See Dick run
As many of you know there have been some significant developments in my life over the last couple of weeks; they will not be covered in this blog. I think instead I may create a support group and we can have weekly meetings. Jesus. Nevertheless, I will give you a recap of my weekend that started with a blow to the head and ended with a sprained ankle. All good.
Friday night I took the seabus over to see Michael, as he had $100 in gift certificates for the Cactus Club (do you know how many cosmopolitans that is??). When we arrived I asked if he could pop the trunk so I could throw in whatever bag o' unnecessary crap that I had been lugging around for the day. Which reminds me, I left my lunch sack in my office over the weekend so now it's contents must be festering and oozing and creating quite a smell for my cellmate. Huh. Good thing I'm off today. Anyways, back to the story. Michael pops the trunk, I lean in and all of a sudden wham! I suffer a staggering blow to the back of the head. The trunk had rapidly descended from its utmost open position, coming to rest on the base of my skull. Mmm... that's good physical comedy. Michael said it was an accident and he had his hands full, I felt like maybe it was an attempt on my life because of my enormous life insurance policy... it degraded from there. But we still wanted to go for dinner of course.
Because the lineup was six hours long, we got one of those vibrating coasters. There are a lot of things that I don't believe in: Bush's invasion of Iraq; Bill O'Reilly procreating; hard work; and those vibrating coasters, if they are more than fifty feet away from their mothership. Nonetheless, we obtained fervent confirmation that we could take this baby anywhere in the shopping village and it would summon us to sup when a table was ready. I voiced my doubts to Michael, but we went to Old Navy nonetheless. After killing much time trying on those long sweater coat things that give you the illusion that they will look good on you because you too are a size 2 headless mannequin, I decided that we should have been buzzed. We walk back to the Cactus Club and ask if a table had come up for us, to which we were interrogated: did the buzzer go off? I replied calmly that no, it hadn't. The hostess checked our names and LO AND BEHOLD they had tried to call us and, when we did not respond because the coaster was out of range, they gave our table away. The hostess was most apologetic (likely because in my delirious hunger I was muttering about headless mannequins and disturbing other patrons) and gave us a table.
Saturday and most of Sunday consisted of a series of crises and dilemmas. Fast forward to about 4pm on Sunday. Michael and I decide to go for a run. What a megalicious idea. So we're bopping along, chatting, running down 37th, trying to avoid the gaping, four foot deep puddles replete with their own ecosystem as we go. We get to Dunbar and out of the corner of my eye I see Michael stumble and fall. I turn and though I am praying for the best, I seem to recall a funny snapping sound as Michael went down. He gets up and answers "NO!!" to my obligatory, "are you okay?". Then starts hopping on one leg and engaging in sailor talk. All hooped up now, I'm running around in circles trying to carry him, offering to run home, asking if he needs to go to the hospital. Eventually, after much swearing, limping and then some more swearing, it is determined that I will run home to get the car. That was a really fast 2k home. Except for the quick pit stop to get a hazelnut latte. Oh, and when I got home I had a shower just in case there were some hot doctors at the hospital that we would be going to shortly. Hopping in the car I raced back, and found Michael hobbling towards home. He gets in. I had grabbed his wallet for ID so we were set to go to UBC. But no, he does not want to go. I am stressing him out. Cool. We return home and I take off his shoes and socks to see that one ankle is at least a third larger than the other. Michael is doing this thing where he pokes at his mouth with his fingers (to keep the screaming in, perhaps?). And he's kind of rocking back and forth in agony which is always good to see. But no, no hospital. I give him 2 superstrength Motrin (have bad menstrual cramps? don't care about mental alertness? try superstrength Motrin!) and head over to London Drugs to get more drugs and a tensor bandage at my mom's suggestion. My suggestion was to take him out behind the barn and put him down. I go to LD, get a makeup consultation, play with the blood pressure machine, come home to find that, miracle of miracles, the mixture of Motrin and RICE has brought the swelling down considerably. I put the .22 back in the closet.
And then, this morning, limping and grimacing the guy goes to work. Who does that? If I had a sprained ankle I would be off a day. If I cough more than four times in a row, the call to work is about me potentially suffering from SARS. Is it acne, or a contagious skin rash? Is it a hangover or the avian flu? I may be infested with pine beetles. I'm having prostate problems. I have amnesia... no, I don't know how I knew my work number to be able to call in sick...
