The Desert Mermaid

On Saturdays I work in the Space Place Dome Theater with Jan, a boomer who is so bubbly and batty, with such eccentric pronunciation, that I haven't ruled out that she might actually be in an evil coven such as the ones you're always seeing in Satanic granny media.* Jan was doing the star identification intro at the console, and I was sitting on the floor in the corner enjoying my tea.

JAN: ... Orion, Canis Major ...
SOMETHING IN THE SHADOWS UNDER THE CONSOLE: *wiggle*
ME: ?
JAN: ... Leo, rɛdʒʊlʊs ...
MOUSE: hi
ME: *internally* Well, well, well. It appears the maintenance guy's email about rodents in the building is out of date! They have reached the Dome!
MOUSE: eep! a human! *scamper*

And that's how I met our resident varmint!

[after the show]
ME: So, there's a mouse.
JAN: A MOUSE?!
ME: It was skittering around down here.
ME: *pointing flashlight* It went under the console.
JAN: A LIVE MOUSE?!
ME: I already texted our maintenance guy.
ME: Gonna go down and let the supervisors know, and grab some supplies
JAN: *SHRIEK*
ME: *running back up the stairs* WHAT? Are you okay?
JAN: *pointing dramatically* THERE IT IS!
MOUSE: you guys have the best audience, you know that? they sneak food in here all the time and drop it on the floor, probably for me! ♥️
ME: Gonna put on my rubber gloves
ME: In case I get astronomically lucky
MOUSE: well i can see i'm no longer welcome here, bye!
MOUSE: *disappears down one of our cable-conduit pipes like fuckin Mario*

So I told the supervisor, and the custodian,** because what the hell was I planning to do with the rubber gloves, and the supervisor got a trap and marched up to the console to set it up. Jan held her flashlight, and they both crouched way under the console desk to examine the mouse's warp pipe.

MOUSE: can i help you?
JAN: EEEEEK!

And then, in her haste to get away, Jan proceeded to whack her head on the underside of the console desk, and the supervisor scrambled back on all fours and ran screaming from the dome.

The rest of the day was a tense psychological thriller as Jan sat with her feet up in her office chair, fretting about The Mouse's whereabouts and her flowy pants and "open-toed shoes," which were some definition of "open-toed" that was beyond me, on account of being close-toed, and periodically checking under the console with her flashlight and shrieking when the mouse would poke its head out of its warp pipe.

ME: Don't put your head under the desk again, okay? I'm not sure if I could tell if you had a concussion
JAN: I'm gonna go home and change into mouse-proof clothes on my break.
ME: I doubt the mouse is gonna wind up in your shoes or pants, but I hate anxiety, and if changing will help alleviate yours, then go for it.

I didn't want to laugh, because phobic reactions like that are involuntary and unpleasant, and lord knows I have phobic reactions to dumb shit, too.*** But I also have this core-deep sense that every phobia is kind of absurd, so it did strike me kinda funny.

Anyway, Jan got through her shift unsqueaked, and took off for home, and I was there waiting for the next presenter to come in, vacuuming and grumbling about the absolute goddamn slobs our patrons are. Seriously, we don't allow popcorn in the Dome. Why is it everywhere? Do they trail it in like comets' tails? WHY DO WE SELL POPCORN.

NEXT-SHIFT COWORKER: Hey.
ME: Hey. So we're probably going to regret this conversation, but are you afraid of mice?


*I even caught her listening to Mötley Crüe, which I hear is Of The Devil!

JAN: With the music I listen to, you would never guess I'm a senior citizen, would you?
ME: I dunno, aren't most of the band members senior citizens by now?

**Custodian has taken it upon himself to help me practice my Spanish. He was very proud of me for my casual "Hay un ratón en el domo."

***You chew on ONE BALLOON with your tiny sharp toddler teeth and suddenly you've got a lifelong anxiety. Limbic systems are idiots.

We cook our turkey on the grill. Everyone who hears this greets it with skepticism, right up until they try the turkey. Then they start considering using/getting their own grill. Plus, an outdoor grill allows us to enjoy the winter weather, which this year decided, much like my sister, to show up exactly on Christmas Day. (My sister works retail and had to be at the bookstore on Christmas Eve. What's the weather's excuse?)

