A Holiday Hell Whole

On the severely sloped scale of abject misery, second only to being wedged into and appropriately enraged by holiday shopping mall traffic is subjecting yourself to holiday grocery shopping at Whole Foods.

A visit to Whole Foods this time of year occasions the jettisoning of all altruistic tendencies, like holding doors open, practicing patience, or paying attention to wherever the fuck it is you’re walking. By the way, lady, I don’t happen to know where your might be going or what you hope to achieve there, but you know as well as I do that the laws of Christmas physics suggest that you are unable to occupy the exact spot at which I am standing-please adjust your trajectory accordingly.

Anyone hoping (or praying, as the case may be) for a white Christmas need only enter a Denver-area Whole Foods to have this wish fulfilled. The upper-class Caucasian contingent is hyper represented in these stores, alive and well by any measure, including, but by no means (pun intended) limited to: income; savings; liquid assets; securities holdings; inheritance, anticipated or actually received; checking account balances; platinum card limits; and spousal earnings (i.e., all those measures that truly matter in assessing the health of a social, racial, or ethnic group). I am, perhaps, most pleased to report that also flourishing this holiday season is the wealthy-housewife-who-does-all-the-grocery-shopping-before-or-after-yoga-class-or-even-in-the-absence-of-an-actual-yoga-class-but-let’s-retain-the-yoga-pants-anyway stereotype.

The appearance, demeanor, and overall net worth of the Whole Foods customer stands in stark contrast to that of the Whole Foods employee who either looks, acts, smells (or a combination thereof) far too poor to afford the items for sale in the store, were it not for the generous employee discount. This act of corporate charity goes a long way toward facilitating the survival of the late-generation hippies and loosely guarded hipsters that inhibit this environment.

The store itself reeks of $7.99 accoutrements and $14.99 edible items, if you can get beyond the hideously homeopathic scents emanating from the floral-designed pajama bottoms that surely only cater to the I-don’t-eat-meat-and-am-currently-struggling-with-cancer market. (Based on recent experiences, I have to appreciate that this might be a highly lucrative industry.)

It is an affront to everything I believe in to even consider spending $5.99 on a frozen dinner, never mind having to two-step around a wealthy white woman and her Christmas-caroling spawn to get to it. Being asked to spend $8 on a bag of soup is almost never a winning proposition for me given the current going rate of alcohol—the cost-benefit analysis prevails yet again.

I would have spent $3.99 on a can of chili, had I been able to locate a single option amidst the array of vegan, organic, gluten- and dairy-free versions of chicken Chik’n stock that Whole Foods had to offer (to whom they are offering this selection, I’m not certain). Perhaps the item that I was searching for was hidden behind the older, mainstay of a woman whose cart was perpetually blocking everything that anyone tried to view in Aisle 6. No doubt the next stop her cart makes would be the cancer-patient-pajama aisle.

The coup de grace occurred, as it always does, in the parking lot trying to navigate my low-price-point automobile through the merry maze of custom-whatever Sport Utility Vehicles that must have been driving themselves, because no human, however rich, could have done that poor a job. And thus, a well-intentioned stop for dinner redefined my own personal Holiday Hell Whole, and transitioned my experience nicely into the next rung of hell: holiday traffic terror.

Happy Wholidays!

Cold-Filtered Fitness

Have you ever attempted to use a stair stepper while moderately intoxicated? The answer to that question may seem obvious to some, but I exercise under some unique conditions: drunk. Ergo, if I were to answer my own question: yes, last night.

Usually the treadmill is my go to after a few Silver Bullets. Apropos isn’t it? Assuming you don’t suffer from vertigo–alcohol induced or otherwise–the treadmill is arguably a much safer workout option after drinking than running or otherwise being ambulatory on pavement. Trust me on that one. My face has a tendency to connect with concrete in a manner that is highly unnatural for a human employed outside of the extreme sport and/or construction industry. Now you can understand why I have to focus on the look of my body. I use “focus” loosely here.

Not everyone buys into the treadmill hype, though. Elliptical machines are a safe bet–as in, it’s safe to bet that you’ll actually gain weight on one of those. If you get the gait right, you can go for ages, a trick I learned from neighborhood sorority girls whose weight loss journey via this sloth-like machine I followed for a month before turning attention instead to the routine airing of My 600-lb. Life. But seriously, who am I to judge? If you’ve spent the three hours leading up to a gym visit drinking like I often have, it’s also safe to say that weight loss isn’t a top priority. Silent judgment and subsequent blog posts–that’s a different story.