Friday night I took the seabus over to see Michael, as he had $100 in gift certificates for the Cactus Club (do you know how many cosmopolitans that is??). When we arrived I asked if he could pop the trunk so I could throw in whatever bag o' unnecessary crap that I had been lugging around for the day. Which reminds me, I left my lunch sack in my office over the weekend so now it's contents must be festering and oozing and creating quite a smell for my cellmate. Huh. Good thing I'm off today. Anyways, back to the story. Michael pops the trunk, I lean in and all of a sudden wham! I suffer a staggering blow to the back of the head. The trunk had rapidly descended from its utmost open position, coming to rest on the base of my skull. Mmm... that's good physical comedy. Michael said it was an accident and he had his hands full, I felt like maybe it was an attempt on my life because of my enormous life insurance policy... it degraded from there. But we still wanted to go for dinner of course.
Because the lineup was six hours long, we got one of those vibrating coasters. There are a lot of things that I don't believe in: Bush's invasion of Iraq; Bill O'Reilly procreating; hard work; and those vibrating coasters, if they are more than fifty feet away from their mothership. Nonetheless, we obtained fervent confirmation that we could take this baby anywhere in the shopping village and it would summon us to sup when a table was ready. I voiced my doubts to Michael, but we went to Old Navy nonetheless. After killing much time trying on those long sweater coat things that give you the illusion that they will look good on you because you too are a size 2 headless mannequin, I decided that we should have been buzzed. We walk back to the Cactus Club and ask if a table had come up for us, to which we were interrogated: did the buzzer go off? I replied calmly that no, it hadn't. The hostess checked our names and LO AND BEHOLD they had tried to call us and, when we did not respond because the coaster was out of range, they gave our table away. The hostess was most apologetic (likely because in my delirious hunger I was muttering about headless mannequins and disturbing other patrons) and gave us a table.
Saturday and most of Sunday consisted of a series of crises and dilemmas. Fast forward to about 4pm on Sunday. Michael and I decide to go for a run. What a megalicious idea. So we're bopping along, chatting, running down 37th, trying to avoid the gaping, four foot deep puddles replete with their own ecosystem as we go. We get to Dunbar and out of the corner of my eye I see Michael stumble and fall. I turn and though I am praying for the best, I seem to recall a funny snapping sound as Michael went down. He gets up and answers "NO!!" to my obligatory, "are you okay?". Then starts hopping on one leg and engaging in sailor talk. All hooped up now, I'm running around in circles trying to carry him, offering to run home, asking if he needs to go to the hospital. Eventually, after much swearing, limping and then some more swearing, it is determined that I will run home to get the car. That was a really fast 2k home. Except for the quick pit stop to get a hazelnut latte. Oh, and when I got home I had a shower just in case there were some hot doctors at the hospital that we would be going to shortly. Hopping in the car I raced back, and found Michael hobbling towards home. He gets in. I had grabbed his wallet for ID so we were set to go to UBC. But no, he does not want to go. I am stressing him out. Cool. We return home and I take off his shoes and socks to see that one ankle is at least a third larger than the other. Michael is doing this thing where he pokes at his mouth with his fingers (to keep the screaming in, perhaps?). And he's kind of rocking back and forth in agony which is always good to see. But no, no hospital. I give him 2 superstrength Motrin (have bad menstrual cramps? don't care about mental alertness? try superstrength Motrin!) and head over to London Drugs to get more drugs and a tensor bandage at my mom's suggestion. My suggestion was to take him out behind the barn and put him down. I go to LD, get a makeup consultation, play with the blood pressure machine, come home to find that, miracle of miracles, the mixture of Motrin and RICE has brought the swelling down considerably. I put the .22 back in the closet.
And then, this morning, limping and grimacing the guy goes to work. Who does that? If I had a sprained ankle I would be off a day. If I cough more than four times in a row, the call to work is about me potentially suffering from SARS. Is it acne, or a contagious skin rash? Is it a hangover or the avian flu? I may be infested with pine beetles. I'm having prostate problems. I have amnesia... no, I don't know how I knew my work number to be able to call in sick...
posted by Duder at 8:53 AM
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