So on Christmas Day when I came up the stairs, my brother was manning the grill, and my parents had gone to get my sister from the airport.

ME: Boy! What day is it?
MY BROTHER: Why, it's Christmas Day!
ME: Then I haven't missed it!
MY BROTHER: You almost did. It's like 2:30.
ME: Hey, you keep Christmas in your way and let me keep it in mine.

The turkey was pretty much done, just gently smoking now, so my brother deemed it was time to collect the drippings. Armed with a saucepan, oven mitts, and shoes for the snow, I stepped out to help him.

MY BROTHER: Ooh, that's a gorgeous pan full of drippings.
ME: Did you see how well I managed to pour it from this floppy pan into the saucepan?

But unbeknownst to me, a chunk of icy snow had stuck to my shoe.

The sad thing is, I even thought about slipping out of my shoes upon entering the house. But , ironically as it will turn out in a minute, I wanted to get the drippings to safety before getting distracted, and I did not.

So I stepped on the kitchen linoleum and was promptly mugged by physics. My right foot shot out in front of me, I came down hard on my left knee, and almost a pint of turkey juice sloshed spectacularly out to coat the kitchen like a greasy tsunami.

MY BROTHER: (from out on the deck) Well, that didn't sound good.
ME: I ... may have just ruined Christmas, dude.

So when the rest of the family came home, they found my brother working on Christmas dinner, very gingerly stepping around the kitchen as I tried to clean up the grease. Several Swiffer diapers, a million paper towels, quite a few rags, and a change of greasy pants later, we were back in business.

ME: I want to point out that I managed to keep the pan upright, so even though most of it sloshed out, we still have almost a cup left.
MY MOM: That will totally go far enough.
ME: IT IS A CHRISTMAS MIR--wait, isn't there another holiday that talks about oil lasting longer than--
MY SISTER: *cough*culturalappropriation*cough*
ME: IT IS A CHRISTMAS MIRACLE

So yes, we still got our gravy. And Christmas dinner was great, and then we went into the master bedroom (that will soon be MINE HAHAHAHAHAHA) and wrapped all our presents, and then we went downstairs and unwrapped them. And we watched Arthur Christmas, which is hilarious and fun and you should all check it out, and overall it was a pretty dang successful Christmas.

And then I woke up the next day and found out just which muscles I had pulled and how much I'd bruised my knee. But hey, if family Christmas comedies have taught us anything, it's that it's not Christmas without a hilarious bit of food-on-the-floor slapstick. And really, as far as disasters go, I'll take it over the Annual Christmas Plumbing Disaster any day.

I've been working on a quilt while we watch the Olympics.

ME: *passing in front of the TV with the quilt to get to a place where I can lay it out* Scuse me, sorry. Just be a minute here.
DAD: Oh, that's all right. It's not like the Olympics only happens ONCE EVERY FOUR YEARS.
ME: Well, I manage to make a quilt about once every FIVE years. I got you beat.

DAD: (telling me about a Daily Show sketch) Yeah, they were reading the reports from that Chinese rover on the moon. And they had your Star Trek guy in there!
ME: ... MY Star Trek guy?
DAD: He's pretty funny.
ME: Leonard Nimoy? George Takei?
DAD: No, the NEW captain!
ME: Chris Pine?
DAD: No, uh--
MOM: (helpfully) Picard!
ME: Oh, Patrick Stewart!
DAD: Yeah, they had him dressed up as the rover!
ME: 'The NEW captain'?

I guess Dad's a TOS guy all the way.

The Insurance Part

ME: Hi, billing lady! I've been working out every single possible angle of this whole "paying for surgery" business. I think I've worked out how to pay for it all, but I just need reassurance. Does this payment plan work?
BILLING LADY: Oh, totally! All set! We've got your deductible all worked out!
ME: Great! And this won't turn out to be all fucked up later, right?
BILLING LADY: Of course not!
ME: ... Against my better judgment, I am going to believe you.

