Temp Diary Day 1

March 6, 2015


“Ok, so I should just get Jason set up on Outlook?”

“Um, no, no. I don’t think he needs that.”

I don’t RATE E-MAIL. I will be working WITHOUT E-MAIL. There are individuals who work at public pools who STAMP HANDS for a living that are given e-mail.

I was also denied a Citrix login. I vaguely recall what Citrix is, but it doesn’t bear the same sting as BEING DENIED E-MAIL AT A PLACE OF BUSINESS WHERE YOU WILL BE PERFORMING OFFICE TASKS FOR THEM THAT GENERALLY REQUIRE COMMUNICATION.

Hi! I’m a temp!
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Nathan Sawaya Is Depressed

November 23, 2014


Consider the above.

Nathan Sawaya is an artist who works in the medium of Lego®. An exhibit of his work (“The Art of the Brick”) is currently transfixing the tourists in our fair city’s primary trap – Fanueil Hall. For $23.50 (“ALL WEEKDAY TICKETS UNDER $20”), you can wind your way through 80+ exhibits of sculpture and portraits created entirely with pop culture’s favorite brightly colored plastic building brick. Of course I had to see this – I am a child at heart and like corny stuff. Also – if another child got too handsy and totaled an entire Lego® city, I wanted to be there. I wasn’t pulling for it to happen, but I would want to be there. Imagine the Vine.

It’s a timed exhibit. So, while the rest of the bovines are filing out , your herd is corralled in front of a video screen to meet Nathan Sawaya. We learn that he’s been on every show from Letterman to Mythbusters. We also learn that:

1) He went to NYU

2) He’s a handsome, affable-looking fellow. Except that he has crazy eyes.

3) We can all be artists if we want, and we can use any sort of material to be artists.

My particular medium is nasty glare. I’m not proud.

But let’s keep our minds on the fact that he has crazy eyes. And on the featured pic of this post. It’s important. Cuz’ there are two very different worlds beyond that inspiring artist interview. One world is a crowd-pleasing exhibit filled with classical art re-constructed with toys. The other? It’s a stark mindscape of abject despair.

[Note – After the jump, there are major photographic spoilers for the show. If you don’t want to be spoiler-ed (wait, no, “spoiled?”), don’t click.]

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This Is What I Get For Going To See ‘Transformers: Age Of Extinction’

July 1, 2014


Here’s a personal truth – I like big, stupid, ridiculous, blockbuster action flicks. If your movie has intensive CGI, theater-shaking explosions, martial arts, motorcycle chases, evil women who kill, spaceships, robots, natural disasters, spandexed people with mutant abilities, rocket launchers fired backwards for laughs, or anything that requires sheepish actors to act against a green screen and opposite an “X” made out of tape, there’s a distinct possibility I’m in your theater. This brings us to the Transformers franchise. These are some stupid movies. But they’re BIG, EXPENSIVE, VISUALLY THRILLING stupid movies and the robots transforming from vehicles (and now dinosaurs!) into robots is so thrilling. The fifth grader in me wants all the toys, and wants to be riding in Bumblebee when the Deceptacons attack and Bumblebee has to quick change to a robot and I go flying through the air and over a bridge and HE CATCHES ME and sparks and crashes and he turns back into a car and I’m safe! The CGI that James Cameron-lite director Michael Bay provides is top notch, and I can honestly say that the Transformers flick prior to this weekend’s Transformers: Age of Extinction had some of the loveliest and movie-experience enhancing 3D I’ve ever experienced. So, yeah, dumb movies.

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As Promised, Tension At The United States Holocaust Memorial Museum

April 18, 2014


This post should be an interesting attempt to relay an uncomfortable yet amusing incident whilst still maintaining an a modicum of respect towards the setting. Hopefully, this won’t come off as “yah, so we were at that Nazi place in DC and these bitches…” Knowing me, it probably will. Alas!

The other Mr. Harvey and I were in DC to celebrate his 40th birthday at the beginning of this month. He’s not one for big parties where people look at him (that was actually a concern he voiced once…people looking at him…when he doesn’t have his hijab on) so we thought a quick jaunt somewhere fun would be keen. Plus, we’re both currently unemployed (we’re the American nightmare) and had the time laying around and look, Jet Blue has a deal! Cherry blossoms and new bars in which to get intoxicated and new sidewalks to stumble upon while drunkenly abusing Uber!

