Part One and Part Two
Is it horrible for me to admit that I can't decide what makes me happier: the fact that Anders' condition has improved, so he was discharged from ICU earlier this morning; or the fact that this new unit doesn't impose restrictions on the number of visitors he can have at any given time?
Okay, I'm going to be an asshole and say it: I'm just happy I won't be third man out, because even when I'm present, Terie and Sally are becoming, like, BFFs—right in front of my face, no less. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if I were stuck in the waiting room, unable to provide interference? It would be all...Ooooh... "Sally, you like Haribo gummy bears, too? OMG, so do I! We have so much in common," or... ooooh... "Terie, thanks for cleaning up the room. You are so AWESOME," or... "Look, Anders, Terie bought you a Spider-Man action figure. Isn't Aunty Ter, Ter the best?"... and blah, blah, blah, OH MY GOD, I'm going to fucking puke rainbows and unicorns.
Despite their budding friendship, which resembles two lost kindred spirits reuniting after years of separation, I'm secure enough to know where I stand as a friend. I AM NEEDED, god damn it, and I will do anything to prove it! Which is why, when the nurse announces that it is important for Anders to pee, I over zealously volunteer to help him like I'm some kind of pedophile out on parole. Sally, suffering from a back injury, doesn't put up a fight. Like, at all.
Unfortunately, Anders not only makes peepee, but he also makes poopoo. This is considered great progress from a post-operative point of view, but to me, it is totally gag worthy. I don't complain, though, because I'm an AWESOME friend like that. And I don't complain when Sally asks me to help him a second time, either. The third time, however, I've gone from being Sally's loyal friend to being her bitch, and I am more than happy to let her new best friend assume the responsibility.
In our ardent efforts to keep Anders entertained, we do all the things that he loves to do. We play Uno, which, strangely enough, he keeps winning. Unbeknownst to me, Sally and Terie are letting him win.
I am not.
Because Anders is obsessed with all things booty, we let him smack our butts, and we do little dances while shaking our ass-ets like dancers in a rap video. And though we probably shouldn't be encouraging this behavior, we actually foster it, because guess what? The kid just had open-heart surgery and if this is what makes him happy, so be it.
Right around lunchtime, we notice two clowns walk by our room. Sally, unable to contain her excitement, tells the nurse that Anders would love a visit from the clowns. Terie and I, trying to suppress our excitement, are also eager for a visit from the clowns, 'cuz said clowns are flippin' hot. And it is this very admission that makes me stand back and ask myself, "How the hell did I get here?" And by "here," I mean the point in my life where I'm so sexually deprived, I am openly admitting in a blog post that I'm getting all hot n' bothered over a pair of clowns. I feel a little better knowing that Terie is also drooling over this dynamic duo. So is Sally, but she won't admit it.
When the clowns finally come to see Anders, he couldn't care less. Teri, Sally and I, on the other hand, sway to-and-fro in time with their silly songs, while joyously clapping our hands and laughing flirtatiously. We look like three adolescent girls swooning over Justin Bieber, except we have wrinkles and saddle bags, and the objects of our affections are clowns. Clowns!
After they leave, Terie and I create pretend lives for the clowns so as to make ourselves feel less pathetic about finding them attractive. We decide they are starving musicians who have to do the clown gig by day so they can hone their real craft by night.
It is Sally who finally suggests that Terie and I go do some sightseeing around Boston. "It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so why don't you guys go out and enjoy this beautiful day."
"Oh, Sally, we simply can't; we'd feel too guilty leaving you here at the hospital," we conscientiously reply.
"No, seriously, you guys g—"
"Well, OKAY! Only if you insist," we say, our voices trailing off because we're already halfway out the door.
Seconds later, we are in a cab, on our way to Newbury Street, a trendy street lined with novelty shops and eateries. Because we are trying to cram as much in as possible, we do some quick shopping and then decide to do appetizers and wine at a couple of different restaurants.