Pre-Op

NURSE: Okay, just a few more things to go through. First, please put all your stuff into this bag
ME: Right!
NURSE: Then put on this paper bag and matching booties!
ME: You got it!
NURSE: Then pee into this container.
ME: Sure th--wait, what the hell is this?
NURSE: We need a sample of your urine.
ME: In a toothpaste cap?
NURSE: Now, now. It's at least thimble-sized.
ME: What, you need, like, half a cubic centimeter, tops?
NURSE: Well, you haven't drunk anything since last night, have you? How much are you expecting to have to pee now?

So I went into the bathroom to change into my paper bag and Pee In The Cup. And, in order to make this as inconvenient as possible, the tiny bathroom contained exactly two things: a toilet and a roll of toilet paper. Which means that once you've whizzed all over yourself and into the cup, you 1) have no where to set the cup, and 2) have to exit the bathroom to wash your hands. Which is also awkward when trying to adjust your paper bag.

ME: This is a hazing, isn't it.
NURSE: You have to prove your devotion to the surgery!
ME: The thousands of dollars didn't do that already?

Op Op

One of the things about getting surgery in the hospital where your dad works is that all the staff know your dad. It's weird to have the anesthesiologist laughing that "she even rolls her eyes just like her dad!"

It also means that I know a little bit of doctor-dynamics backstory.

ANESTHESIOLOGIST: Well, hi there! Lie on this table. We'll get you all straightened out.
ME: Is that the Rolling Stones playing?
ANESTHESIOLOGIST: Nope, it's the Who.
ME: Don't get to play that when you do surgeries with Dad, do you?
ANESTHESIOLOGIST: Well ... he likes classic rock ...
ME: I know. But not for surgery.
ANESTHESIOLOGIST: He prefers ... well ...
ME: Smooth jazz.
ANESTHESIOLOGIST: *wistful sigh* Yes. Yes, he does.
ME: I feel ya, buddy.

Anesthesia Is WHACK

ANESTHESIOLOGIST: Anyway! Let's get started. Here, I'll just put some local anesthetic in your hand here ...
ME: DAMN! That is a big old bump on my hand!
ANESTHESIOLOGIST: And then I'm going to put in the general anesthesia itself ...
ME: Sounds good!
RECOVERY NURSE: I see you're waking up!
ME: ... wharrgarbl?
RECOVERY NURSE: Yup. Surgery's over. We'll have you on your way home in a little while!
ME: ... did I ... miss ... something?
RECOVERY NURSE: Just your gallbladder!

Seriously, y'all. Anesthesia doesn't give you the same sense as when you're asleep. When you sleep, you have at least some sense that you have been asleep. Anesthesia is more like those couple of times I've passed out--it's less like feeling you've been unconscious and more a sense that you just hit one of those time skips the Harlem Globetrotters kept running into in Futurama--you're in one place, and then suddenly BAMF and you're struggling to comprehend how the hell you wound up in the recovery room.*

I also became aware, before I really was paying attention to anything else, that I was hooting with every exhale.

I'm not sure why, but when I am feeling under the weather, I have this tendency to hoot. Or hum, or moan--I'm not sure what you'd call it. I just make these little soft moany noises. For some reason, it makes me feel better. Here, though, I couldn't seem to not hoot. Every time I let out a breath, it was with a little noise. Mom informs me that I was constantly commenting on it ("oh, I just did it again"), but all I remember is trying not to just to see if I could stop. I couldn't.

Home To Sock Jail

The other thing I hadn't thought about was that I was going to be taking compression socks home with me--little leg wraps that puff up to help with circulation, so's to prevent deep vein thrombosis and pulmonary embolism. Mom got me set up with them that first day. Pain in the ass, they are. Every time I had to pee I'd either have to take them off or unplug their little motor and carry it with me to the bathroom.

It also presented another issue.