Of late, I’ve been experimenting with the rowing machine. I enjoy this piece of equipment because it requires you to sit down, and any exercise of which sitting is an integral component is an exercise that’s appropriate for me. There are difficulties associated with inebriated rowing, however. When I get into a good rhythm–somewhere between beginning and ending five minutes in–I am overwhelmed with a deep regret over not joining the college rowing team. I’m not even sure if my land-locked university had a rowing team, let alone the water to sustain such a team. But this moment is nevertheless where visions of Good Will Hunting and New England in the fall subsume the fantasy. Quickly thereafter, I start to get sea sick. Nausea at the gym is unfortunate and indicates that you are a huge loser. I may be a borderline addict, but loser I am not.

Last night I decided to ditch the rowing machine and step outside of my comfort zone, which happened to involve stepping onto a stair stepper. This was not just any stair stepper–it had actual stairs off of which you could step and/or fall. I think you know where this story is going. But long before I bailed off the stair stepper–well, not that long–I got my toes stuck in the stair joints. At the time, I thought this was simply how one achieved a firm footing on the stairs. In hindsight, and three toenails later, I think I was doing something wrong. And I don’t mean that in the walking public service announcement kind of way. It’s an issue of form, not substance (abuse).

Net-net: In spite of the accident, I do not regret my cold-filtered determination to show a bunch of strangers who I will inevitably run into throughout the duration of my lease the downfalls of drinking and exercising. Someone had to. I am, though, thankful that I didn’t seriously injure myself, and that’s what dodging and drinking a Silver Bullet at the same time looks like.

Who You Can Count On Not Being Able To Count On

Breakups are terrible.  No one is immune to the resulting devastation, unless you’re a sociopath—something I have found myself aspiring to be over the last few months.  (I realize, of course, that this is not a condition you develop through hard work and federally funded education.)  But seriously, consider a few of the defining behavioral characteristics of a sociopath, according to Psychology Today.  Absence of delusions and other signs of irrational thinking–yes, please!  Delusions and irrational thinking have characterized every waking moment of every day of the last few months, and it would be nice to do without them.  Lack of remorse and shame–no-brainer.  “Could have,” “should have,” “would have,” oh my!  The regret that accompanies the end of a relationship, spanning years of a previous life and pertaining to moments that you didn’t even remember until suddenly you regretted them, can be excruciating.  To be free of that ever-present internal questioning (“What if I just hadn’t ordered the Ancient Grain Encrusted Cod from Schwans?!”) would be nothing short of incredible.  Superficial charm and good intelligence–irrelevant, but who doesn’t want this?

In any event, despite at least one prior insistence to the contrary, I am not a sociopath.  And struggling through a breakup as a relatively normal girl with standard-grade General Anxiety Disorder, I am oft reminded: “Lean on family and friends during this hard time.”  WRONG!  This may be the single most erroneous but widespread piece of advice given to people grieving the loss of a relationship.  In fact, the only moment during the period in which you are processing and recovering from a breakup that you should reach out to friends or family is if you’ve wrapped your car around a tree and the paramedics absolutely refuse to come fetch you.  Even then, if you are ambulatory enough to get to the hospital on your own, I suggest you go that route.

The unfortunate reality is that every person within your circle of friends and family has the potential to add a unique flavor of uselessness to the already trying experience you are going through, and that’s if you are lucky.  Worst-case scenario, your support circle quickly comes to resemble the Malebolge and in no time you find yourself hopscotching between the Fifth, Sixth, and Seventh Bolgias before descending to the final depths of hell.  It’s not a pretty picture, people, and it’s a l.o.n.g. way down.

Sisters:  The bullshit that you receive from a sister will probably differ depending on whether you have younger or older sisters.  If she’s younger, she’ll be too busy engaging in overweight stripping and uppers to be in touch.  Consider this a good thing.  It’s the older sister you need to be wary of, as she is the one who will leverage the situation to demonstrate how insignificant problems (yours) compare to real-world problems (hers).  She has been doing this for years, you should not be surprised.  But you will be.

