Bruise News

On the road back home from my Easter Extravaganza reality set in. What do people who are temporarily crippled do? Surprisingly I had never endured an injury that resulted in immobility, so I was kinda worried. But the swelling had gone down, and nothing seemed amiss, with the exception that I couldn't really walk. I still relied heavily on my borrowed crutches from my gay bestie. "I hope I don't break my foot before I see you again," he proclaimed.                                                     

I didn't call the doctor, because I am notoriously bad at calling for help.  I think everything will right itself.  This is in drastic contrast to my Southern husband who is a hypochondriac and self diagnoses himself via the Internet. He usually makes my doctors appointments for me. He has been so bold as to locate every gynecologist I have seen in our 11 years together. He has even made those appointments for me. I know. Gross. And. Dreamy. 

My boss's method on healing a sick foot

So, the first week, I wrapped my foot in an ace bandage and used my borrowed crutches. In two days I decided to graduate to a cane that my Southern husband purchased for me for four dollars at Big Lots (the greatest store in the world.) When I was hobbling around on the cane at the grocery store a man, whom I assumed was a doctor, shook his head at the way I was using the cane and adjusted it for me. I think this was because the cane is mainly for senior citizens and not idiots.

My boss, who is not a doctor, tried to "help" me by giving some alternative advise with her homeopathic expertise: I can solve my foot problems by rubbing Extra Strength Tiger Balm on the injured area, place a plastic glove over the foot, and leave it on underneath my bandage. The glove will trap the Tiger Balm so it can seep into my foot and work its magic. I did this daily. I honestly thought that Tiger Balm was a miracle cream because my foot was starting to feel better. It felt so good that I ceased using the cane and was surprised when I was able to do a jig. Things were on the up and up. I was foot loose and fancy free. Everything was coming up Gigi! That was until I woke up on the weekend and was faced with this:

This phased me a little. So I decided that before I went to an "All You Can Eat Ribs Contest" celebration with my red haired gal pal, I would make my Southern husband schedule a doctors appointment for me. Making doctor's appointments is an unspoken agreement in our relationship. He makes the doctors appointments and I do everything else. But in protest, he didn't make the appointment, which led me to make my own. This is something that I should never do, because I always make the wrong decision. I wanted to find a good doctor so I googled: best podiatrist in L.A. One stood out: Dr. Javaherian Afshin Dpm affectionately shortened to "Dr. Java". I should have turned my bruised foot around when I saw that his podiatry office was in a closet hidden behind a privately owned pharmacy. But, I didn't, because my foot hurt.


The receptionist assured me that I was in good hands with Dr. Java, "He's a really nice guy." She put me in his office where I was free to gaze at his lackluster credentials hanging on the wall  He graduated as a foot expert from Cal State Northridge, a school known for its graphic arts programs. He greeted me with a smile and asked, "Are you pregnant?" and I depressingly replied,"No."
           "Oh, well in this economy everyone is pregnant. Pregnant with bills, insurance, you understand?" Nice, Dr Java. Nice. After the ex rays and the pregnancy comments Dr. Java gave me an ultimatum: get a really expensive cat scan to make sure it isn't a fracture, or the boot. "If it's fractured you'll need surgery."
              "Is it really fractured?" He didn't know. I took the boot.

It wasn't until I discovered that I could have gone to my general practitioner, the wonderful U.C.L.A. lesbian doctor and that a "podiatrist" isn't actually an M.D.,  that I slammed my hand against my forehead in dumb dumbery. When I saw my real doctor she took one look to conclude that I was fine, it was too early to decide if it was a fracture. I still needed to wear the boot, load myself with pills, and in 6 weeks we can start to talk about about this fracture business if there is no improvement.

For all the money I spent on my foot at least I got this cool new shoe. It's actually an amazing addition to any stylish persons wardrobe. I predict that everyone will be wearing this beautiful boot in the future. I literally saw a hip woman in Trader Joes wearing one this afternoon. She caught me gazing at her, looked down at my foot, and gave me a winning smile. She knew that we were the medical boot pioneers paving the way for the fashionista of the world. We were hip to each others jive.
               

Spring Sprain

I never get a vacation. So, when I have four days off from work, I take advantage. But, in my world, even when I'm on vacation dumb luck follows me like dark cloud.