CAT: Oh, you've just had surgery? So what? In case you haven't noticed, I am stuck outside, and am at your window demanding that you make the long trip around to the back door to let my fuzzy ass inside.
ME: You're lucky I'm so goddamn nice, cat. All right, I'm going back to Sock Jail.
CAT: I'll probably want to go out again in a few minutes. First I'll come check out your room and OH SHIT WHAT THE HELL IS THAT
ME: It's my sock motor.
CAT: HOLY FUCKING FUCK IT IS MAKING NOISE
ME: Yeah, it does that.
CAT: IT WILL GET US ALL
ME: Don't worry. It's a rental. It'll be gone soon.
CAT: I AM ON TO YOU, BUZZING THING. YOU'RE IN LEAGUE WITH THE TRAIN, AREN'T YOU
ME: At least you have good survival instincts.

Insurance Strikes Back

INSURANCE COMPANY: Guess what! Your insurance payment plan is all fucked up!
ME: I wish you jerks wouldn't deliver these letters on Friday afternoons. Now I gotta wait all weekend before I can call you and yell about this.

And So

So that was what happened a couple of weeks ago. And then I loafed around for two weeks having mood swings and feeling like stomped shit, and the only thing that made it really bearable was that lineup of audiobooks I got.** But now, it's been enough time that I think I'm starting to feel normal! It's kind of a nice feeling. My sleep schedule is still Even More Fucked than it was before this whole gallbladdery disaster, but hopefully that will get fixed soon.

The other weird thing is feeling the very obvious absence of a gallbladder that has been very much PRESENT for a couple of years. It doesn't feel like an empty space; I'm just not getting the sense of some large, bilious*** alien sitting just under my boob.

And it wasn't just a subjective feeling. I went in for my post-op the other day and my doctor just about burst into the room.

DOCTOR: YOUR GALLBLADDER WAS THE BIGGEST, INFLAMEDEST GALLBLADDER I HAVE EVER SEEN! IT'S A GOOD THING WE GOT IT OUT!
ME: So peeing in the toothpaste cap was justified after all!

It's always a validation to realize that you felt rotten for a reason. Hopefully I will now feel less rotten. Every day seems to be getting better about that!


*Or, that one memorable time when I passed out, why the hell you're lying in a wet bathtub with your Dad throwing a towel over the shower door at you so you'll be decent when he opens it up to see if you're still alive.

**For the record, Bruce Coville's Full-Cast Audio Unicorn Chronicles are pretty excellent. A few of the voice actors' choices were Not How I Imagined Them (the attempt to Ed Wynn-ize Medafil was weird, and the first book's voice for Lightfoot was kind of ridiculous), but overall they are audiobooks as they should be.

***"Bilious" is a rather startlingly apt description. Before all this nonsense I hadn't realized it, but there is a very specific feeling associated with it. The closest other description I have is "sour"--as in, it felt like there was a big sour THING just sitting in there--but really, even that doesn't work.

For some years now the grocery store nearest our house has been slowly descending into a dystopian wasteland. The setup is haphazard, the bakery and deli are half-assed at best, most of the stock is from this terrible off-brand company that seems to make all of its products from soup to pecans with a 3D printer, and the most helpful employee in the store seems like the kind of guy whose most treasured possession is a chainsaw named after his mother.* It has become an unpleasant experience.

So we've started going to a farther away, but much more pleasant store, which is like sunshine and butterflies compared to the nuclear winter of our local place. It's got friendly staff, delicious local artisan organic free range everything, lovingly set up displays, delicious chicken salad sandwiches, and an all-around better selection of products. And it only occasionally tries to kill you.

Today, for instance. Today Mom and I were walking in for a shopping run for the office, and Mom was straight up assaulted in the doorway. By the door.

As it turns out, getting whacked in the ribs by a rogue automatic sliding door is REALLY GODDAMN PAINFUL. Mom couldn't even indulge in some therapeutic swearing, because after an initial "FUCK" whooshed out of her all her breath was gone. She staggered in and sat down. We both decided that it was important to tell someone about this, if for no other reason than that the store is constantly swarming with really old people (I guess old people like pleasant grocery stores, too) and if that door hit a little old lady with osteoperosis, it might crush her to powder. So we asked for a manager.

