I'm Gay Even
Wednesday, Jan. 12, 2005, 5:07 p.m.

This here story falls into the "Hi, Kettle, You're Fat" category, as evidenced by my last entry, whereby I put up curtains in my glass house while happily pointing chubby fingers at my weight-challenged sistren about their unkempt look. It starts with Oreos. Eaten, in threes, at 9am before running hither and thither (seeing as I'm getting a headstart on that Healthy Eating Resolution, yes?) It may, or may not, be important to note that when eating Oreos, I break apart the chocolately outers to scrape my bottom teeth along the innards as curls of creamy white fall delicately upon my tongue. Then, if I had the foresight to pour myself a glass of milk (skim, thanks very much), only then can the dipping commence. But more often than not, in my haste to get as many Oreos in my mouth as I can before The Guilt sets upon me, I forego the milk pouring and go straight to the removal of whites. So it was this morning apres showering, teeth brushing, glamorizing and pre-errand running. After I made love to the Oreos in my impassioned and mysterious way, *hoo, look at the time* (hence the idea of eating cookies for breakfast), I had a pee pee and a quick teeth brushing to make sure I had no dark bits caked into my fronts and molars. Then, *hurryhurry* out the door. Onto the post-office, the dry cleaners, the car wash, and the gas station, all before picking up my hoosband to go to the doctor's. It was not until I got into the gas station and the 17 year-old non-proactiv-user attendant looked askance at me that I had an idea of what was wrong.

Me: Hey.

Him: *head scratching*

Me: Pack of Shimmy-Sham Smokes. (Yep, yep, really am taking off in that Transforming Myself into The Glorious Person I Wish I Was department).

Him: Uhhh.

Me: Yeah?

Him: Uhhhhhh. I think you got something.*index finger erect* In your hair.

And there, nestled comfortably in a curly lock, like a baby bird in a nest, was a roll of white creamy Oreo.

Me: Hehhehheh. Thanks.

Him: *taking fife thousant years to give me my GODDAMN cigarettes while my face grows ever more crimson* No problem.

Me: *beeline*

How awkward. And then, climbing into the car, it was then that I noticed that my zipper was ALL THE WAY DOWN and you could see, as clear as W. shouldn't be our president, my peasantly unders. Humiliated? Ya should. It's only by the grace of Allah that I did not at that moment drive the Ram Van onto the gassing island, effecting a jagunda explosion that would put me, and others, out of wretched misery. I tell you this because Shame is for the Weak and I am clearly very, very strong. Seriously, you can't even point fingers at me, because the moral to this story is: Judge Not Lest You Have Food In Your Hair and Your Old Panties Showing at a Gas Station After You've Run All About Town. See? Beware.

In an effort to distract the mind from the fear and self-loathing, I began thinking about how if I destroyed myself in The Van then I couldn't drive eight hours to see my parents this weekend. And what a shame that would be. Because they are moving from their house this month and it's all "Michele Jones, This Is Your Life!" as all manner of redonky shit is resurfacing. Like my notes from fifth grade:

Dear Denise,

Who do you like better (circle one):

Me or Carrie?
Carrie or Christine?
Christine or Me?
David or Bryan?
Bryan or Kenny?
Kenny or David?
Me or Kenny?
Me or David?
Me of Bryan?

Your bestest(to the infinity) friend,
Michele

I mean, please. This kind of nonsense could be lost to me FOREVER. And I heart these silly notes. Because it reminds me of how painfully similar I am now to my elementary-school mentality. But as this realization came too close to my previous self-incriminations, I thought instead about how my Brownie/Girl Scout vest with all the badges was refound in the packing. Except that reminded me of how I convinced Matt that I knew how to sew and therefore could reupholster our couches 1, 2, 6 and how it then turned into The Thanksgiving Day Debacle 2002 whereby Matt was up sewing into the wee hours and now he won't let me take on any more "projects" because I never finish what I start? Besides the fact that I got kicked out of Girl Scouts for taunting and pulling girls' hair? My mind quickly jumped from one found object to the next but unfortunately, my brain was on auto-pilot and switched to "Mistake Detected Default Mode" and I was quickly spiraling out of control with the "God, You're a Moron" thoughts. Thankfully, I arrived at Matt's office and we zoomed off to the doctor.

Now, without making this explanation of the doctor visit too long, let me say that I have spent countless hours combing the internets, reading books and articles, researching what needs to be done for my neck surgery. Over the last three months, it's really been my Primary Objective. I've printed out dozens of articles on clinical trials, sent information request emails worldwide, drawn diagrams of every replacement disc, drawn up the pros and the cons of different kinds of surgery every way from Sunday, and this doctor's appointment was the culmination of all that research and info-seeking. I had the fear, though, that this specialty doctor wouldn't agree to the surgery that I felt comfortable with and therefore, I'd be back at square one, not knowing how to get out of pain and move on with my life. But this doctor. This gloriously beautiful doctor pulled out my films, and without me saying a word, immediately said, "You've come to the right place. You're a perfect candidate for the artifical disc replacement surgery." And I burst into tears. With happiness. And with the relief. And suddenly, all my "God, You're a Moron" thoughts that have imbedded themselves over the last two and a half years vanished from my psyche and I was Brilliant. And Informed. And Right. And Together.

And I decided then, with food in my hair and my underwear showing, 2005 really is going to be My Year. Just you wait and see. No, seriously, it's MY year. So any claims you think you had on it? You better Step. *dj, cue up Ain't Nothin' Gonna Break My Stride, por favor* Hokay, maybe I'm getting a little ahead of myself here, but I haven't had this kind of fantastic news in a long, long, long-ass time or been this optimistic or positive-thinking in a great while and the intoxicating joy of it all has forced me into this grabby, year-claiming frenzy. It'll subside some, but Hello, Happy, where you been? Grab a seat, stay awhile, why don't you?