Verbosity In Motion

Ok. If you’ve seen Phantom Of The Opera (the new movie version) and you liked it, you have to go back and see it again. Then you’ll love it. I swear. It’s even better the second time around. Stock up on Motrin, though, because you’ll need it later, after you’ve been banging your head on your desk to get the music to quit pinging around your brain.

Found on Michele Agnew’s blog:

The you-sexy-thing game. It’s based on this formula:

The name of your first pet.
The name of the street you lived when you were a baby (or the first street name you recall from your childhood)

Now, based on the first pet I remember, and the first street name I can recall, my you-sexy-thing name is Ataturk North Venice.

No, wait. Ataturk Leifstrasse

Ooh, yeah. Take your pick, they’re both awesomely drop dead sexy. I feel more feminine already. And special. And maybe a little not-so-fresh.

I’m still pimping my cat

It’s no secret that I’ve had back problems for years. A few years ago a new back problem raised its ugly head—a sharp crunchy pain in my lower back (yes…crunchy…like rice krispies, only not)—and last year my hip decided to join in on all the fun, so I finally went to the doctor yesterday.

TriCare Appointments, in all their infinite wisdom, scheduled this appointment for a grand total of 10 minutes. Yes, ten whole minutes to relate to the doctor my pain, where it is, what’s it’s not (not an injury), how long I’ve had it, etc. ad nauseum. Ten minutes was long enough for her to determine that a peek inside my back and pelvis were called for.

So off to x-ray I went. It was already creeping up on 4:15 p.m., and the waiting room was nearly vacant. In fact, it was so vacant I only had to wait there about 10 minutes before being called back. I had to pee in a major way, but I figured, “What the hell, this will take five, maybe ten minutes tops.”

Here’s a lesson for you: if you have to pee, don’t assume anything. Go pee. They can wait. Because if you don’t go, during the x-ray session they will have need to poke your lower belly in search of your pubic bone and will hit your bladder every freaking time. And the “five, ten minutes tops” will become one hour and ten minutes, because the tech is new and keeps clipping off part of your hip on the image, plus it’s difficult to get a clear shot of the lower spine and the hip.

The hip part was painful, the spine part…well, let’s just say I thought I should have been paid for that. I don’t think porn stars are contorted into positions like that. My hips were pushed one way, my shoulders another way, until my back was arched and on film I surely looked like I was thinking “C’mere big boy…” In truth I was thinking “Oh holy crud, if I don’t get to pee in the next two minutes, there will be urine dripping off the ceiling.”

Forty five minutes into my contortions, when a new tech came into the room and said they needed “just one more set,” I sat up and informed him I was about to send him to the next floor in a giant flood of pee…he let me up and let me go. Well, not right there. Though much longer and it would have been.

Four more sets of images—I’m pretty sure I was glowing in the dark by then—they let me leave. I put my clothes back on and headed for the hospital entrance…and it was dark. Well, almost dark. Twilight.

Have I mentioned before that I’m night blind?

Have I mentioned before that me behind the wheel after twilight is a really bad idea?

So I whipped out my cell phone, called home and left a message on the answering machine for the Spouse Thingy—when you get home from work, you have to immediately turn around and drive out to pick up your pathetically night challenged better half—and sat down to wait. And wait. And wait.

For an hour.
In a very cold foyer.
With nothing to read.
No TV to watch.
And creepy old men wandering in and out.

And the best part of all? All that contorting hurt like hell, and I won’t even get to go back and find out what’s wrong until the middle of February.


I want my porn paycheck… I earned that sucker.

oh and still pimping…

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