, when I was 39, I wanted to look him up, I could.

Right.

It's Hard Being a Model

I mean, it's so hard to talk to men and buy them beer on the company tab and look cute. 

I hope you catch the sarcasm, because I'm laying it on pretty thick.

But seriously, that's my job. I lost a bunch of weight, sold out, and now I wear little tank tops to the same bars every week and represent for the company for which I promote.

Life is so hard.

Last week, we visited all of our accounts to make sure that people had enough beads and green derby hats and blinkies to blind themselves. We walked into one bar (the one most frequented by a guy appropriately named 'Critter')(seriously) and I noticed a white Jeep Cherokee running in the parking lot outside. Since I am not the type to be the girl that runs upstairs when someone breaks in my house, I thought best to get away from said running vehicle.

When I came out of the bar an hour and half later I see the same Jeep still running in the parking lot. I decide to walk next to it, just to check out the situation and I nearly threw up when I saw about three perfectly round piles of puke outside the driver's side door. My lip curled back and I cupped my hand over my lips as I turned my head to look inside. Then, I about shit my pants as I was greeted with the face of a man pressed up against the drivers side window with puke drooling out of his mouth, apparently passed out. I don't know which bothered me more; the fact that this guy could be dead, or the fact that this guy was apparently planning to drive.

I moved on...

...to the next bar in which a bunch of people from a conference which ended at 3pm were still out post-conference drinking at around 11pm. They were taking turns dancing (like Pee Wee Herman a la Pee Wee's Big Top) with one guy sitting out to hold up their female coworker so she wouldn't fall over from extreme intoxication. Classy. They were all apparently famous homebuilders. They offered me shots. I was working. I declined.

A bus driver confided in me how great it was to be drunk during the week and have a designated driver. The driver was her 16-year-old son.

A 75-year old man tried to make out with me. I quickly turned my head and he ended up sticking his tongue into my ear. I think he was just glad to be still alive.

This is only Week One of the next twelve weeks.

How could you?

I was driving to my parents house today to drop off some homemade Valentine's Day cookies when I saw some sort of commotion going on in the road. Some people were driving by something in the road, slowly. And since nothing draws a crowd more than a crowd, I stopped to see what was going on. 

I was horrified to see that people had been slowing down -but not stopping- to help a dying dog in the middle of the street. I stopped my truck on the side of the road and with it still running, jumped out and ran to see if the small dog was still alive. I bent down to it, and in its most desperate attempts to gasp for air, it was shaking and choking. Another dog, which I later found out to be of the same residence, was near the dog in its time of need. Within a minute, it lay silent in the street, with the only movement being the wind blowing her fur back from her eyes. Now that I had stopped, some other people were stopping to see what was going on. One woman drove by me and gave me a judgemental, "How could you?!" look and I screamed back at her, "I didn't do it!!!"

I shook my head angrily at Chris, standing by. "How could you see a dying dog and just drive by?! How could you just leave her here?"

A teenaged kid slowly walks up to us from a parked car, and judging by his appearance, all questions regarding who hit the dog vanished from mind. He, much like the dog in her last minutes, was shaking and crying. He walked up to us and put his head in his hands and cried out, "I did it," followed by more sobbing, "I'm the one that hit her."

I tried to console this guy, because I remember how upset my mom was when she hit a dog last month - even though the dog was 17 years old, deaf, blind, black, and out in the rain and the owners expected it. I called the number on the dog tag, and waited for an answer. It didn't really occur to me what I would say, or how I could soften the fact that his or her dog was laying dead in the road. No answer, but somehow I knew the last name on the message and knew where the family lived. With the help of someone who had stopped, and put a lifeless Maggie May in the bed of my truck, coaxed the family's other dog into the cab of the truck, and drove over to this family's house to break the bad news. Better me than the kid, trust me.

I drove up and carried the live dog to the door and knocked. The man came to the door, jovial and shirtless, to see his dog.

"Oh, I see you found someone!" he said, which made my next sentence even harder. 
"Well, I have some good news and bad news. Your other dog, Maggie, well someone hit her," I said gingerly.
He looked confused, so I broke it down for him as well as I could.
"Maggie is dead."
The smile erased from his face and he repeated what I just said, almost questioning me. "Maggie is dead?"
"Yes. I didn't see what happened. Someone just left her in the street. The kid that hit her was very upset." My sentences sounded just as choppy as I was saying them.

