Christmas However it Comes

This year Christmas lightly tapped me on the shoulder and then suddenly attacked me from behind. As I get up and brush the mudd of my knees I regard the aftermath of this holiday season....

This is what I have learned

1) There is no Christmas vacation for working adults, no pat on the back and no 2 weeks to "catch up on things"

2) Christmas traffic in Mission Valley makes me consider suicide and gave me one panic attack straight up. NEVER GO THERE IT IS A VORTEX OF DOOM EVEN WHEN IT IS NOT CHRISTMAS

3) Christmas traffic on the 5 freeway makes me very sad especially when I missed Santaland Diaries the play based on the writing of David Sedaris for no reason other than people needed to drive to "see their families" at Christmastime.

4) San Diego should develop a subway system ASAP because I hate driving for no other purpose than to be stuck in traffic and to be late to everything

5) Rain makes things very wet....including me and the traffic

6) I would sell my soul for a working umbrella (still waiting for this offer if anyone's interested)

7) Not going to a church service on Christmas eve makes Christmas seem a little inconsequential

8) Santa from the Santaland at Macy's in New York looks like a large creepy live plastic doll

9) Approximately 1200 people will gather around the skating rink at Rockefellar Center for the sole purpose of watching a zamboni drive around in circles on the ice...for an hour

10) Christmas will be better next year....I hope

Tis the Season

You know that the Christmas season has arrived when you enter into the craft haven and store known to the common people as Michaels. All of the obvious clues are out on display. Singing robot Santas greet you at every corner and the line to the checkout extends way back into the unusual button collectors section. On the surface it is a very "merry atmosphere" but spend 4 minutes waiting for the obese cat lady to make her yarn selection so she can unblock the aisle and you will sense that something is very amiss.

I could not help but notice that people at Michaels are angry. The regular crafty people are far by the most disgruntled of all since their store has been overtaken by seasonal hooligans who slowly suck up all the customer service with their large purchases of decorations and seasonal candles. The commonplace Michaels employee is no longer available to spend 45 minutes discussing the merits of different types of felt or to calmly explain that the yarn they want will have to be ordered. The crafters wait impatiently by the checkout yelling complaints to anyone who will listen straining their at risk sedentary lifestyle hearts. The Michaels employees themselves pull by far the shortest end of the stick. While simultaneously trying to heard and check out endless holiday shoppers, they calmly try to placate the yarn lady who sprays spit on their checkout counter while ranting. The holiday shoppers who are lulled to the craft center by discounts and holiday spirit quickly sense the stressful atmosphere and become frantic shoving ornaments and wrapping paper into their carts while knocking over gingerbread house displays in their rush to purchase their items and leave the store.

I personally made my selections quickly and left dodging the evil eye of the homeless man on a bike whom I previously recognized harassing a Michaels manager about the lack of "baggers" at the checkout line.

So to all you San Diegans who are just a string of lights short of reaching the peak of your Christmas tree, be forewarned and think twice before donning your light sweatshirt to brave the temperate environment and holiday shopping season at Michaels.

Emotional Nougat

I try to make coma corner a light happy place full of clouds and amusement with occasional irony riding on unicorns but I think on this grand holiday I will crack open the candy coated shell of amusement to reveal my emotional nougat.

I just want to take a sentimental moment to not complain about anything which is something I should probably do more often than only on major national holidays. Sooooo here it goes, today I am thankful. I am thankful for the friends who I consider to be as close to me as family. The friends who have taken an ice pick to my thick shell and have handled the consequences of opening my damn of my sometimes irrational emotionality. I am grateful for their love, I am grateful for them.

I am thankful for the blue house perched atop the mountain that whistles during winter storms and for my small family who resides within that home. I am grateful that I didn't repeat history by crashing into a stone wall and flipping my car over when driving home after work for Thanksgiving. Thank goodness for the freezing night time air and annoying hip hop songs that allowed me to complete my journey without significant incident. I am thankful for the all of the delicious thanksgiving food in my tummy that is currently chaining me to the couch like an anchor and making think thoughts about obesity.

Lastly, well since I am trying to be completely honest with my emotional nougat I should probably mention a certain boy I that continually step back from to feel grateful for. I have done nothing to deserve his complete and unconditional love that surrounds and supports every aspect of my life.

Although this blog is repetitive and occasionally so incredibly sappy that I want to vomit, I just want to find a honest way to express appreciation to each and every one of you in my life.

Thankyou

Ajhfghhuhhhhhhhhhhhhhhbeeeeeeeeeeep.............

