A Fun Day at the Doctor's Office/Clown Show

Now, I'm always in favor of trying a natural or homeopathic route when faced with some dumb health issue. But you better believe when I've been ill for over two weeks and facing challenges with working, working out, going out, or doing anything much besides reading Nicholas Sparks in bed and googling potential diseases and inflictions, eventually I will go hobbling down to the doctor.

On my first trip my litany of "mysterious" symptoms were met with a flippant (super bitch) young lady doctor who proclaimed my ailments "too much" and spat "what is it that you want me to do for you?"
Oh ok...doctor me? She suggested that I may have rheumatoid arthritis, and while I puttered about my other symptoms that don't exactly fit that diagnosis she swept me out the door to the lab for blood work.

To her credit, she put me on STAT so I got to cut 75 old women in line which was cool until they started revolting. "I have arthritis!" I imagined screaming while dodging canes. "So do we!' They'd scream back. Instead I tried to hide in my old college sweatshirt but then every nurse and technician I encountered after that tried to read the block letters and couldn't get it. "UCG?' "No..." "Oh 'UCD' is that UC Berkeley?" "Oh no, that's UC Davis." "Ohh UC Irvine?" Ok nice chat, you can take my blood now!

Three days later, and less well, I get in to see my primary doctor who seems much more focused because she has a sassy cartoon caricature of herself on her exam door. Snap! Two minutes after my arrival she slides her rolling chair across the room throwing her hands up in defeat. "I can't make any sense of this. Nothing! Could you be pregnant?" Not likely, but I'm very cooperative so sure I'll take a pee test, blood test, and repeat all of the tests I just took at my last visit.

The next stop was CAT scan. I'm feeling productive now and not pregnant, let's x ray that shit! Oh wait, I have to drink one and a half BANANA flavored barium "smoothies"? I would have stomped my foot but joint inflammation and fevers don't afford that kind of energy expenditure. So I did what anyone would do, sit on the hallway floor and drink my smoothie to avoid watching Maury in the waiting room for the two hours it takes for the gunk to work though your body.

Finally I enter the sweet oasis of the CAT scan room, reminiscent of a psychiatric punishment ward and yet also an underground alien probe bomb shelter. As standard protocol I signed my life away and then laid down for 30 minutes while my iodine-in-vein technician tried and failed seven times to get a needle in my vein. Ha ha! Each attempt was tested by an saline injection, and since the needle was not in my vein I lay there calmly growing saline mountains under my skin and leaking blood everywhere. He tried to get me to watch the whole process, I politely declined. Perhaps small veins are considered a challenge to overcome in that field, but by the time he went to get a child sized needle I was trying not to shake or let my let my eyes water. Baby needle worked on the first try. He wasn't pleased that we had to resort to that, and post scan sent me on my way with a "And I thought you wouldn't be difficult."  Thanks! I waved, holding down my bandages.

Back at my primary doctor, I thought we were getting somewhere. Doc bounds into the room with my CAT scan results and an animated "Now I understand your pain. Very unusual." Hit me. Their quick in-office diagnosis after reviewing my scan was that my bladder was dangerously large and that they immediately needed to put in a catheter for a TWO WEEK period to drain the freak thing otherwise major trouble. I saw my life flash before my eyes. Can you have sex with a catheter???

"But but..." I protested, "I had to pee during my CAT scan!"  She nodded her head no with a wild look in her eyes. Just as I started to cry and gently cradle myself she came back and said that the urologist would fit me in. He quickly determined that no, that's not the problem. I just have an unusually high capacity bladder, and that I'm quite lucky really.

So then I left, six hours later than I arrived, shaking with chills, more confused than when I went in and with less a lot less cash in my purse. This morning I messaged my doctor about some less complicated possibilities, such as deficiencies of some sort, and was that possible? She immediately ordered me back to the lab for blood cultures and said to expect a call from Infectious Disease. Okay cool. I hope they like adults with baby veins.

The WTF Apartment Hunt

So here I am, suddenly looking for a new apartment. I know what you're thinking friends; "But Kate! You're almost 1/3rd of the way through a 90 day novel writing class where they specifically warned you not to make any large life changes like MOVE during the course!"

And you're totally right. Hilarious!! Not to mention that within the same week that my roommate gives a highly unexpected early moving notice, the guy I'm casually/longterm seeing has a resurface of a false and defamatory legal allegation, AND it seems that some of my favorite family members aren't speaking to me for reasons that remain a total mystery, without any notice! HAHA. One not-at-all distracted novelist right here!