Despite it being a birthday trip, there were some tourist attractions we had wanted to see that weren’t exactly going to be the ball pit at Chuckie Cheese (that’s not a gay sex reference). We had both heard that the main exhibit at the Holocaust Museum was a sobering must-see. We got our tickets online for our 1st day there so we could get the horror portion of the other Mr. Harvey’s birthday out of the way.

It’s an interesting space. I wouldn’t call it pleasant because it’s designed to evoke concentration camp imagery with a lot of brick and exposed girders. Another interesting feature? The staff, for the most part, are made up of some really extreme personalities. Most of the service industry members we encountered in our nation’s capital that trip were really friendly, laid-back and warm. I’m not sure why, but most of the staff at the Holocaust Memorial were WROUGHT. Witness our first exchange with the female human that womans the entrance elevators to the main exhibit.

We make our way in-between her velvet ropes (that came out dirty) but Scotty has us pause so we can call up our tickets on his phone. Please note in advance that there is no line behind us or in front of us. At that moment it’s just the Harveys. My husband has been searching and scrolling for maybe two seconds when she attacked.

Holocaust worker: Tickets?

Husband: Just calling them up on my phone here…

Holocaust worker (perhaps she didn’t hear him?): I said, do you have tickets?

Me: He’s just getting them on his phone.

Holocaust worker: Well, maybe you should move over there to find them so you’re not blocking the way, ok?

I look behind me and note the absence of any other people behind us. Just some velvet ropes. Air. Is this a fire exit? My husband, who does not suffer being spoken down to by fools, bitches, or maniacs, jerks his head up from his phone. Sometimes I feel like there’s a rubber band stretched to its extreme in his brain. That rubber band is marked “JUST TRY IT, BITCH.” I myself loathe confrontation. I’m the shrinking violet who nervously laughs when he forgets to hold a door for someone AND RUNS BACK TO DO IT because I want them to know I didn’t do it out of spite. It makes me look like a wackjob but it’s all designed to not get a dirty look or have anyone think “remember that asshole who didn’t hold the door for me at the mall” before they fall asleep that evening.


“I’M CALLING IT UP RIGHT NOW,” he said in a slow, emphatic tone. Oh dear. Before Officer Friendly could ignore that and ask for tickets again in a disgusted monotone, they popped up on his phone. She waved us through towards a bank of elevators with a chubby, indifferent hand. Another holocaust worker shot out of nowhere with blond curls and a peppy demeanor. She was the radiant ying to ticket bitch’s yang. You would have thought she was seating us at a Disneyworld character breakfast. She had obviously never read up on XYKLON-B or what they were making the lampshades with in Nazi Germany.

We were put in an elevator with a large, equally happy family. Mom was smiling widely as they bantered. She was standing directly in front of the elevator’s panel of buttons. Smiling. No button was pressed. Nothing was lit up. Nothing was moving. A couple of dreary pics of German soldiers added to my discomfort from above. Do I…move her? What do I say? Can I get in there? What if she thought I meant her ass? Her ass was almost ON the panel. NOTHING WAS HAPPENING. WE WEREN’T MOVING. There’s no switch outside they can press? It’s hot in here. They’re talking like it’s fine. Is this like the Haunted Mansion and we’re actually going down but it’s so mechanically deft we can’t feel it? Scotty didn’t notice. He’s looking at his phone and reading the walls. Swiss Family Oblivious are laughing and chatting like it’s the cherry blossom festival. THERE’S GONNA BE FOOTAGE OF EMACIATED CORPSES BEING MOVED OFF OF TRUCKS WITH PITCHFORKS ON THE OTHER SIDE OF THOSE DOORS. I HAVE TO GET OUT OF HERE. I made my move.

“Can I…” I advanced towards Denim Elevator Panel Ass, weakly pointing behind her. She looked at me, and then turned to see why I was invading her space. Her mouth opened wide and she began giggling.

“Oh! OH! We were just sitting here! I’m sorry!”

“Way to go, Mom!”

“Duh, Ma!”

I smiled nervously (“Oh, that,’s ok!’ I shrieked), sweat beads barreling down my ivory expanse of a 10-head. Social anxiety is the fucking worst. Button pressed. Nothing happened.

