December 11, 2001
sound waves
The Guy hugged me from behind while I was at the computer.
"Bye," he said, and kissed the top of my head.
"Bye," I said back. Somewhere inside my mind, I was thinking along the lines of, aww, he's sweet. I love this guy.
Then, of course, he tried to stick his fingers in my nostrils.
There's something wrong with men. Something fundamentally flawed. I'm pretty sure God didn't have a design plan when he came up with them. You know how bad production can be if you slap something together without a design plan. Things turn out, you know. Wrong.
Seriously wrong.
I went into Sequoia Hospital for my ultrasound, carrying with me the same book I've been carrying with me since the last day of Thanksgiving Vacation: namely, A History of the American People by Paul Johnson. This is a fat, relatively heavy volume even in paperback, but an entertaining read, written as it is by a cynical and decidedly opinionated British guy with a low opinion of British history. Thus far I've gotten past initial colonial settlement of the Americas to the entrance of George Washington into the scene. When I walked into the hospital, he'd just started the Seven Years War in Europe.
I was supposed to have a pelvic ultrasound done two weeks after my initial appointment with the gyno, my first ever. I don't recall that I've done any writing about that particular visit; he was a nice, fatherly man, who kept pausing in the middle of taking my medical history to widen incredulous eyes to say, "What, never?" By the time we got around to doing a pap smear -- very uncomfortable, men. Don't ever have one -- he was treating me like glass, a rare specimen to write up in medical journals.
The gyno suspected ovarian cysts, and sent me in to get my ultrasound; with the threat of medical insurance being cut off at the end of the month, I made a hasty appointment for the exam, three weeks later.
The ultrasound discovered a small cyst on one of my ovaries, two centimeters across. I wasn't aware that my ovaries were big enough to contain a cyst two centimeters across. Live and learn.
"This is a cyst," the ultrasound technician pointed out to me on the screen. It was a black spot, in the midst of fuzz. "It doesn't look serious. It's only about two across."
Ultrasounds are funny-looking. They're like white noise, with ambition.
Thoroughly unimpressed by the signal failure of my reproductive organs to do whatever it is that reproductive organs do when they're not reproducting, I puttered back to work. On my way back in, my cell phone rang.
It was the Firecracker, calling from the office.
"WHERE ARE YOU?" she demanded.
"Why? Am I supposed to be at a meeting?"
"WHERE IS EVERYBODY?"
"Eh?"
"I LOOK, NOBODY IS HERE. WHERE ARE ALL OF YOU?"
I swerved to avoid a car. One way street. Jackass . . . oh. Oops. That's me.
"I'm not really good at talking and driving at the same time," I observed. "I don't know where the rest of them are. I'm on my way back from the hospital. Is nobody in the office?"
"OH. YOU BY YOURSELF?"
"Yes. Is nobody there?"
There was a small, sulky pause. "I DON'T KNOW WHERE ANYBODY IS. I THINK MAYBE YOU ALL GO OUT WITHOUT ME."
"Not that I know about," I reassured. "I'll be back in the office in about ten."
"HUH."
The Firecracker hung up.
I adroitly avoided an ambulance that was in an inconvenient lane. Mine.
Somehow or another, I managed to successfully navigate Tara's car -- did I mention I'm still driving Tara's car? -- back to work. By the time I walked onto the office floor, I was a slightly tense, nervy little round Asian chick. As the Firecracker had said, the floor was pretty much empty.
"Great," I mumbled to the Firecracker as I rounded the corner. "Did we all get laid off? Did someone forget to tell me?"
She craned her neck over her shoulder to stare at me blankly, like I was a complete stranger who had just dropped in to bathe her baby. "EMPTY," she said, suspiciously.
In my cube, a small brown package from Amazon was sitting on my chair. The Guy bought several video games and DVDs on my Amazon account to take advantage of a coupon, and Amazon has been shipping them to me piecemeal over the last two months. "You've got to be kidding me," I thought. "Another one?"
Folks, I got a book. From a reader. One that I actually wanted. "Thanks for making me laugh," the attached note read. "Happy Holidays. Meg."
The Indian collective -- Indian Mom, Indian Woman (the Second), and the Manager -- all came to hook over my cube wall while I cooed over my book.
"Did you see what I got?" I demanded.
A complete stranger, some unfortunate, Chinese passerby, listened with a slightly strained smile while I burbled happily to him about my new book.
I read at work for an hour, then went home after that, and that's what I did for the rest of the night. I finished it an hour ago, the first time I've read a book not related to American history or TCP/IP in well over a month. I've forgotten how much I enjoy reading. On paper.
To the reader who sent me a totally unexpected, totally appreciated gift: thanks. I really needed that.
It's Tara's birthday today, which means that I've managed to go yet another year without remembering a single important date correctly. I think this is important to note, as this is one of those skills that actually gets worse as one gets older. Old age comes with a lot of things, like faulty memory, deteriorating eyesight, weight gain, and hair loss. Oh, not to mention the sagging boobage, which isn't much of an issue for me because when Dolly Parton stole mine, she didn't leave anything behind.
Anyway, happy birthday, Tara.
Welcome to old age.