You will also be surprised at how quickly she has forgotten the better part of the last two years, during which you dropped everything at a moment’s notice to help her process the end of her relationship—and then the beginning of her new relationship and then the beginning of drama in that relationship and then the interestingly depressing continuation of that relationship followed by the regret and longing for the old relationship.  My advice—do as I say and as I do: tell her to fuck off.  See Figure 1.

Dads:  Your father will have nothing to say—informative or otherwise—and instead of letting that sentiment play out in real life by simply saying nothing, he will invariably repeat the most useless, albeit potentially harmful, single statement that comes to his mind.  While seemingly innocuous, “you two were together for a long time” can take on a variety of disturbing meanings when you’ve heard it for the 87^th time, including, but not limited to:

• Way to fuck this up, sport.
• Apparently you take after old dad here.
• Your mid-30s is a dangerous time to be moving out of a relationship.
• Have you thought this through?
• When am I going to recoup the $8,700 I loaned you for college?
• What happens to your cat?
• Is your car equipped with a good set of tires?
• At least your sister and brother have given me grandkids.
• You two were together for a long time.

Moms:  It would be against the law of nature for a mother to rebuke her child in a time of need.  You will find in your mom a never-ending source of support, so long as you assume full responsibility for the destruction of the relationship within the first five minutes of breaking the breakup news.  If you do this, you’ll then have to endure another few weeks of shaming and blaming before she will move on to nurturing you back to health.  The nurturing process will come with some free lunches–appetite not included–and some phone conversations involving an outdoor voice directed at you, the television, a neighbor, or an unseen audience that will not reveal itself for many years to come.

Male Friends:  Wholly useless; largely without exception.  If you want a man’s perspective on your breakup, talk to your bartender.  He will be infinitely more useful than a guy friend, if only because he has a world of alcohol at his fingertips.  If you are lacking a bartender, a booze bra will still provide more support.

Female Friends:  Your best female friends are probably going to be there for you through the extended process that is a breakup.  By best friends, I mean your kicked-out-of-a-hotel-in-France-for-fighting or bleached-your-hair-after-you-took-clippers-to-your-head best friends.  These friends will answer your drunken, distraught calls that come in at 10:15 a.m., right in the middle of their morning staff meeting.  They will find polite ways of telling you that Hail To The Thief on repeat may be contributing to your week-long, tear-duct breakdown.  These friends, unlike your sister, will repeatedly answer a ridiculous question that you will repeatedly ask, and they will do so in a slightly different manner each time, so as to not make you feel terrible for engaging in irrational repetition.  And, they will let you vomit your neurosis all over their kitchen table each time you crash their Friday family dinner.

But don’t look any further than these women, or you’ll find a bunch of bitches who operate on a single speed of absolute self-absorption.  The female friendly acquaintance is not to be trusted with a sexually transmitted disease, let alone your fragile heart coming out of a breakup.  The standard female reaction to learning about the demise of your relationship is something akin to “you can do better” and/or “you’re better off without him,” and they say these things because they’ve spent more time picking off their Shellac than actually listening to what happened.  You will receive far more meaningful feedback from a Douglas fir or other conifer–run to the hills.

Colleagues:  Best-case scenario is that no one in your office knows about your breakup.  The reality-based scenario, however, is that everyone in your office knows about your breakup.  This mass spread of highly personal information tends to happen when you spend the majority of each day criding (a combination of hiding and crying) under your desk or when you’ve been spotted on multiple occasions at the bar down the street “enjoying” jalapeno margaritas at 11:30 a.m.  Don’t you fucking judge.

Point being: chances are good that people in your office know what you’re going through.  And, chances are better that people in your office are going to comment on what you’re going through.  Colleagues are probably the best source of the go-to and completely terrible condolence offering: “At least you weren’t married.”  Yes, thank God I was not married.  Fortunately for me, I wasn’t able to wear an obnoxiously large and wonderful white dress and party my ass off before my relationship crumbled.  The last thing I would want to do during the grieving process is fill out rote paperwork and pay $250 in court filing fees.  Don’t get me wrong, I understand that divorces can get messy.  But perhaps that’s because one or more assholes are involved in the process.  At least give me the ole’ “Thank goodness you didn’t have kids” bit.

Strangers:  Jackpot!  Whether you’re looking for advice on the best cave into which you can retreat for the next decade, answers to your fanatically wild questions about the meaning of life, thoughts on whether you were 97.3 or 99.1 percent to blame for the breakup, or simply an alternate reality in which your name is Beverley and you’re an insanely happily married machine welder and mother of three, strangers are incredibly reliable sources of kindness and valid feedback.