Nothing happened. We were in a hot elevator with nothing happening. They didn’t even give us a button light for assurance. Was this part of the show? That’s fine, we deserved to suffer. We deserved a portly ticket taker making us feel stupid. We didn’t go through what all those people went through. We deserve to sweat and feel awkward in this hell-avator.

The doors sprang open. Cool air rushed in. The happy Holocaust worker regarded us quizzically. Blonde curls bounced as she cocked her head to the side like a curious toy poodle.

“Well, um, wait? What happened?”

“I guess we weren’t going anywhere…” Denim Elevator Panel Ass Mom offered helpfully. Happy went to get Grumpy. She waddled over with a ring of keys and her usual stank face. Resentfully flipping open a little door on the panel, she shoved a key in, and pressed the button again with a girthy finger.

“This breaks…,” she announced moodily to no one in particular. She was never one for an apology.

The doors shut, the floor shook and hydraulics hummed. Up.

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Our Honeymoon And You: The Story of Mark, Future School Shooter

November 10, 2013
See how that car is SLIDING along the ferris wheel which is moving in its customary CIRCULAR MOTION? Important.

See how that car is SLIDING along its own elliptical track AT THE SAME TIME as the ferris wheel continues its customary CIRCULAR MOTION? Important.

Location: Mickey’s “Fun” Wheel. Paradise Pier. Disney’s California Adventure. Anaheim, California. October 2013
Time: Late afternoon? I don’t know. The sun was lowering but it was still light out.
Dramatis Personae: Myself. My husband. Unnamed father (Major Dad). Unnamed younger brother (Lil’ Bro). Mark.

Mark’s face had acne scorched along the sides, right on the opposing planes where women apply blush. His eyes were beady. His mouth was sealed shut in a pale steam shovel. MARK WAS MAD. MARK WAS TERRIFIED AND MAD. He was 13, maybe 14, and seated across from me in the small metal car affixed to Mickey’s “Fun” Wheel. Scotty was to my right. The little guy whom I assumed was Mark’s younger brother was seated between Mark and the father. His eyes were wide but he was dealing. The car’s movement was somewhat sickening as it periodically SLID down it’s own rail and then SWUNG BACK AND FORTH while the main wheel continued to go round.

Dad looked like he had served in our nation’s military. He was sandy-haired, glasses; handsome but clueless when it came to interpreting his children. He was right below “golf” but high above “slicked-down hair at church” and “short-sleeved dress shirt. He probably knew how to catch and clean a fish. You know – a Dad.

Mark did not want to be on this ride. Mark’s headphones, which you knew he had worn defiantly and sullenly during his day here in Anaheim: Birthplace of Happiness, were almost vibrating off his neck due to shivering. Mark’s pasty hand with the long gawky fingers was melded around the door handle to the right of his head. If this car fell or flung us out, they were going to have to BLAST that handle out of Mark’s dead hand.

Looking from Major Dad to Mark, it was painfully clear that Major Dad didn’t know dick about how to deal with his son. To him, his son was an albino monosyllabic string bean who wasn’t going to “do drugs” or get the beatdown at school from the jocks on HIS watch. Let’s toughen him up! Forcing him to go on this ride will surely result in one of those Church of Jesus Christ and the Latter Day Saints commercials that used to run in the 80s. Not “who broke my window?” but the one where the father and son have to run to catch the garbage truck and end up missing it but laughing together about their little slapstick adventure. Bonding!

Major Dad wasn’t The Great Santini. But you know as you get older and lose the ability to detect the subtle intents and emotions of others? Major Dad had that problem in regards to Mark. He thought that Mark would thank him for this in his valedictorian speech at Annapolis. What Dad didn’t realize was that Mark will remember this and eventually –

A) Grow up and move far, far away from him and maybe speak to him via text on holidays and possibly marry someone of color telling himself it has nothing to do with freaking his father out.
B) Bring that nowadays sadly common rifle to first period
C) Stab him in his sleep

This sounds snarky, but this knowledge was predicated on their conversation.

Major Dad: Mark, Mark, see it’s not so bad.
Mark: No.
Major Dad: C’mon bud, it’s nothing. You’re fine.

Mark’s head slowly turned up from staring at the floor, and swiveled to fix his father with such a glare of hatred that my eyebrows crisped. I resisted throwing my hands up in front of my face.

Mark (through gritted teeth): NO.

And there was this one:

Lil Bro’ (concerned): I think Mark’s scared, Dad.
Mark: SHUT UP.
Dad: Nah, he’s fine. You’re fine. Right, Mark? Oh wait, here we go again. Hold on, Mark! WHEEEE!