The title above nearly encompasses all nueronal activity taking place in my brain at this exact moment in time. So warning to all 5 readers, DO NOT EXPECT TO BE THRILLED TANTALIZED FIGHTENED INSPIRED by this special Halloween edition coma corner. The scariest part of my day thus far has been dreading giving a suppository to a 30 year old man. I have no problem giving a suppository to the population of 50 years and above but upon entering the dreaded 40 years and below demographic I do not want to touch IT with a 10 foot pole...literally. I constantly have the image of asking one of my classmates to gently role over and UGGHHH NOOOOOO MAKE IT END...............commence rocking back and forth while holding head in hands...............................................................................rock.......rock........sway..................................

Wasted Saturday

I HAD plans for this past saturday.

Not anything life changing, just your run of mill I feel good about myself accomplishments. The small victories that add change in nickels to ones happy bank.

Saturday I wake up far too late to be productive in a stifling heat. Sweat gathers in the low points of gravity on my body and the sheets vindictively threaten to choke me.

And still I do not rise.

Two hours pass.

The sun continues its rise into the sky scorching my exposed skin.

Once I reach the pinnacle of feeling disgusting I use the last few molecules of glucose floating around my bloodstream to heave the useless mass of my body to the kitchen.

There, I prepare a shameful breakfast consisting of something I don't remember. Empowered with new energy I decide to clean.

I push a broom a couple of times and become breathless. The heat of the world seems to be sitting on my chest. I move on to the bedroom where I furiously rip the bedclothes of my bed with the aim to neatly replace them. This proves to be too much for my cancerous paper boy current state of existence so I slump over on a pile of pillows.

Two Hours pass.

I awake in a pool of my own drool on the floor in the midst of my destroyed bedclothes. I feel shameful and dissatisfied with my own life so I decide to cheer myself up with This American Life. In a coma like state I listen to stories about death and I cry.

Two Hours pass.

I have listened to several episodes of This American Life. I contemplate how interesting life can be and how boring my own life can be. I get depressed.

Two Hours pass.

I finally realize I forgot my cell phone in my car and that it has been in the car for 16 hours. I also realize the motivation to get the phone out of the car is at approximately 0%. I decide to lay down on the couch to think about the situation.

One Hour passes......................................................

Concrete Jungle

Twice a week I enter a place where the basic tenants of kindness and respect are absent. Where there is not a shred of dignity or a trace of humanity.

When I am there I am no better than those around me. I sink to their level or perhaps even lower than most. I scream obscenities at strangers, I cry, I make poor choices that could endanger my life and the lives of others around me. It is a place where one would pass a starving stranger without notice and then kill a kitten without guilt.

It is not hell because humans have created it with their own free will.

It does happen to be the parking structure at SDSU between the hours of 1-2pm during the week.

God help all who enter.

Life is In the Details

Unfortunately life is in the details. It is in the dollars and cents of my student loans, it is in what is said between friends, between colleagues. It is in an offside knowing glance of a doctor and the troponin level of a patient with a myocardial infarction (heart attack). I know how important these details are but somehow I am missing the nuerological wiring that allows me to focus on the details.

Perhaps I picked the wrong profession.

Every day the iron vice of fear grabs my head and tugs it toward the details. Beautifully intricately designed life with its checks and balances occassionaly slaps me swiftly across the face leaving the sting of consequence when my gaze wanders absentmindidly. If there were no consequences I can only imagine what kind of monster I would become. I would inevitably tip toe a little further from morality and decency every day that life gave me a couple of inches eventually ending up a fat unemployed multiple cat owner or as a dictator of a small island nation negotiating with my small but growing nuclear arsenal. Thankfully, reality keeps me suspended somewhere in between the two poles although I do occassionaly tend to drift closer to one side.

Usually...it is the side of the obese cat owner.

Just to bring this point home lets explore my latest missed detail.

Mr Detail: I have the honor and privilege as a fairly recent graduate who has attended a private university to pay a sizable amount of school loans. Despite holding a college degree and keeping myself alive for 23 years I have had trouble trying to figure out how to pay for my loans. No not in typical financial terms but in the misstep of being slightly dyslexic. I Evelyn Robarts have typed in the wrong checking account number not once but twice. Yes, ladies in gentlemen all of the loans I have tried to pay in the last 2 months have been sent back due to this minor error, "detail." Luckily for me there is a lovely penalty expense for those who make such errors as I and as a result I have learned a valuable life lesson.

Maybe....

Because what I really do care to think about is exhaustion. All the details pale in comparison to the inviting loving embrace of my crib like contraption that whispers sweet nothings of happiness into my REM cycle. The adjective tired is a huge overlying cloud (not detail) that makes me disparage fun, happiness, friendship, work, school loans, troponin levels, detail 7, detail 8, detail 9 and detail 100 thousand.

Perhaps one day through endless trial and error my circuits will rewire well enough to successfully complete a detail oriented task. Till that day I continue to dream of sleep and the future which just happen to be nebulous enough to keep me interested.

Boredom on a Sunday

Boredom is so sneaky. Today it found me.