But let's focus on one pressing issue at a time, quickly finding the perfect studio apartment in a highly competitive L.A. market. And by perfect I obviously just mean affordable with a parking spot, A/C, and laundry on site, so fine, we're looking for near perfect. But seriously the second studio I looked at was perfect. Okay it did not have a parking spot, but it did have a humungous PRIVATE YARD and a super cute totally ready for me style, in an ideal location. It even had free Wi-fi you guys.

As the place at hand hadn't even been listed at the time (and was still inhabited by three mega stoners, a dog, and some Bob Marley posters) only one other guy was there looking at the place at the same time, and by golly I was quick to vocalize that I'd take it. Well this little guy wanted the place too, so we were instructed to gather up three years of W-2's, three months of bank statements, proof of savings accounts, and a $500 holding deposit and race over to the leasing office.

I mean that's a lot to ask, but when I say I raced...I raced. Who knew that I even had all my W-2's conveniently nestled together in a file folder? I was born for this moment! I grabbed some cash and sprinted into to the leasing office. Maybe took me an hour. Bam.

But would you guess that this little guy had gotten there 10 minutes before me and gotten approved to sign and steal my beautiful apartment? Oh come on! You a magician, dickhead? Keep all your taxes and confidential paperwork in your trunk on a Saturday afternoon do you? Your first born back there too?

Well I can't say that I was pleased. But I did talk to the leasing agent again a couple days later and she made sure to let me know that she gave him a real hard time about it and even suggested that he take a different unit. He wouldn't.

She said to him: "Don't you at least feel a little guilty taking this place from a girl?" And the fastest short guy in the West said "Nope."

But don't worry you guys. I'm sure it's good for the book.

 

My Favorite Asshole Restaurant.

I have a favorite restaurant. Have-ish. It turned into a favorite because it came talked up and is good, but mostly because it became a habit and very familiar. (Shut up that is nothing like any romantic relationship I've been in!)

I frequent said restaurant at least weekly with my best friend, mostly because of one key item: chimichurri. (Look it up.)  We are greeted in style and presented with our chosen bottle of chardonnay before we even have to ask. They know that we're getting our delicious salads and kindly bring us some extra chimchurris to flavor them and we happy dance all the way through.

Or we did.

Last week we went twice. Day one, great. Day two all hell broke loose. We nervously ordered with a new waiter which went fine until he solemnly returned to the table sharing the news that there was now a limit on chimichurri. Three per table. A LIMIT ON CHIMICHURRI?

Our jaws hit the floor and stayed there. Which is a look that is usually specifically reserved for cartoon characters or  the faces of small children from rural Texas when you shock them with the fact that you live in the elusive land of California.

Upon further inquiry we were informed that extra chimichurris could be purchased for 50 cents a piece after the initial three. Oh, we gayly laughed, fine we'll take two.

But then I start thinking. I can't help but take this very personally. I feel stabbed in the back by a institution that seems to adore my business but then erects a glass ceiling on my enjoyment. Plus, I order my salad without half of the items it comes with and turn down the free bread like any normal skinny person does, so I'm basically saving them money. PLUS, only three per table...no matter how many customers there are? Do you get four or five then for three people? Six for four? Sounds phony, and like way too much potential math for anyone trying to enjoy life. I mentally shake my fist and then come up with a plan.

Next time, my best friend and I will just come alone 3 minutes apart and sit at different tables, secure three bowls of chimchurri a piece, do the chosen hand signal across the restaurant/to the next booth over (depending on how we're sat) and then "run into" each other, thereby getting our derserved goods while simultaneously opening up an extra table for the restaurant and basically saving the day. Don't fuck with me, LaLa's Argentinian Grill.

Short Subject: The Art Show vs Kate's Brain

In Los Angeles we might gather on a Thursday night at a local gallery such as
Lab Art for an event showcasing the larger than life Lego man that had washed
up on a Malibu beach thanks to street artist Ego Leonard.  It might rain in a humid
July, we might be run into old friends and dramatically meet new ones over plastic
cups of two-buck chuck.

We might lean in and coyly discuss business ventures while posing for event
photos, willing a creative breakthrough to kidnap our minds while we stare at each
other's outfits. We might lose our current fatigues in a loud room and tweet our
whereabouts. 

It might not be entirely unreasonable in this town to consider our friend's teasing
 that the baby running around the party dramatically jabbing his fingers on a
make-believe phone call is actually the under cover street artist Alec Monopoly
with a growth hormone disease. He might have been wearing a tell tale black
hat upon his head. 