Meanwhile my husband, who is able to float through any awkwardness on a cloud of semisolid cluelessness, noticed Little Bro was as nervous as his brother. Little Bro’s eyes were wide as we slid, dipped and SWUNG BACK AND FORTH once more. At a very great height. Little Bro seemed to be used to the fact that Dad’s concern was usually with Mark.

Scotty (chuckling): You look like I feel.

Little Bro nodded and smiled, seemingly happy that an adult agreed with him that this ride was fiendish.

Meanwhile, I’m sharing the opposite end of the car with ole’ Mark. Mark seems to have gotten paler. I want to reach out to him and say something fitting which will translate as “it’s ok that you’re scared, heights are the worst, and your Dad is kind of a dickus for making you go on this. You don’t need to toughen up;  you just need to know it’s ok that you don’t fit in. It’s your Dad that needs to toughen up. Also, please don’t shoot up the school. Get into some bands, make some friends, and roll your eyes a lot.” That’s not me, though. I would try to fit that into something small and witty and it would come off completely unintelligible. Like I was as clueless as his Dad or hitting on him. That’s just me. In my head, I’m 16 and get it but in reality I’m almost 40 and entirely lame. Maybe I should get some cards printed up to pass out to sullen teens.

The ride seemed to take forever. We made small talk with Major Dad in-between bellowing at the slightly sickening motion of the car. We discussed Gravity and he informed us that the “World of Color” show later on that night was comparable to the fountain show at the Bellagio Hotel in Las Vegas. Watching the show that evening, it was evident that he lacked a degree in Comparative Watershow.

Meanwhile, I prayed inwardly that Mark didn’t have a butterfly knife in his backpack. And Dad just kept egging him on!

Major Dad: How we doin’, Mark?
Mark: *silent*
Major Dad: You wanna ride it again?
Mark: NO!

That’s when my husband leans over to whisper “he’s going to shoot up his school” in my ear, despite the person in question sitting maybe three feet across from us. Scott’s convinced that “people don’t listen”, and I’m convinced that someone in the future will reveal themselves to have perfect hearing and ugliness will ensue.

We pulled into port. Scotty and I disembarked quickly and quietly, our notes waiting to be compared. Mark moved to a corner, QUIVERING in rage and hatred, fists clenched, even his backpack seemed to clench, his cap’s brim pulled over his eyes and his sweaty skate company t-shirt soaked with fear and humiliation. He was pale and he hated, HATED his father right then.

Major Dad: Aw, c’mon, it wasn’t that bad. Calm down..

I didn’t catch Mark’s reply but it sounded like it was shrill and from a place of powerlessness. I felt for Mark. I felt for Major Dad, too. Talk about an impasse. How did we all grow up again? When did we become cynical monsters? I know how the assumption become “possible school shooter” when faced with a certain type of disenfranchised adolescent. It’s just sad.

I would like to think that they watched the “World of Color” show again that night. And even though Mark was off to the side glowering, his Dad at one point pulled him to his side (Disney is family magic) and Mark let him.  And he might have even unstiffened his spine for a minute realizing his Dad loved him in his stupid way.  Lil’ Bro ate too much fried dough and puked.

Oh, and…

Overheard On A Flight To Indianapolis….

September 22, 2013


US Airways Flight I Don’t Have My Old Boarding Pass In Front Of Me To Indianapolis
Tarmac, Logan, Approximately 1:15 PM

There is a middle-aged bordering on elderly couple sitting two rows behind me.

There is a shrieking toddler behind them.

The husband begins to grumble.

Husband (turned around and looking back over his seat at the child’s guardian): You’re going to have to do something about that.

Guardian: (murmurs something I don’t catch)



Guardian: (silence)


Husband (to the female flight attendant currently helping a couple in the row across from me stow their bullshit-sized carry-ons, seriously, just fucking check it, you’re ruining everything by trying to store the Ark of the fucking Covenant in the overhead bin): Miss? MISS? We need help here!

Entire plane  (to themselvessome excited and others dreading what’s to come): Oh, it’s on now…

The flight attendant is early 40s, pleasant-looking but also has that veteran passenger wrangler air about her. This dude is clearly in trouble if he thinks he’s going to tussle with her.

Flight attendant: Yes, sir? How can I help you?