For my vacation I set my sights on beautiful San Francisco, my high school hometown. With the extended weekend, I would be able to take my Southern husband on a tour of nostalgia lane. We ate at Goat Hill Pizza, strolled in Union Square, had a beer at Lefty O'Douls, and saw a drag show with my gay bestie (the one who I gave my burn cream to). When I was making plans to come to The Bay Area I hadn't even realized I was going to be there on Easter until I actually looked on a calender. When my gay bestie and I realized that we would be spending Easter together we immediately tried to come up with an amazing Easter adventure. I told him I wanted to do an Easter egg hunt/picnic in Delores Park, a park set atop a hill overlooking the San Francisco skyline. We were unaware that San Franciscans have flocked to the park since 1979 to judge the "Hunky Jesus" contest for Easter. So, obviously, nothing was going to deter me from seeing all the amazing Jesus' lined up for my amusement.


(It seems that this blasphemous act was the culprit of my demise and that God was soon going to punish me for my mockery of his beloved son, Jesus.)

Usually I spend all of my San Francisco excursions with my gay bestie. But this time my Southern husband convinced me to spend one day with my parents. This is because he loves drinking and gossiping with them (a family practice that I am accustomed to, but he has just started to enjoy). I decided to meet them at my grandmother's house for a pre-Easter celebration.

A couple drinks in at Grandma's, I had a need to breathe in some fresh Bay Area air. I live in Los Angeles; a place where breathing in and out deeply is not common. So, I suggested that my family and Southern husband all go to the local elementary school and shoot some hoops. I kind of wanted to prove to my mother that I was more active and more health conscious now that I am in my thirties and aware that my youth has slipped away. Boy I'm stupid. We played 'horse'. I won. We played 'pig'. I lost. And because I lost at pig I decided that it was a good idea to play two on two; even though I was wearing shoes that were one size too big. I bought them at Ross for $10 (originally $80) because they were so cute and they had Edie Sedgewick on them. I didn't think that my need to be thrifty would cause me to be crippled.

My mother suggest it be girls against boys, which is silly because the boys were gonna win.  But quite honestly we are all terrible ball players; by the fourth point we were out of breath. To liven up the game I became aggressive and did my famous swing monkey arms move to block my step father from a shot. I am not as coordinated as I was in my younger basketball playing years and this imbalance caused me to lose my footing in mid-jump, twist my ankle, and fall to ruin.

As I was falling I thought a number of things 1) Oh no! Gay Jesus Easter! and 2) Well, at least I have more material for my blog. I heard my mother cry out, "Oh no!" and I knew that now I had really done it. As my parents and Southern husband lifted me to my feet, I felt sharp pains radiate throughout my foot. And, like the pro klutz that I am, I brushed off their, "Are you okay?" comments. But, as they propped me on my grandmothers saggy pink couch and took off my Royal Elastic Edie Sedgewick limited addition shoe, the horror that was my foot, was revealed to me.

Notice my mother calmly reading as I gaze upon this horror.

Yes, I have hairy toes too. Well, sometimes.

So, yes. I sprained my ankle. I mean...I really sprained my ankle. My families answer was the right one: elevate, ice, compress, painkillers, and whiskey. God I love my boozer family. My Southern husband is paranoid about mixing pills and alcohol so he monitored my whiskey intake by drinking everything my step-father handed me.

My dismay

My foot on ice

I texted my gay bestie instantly because the Gay Easter Jesus celebration was the only thing on my mind. Was I going to be able to go? Would this foot weather San Francisco's hilly terrain?  Would I be able to see the Jesus'? Surely my vacation was ruined. God was having his revenge. My gay friend texted back; he did have crutches and that no matter what, Gay Easter Jesus would not be ruined. As I drifted unconscious due to the pain medication and Grandma's whiskey my faith in Easter had been restored.

Gimp Lesbian

The next morning I could not walk on my foot. Despite my mother's pleas and her need for a family Easter, I hobbled my way to Oakland to meet my gay bestie. We dyed eggs, had celebratory Easter drinks, and made our way to Delores Park to see the Jesus Competition. San Francisco and its hilly terrain did not bode well for me. Unbelievably I have never used crutches before. It was alarming to most people I passed. They stared at me questioning my decision making and laughed because I had rabbit ears on and was hopping up and down when the crutches became cumbersome. A gay couple passed by me and declared, "Look! It's a gimp lesbian!" I guess they thought it was a costume, because most people were wearing some sort of disguise. "Gimp Lesbian"? I'll take it.

So, despite my foot, I was able to have a fabulous time, although I wasn't able to get any pictures with the Jesus', I was able to store pictures in my memory that will last a lifetime. My gay bestie was supportive at first, but when he saw the impact my foot had on his fun, he immediately declared that I would do whatever he said. Not only would we go to the Jesus contest, but we would use my borrowed crutches to go out on the Castro. I could elaborate more about what it's like going to gay bars as a cripple, but I think this picture will suffice, and I am certain my mother is reading this and shaking her head for my blasphemous ways.