Our wheels might turn on the logistics of a baby/small man reaching high enough
to swiftly plaster the sleeping city with his satirical grafitti as we thrill in this
fantasy. All teamwork, we might concede, and go about our night. 

A very few days later we might see a casting notice specifically seeking extremely
 athletic people under the height of 3'10". Aha, we might think. This breakdown
 is speaking to us. Although in this town we can't be entirely certain of what it's trying to say. 

Call Me Crazy...

Dear Sir,

In the event that you are discussing your casual love life with me, perhaps don't throw out the old adage following the lines of: "The smoking hot women are always the craziest ones." Reasons being that I myself happen to be a woman, and your general but concrete reference inadvertently throws me into one unsavory lady category or another while you ramble on.

Ideally some folk might consider me of a hot breed, and while I may harbor a crazy tendency or two they lean more towards eating entire jars of salsa at two in the morning and less toward sporadic tire slashing. If you happen to bring up this belief I will ask you to clarify whether I fall under the hot and crazy umbrella or stand just to the left looking ugly and sane, thereby placing my rationality in your firing zone by having to pose the question in the first place.

Perhaps take a moment to ponder this further and consider that your bloody head popped out of a woman who's looks are in your best interest if you care at all about your own. We all sincerely hope your pretty mommy isn't too crazy for the sake of your own mental and emotional stability! Carry on.

XO,
Lady

Let Me Help You Feel Less Tired Today

I really want to complain about how tired I am this morning, after working a full week plus being thrown a nightlife job that kept me out late, followed by a writing assignment covering a comedy show that kept me out late, and a full day of work ahead of me. But the truth is that my today's work just consists of my writing comfortably from home and that I have a fun night ahead planned at the X Games. That alone cancels out any potential pity party over lack of nap time. Obviously.

But then there's also the fact that my sister in law, the mother of my beautiful nephew, just placed first in her heat, and fifth in the women's 200 breaststroke which is sending her into semi finals tonight for the Olympic trials. So...it's safe to consider that she might be more tired than me at the moment. As if the physical act of the swimming and adrenaline peaks and crashes aren't enough to bring on outstanding levels of fatigue, there are also immense levels of pressure and anticipation hovering that are difficult to fathom. This is one of the huge yearly moments in her career; a few seconds off or on a brief heat in the pool will either send her to the London Olympics or not. As this would be her FIFTH time going to the Olympics, and her having been swimming most of her thirty years, people are paying attention to this gold and silver medal holder. That garners a lot of tremendous support, but my goodness the expectations.

And while I've experienced moments where Amanda has been stressed, I'm not sure that I've ever heard her complain about being tired. I have trouble finding time to do laundry and she somehow snuck out a healthy baby, a marriage, and had a book hit the New York Times Bestseller List between summer Olympics.  

So in honor of Amanda Beard's upcoming swim tonight and *cross-your-fingers* upcoming games, let's take a day off from being tired and attempt to fit in an extra task. Or at least dedicate your nap to her.

Beware the Monday Morning Nap.

I'm not sure if morning naps before 8 am are technically naps because most people are usually sleeping and stuff, but if I have to get up and eat food at 6 am and then sleep for another hour or two, it seems like a nap. Oh, just like this morning. When I awoke at 6 I was feeling sprightly. Mostly starving from the stomach acid barreling through my stomach despite my midnight snack, but also sprightly. I briefly debated making coffee and doing the whole real morning thing but decided that  I might regret the early rising later. So I did the next logical thing; made some oatmeal, ate it, and then went back to sleep. But what happens during that morning nap is where I'm thrown off. A whole two hours later I should feel even more rested right? But here I sit with a puffy face, stuffy nose, and a back screaming at me for missing yoga like once. (Once-25 times.) If my physical whine inducers weren't enough punishment for sleeping a whole eight hours, my nap also included some really trippy/somewhat disturbing lucid dreams. A middle of the night creep fest I can blame on a deep REM cycle, but a morning nap that includes a phone call from a woman I owe money to, a possible pregnancy, running around missing spin classes left and right, AND my being cast in a horror film with a truly horrible/potentially dangerous director called "Death Wish"? Make up your mind anxiety, is it life or death?!? Plus I gave the evil director my parents' home address instead of mine because I was afraid of him, so now I feel like a real asshole. Perhaps I should just be relieved that those are all made up scenarios and I'm exaggerating what I consider a stuffy nose. But Monday mornings, damn.