As it turns out for the brokenhearted, strangers are all around us.  They frequent bars, work at restaurants, walk their small dogs through grocery store aisles against health code regulations, and drive the wrong way through your parking garage.  Although most of my interactions with strangers begin and end badly, just today a passerby told me: “Smile, you’re beautiful.”  He was a hippie and I didn’t take him seriously because I seriously doubted he wasn’t high as a kite–nevertheless, this single statement was far more constructive than anything my sister has said since November 2014.  And when you’ve made a name for yourself crying through city bars and restaurants, it’s the little things that matter.

Meditation for the Less Mindful

Mindfulness Meditation is all the rage these days. In fact, it’s almost like the new road rage. There is a lot about mindfulness as a concept that really resonates with me, because all but a few of my waking minutes are generally spent dwelling on some tween-novella bullshit from my past or deluding myself into thinking reality is not exactly how it appears. I’ve spent a lot of time and energy thinking about past events to which I have dedicated a lot of time and energy.

I made the decision months ago to become more mindful, and like prior efforts at self-improvement, the first step following such a decision generally involves investing in a bunch of books on the topic that are surprisingly expensive. Actually, the first step in self-improvement is usually questioning self-improvement in the first instance, but let’s assume I made it past that step. (Not necessarily a wise assumption, but I’m running with it for the time being.) Once these books are in-hand, however, the act of actually reading them does not logically follow from the step of having bought them, as you might assume it would. More often than not, the sequence of events involves moving those books from counter-top to bookshelf to floor (and back) long enough for me to forget about owning them altogether, which makes discovering them under the couch that much more meaningful and interesting.

It was in this fashion that I came across my mindfulness collection recently, along with an old sock. Ten pages deep, it occurred to me that learning through reading wasn’t my strong suit, so I got online to leverage that which is my strong suit–paying other people to do things for me. And that is how I found myself in a full-day meditation class recently. The class involved some lecturing, lots of talking about feelings, during which I wholeheartedly tuned out, and three mindfulness meditation exercises lasting anywhere from fifteen minutes to absolute eternity.

During each exercise, I was met with varying degrees of failure:

• Session One: “… how do I know whether I’m sitting correctly … maybe I should have gone with the floor instead of this chair … it would seem difficult to maintain good posture sitting on the floor … I wonder what everyone on the floor looks like now … or are my eyes supposed to be closed … yeah, I thought so, horrible posture … shit, I shouldn’t be thinking about that right now … I shouldn’t be thinking about anything … OK, think about nothing … nothing … nothing … nothing is happening … I can’t just think about nothing without reminding myself to think about nothing, which is thinking about something … does this really help people, because its making me feel like I’m taking crazy pills … let’s try: breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe … it would be easier to breathe if there weren’t thirty adult hippies in this room smelling like incense … God, I used to love incense when I was younger, what happened to that … Febreze, probably, because who needs incense with all the chemical smells we have these days … which is not a very environmentally conscious option, I should probably shelve that one … how long was this supposed to be, it’s hard enough to be thinking about noth … OK, I’m really not good at this … in, out, in, out, in, out … where are we going out for lunch, I wonder … I’m really hungry, those granola bars just don’t do it for me, give me some fucking eggs … DAMN IT, this is painful … phew, fifteen minutes done”

• Session Two:  ” … breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, I’m going to pass out, I’m so tired from lunch … probably not the best plan to have people sitting very still immediately after eating a meal … I don’t envy those people on the floor, my stomach is hanging over my pants right now and it would be ten times worse sitting Indian style on the floor … boy, I wonder if that term is offensive to American Indians, surely they weren’t the only people who sat on the ground like that … people have been sitting on the ground since … well … since people started sitting on the ground … thank God for Ikea … alright, back on track, this is impossible, how do I turn off this meaningless dribble … breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, breathezzz … zzzzz …. zzzzzzzzzzzzz …. zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzzz …. holy shit, what was that …. did I just fall asleep … sitting straight up in a chair, even … that is ridiculous, I didn’t even know I was capable of sleeping upright … I’m like a horse, but probably not as cool … horses … rad creatures, right … zzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzz … zzzzzzzzzzzzz …. whoa what just happened with my head”