Hello boredom what shall I do with you? Do I research new hairstyles because of the seemingly thousands of pounds of hair pulling my scalp away from my scull. Why yes I do and a Reese Witherspoon bob seems to be the impending choice thankyou for very much. Now that thats done do I take care of my two patients? Yes I do but that is uneventful except for a stream of urine nearly hitting me in the eye as I neel eye level with a penis when a patient straight catheterizes himself. Hmmm what next......facebook or gmail or how about both? Why yes yes and yes. Why is no one on-line on a beautiful sunday in San Diego? I guess I will just type sweet nothings to my friend who has better things to do than talk to me. No response well that is just fine my feelings are not hurt at all. Not even a bit. In fact, I already have moved on and now I am on facebook stalking a variety of vaguely interesting past friends and aquaintances. Uh oh here comes boredom again as I look at the 100th picture of a stranger whom I've never met. What to do, what to do? Message random people for no apparent reason including boyfriend pleading for life direction and purpose. Response, "Don't you want to go back to school or something? Maybe you should research graduate schools." Yes thankyou I completely forgot I didn't want to kneel in front of penises for the rest of my life I will get right on that(and not in a gross way in case you have a dirty mind). One hour later I have compiled a sizable list of unrealistic ivy league schools maybe one actual possibility. There's that and boredom you are back I thought you had left but you know me too well. No matter at all I still have yet to do my most favorite activity ever, planner writing. Is it necessary to write down in tiny handwriting my hour to hour "plans" for the next week and beyond? Perhaps not but it sure does make me feel like a million bucks when pay school loan is written neatly above toga party. It is obviously very important that one is written before the other. Oh wait, I'm sorry the day is over? Fare well boredom I bid thee good night.

Twisted Upturned Upchuck

Twisted Upturned and Upchuck are three verbs I experience on a daily basis.

Upchuck is by far the most unfortunate of the three, as even being swung gently in a hammock by an ocean breeze can have unfortunate consequences. To name a few places that i have "upchucked"; planes, cars, boats, my bathroom, stranger's bathrooms, Broadway (the street), Santanas ( the parking lot), my couch, my bed, all over my childhood stuffed animal SHAMU and lets not forget my all time favorite, out the window of a moving vehicle going over 30mph. Mother was not pleased. Today I am happy to report that I got nauseous while resting and stretching on a moving chiropractic table. Enough said.

Twisted has the beautiful quality of being both mental and physical. Sure, according to the standards of American culture I am intelligent but I can in no way claim to be street smart or even directionally smart. Lost and confused is not just rare occurrence in my life, it is a state of being that I unconsciously destroy myself with. If it is not attached to my body do not get attached. Coffee cups, sweaters, whole unopened packages of Dudleys sour-doe bread have spent dark eternities in forgotten drawers miles away from my current residence. Usually, a flare of frustration will arise when I become conscious of yet another misplacement but then I am typically lulled by time into forgetting objects have ever existed. I pray for any future unborn children that they do not succumb to the same fate as the loaf of bread I recently left behind at work. Unfortunately, a loaf of bread and a newborn are of comparable size.

I do not like being upturned. Not even a little. Graced with the gift of fearing head trauma, I have avoided putting my head near hard surfaces for most of my life. So great was my fear of being upturned as a child that my mom had to purchase "diving lessons" so that I could place my head in water without an emotional breakdown. I do not like my life being upturned either. I struggle with change. I throw tantrums, I cry, sometimes I vomit but everything and anything always finds a way to change. This fall everything will change and I am left several paces behind in a single handed protest.

Brain: "Change is a wonderful opportunity to grow and discover who you are and what you can accomplish."

Me: "That is the most cliche' crap I have ever heard. Go to hell."

Current state of Existence: Stubborn 2 year old digging her uncut nails into the present.

Future state of Existence: Beautiful, beautiful butterfly.

The END

Twighlight Zone

My last writers group submission.....enjoy

I frequently stumble upon things in my life that force me to question my own sanity. Usually, I have the wherewithal in my work environment, which is insanity incarnate, to shove my dark schizophrenic like thoughts into a lock box deep in my mind where only the keys of extreme stress and anxiety let them out to play. You know your life isn’t normal when on a daily basis you are threatened with physical violence and with delightful questions such as, is there someone in charge of the milk that I could speak to? Just to clarify, I do not know anyone personally in charge of the milk.

When you are in the midst of insanity you do begin to question what is actual sanity. A few interesting choices or turns in my own life could very well lead me to question someone about the whereabouts of the milk authorities so I keep my guard up. I want to know the exact moment when I am about to go over the edge so there is a chance to intervene before I mentally snap.