The first restaurant, Piattini Wine Cafe, is absolutely amazing. We share three appetizers and have a flight of wine each. Terie gives it two thumbs up:
Our next stop is Tapeo, where we are more impressed with the ambiance and the bartender than we are with the appetizers. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel deep in my core is a result of the wine, or if it's a response to the bartender's Latin American accent. But my heightened arousal to his accent reminds me of the time I went through this phase where I was intent on only dating guys with accents. This phase was inspired by the movie Unfaithful, a suspense thriller starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane, in which Lane has an adulterous affair with an incredibly sexy French man, who ends up getting his head bashed in with a snow-globe by Gere, Lane's jilted husband. Ooops, sorry. I guess announcing "spoiler alert" is a moot point.
Anyway, this intense desire to date a guy with an accent landed me in a one night relationship with a French Canadian guy, who, in his drunken state, mistakenly confused my bathroom drawer for a toilet. Needless to say, the relationship ended poorly the next morning when I found my makeup drenched in piss. It was hardly the Diane-Lane-experience I had been hoping for.
With nightfall fast approaching, Terie and I brave the subway system... translation: the nice security guard maps out our route and also helps us buy tickets from the electronic ticket dispenser. As Terie so accurately puts it, "You'd think we were two girls fresh off the farm."
Our next stop is Sweet Caroline's, a newer restaurant that is located a block down from our apartment. Having both eaten to the point where we could puke, we decide to only order wine.
After a couple of glasses, we discuss how cute Anders is and how we feel terrible for abandoning Sally. To make up for it, we write, produce, direct and star in the following videos...
Ladies and gents, send in the clowns:
After sending them to Sally, we get this in return:
******
Okay, I'm going to be an asshole and say it: I'm just happy I won't be third man out, because even when I'm present, Terie and Sally are becoming, like, BFFs—right in front of my face, no less. I mean, can you imagine what would happen if I were stuck in the waiting room, unable to provide interference? It would be all...Ooooh... "Sally, you like Haribo gummy bears, too? OMG, so do I! We have so much in common," or... ooooh... "Terie, thanks for cleaning up the room. You are so AWESOME," or... "Look, Anders, Terie bought you a Spider-Man action figure. Isn't Aunty Ter, Ter the best?"... and blah, blah, blah, OH MY GOD, I'm going to fucking puke rainbows and unicorns.
Despite their budding friendship, which resembles two lost kindred spirits reuniting after years of separation, I'm secure enough to know where I stand as a friend. I AM NEEDED, god damn it, and I will do anything to prove it! Which is why, when the nurse announces that it is important for Anders to pee, I over zealously volunteer to help him like I'm some kind of pedophile out on parole. Sally, suffering from a back injury, doesn't put up a fight. Like, at all.
Unfortunately, Anders not only makes peepee, but he also makes poopoo. This is considered great progress from a post-operative point of view, but to me, it is totally gag worthy. I don't complain, though, because I'm an AWESOME friend like that. And I don't complain when Sally asks me to help him a second time, either. The third time, however, I've gone from being Sally's loyal friend to being her bitch, and I am more than happy to let her new best friend assume the responsibility.
In our ardent efforts to keep Anders entertained, we do all the things that he loves to do. We play Uno, which, strangely enough, he keeps winning. Unbeknownst to me, Sally and Terie are letting him win.
I am not.
Because Anders is obsessed with all things booty, we let him smack our butts, and we do little dances while shaking our ass-ets like dancers in a rap video. And though we probably shouldn't be encouraging this behavior, we actually foster it, because guess what? The kid just had open-heart surgery and if this is what makes him happy, so be it.
Right around lunchtime, we notice two clowns walk by our room. Sally, unable to contain her excitement, tells the nurse that Anders would love a visit from the clowns. Terie and I, trying to suppress our excitement, are also eager for a visit from the clowns, 'cuz said clowns are flippin' hot. And it is this very admission that makes me stand back and ask myself, "How the hell did I get here?" And by "here," I mean the point in my life where I'm so sexually deprived, I am openly admitting in a blog post that I'm getting all hot n' bothered over a pair of clowns. I feel a little better knowing that Terie is also drooling over this dynamic duo. So is Sally, but she won't admit it.
When the clowns finally come to see Anders, he couldn't care less. Teri, Sally and I, on the other hand, sway to-and-fro in time with their silly songs, while joyously clapping our hands and laughing flirtatiously. We look like three adolescent girls swooning over Justin Bieber, except we have wrinkles and saddle bags, and the objects of our affections are clowns. Clowns!