• Session Three:  “I am not going to fall asleep this time, how embarrassing … thankfully people shouldn’t have had their eyes open to see me slip off the chair but that is totally unacceptable in any event … breathe in, breathe out, breathe in, breathe out, in, out … I mean I paid good money to be here and do this … and I’m doing this for myself, so who cares if I’m swapping garlic-ridden air with a bunch of old … I should definitely be more sympathetic there are people in here who have lived hard lives … granted, I tuned out when they were talking about that but it isn’t all ponies and unicorns and … zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz … I’M AWAKE … did I just say that out loud …”

A Benjamin Button Birthday

I celebrated my 26th birthday recently. Hold the applause, and that’s a lie anyway. It seemed entirely appropriate that I woke up on my birthday with a zit on my face the size of the cupcake that no one bought me. Rest easy–I ended up finding that cupcake and buying it for myself. And then I bought another. And then I don’t want to talk about what happened next. Despite my advanced age, I nevertheless seem to retain the body of a hormone-riddled 15 year old who has just discovered junk food and, consequently, the obesity movement.

It also seemed appropriate that I did not enjoy my birthday. It’s not that I dislike birthdays. Actually, that’s exactly what it’s like. I simply despise getting older, because while I understand that aging is a fact of life, I nevertheless take it very personally. It’s something of a singular event to me, and every year I get older I respond by acting another year younger. Maybe that’s why my friends call me Benjamin Button. They don’t, but you get the point. This year, however, I am putting my foot down. Some changes are in order because I am growing weary of playing a professional on TV but moonlighting as Chris Brown. So I’ve pulled together some semi-attainable birthday resolutions, and am now endeavoring to not forget them with every passing second.

Drink less–Much like unlimited fries come with every Red Robin hamburger, so must this appear on every resolution list I create. Next.

Lift weights–Word on the street is that I need some weight lifting in my life, because that’s what healthy adults do. The street of which I speak is Biggest Loser, and the word is that of Chris Powell and his ever-pregnant breeding champion Heidi. My search for two hours of inspiration a week brought me to this show, which has delivered in all ways except for personal weight loss. But now, I’m beginning to understand that the only thing standing between me and the rocking body that Fitness magazine tells me I can have is a huge tire that I can push around my front lawn, if only either existed. Fortunately, I have overfed my cat for one too many years now, and he is beginning to resemble the entire tractor–not just its tires. I figure I’ll start my personal training by lifting him up a few times.

Be more social–Don’t get me wrong, alienation can be an entertaining place. Despite its moments, it also happens to be lonely. For this reason, I have returned to social media, to embrace the always unfulfilling connection to sheer acquaintances. Find me on Instagram at @cats.in.your.pants or at the neighborhood bar. In either, I’ll be the one with no friends who is trying to figure out how to operate her phone.

Grow up–Years of acting like a teenager have not served me well. Thanks to parents and peers who have become parents, I have been shamed into the realization that it’s time to get a job, land a man, and bake a baby. Sounds pretty complicated to me, but I guess there’s always alcohol.

Oh, and if you happen to be feeling bad that I didn’t get anything for my birthday, don’t worry, I did …

indignation, resignation, celebration!

I’ve spent the last five months drafting resignation letters in the cold, dark solitude of the closet that I call my man cave. Here are a few of the final contenders.

First Draft:

Dear Mr. Stevens,

Over the course of the last few months, I have witnessed an unprecedented shift in my job duties. What originally were my client accounts have now been subsumed by the gentleman that you recently brought in “to assist with the operational side of things.” I can only assume that the operational side of things is my asshole, and that the assisting of which you speak is totally screwing me in it. If not the intended effect, this is certainly how it is playing out, which is not to suggest this is a game in which I enjoy participating. Surely there is some S&M club that you crawl into after hours that you could also use to take out your aggression against successful women. But I guess the joke is on me because that club is my cubicle and that bitch in chains is me.

For the reasons detailed above and because I now have to dedicate well over 50 hours a week to plotting your demise, I must hereby submit my resignation.

Eleanor

Second Draft:

Dear Mr. Stevens,

When we first had the pleasure of meeting five years ago, I never would have guessed that you gain such pleasure from starving babies. Rest assured that is what you are doing by replacing me–literally taking the food out of my children’s mouths. Before I leave at the end of next week, should I put in a reorder on your business cards to take into account this change in role? I think “King Dick” more aptly describes your title at this company. Corporate would be impressed, of that I am sure.