Husband: You NEED to do something about this (I assume he indicated the horror behind him with an indignant thumb). He is KICKING MY CHAIR. And he has PULLED MY WIFE’S HAIR ALREADY! He keeps KICKING MY CHAIR.

Oddly, it bothers me somewhat that he keeps referring to his seat as a “chair”. That’s not a chair. Stop it.

Flight attendant: Sir, we have a full flight. There are no empty seats. Let me see if I can resolve this, though. Ok?

Husband: *harumph*


I can hear the attendant talking in a hushed tone with the child’s guardian. The child’s screaming volumes down slightly. The attendant makes her way back up the aisle to the front of the plane. The child’s screaming ratchets up to maximum volume. Shifty kid.

Husband. Great. GREAT. Can you believe this?

We can believe it. The entire plane hates you and that kid. It would be a toss-up as to which of you we would jettison if we were allowed. Probably you, because toddlers can be cute.

The flight attendant makes her way down the aisle heading to the back of the plane.



Me: (under my breath) Seriously?

The guy to the left of me: (under his breath) Asshole.

The guy to the right of me: (under his breath) Sky Mall has some cool shit.

Flight attendant (gritting her teeth but keeping it together): Sir, I have already explained to you that this flight is FULL. There is nowhere to move you or your wife to. I’m very sorry. These things happen. Perhaps…


Yes, the last thing he said was in a sing-songy voice meant to imply that she walked up and down the aisles like she had some brain components missing. The entire plane went silent (except for the kid so maybe they didn’t go silent because jesus, he was loud). I could HEAR her jaw tighten.

Before she could respond (I actually heard an intake of breath because she was going to let him have it), a couple approached her and they conferred.

Flight attendant: Sir, these gracious people have been generous enough to offer to switch seats with you. That’s all I can do for you. Hurry now.

Husband: Fine. Fine. You know, I like kids. I don’t hate kids. We have grandchildren. It’s just that he was pulling my…

Flight attendant (over it and talking down to him so blatantly that I’m waiting for him to accuse her of pulling his wife’s hair): Hurry! Hurry now! Hurry up! We’re waiting to taxi because of this. Please hurry!


The kid stopped crying the very second we left the runway, and remained quiet until we touched down. At which point he began screaming again. *end scene*

How I Knew I Needed To Stop Seeing A Certain Therapist

July 17, 2013


So I see a therapist on the regular. I’ve been through maybe…five(?)… since the mid-90s. There have been some good ones that should be credited with my continued existence, and a couple of “eh” ones that ended up just being amusing anecdotes from my past. The following is about one of those.

While working in Wakefield for a number of years, I began seeing a gay male psychologist in not-even-nearby Beverly. Therapy wasn’t going well. Mainly because I wanted to sleep with my therapist. He was a burly salt-and-pepper sort who constantly wore snug trousers that highlighted his broad buttocks and he would laugh at my jokes with a boyish giggle that sent me (and my genitals) swooning. Our arrangement wasn’t very therapeutic. This became evident during one session when he confessed that he had “trouble being professional” around me. Oh, good. Like I inspire you not to do your job? I’m too far gone to take seriously? People wonder why I drink so much.

But I liked being a patient that he looked forward to seeing, even if it was just because I was an extra amusing part of his day. Being the class clown makes me feel like I have a reason for being around. That feeling was one of the reasons why I was IN therapy. So you see the cyclical dilemma I was experiencing with this therapist.

My attraction to this dude grew more and more. I started to seriously debate whether I could land him or not, and then thought about what a special moment that would be in my life. Torrid! And seedy when you think about it. I would be the wanton slut who caused a man to defy the Hippocratic Oath just so he could show me what those trousers were holding so snugly. It didn’t help that, back at the office, more than a few co-workers told me that they had crushes on their own therapists. So it was an office full of neurotics that were all fantasizing about nailing their shrinks. Our Christmas parties were legend.

My crush on my therapist, and the perceived sexual tension between us, was slashed to ribbons one day when he called me fat. He didn’t just come out and say “you’re fat.” And he didn’t try to broach the subject in a therapeutic, counseling-type manner. It was something he had been secretly thinking and that he accidentally blurted out.

He was leading me through guided meditation, designed to relieve stress and be “in the now”.

A transcript:

Shrink: Your eyes are closed. Now take some deep breaths. Hear the sound of my voice. Follow what I say.