After they leave, Terie and I create pretend lives for the clowns so as to make ourselves feel less pathetic about finding them attractive. We decide they are starving musicians who have to do the clown gig by day so they can hone their real craft by night.
It is Sally who finally suggests that Terie and I go do some sightseeing around Boston. "It's supposed to snow tomorrow, so why don't you guys go out and enjoy this beautiful day."
"Oh, Sally, we simply can't; we'd feel too guilty leaving you here at the hospital," we conscientiously reply.
"No, seriously, you guys g—"
"Well, OKAY! Only if you insist," we say, our voices trailing off because we're already halfway out the door.
Seconds later, we are in a cab, on our way to Newbury Street, a trendy street lined with novelty shops and eateries. Because we are trying to cram as much in as possible, we do some quick shopping and then decide to do appetizers and wine at a couple of different restaurants.
The first restaurant, Piattini Wine Cafe, is absolutely amazing. We share three appetizers and have a flight of wine each. Terie gives it two thumbs up:
Our next stop is Tapeo, where we are more impressed with the ambiance and the bartender than we are with the appetizers. I'm not sure if the warmth I feel deep in my core is a result of the wine, or if it's a response to the bartender's Latin American accent. But my heightened arousal to his accent reminds me of the time I went through this phase where I was intent on only dating guys with accents. This phase was inspired by the movie Unfaithful, a suspense thriller starring Richard Gere and Diane Lane, in which Lane has an adulterous affair with an incredibly sexy French man, who ends up getting his head bashed in with a snow-globe by Gere, Lane's jilted husband. Ooops, sorry. I guess announcing "spoiler alert" is a moot point.
Anyway, this intense desire to date a guy with an accent landed me in a one night relationship with a French Canadian guy, who, in his drunken state, mistakenly confused my bathroom drawer for a toilet. Needless to say, the relationship ended poorly the next morning when I found my makeup drenched in piss. It was hardly the Diane-Lane-experience I had been hoping for.
With nightfall fast approaching, Terie and I brave the subway system... translation: the nice security guard maps out our route and also helps us buy tickets from the electronic ticket dispenser. As Terie so accurately puts it, "You'd think we were two girls fresh off the farm."
Our next stop is Sweet Caroline's, a newer restaurant that is located a block down from our apartment. Having both eaten to the point where we could puke, we decide to only order wine.
Ladies and gents, send in the clowns:
After sending them to Sally, we get this in return:
Sally texts us to tell us that Anders loved the videos, and he watched them over and over again, all the while laughing.
For some reason, I am quite content in knowing that we were able to make Anders laugh, especially when he didn't even crack a smile for the clowns. Perhaps Terie and I have missed our calling.
To be continued...
4 comments:
Who knew that your bedroom sexytime dance works just as well as a pick-me-up for a recovering kid.
You don't know me & I don't know you buti found your blog today & loved it. If you are still in Boston, would you like to do a quick meet up? I live in the suburbs of Boston, spend a rather large amount of time at both Children's (as in Wed) & Brigham (as in Thurs); both were just for check ups this time.
Anyway, I am a decade older than you, have 3 kids & a spouse & am physically incapable of digesting alchohol. That means we have virtually nothing in common & should hit it off right away! We do share a love of dogs.
So if you are still here (as of 11/12/11) email me at papertigger1@gmail.com!
Wow: My sexytime dance is much more choreographed than this, and I have backup dancers and a sound system and frozen ice and a trapeze. It beats cirque de soliel (sp?) any day,
Paper: Crap, I am already back in Austin. But let me say this: I loved your city, and I think we could be great friends because a) you said you loved my blog b) you love dogs and c) you said you loved my blog. The alcohol digestion issue... we'd have to find another way, like maybe an IV.
I hope your visits to Children's and Brigham's weren't for anything serious, and if they were, may good health find you.
Thanks so much for reading and commenting.
R
So, basically a sad clown with an accent would send you into instant orgasm?
Like Anders, I love a good ass. God bless that kid!
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