I hope you eat well tonight, Eleanor Abernathy

Third Draft:

Dear Mr. Stevens,

This is my resignation letter. Stick it up your ass or choke on it–I trust you will make the prudent choice.

GFY

Fourth Draft:

Dear Mr. Stevens,

When Edward said goodbye to Bella in Twilight: New Moon, telling her he no longer loves her but only because he loved her too much to see her hurt, I couldn’t help but think about how much I hate my fucking job. I thought the same thing when the Stark family, or what’s left of it, was slaughtered at the hand of Lord Frey, except this time I also wondered why the hell I continue to work here. You can shove that spoiler alert up your ass and find someone else to work here, I’m leaving. Oh, and pay your debts like the evil sister-fucking Lannister that you are–you owe me last month’s commission.

Eleanor

Samwell Draft:  

Dear Mr. Stevens,

I said, what what, in the butt. I said, what what, in the butt. I said, what what, in the butt. I said, what what, in the butt. You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt? You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt? You wanna do it in my butt, in my butt? Let’s do it in the butt, I quit.

 

 

 

stigmatic. stupid. stitches.

Jesus gave up on me long ago, and that’s only if—big if—he even had an interest in me after I defecated all over the doctor who delivered me some undisclosed number of years ago. I don’t think it gets any more ‘mark of the beast’ than that. So, there has never really been a religious connection within thirty feet of me at any given moment, which is why my colleagues were so surprised when, out of nowhere, I had a stigmatic moment and started bleeding through my blouse at an internal staff meeting. This was clearly far more interesting than my routine report on what I had obviously failed to accomplish the week prior.

But, of course, it was not out of nowhere. In fact, it was out of the sub-dermal chest piercing that had gotten snagged on my bath towel that morning and partially torn out of my chest. I tried, very quickly and without much thought (which is generally how I operate), to blame my stigmata on Jesus. That failed to impress most but succeeded to insult many. I then—even quicker and with no thought—tried explaining that I am related to St. Francis of Assisi. I had lost them by this point so I just resumed droning on about the menial tasks that I spend days at a time struggling with.

After the meeting, I was able to find some privacy in the communal restroom, at which time I had a come to Jesus moment (only in theory, of course) about needing medical attention for this very-attached-to-my-skin anchor that was also and unfortunately very attached to the rest of the piercing which was no longer at all attached to my skin. That’s a mouthful or, in this case, a chestful. Strangely enough, the medical profession does not have much of an appreciation for semi-professional young adults who need immediate and somewhat-surgical removal of a semi-permanent and non-surgically implanted mistake.

Upon rethinking the nurse call center’s suggestion that I cover up and keep clean in order to wait the two weeks necessary to see plastic surgery for an initial consultation, I called back and orchestrated a fairly clever lie, involving the requisite fever, swelling, and green pus that tend to expedite one’s position in the patient pack. Fortunately, it worked, and a short 8 hours later I found myself trying to answer a somewhat confused trauma doctor’s questions:

• “What am I looking at?”  Something I would like removed from my chest.

• “A sub what …?”  A sub-dermal piercing, which means … “Yes, I know what sub-dermal means.”

• “Were you sober when you got this?”  That’s debatable, but let’s go with yes.

• “What am I supposed to do with this?”  Well, I was thinking cut it out. Please?

• “What’s underneath this and what is it attached to?”  I am presuming skin and more blood, but not necessarily in that order.

• “Have you tried to take this out yourself?”  Yes, and that reminds me, if we have time can you check out the bump on the side of my head, here? I think I hit the side of my toilet when I fainted.

• “Do you think I can just jiggle it and get it out?”  No.

• “Hmm … it’s looking like I am going to have to cut this out.”  Yes.

• “Are you comfortable with me cutting this out even though I don’t know what’s involved or what this thing looks like?”  Get it out.

• “Ooh, has that Lidocaine worn off?”  Yes.

• “Should we shoot a bit mmo …”  Just keep going!

• “Alright, it’s out. Should we put a stitch or two in there?  I’m not sure I have the professional qualifications to answer that, aside from observing that there is a hole in my chest.

• “Here it is, want to take it home with you?”  Gross.

• “You want to see gross, come in when some lady with acrylic nails falls down and rips the top half of her fingers off.”  … OK.