Me: *breathes*

Shrink: Picture a ball of light. It’s warm and comforting. It starts at the tip of your toes. It moves across them, taking away all your stress, all your pain. Now it’s rising and moving slowly and gently over your feet. It’s healing light absorbs all the fatigue, and all the negativity. Now it’s reached your ankles. You can feel the light reflecting upwards. It’s so soothing and warm. You’re beginning to feel totally relaxed and at peace. Now it’s going past your calves and it’s reached your knees, healing as it goes. Absorbing all the tension. Now it’s at your big thighs…

Me: *my eyes popped open* WHAT? Did you say ‘big thighs’? *incredulous*

Shrink: Sorry! Sorry, just – I meant…your thighs…close your eyes again and let me guide you back…

I looked at him for a second. The sonofabitch was SMIRKING. He was blushing. But he was also SMIRKING. And then he gave that giggle again!

My eyes closed again, as he tried to talk me back into that halcyon meadow or whatever and the ball of light came back. But the ball of light was having an issue. The ball of light barely emitted a glow now BECAUSE MY THIGHS WERE TOO FUCKING FAT TO ALLOW IT TO CAST ANY LIGHT ON THE REST OF MY BODY. This bitch just threw shade at my fat legs! I didn’t feel at peace. I felt betrayed! He was looking at my thighs and thinking “damn, he’s got some pudge on those ham hocks” and then accidentally said it!

I decided then and there that I would no longer be utilizing his services. And that his buttocks were not “broad” but “fat, fatter than the fattest things!”

Now I only see lesbian therapists. They could give a shit if I’m fat or not. Or if they do, they’ve got the internal editor switched on to “THINGS NOT TO TELL HIM”.

“Hyperbole And A Half”: The Most Accurate Descriptions Of Depression I’ve Ever Read

May 9, 2013

Screen Shot 2013-05-09 at 3.32.19 PMI’m clinically depressed, and I also have an anxiety disorder. I’m not whining. Just saying. Had it for most of my life. It ain’t going away. Survivors of childhood cancer, gay men, and children of alcoholics are prime for this sort of thing, and I’m all three. Anyway, I’m fine. I take meds, and I talk to someone, and I stick around and try to stay on top of it. It’s kinda all you can ask of me. I’m resigned to the fact that it’s not going anywhere.

Two things that make it worse:

1) Guilt about it. “It makes me a pussy, it’s all just excuses on my part to not excel at life, I’m a coward, I’m weak, etc.”

2) Anger. If it had physical symptoms, I feel like it would have less of a stigma. I don’t talk about it much with friends cuz’ there have been times when I’ve felt looked down upon by them over it. So I shut up about it and keep making jokes.

This is Hyperbole and Half. She’s an artist/blogger who had an awesome blog of drawings that poked fun at life. Then she vanished. She came back with this. Holy shit. I don’t know what else to say. She knows me. I want everyone in my life who knows me to fucking read this because now you know me. Well, a big part of me. And even if you shrug and don’t believe it or understand it, it’s ok. At least I’ll know you know now and can never say you don’t.

Part 1.

Part 2.

J. Fall Down. Go Boom. With His Face.

April 28, 2013


“GGGFAAOWWNNUUHHH!” is roughly the sound that issued from me before my face smacked directly on to the sidewalk.

I went DOWN. DOWN DOWN. As if poleaxed! If you translated that sound, it would come out to be:


As I lay there stunned, not even in pain yet, I heard two cars pass me. Two cars. Neither of them slowing. There’s a man lying facedown on a sidewalk in broad daylight. And not in the sort of area where people lying facedown on the sidewalk (whether dead, dying, high, drunk, lazy, or just plain fatigued) is a common occurrence.  And he’s hoping to hear someone’s power window slide down and a tentative, hoping-to-hell-he-answers-in-the-affirmative-because-we’ve-got-little-Shenandoah’s-soccer banquet-to-go-to voice ask if he’s alright. Nope. Two cars drove by. “What’s that man doing?” “Bleeding dear. Take a pic and Facebook it.”

When I took my face off the cement and noted the pretty drops of blood that were starting to pepper the sidewalk, I was pretty scared. I didn’t have a compact in my purse, so I had no idea of just how bad the damage was. Had my nose been reconfigured and pushed to the side? Was my eye hanging out? I could have answered that one for myself because my vision was fine. What little deductive reason I possess tends to fly away in the face of sheer panic. And my teeth – were my teeth all there? I know people with gaps in their teeth. People automatically assume you watch Duck Dynasty when you have one of those.