My recent experiences at my very own chiropractor’s office have pushed the sanity line just a few inches closer to the cliff where I am left questioning whether or not smearing myself with feces and doing an ancient but sacred Indian ghost dance is an actual or potential future late night activity. At this particular moment in time I am surprisingly tempted but I am still hopeful that I will decide against any involvement with feces experimentation.

Here are my major questions? Is it normal for your chiropractor to cry before he adjusts you? Is it normal for your chiropractor to ask you to wander down a dark street alone while it is cold and rainy for 15 minutes to “think about life after adjustment?” Is it normal to be asked by the chiropractor to explain to a blond unidentified employee about one’s experiences witnessing electro shock therapy in a mental hospital? Is it normal to have a various assortment of young blond employees sit in the corner chair watching you get adjusted but then never have them introduce themselves? Is it normal to be asked one thousand and one times how one feels at any given point during the appointment? I have become a master of inventing different ways to express that I feel “good” because if I do not provide an adequate answer the chiropractor usually just stares at me with a half smile nodding his head waiting for descriptive eloquence to spew forth from my mouth. In the most desperate of circumstances I usually manage to squeak out a vague open-ended statement about my hopes of being the patient he has always dreamed of fixing. That at least seems to please him enough to allow me to leave. Is it normal to feel inadequate as you are asked to draw the same chiropractic diagram on the white board for at least the 5^th time every single appointment? I never get the diagram right and the solemn and condescending tone instructing me makes me feel like a kid in the special needs classroom. Oh I’m sorry if I forgot the precious diagram because my brain is 90% full of more important facts that allow me to not hurt my patients. That is something I keep to myself as I compliantly redraw the diagram time and time again. I suspect I will draw the diagram in question at least 10 more times without a word of protest because I have to admit the adjustments feel wonderful.

Update: at my last appointment I watched a cartoon and about electrons, protons and neutrons then got a gold star for remembering what I learned. Application to chiropractic world still remains to be discovered.

But please I just need to know, is this normal?

New Year New Hand

In the awkward interlude after Christmas and before the new year the fateful long awaited day to remove my cast arrived. Bionica, the sky blue plaster cast that has covered most of my right hand, wrist and hand for the past 6 weeks has become just another part of me. As I waited in the long narrow hallway in an uncomfortable plastic chair, I thought of the bittersweet reality of losing the excuse that has allowed me to be a recent cavalier companion to life. With a broken bone 60% of normal activities, hobbies, passions, travel, work, housework, basic hygiene and even sleeping become impossible or extremely difficult. In order to not go completely insane I had to turn off the part of my brain that identified all of these things to be the makeup of who I am. I was no longer Evie the nurse, dancer, yoga loving and running machine ect, etc........ I was just me. No strings attached me, bumbling along most days with my cast in tow.

Sitting in that plastic chair a deep part of me dreaded what came next. I feared having to begin my life again. With no broken bone as an excuse what if I fail at living life? What if I never pick up the dreams I had put on the back burner? What do I do when I watch my best friends move away to go to graduate school and I stay here getting older but never changing my life circumstances? My cast was my exemption from having to worry about any of these things.

I swallowed the knot in the back of my throat and refused to let the hot brimming tears pour down my cheeks as I was beckoned into the back room. The ortho tech wielding a large electrical saw instructed me to sit and hold up my arm. Looking at my face he must of noticed the distinct look of apprehension and horror. He quickly reassured me that he has sawn off hundreds of casts and that he is quite the expert. I gave a vague nod in return my mind miles away and held up my arm. The saw was surprisingly powerful and for a brief moment I was certain that my cast would not be the only thing removed from my body that day. Then in the next moment it was all over. The cast cleaved in two was gently removed to reveal a disgusting specimen of weeks old dead peeling skin enshrouding a shriveled hand. It must of smelled horrible but without comment the tech handed me an alcohol soaked washcloth and pointed me back to the plastic chair from whence I had come.

I scrubbed my nasty little hand until I revealed pink vulnerable skin. I feel sorry for the poor unfortunate individual who had to sit amongst my abandoned skin flakes after I left. I don't know why I was expecting some kind of magic fix but my hand was not what I had expected it to be. Instead of my hand I had come to know and love, I was left with in my opinion a weak misshapen claw that seemed to be more of an accessory than an actual functioning appendage. I thought of my future self coddling the claw protecting it from ridicule as I begged for coins on a downtown street.

A couple of weeks later I am happy to report that the claw has sprung to life. It is performing mightily as it types this very blog. I hope that I am beginning to come around as well. I am currently bored out of my mind not because I don't have anything to do but because I have too much to think about and when overwhelmed my brain shuts down and that in itself is boooring. I actually want to go back to work, not because I love it but for the human craving of structure. I need something to base my life around. I need to know that on certain days I am doing certain things. With that solid base I hope I can begin to vanquish the fears that overwhelmed me that day as I sat on the little plastic chair surrounded by my skin flakes.