HELPFUL LOUD GIRL: YEAH, THE DOOR IS BROKEN. I'M SORRY, I THOUGHT IT WAS STUCK! IT HIT YOU? I'LL GET SOMEONE!
THE SOMEONE SHE GOT: What's up?
HELPFUL LOUD GIRL: THE DOOR HIT HER! I'M GOING TO GO TURN IT OFF COMPLETELY BECAUSE IT HIT HER AND THAT'S DANGEROUS AND IT'S WARM ENOUGH WE CAN JUST TURN IT OFF AND LEAVE IT OPEN SO I'LL DO THAT NOW!
CUSTOMER AT SELF-CHECK-OUT, WHERE HELPFUL LOUD GIRL IS SUPPOSED TO BE STATIONED: Can I get my 5¢ bag discount please?
HELPFUL LOUD GIRL: JUST AS SOON AS I TURN OFF THIS DOOR SO IT DOESN'T HIT ANYONE ELSE!
MOM: *wheeze*
THE SOMEONE: I'll go get a manager.
THE SOMEONE: in the distance Manager! Some lady slammed into the door!
ME: I could write a linguistics monograph on how she worded that.
MOM: Ha--OW. Don't make me laugh.
ME: Are you going to live?
MOM: I think I bruised a rib. I'll let you know if my lung starts to collapse.
HELPFUL LOUD GIRL: I TURNED THE DOOR OFF. I THINK THAT'S BEST. I DIDN'T ASK MANAGEMENT BECAUSE I KNOW THIS IS WHAT THEY WANT AND WE DON'T WANT ANYONE ELSE HURT AND--
ME: Thank you! That's good! I think that self-check-out lady is going to whack you with a mop in a second.
HELPFUL LOUD GIRL: OH, RIGHT. BUT THE DOOR IS OFF, JUST SO YOU KNOW!
MANAGER: I am concerned about this.
ME: Join the club.
MOM: Nah, I can walk it off, it's a good hurt. I just won't inhale for a few days.
MANAGER: Are you going to hypothetically see a doctor?
MOM: No plans at the moment, but I'll keep you informed.
MANAGER: Are you going to sue us, hypothetically?
ME: That depends. Are you hypothetically interested in giving us some free chicken salad sandwiches?
MOM: Shut up, dear. As to suing you, I'm thinking no. I just want this written down somewhere.

So we got that all squared away and continued shopping. All the other employees expressed concern over Mom's clearly pained demeanor. It was still the nicest damn grocery store we'd ever been to.

ME: I knew there had to be something wrong with this place.
MOM: And yet we still prefer it to our local dystopia.
ME: Well, sure. That off-brand Soylent Green they sell is awful. Probably not even made of real people.

Our luck this week had better improve, because with Mom's flattening and my brother's broken hand, we've got two casualties heading into Family Awesome Time. Here's hoping nobody gets eaten by a bear or something.


*He is actually pretty helpful, though. Never says a word, but if you ask him where something is he'll immediately leave whatever he was doing and lurch off silently, and if you follow him he'll lead you directly to the item. Then he vanishes like a ghost back to the stockroom or wherever.

ME: Remind me when we swing by the office supplies store on Tuesday ... I need a protractor.

MOM: A PROTRACTOR?! What the hell is a protractor?

ME: You know, for measuring angles?

MOM: ...

ME: It's the D-shaped ruler?

MOM: ...

MY SISTER: You know, Mom. The turtle stencil.

MOM: OH, the TURTLE STENCIL! Well, why didn't you say so? So it's called a "protractor," eh?

ME: You thought it was just for drawing turtles?

MY SISTER: Hey, we're English majors. To us, it's a turtle stencil.

And now, for some reason, we're watching Alien: Resurrection.

RIPLEY 7: K ... k ... ill ... me ...

RIPLEY 8: *FLAMES ON THE SIDE OF EVERYONE'S FACE*

RON PERLMAN: Must be a chick thing.

MY SISTER: Great line. Seriously, Ron? What, like she's on the rag?

*pause*

ME: Shit, that's a frightening thought.

MY SISTER: Oh, JESUS, you're RIGHT.