The worst part of it, after all was said and done, was that my husband was at the movies. With the car. And I was two blocks from our apartment. And I looked like Bloody Face, I assumed. I was able to deduce that from the pain and the blood. From my face.

Alone. I was utterly alone. No cars had stopped and I probably had a skull fracture and part of my brain was probably leaving (I hadn’t seen it on the sidewalk yet, but who knows – maybe it had fallen into a shrub or something) and I had to walk home alone.

I took my hoodie off, and held it to my face like people do when they’re trying to prevent smoke inhalation. I was trying to prevent unnerving people. Which is odd seeing as I was still resentful about the TWO CARS THAT DROVE BY, PROBABLY SAW A MAN LYING FACEDOWN ON A SIDEWALK, AND KEPT DRIVING TO SHENANDOAH’S SOCCER BANQUET.

It was a long two blocks. I passed three people. One was a small Asian woman. One was a young white man getting into a car that had been idling waiting for him. And one was an older white gentleman walking a dog. Apparently they had been invited to Shenandoah’s soccer banquet as well. Cuz’ not one of those assholes asked me if I was ok. And the sweatshirt wasn’t covering all the damage. That patch on my forehead you see is post-initial clean-up. It was bleeding pretty heavily at first. So the three people who saw me would have been able to see THE BLOOD STREAMING DOWN MY FOREHEAD. Wow, that must have been some fucking soccer banquet. Maybe they had a DJ.

What did people think I was doing? Converting to Muslim but had gotten confused about which gender wears the niqab? A stupid Muslim who was gender transitioning and couldn’t work her niqab correctly? Concerned about the smog levels in Quincy, MA? Really?

Now that I look back, I honestly think the general public’s apathy towards my plight had something to do with the marathon bombing. It was probably a case of “Look, guy. We’ve all had enough of the death and maiming and we’re trying to get back to normal. Can you swing this one on your own? KTHANKSBAI.” So the One Fund won’t be supporting my recovery. I’m ok with that.

The only damage I really did was give myself a non-displacing fracture in my nose. Which means I broke it but not in the way where you need surgery to point it back in the right direction. This is good news, because I have that modeling career to get back to and Ford Models demands that your nose go in the right direction or you can kiss that Marie Claire cover goodbye, darling.

My face hurts.

Overheard: Red Line, Wollaston To Kendall, Beginning At 8:42 AM

November 12, 2012

This is what came up in a Google Images search for “Terror Train.” This was much more interesting than Jamie Lee Curtis screaming. The dog seems happy to be riding on a big pig head.

The source: Male. Late 50s. Large. Very large. Eyes turned beady due to fleshy face. Oxygen tank parked by his legs. He’s wearing shorts with athletic socks. Cell phone. He’s got a cell phone and he’s conducting all of his correspondence on it.

Transcript: “No, no. Patti. PATTI! PATTI, JUST GET IN THE SHOWER AND PUSH THE BUTTON! I can get off. I can get off. North Quincy? I’m at North Quincy now. PATTI, DON’T MAKE ME COME DOWN THERE! What did you have for breakfast? Oh yes, dear – ME, TOO! Blueberries! And bananas! My doctor got me hooked on them. Yeah. Yeah. He says they’re good for my ‘tasium or something. I don’t remember. How’s the DVVV player working? I love it! I love mine! That ray thing. Yes, yes, and when my cable went out that time, I was still able to watch movies! It was incredible! Oh, that DVVV player. Hold on, it’s Daniel. *clicks over* Daniel! DON’T YOU GET ME ANGRY ON THIS TRAIN! I’m on the train! You are a big boy, and you do what you think is necessary, Daniel. THAT DOCTOR SAID SIX WEEKS! DANIEL, I DON’T WANT TO ARGUE WITH YOU – I’M ON THE TRAIN! You’re a big boy. You do what you want. You’re mad and going to do what you want anyway. No, six weeks. The doctor…he said…Daniel. You are wrong. You are in the wrong, but I don’t care. I’m out of it. I’m staying out of it. I gotta get back to Patti. Patti. I SAID PATTI! Bye. *clicks back over* Patti? Patti? Are you there, dear?