The Obvious Child

Um, no one told me that a needle biopsy hurts. I mean, it HURTS. HURTY NEEDLES WIGGLING AROUND MY NECK. He pricked the neck and I was all, “OMG! So EASY! Thanks for the work, doc!”

Um, that was Novacaine. He hadn’t even started.

Oh.

I know, I know, it’s SO OBVIOUS, but for the love of GOD, it really fucking hurt. The needle is LARGE, and I thought it would be ONE POKE. ONE. It was FIFTEEN. FIFTEEN STABS. And also, restraining. There was restraining. One chick – a nurse, I hope – holding my head still while some dude had an ultrasound thing with jelly while another dude had a GIANT NEEDLE IN AND OUT OF MY NECK. There was wiggling and OH MY GOD, the wiggling! And I wasn’t allowed to talk, make a sound or swallow while this GIANT NEEDLE WAS SWIMMING AROUND MY NECK. Which, you know, I would have preferred. To scream or something. Because I am a wimp. With a wiggling, painful, ginormous FUCKING NEEDLE. IN MY NECK. WITH PAIN. Did you know thyroids have nerves? They do, apparently, and LOTS AND LOTS OF THEM.

But seriously dude, it hurt. Am wimp. It hurt. Whatever. It still hurts, and I have two quarter-size bruises on my neck, along with lots of little holes. HOLES. Am wimp. AM WIMPY WIMP. I KNOW. And also, wearing Band-Aids, and so look like Frankenstein. And will have results in few days, while I am on vacation in Disney World (stop laughing). The ENTIRE FUTURE of my children’s attendance or avoidance of Disney rests on these results. It could either be CancerWorld or Disney! Happy! MICKEY! Either way, though, I feel like it’s going to be fine, which is an odd feeling for a freakish hypochondriac like me. But it is.

ANYWAY, I also almost set fire to the house tonight, for the eleventy millionth time, this time with the dryer and a rogue doggie poop bag. Last week, there were undue flames surrounding a pu pu platter and the fire in the middle of the stupid thing. Why do they set pu pu platters on fire? Do they think we want to ROAST our spareribs over the flame? Or make a flambe** out of our chicken fingers? Because we don’t. And because I didn’t want to cook the food that was already cooked, I thought that blowing OUT that godforsaken flame would be a good idea, which it wasn’t, since Adam was leaning in to grab a chicken finger and do you know what blowing out a flame does when it’s attached to a pu pu platter? IT MAKES THE FLAMES GROW VERY BIG. Which isn’t great when your husband’s eyebrows are mere inches from them. You know.

So there was singing. And hysteria. And soft yelling, so as not to disturb the other Chinese food diners. You know, the whispery yelling kind, while we tried to ignore the smell of burning eyebrow.

But anyway, the dryer. There was, yet again, that smell of burning plastic/hair and Adam INSISTED that it was the dryer, and I was all, SHUT UP, and he was all, THE PU PU PLATTER and then, you know, I checked and there were NINE PLASTIC BAGS melted against the back of the dryer. Because, apparently, I am a moron who forgets to empty pockets before putting them in the dryer. Or washer. Or whatever.

And once, when I lived in Boston, I thought that using a paper towel as a potholder over a gas stove was a good idea. It caught fire, my hand caught fire, there was blistering and all-around misery, not to mention the screaming, the fire extinguisher and OH MY GOD, the screaming.

And yeah, I didn’t think it would hurt. Because I am the kind of person who thinks that fire isn’t dangerous and needles WIGGLING aren’t painful.

*Paul Simon.

**Someone, for the love of all that is holy, tell me how to make that little accent thingamafuckingbob.

17 comments May 18th, 2006