I showed him over to the truck where he sadly scooped his Maggie up like a newborn child, ignoring the fact that she was bloody and that urine was seeping from her... well... the place from which urine seeps. He carried her and walked slowly, still in shock, over to his front porch and with his other dog kneeling by his side just stared up at the sky.

I figured this was my time to leave. And, when I left, he was still staring at the sky.

Katie's Logic

Anyone that knows my sister and I is nearly shocked to believe that we came from the same place. I tend to hold onto logic that works, ya know, like in the real world and she tends to just make stuff up and goes with it.
Since I'd been feeling sick, she drove over to my house to bring me some Metamucil fiber cookies (after reminding me that when we were kids those fiber cookies and a swig of Dimetapp was all we used to eat...sigh). I knew it was her becuase I could hear her muffler down the block.

She pulled up in her neon yellow Mitsubishi Eclipse, completely tricked out, blaring Taking Back Sunday and complete with the 7-digit equivelant of "Yellow Lightning" on the license plates. I jumped in the passenger's side seat, reminding her that I had never driven with her before, as I slowly buckled her NASCAR-esque padded seatbelts. 

"That's because it's always in the shop." I thought about it, and yeah, that's why.

We hadn't gone but a couple miles when it became apparent to me that my sister had a whole different persona while driving "Yellow Lightning". The usually shy around strangers, calm, compassionate person I once knew had the "bird" on standby and wasn't afraid to use it. 

"Merge, goddammit! Everyone else is, you dumb piece of shit!" 

Without missing a beat she explains, "You see, I can be an asshole in my car. This is because I drive an asshole car," she said matter-of-factly. "They just see this car and assume I'm a bitch."

I nod, just as an elderly woman starts to pass her. Katie looks over at the driver and revvs her engine. 

"Wanna dance?" she screams.

The woman looks offended.

Farther down the road, we make a right-turn where another Mitsubishi Eclipse is waiting to turn left. She gasps and slows down and gives the car a once-over that would make a man blush. The guy in the car gives Yellow Lightning some attention as well. A block down the road, she begins to have regrets.

"Damn, I should have revved my engine," she said.
"Why? I didn't see any old people around," I said.
"Well, that's our speak for how you show someone that you like their car."

Right.

About V.!C.0.d!.N and Extreme Appreciation

First, let me say that Aaron R. who works at the Outback Steakhouse in South Tampa is the most selfless person I know.

Second, let me say that I am blogging under the direct influence of Vicodin (which, I do not know how to truly spell thanks to clever spammers) and I feel weird.

The surfers
Well, I was on vacation until yesterday, when I woke up feeling like I had swollowed a grapefruit containing a whole box of razor blades. I drove out to the beach, thinking perhaps if I was going to go back to sleep anyway, then why not on the beach? I built myself a little sand-pillow and put on my Johnny Knoxville aviators and conducted my presence a la dirty, post-marriage Britney. It's funny how loud the ocean is, rolling up the beach, and yet you can still catch most everyone's conversation within a 20-foot radius. I heard two male voices talking and looked up for a second when I heard someone say, "Hey buddy" just a little too close to my face. I woke up and I was staring back at a bloodshot-eyed surfer who asked if he and his friend could lay down with me. They were chit-chatting (read: still awake and drunk from the night before) when the surfer said to his friend, "What's the best pick up line you've ever heard?" Without missing a beat, the friend drunkenly turned to the nearest 12-year-old girl and said:

"Can I makeout with your asshole?" He comforted her violated, horrific look by saying, "No, seriously, I'll do it for free".

Then they left.

