My trip to California last week can be summed up in two words: DOANS PILLS. I didn’t have them, but oh my god how I and my elderly musculoskeletal system wished I did.
Tuesday, the day before I left, I pulled something in my back. Well, several somethings. I’m pretty sure this happened when I stupidly lifted a 30 pound box of cat litter, as I frantically endeavored to prepare our home and all the living creatures in it for the three day siege of studied neglect and organizational anarchy that is my husband being in charge of our household. I do what I can, and leave the rest up to the gods.
(For your information, I am now of the mind that the creation of 30 pound boxes of anything is an affront to all humankind. Especially all of humankind’s spine and lower back. There should be a law or something.)
So I woke up at the ass-crack of dawn on Wednesday to catch my early morning flight out of dodge only to discover that I was magnificently hobbled. As in, every step was an aching clusterfuck of anguish, a tumult of cramping and seizing agony. I somehow managed to pack and get myself out the door — in between frequent pauses to choke back the strangled screams involuntarily spasming in my throat.
And then? I spent 6 hours crammed into an economy seat on a plane. I’ll just let you imagine for a moment what that was like. As a side-note to flesh out your mental.jpgcture-conjuring, I will offer that during my flight I enthusiastically glugged down two atrociously bad glasses of red wine from two teeny-tiny wine bottles, and very nearly wept openly at the pathetic Hilary Swank romantic comedy "P.S. I Love You" (or, as I like to now call it, "P.S. My Acting Career Is Over"). DON’T YOU JUDGE ME. YOU DON’T KNOW MY PAIN.
Over the course of the 48 hours I was actually in California, several things happened.
1. I spent a crapload of time with this whore (who I call "whore" with the deepest love and affection, since she’s pretty much like my sister and I feel that level of connection with her, despite her total epic whorishness)
2. Magical camera-gifting gnomes sprinkled gold dust, SLRs, and videocameras on our heads (OUCH!)
3. Amy and I met, fell in love with, and were photographed by this woman, who I so totally want to be when I grow up
Squeezy McEyesockets and Squinty McGlarekins4. I got a massage, during which the masseuse said to me, and I quote: "Yeah, your back is pretty fucked up"
5. I whined. A LOT. (DON’T YOU JUDGE ME. YOU DON’T KNOW (yada yada yada…))
6. I watched — of my own volition, and because I enjoy suffering, apparently — a PBS documentary about cancer. And quickly realized just how good my back pain felt
All told, back drama aside, the trip was whorishly profitable a lot of fun. Mera is going to be speaking at BlogHer, by the by, and you should so totally catch that shit if you can, fo shizzle.
And, of course, my back got all better only after leaving California. It’s like I’m being punished. BY LIFE.
You can stop laughing at me now. Dammit.