ME: THERE GOES ANOTHER PAIR OF PANTS

MY SISTER: GAME OVER, MAN

ME: THE AGONY

MY SISTER: I DISSOLVED ANOTHER TAMPON

ME: THE PLUMBING IS ON FIRE

MY SISTER: GIMME THAT FLAMETHROWER SO THAT I MAY DO MYSELF IN

ME: K ... ILL ... ME ...

MY SISTER: ... yeah, that would be a legitimate reason to call it 'the curse.'

ME: I am not even going to think about what this means for the womb-having Alien Queen Brad Dourif was blathering on about.

MY SISTER: Yeah, massive hull breach. Leave them in space for a while, and the whole alien problem pretty much solves itself.

Some days, neither reason nor inclination exist to stop you from running through the sprinklers in your T-shirt and jeans like a five-year-old.

Today, for example. Today is one of those days.

Why I Was Late For Work On Saturday:

DAD: Hey, Amelia!
ME: Aaaagh! Don't come in! I am in a state of undress.
DAD: Fine, I'll holler through the door. But I need an opinion.
ME: I believe that the Star Wars prequels detract from George Lucas's original commitment to mythicism and remove the mystique of Darth Vader, and therefore do not count.
DAD: I need an opinion on the window in our back door.
ME: I'm for it!
DAD: Just put on some pants or something and come see.

So I got dressed and went out to see what had Dad so darn puzzled.

ME: Huh.
DAD: See what I mean?
ME: It appears to be … shattering.
DAD: Yes.
ME: How long has this been going on?
DAD: I'm not sure. I just noticed it a few minutes ago.

The back door was, indeed, shattering. In the progressive aspect. As we watched, an ever-denser network of cracks was crazing its way through one of the full-size panes. It was making an ominous noise, too.

BACK DOOR: Kk … kkk-kk … kkk …
ME: This can't possibly end well.
DAD: Any suggestions?
ME: I'll check the internet. Hey, internet! What do I do about cracking windows?
INTERNET: So you want to hack your Microsoft operating system, eh?
ME: What? No! I'm talking about windows slowly bursting into a thousand shards!
INTERNET: Oh, you're looking for XXX Mac/PC slash fiction!
ME: GOD DAMMIT I AM TALKING ABOUT AN ACTUAL WINDOW THAT IS ACTUALLY BREAKING.
INTERNET: Well, I have some legal forums with advice on tenant/landlord disputes pertaining to broken windows.
ME: That's closer, anyway …
INTERNET: Or there's always XXX tenant/landlord slash fiction!
ME: … The internet is no good, Dad. We're on our own.
BACK DOOR: Kk-kkk! Kk …

The window was bowing slightly now, and tiny grains of glass were sprinkling onto the porch. We supposed we could let it shatter by itself, but there was always the danger it would explode and make an awful and unsafe mess--especially not good if a certain cat decided to bang on the door to come in. And neither of us wanted to spend the afternoon in the emergency room digging glass out of our eyeballs, as might happen if it blew up at us. So we decided to do the most logical thing: cover it with a tarp and smash it ourselves.

BIG STICK: *thunk*
ME: You hit the wall.
DAD: THAT WAS A PRACTICE SWING. You concentrate on holding up the tarp.
ME: You want I should paint a bull's-eye on it?
BIG STICK: *BAM*
BACK DOOR: *CRASH tinkle*
ME: All right! Quick! Grab as much loot as you can--oh, right, we live here.
DAD: Please tell me I only got the outer pane.
ME: Inner one's still holding strong!
DAD: The precision of a surgeon, that's what I have!
ME: But you're terrible at breaking and entering.

We looked at the pile that used to be our back window.

ME: S'pose we ought to clean this up.
DAD: "We"? You're already late for work. You get to the library. I'll clean up.
ME: Absolutely. I leave the glass-handling to you, the surgeon whose entire livelihood is based on uninjured hands!
DAD: As it should be.

We're still not sure what broke the window. My theory is that the wooden frame has been warping for years, and the glass has been under stress, so that when something hit it on Saturday it was the last straw. But the way it shattered in slow motion was unexpected. At least we have another pane, so that thieves and murderers, and more to the point raccoons, can't get in.

… Come to think of it, maybe it was the raccoons. Wouldn't put it past those little bastards.