fupafighter

Hip Re-Fracture

After pathetically crutchin' through NYC this past week and a half--braving rain water filled potholes, slippery subway steps, and crowds that really do view me as the walking handicapped--I think I've succeeded in enlarging the size of the crack in my hip by simply spending a 'quiet' night in.

The throbbing pain now, I can only assume, is caused by the fact that but a few hours earlier I was jumping up and down (sans crutch), flailing my fists wildly in the air, and demonstrating rather dexterous feats of contortionism on account of the atrocitiy I was witnessing on FOX 5.

I called my friend R, who told me he was ripping up his comforter as we spoke. I'm slightly worried, so I think tomorrow I'll check on him, and maybe I'll find him covered in down feathers, a bottle of Jack lodged in his ass, and a thicket of Benson & Hedges sprouting from his slightly agape lips. As for me, per his suggestion, I think I'll make a 'Soxpuppet' and stick it up my !*&%*.

Wow, I'm going back to my bubbly fishes, Marlins. I'm still reeling...no pun, no joke.

What To Do With Your Day

If you have a free day, free either b/c your classes are cancelled or you're a lazy slacker like C who has used five out of her seven sick days in the span of four months, then use that day wisely. Have a brunch that will make you really gassy, buy some big league chew, and go back to the apt. and be productive. Sit for hours complaining why your life sucks and outline the symptoms of clinical depression. Listen to slow music and talk about writing a screenplay that will be a smash hit, and berate pulitzer prize winning authors who have 'made it.' Oh, be sure to interject every five minutes how you feel fat and what can be done to ameliorate the present puffage.

Basically, we've done nothing. NOTHING. 'Cept C blew out a muffled, hot fart that she later admitted has "left my couch in ruin." My emissions paled in comparison, though I did crack open my balcony window at one point. This post is almost as pointless as my existence.

Am I Alive Right Now?

I seriously had a moment yesterday afternoon when I did indeed ask the question, "Am I alive right now?" I was at the medical supply store to buy my stylin' crutches, and I had a bit of an exchange with the disgruntled store clerk, who after swiping my credit card once and releasing a loathing sigh, tried (God forbid) swiping it a second time. Again, to no avail:

Him: Your card's not going through.
Me: Oh yeah, the magnetic strip on the back is a little worn.
Him: (flipping it back to me with forefingers) Well, I don't know what to do. It's not taking it.
Me: Umm, you could punch the numbers on the card in manually.
Him: (taking card back, sighing) Yeah, I guess I could do that.
Me: (utterly annoyed) Yeah, I guess you could.
Him: (muttered under breath) Caaaalm down.
Me: Excuse me? (almost laughing now)
Him: I get treated with no respect at this job.
Me: Uhh, you obviously hate your job.
Him: Well, I do when I'm talked to like THAT. I don't think I deserve to be treated like that.
Me: You're right, you don't think, that's where the problem is.

I just left it at that b/c seriously dude, this guy was just lookin' for an excuse to blow. I wouldn't be surprised if he took down one of the crutches in the store and turned it into an uzi. How ridiculous is that? To say that to me, even when I'm handicapped ;)

25, Goin' On 60

Yesterday during lunch I received a phone call from kindly Dr. Kastenbaum (of orthopedic fame).

Dr: Hi Natalie, it's Dr. Kastenbaum.
Me: Hi doctor, just wanted to make sure everything was okay with the MRI.
Dr: Well here's what I want you to do. I want you to go out and buy some crutches.
Me: (blatantly laughing at him) You're joking, right?
Dr: No. You have a stress fracture on your hip. You need to stop all running and lower body activity and use the crutches for the next six weeks. I want to see you in a month.
Me: What if I stop the running and just not use the crutches?
Dr: Listen, you do what you want. But if the fracture gets any bigger, you'll need surgery. It's strange
because from what you told me you didn't suffer any trauma in that area, hmm.

Hmm? Okay, isn't hip surgery a.k.a. like hip replacement? What 20-some yr. old has a porcelain hip? After the conversation I called C and asked her if at any point during one of the number of times I was wasted this summer did I ever accidentally fall off of a building or maybe the hood of a car. PT thinks that I was "ridden" too hard. Grrreat. Needless to say, I'm now officially a gimp. If you see a disgruntled blonde chick wobbling through Times Square, stopping occasionally to flex her biceps in the reflection of store front windows, then holler out to me. Maybe I'll get free 'pity' drinks this way.