The ER

I went home after the beach and tried to rest up after having gotten very little sleep over the weekend, due to a lot of hanging out with Aaron (amidst other Outback staff), who was my waiter at the Outback Steakhouse I went to in South Tampa with my grandma. Plus, my throat was still pretty swollen. I woke up at 6, with enough time to go down and catch the first part of the game. Then, he called. I was ready 30 minutes later when he got here to pick me up to go to a bar in St. Pete so that we could meet his friend from Dayton, OH (now a Floridian) and watch the rest of the game. Throat getting worse. I opt not to drink, but apparently all the people we met out that night were bartenders. Let's just say, I did not get my first choice of, "Iced Tea".
We went to meet up with his brother at Friday's. Throat starting to swell to the point where I can not speak or swallow. I write on a napkin, "I think I have to go to the ER". The worry in his face starts to show. I told him that he could just drop me off, but he wouldn't. I walked into the hospital and immediately started to feel worse. My throat was throbbing, swollen almost shut and raw. This is when the fever kicks in. 30 minutes and I was called to the first part of registration. Another 30 minutes go by and I completed Part 2 of the registration process. 1 hour 30 minutes go by and I am finally called to see a nurse practitoner. Aaron (who I have known for three days) is still there, not having anything but positive things to say, trying to lighten the mood to make me feel better (bless his heart). I get all the tests done, and she takes a throat swab. I look at Aaron, and I'm starting to freak out. 

"God, I hope they are not thinking mono," I squeaked, "anything but fucking mono. Those were the worst times of my life".

Another dude comes in about 20 minutes later with all kinds of needles and the works. He is also from Dayton. After what I thought to be a routine blood test turned into a long, painful 2-hour IV, I started my first bout of chills. Aaron pleaded with the RN to get me a blanket, all the while holding my arm and rubbing it in an attempt to warm me up. I was shaking so violently that it brought tears. I still couldn't swallow or speak. Dayton boy walks back in and nonchalantly sighs:

"Yep, your strep culture is testing positive". Because they do this all the time.

I get my first shot of steroids directly into my IV. I haven't stopped shaking in 30 minutes. Aaron is still holding my arm. I get a shot of some pain killer. My throat feels like someone is spraying air on it (like at the dentist) to dry it out or has rubbed some kind of fucking paste all over it. Another hour goes by. Now, I'm being told I have to take a penicillin shot and they will return in a couple minutes to administer it. Aaron looks over to me and stares at me for a minute, gaging my reaction. Seeing that I had none he said:

"You know that shot is in your ass, right?"
"Get the fuck out."
"No, for real. It's in your ass".
"I am NOT taking a shot in the ass!" I whined, better than a 5 year-old.

Dayton boy comes back in, and I can just tell by the look on his face that this shot is going in my ass. He began talking about what he was going to do, but I frantically skimmed everything he was saying just waiting for him to say something about my butt. Then there is was.

"I'm goin' to need to see your bottom."
"How much of it do you want to see?"
He snickered, "Just the top is fine. Just pull down your little hip huggers."

I rolled over toward Aaron and unbuttoned my "little hip huggers" and thrusted my ass in Dayton boy's face. He said I was about to feel a little prick (heh). It was the most painful shot I've ever taken. Dayton boy said that was because penicillin has the consistency of Elmer's Glue. So here I am, unpantsed in front of two people I don't really know, with one of them trying not to laugh and still remain supportive, and the other one sticking a needle in my ass. I felt like two cents waiting for change. 

Then two things happened. They left the door open to my exam room, and I got the Vicodin. The fact that it was 4:30am did not make the slap-happiness any better. Plus, I was in the children's ward, and outside the door was an array of Goodwill-quality stuffed animals to make the kids feel better at the hospital. One of them was a giant racoon.

"That racoon is freakin' me out," I told Aaron. "Is that racoon not freaking you out?"
"Uh, dude what's he got in his hands, like, a cookie?"

Five minutes pass while clearly Aaron has been thinking about the racoon. Out of nowhere:

"I'm pretty sure it's a biscuit," he said, which sent me in to a fit of narcotic-induced laughter that sounded like Butthead.
"What's so funny about a biscuit?" he asked. More laughter.
"That word is just soooo funny," I said, "I just die when anyone says the word 'biscuit'".

Then for some reason I thought I was Chris Rock. I will spare you those details, but it included my loud-ass rendition of "Nigga, you didn't hearshit, because you was doin' shit" in an otherwise quiet hospital at 4:45am.
I got released soon after that.

I guess the whole point is that, you never know when your waiter is going to take you to the ER, sing you songs to calm you down while you're getting an IV, and take care of you like your mother would. I just think it's pretty awesome.