Friends Don't Let Friends...

...do drunken karaoke. It's one thing when you're wasted and start fuckin' up the lyrics, and singing completely out of tune is of course granted, but when you leave out entire verses of the song and say that it was b/c you couldn't see the words on the screen--well, that my friend is alcohol-induced blindness, and I think then it's time to let the Wilson sisters...ah-lone (pun intended).

Highly recommended Broadway show--I Am My Own Wife. My boss scored me phat orchestra seats, we were almost close enough to have the honor of getting sprayed by a shower of Jefferon Mays's passion prompted saliva. It's a one man show about a German transvestite who by no small miracles escaped both the Nazis and Communists, all the while curating an amazing museum of antique gramaphones and clocks straight out of her house. Sadly the production closes on Oct. 31st, and more sadly most of you don't have a sweet internship to hook you up with tickets, so just take my word for it, it was a damned good show.

Duck, Duck...Goose Me

So apparently there was some goosin' goin' on Sat. night, and I missed out on all the fun. C. Pravda thought she'd get a little of my ass action while I was ordering a drink at the bar. Finally, after I feel her sort of hovering behind me for a few minutes:

CP: Nat, was I just slapping your ass?
ME: Uhh, not that I was aware of.
CP: Oh my God! I was totally feeling and rubbing some girl's ass!
ME: (with fupa-rumbling laughter) Whose ass were you fondling!?
CP: (pointing down the bar) I think that girl's down there...

On phone tonight...

CP: Yeah, and I was wondering why her and her friends were leaning away from me in disgust.

Hah hah hah, beware the phantom gooser at Alphabet Lounge. Moments like that are so precious to me, that I want to bundle them up, put a bow around them, and tuck them into my uterus for eternity.

Wordplay

Remember that game along the lines of Scategories or Outburst where you'd take a word and make some new confounded definition for it that actually, well, could really be the definition? On Saturday night at Radio Perfecto we were discussing words we hated. The word "doily" was mentioned, but I think it's just the "oi" sound, since I really hate the word "moist." And Mark brought up "nougat," b/c seriously, what the fuck is nougat? Put all of these words together though...

'A Moist Nougat in a Doily'

...and basically, you're just talking about a "dingleberry." And that's simply a great word.

I know, I just felt myself get stupider as well.

Recap

If you're a Manhattanite, eat at the new restaurant Little Giant on the corner of Orchard and Canal, but pay no attention to the crashing dishes and shelves, and please, get dessert. Semonlina cake is dee-lish.

Go to Alphabet Lounge on Saturday night b/c they rock out to the 80's. Even though I was still in Pampers (much as I am these days) for the majority of those years, I still feel I own that decade. It was C's friend's bachelorette party, and we peformed some fabulous interpretive dance to Belinda Carlisle's Heaven Is A Place On Earth. Here I have finally mentioned my friend "C" b/c too many postings have gone by without any word regarding my life, my soul, the reason I will probably die before I'm 30. Dirty whore, this one goes out to you...and rest assured, there will be many more.

Sunday I spent with R, polishing off a bottle of red wine and somehow in the middle of watching Tying the Knot and the coming-out episode of Ellen, 24 beers as well. Tying the Knot (new documentary on that ever-so pesky 'gay marriage' issue), was touching--and managed to uncover the only redneck gay I've ever seen--but honestly folks, it didn't tell us anything new. I'd rather have been watching porn...

My friend R is an amazing cook, however, and whipped up black bean soup from God knows what. Needless to say, today I'm farting out my soul. It's like the Holy Chipotle Ghost hovering in my pants.

M-R-Ay vey

Maybe I'm one of the few people who likes getting MRI's, but it really just gives you an excuse to fall asleep for an hour in the middle of the day inside a machine that resembles NASA's version of a coffin. It's great, and it shows you how really fucked up you are inside.

There were two issues that the technician kept stressing:
Q: Could you be pregnant?
A: Normally, that would be as likely as me seeing a Bush supporter on the Upper West Side. No, doubtful.
Q: You know bras can't be worn in the machine?
A: That would be a helpful tip, if I was wearing one in the first place.