More on this foot tragedy later...stay tuned.

Curling Iron Catastrophe

I blame my mother for not instructing me how to look like a lady. I don't know how to wear or use makeup. I don't know what moisturizer is for. I don't understand the concept of facials, and I don't know how to wear heels. My mother did teach me about where all the various silverware go on the table and that at lunch your napkin is folded half way on your lap, and at dinner, it's fully spread out.

Don't get me wrong though. My mother is one hot tottie. She knew how to make herself up. You can see for yourself on the right.

Maybe it was because I was a tomboy when I was little I was never interested in learning all of the stuff that women are supposed to know about making themselves beautiful. Maybe I never really thought about the aging process. Maybe I should have taken an interest in all that girly crap; it might have saved me from the pain and embarrassment when my girly fashionable friends talk about their skin or a nail polish or their hair stylist or whatever. 

My BFFs parent's are successful hairdressers in Arizona. She is always receiving products from her mother: lotions, soaps, skin products, makeup, hair brushes, waxes, etc. She usually pawns all the crap she doesn't want off on me because I am naive when it comes to everything that is beauty products, so I'll try anything. In reality, most of the stuff sits underneath my sink unused; not because I don't like it; I don't understand it.

One pre-Thanksgiving extravaganza she brought out the big guns: a hair straightener and a curling iron. Top of the line. Girly sluts all over the world would drool at the sight of these designer hair tools. Before that, I had had my hair straightened once when I went to Boston where my film was screening. I was really overjoyed and told my friend who straightened it that, 'I think I look like Cher!" My friend kept telling me, "You don't look like Cher, but you do look good." 

Cher

Me

                                 


 I had used a curling iron before. I had those really cool detachable all in one hair accessories from the 90's. "It's a crimper, spiraled curling iron, and regular curling iron in one." My uncle Geno bought it for me and it was the only one I had ever owned until my BFF gave me her moms leftovers.

I hadn't really touched either of them until I had a reason to. Being a teacher, it's stupid to dress up at work. Who is there to look good for? I know those kids have snot on their hands, because I am constantly telling them to stop picking their nose. So, why curl my hair? But then the moment of opportunity came when I was invited to a Russian Sweet Sixteen Party.

I don't think any of you people, besides the Russians, or the people who partook of the short lived "Russian Dolls" series on Bravo, understand what a Russian party is like. It's serious business. Every Russian party I have ever been to has been more expensive than my wedding. We're talking table decor, custom designed dresses, extravagant catered meals, a famous D.J., lots and lots of free booze, and go-go dancers with light up skirts. Yes. Go-go dancers with light up skirts. Every guest takes a picture with the birthday girl. Here's the birthday girl, Me, and My husband: the magnificent nerd.

I look cute, right? Well all the Russians thought I was wearing a sweater, because they were all wearing tight short black dresses and heavy makeup, but whatever. If you see me most of the time, this is a drastic improvement.

So, obviously this was a BIG event for me, because I knew that I had to look my best. I had to do my hair. So, I decided to not only straighten it, but also to use a curling iron. When I was getting ready for the party, I was happy, because I was looking cute, and I was finally going to look like Cher again and then...the unthinkable. One slip of the hand and BOOM! I burned my face with the curling iron. I didn't think it was that bad; I felt some throbbing pain. But when I woke up the next morning I was faced with this:

I thought it was going to last forever. I had finally done it. After years and years of burning my arms from taking chicken pot pies out of the oven I had entered klutz masters paradise: I had singed my face.

After this catastrophe my friend sent me this video of how to curl your hair. http://www.refinery29.com/curling-iron-curls-how-to-video
This blew my mind because I had never curled my hair that way. I had always started from the ends and worked my way upward. Oh, how wrong was I? Why hadn't my mom taught me this ingenious way to keep me from burning my precious face? Why had I been kept in the dark for so long? Why at thirty am I finding out all the secrets to life? Why Mom? Why?

Update: Everyday I Neopsorined the crap out of it, because I stupidly lent out my Mederma to my gay friend (who lends out their burn cream?) and amazingly the burn that could have followed me to my grave disappeared. Neosporin you are my hero.

The toe nail

Yes. It happened to me. I actually didn't think it ever happened at all, but after you lose a toe nail people share their stories about how they lost their dear nimble friends.

But, I never thought it would happen to me.

I was at my cousin's engagement party on their family ranch. It was clear on the invitation that it was on a ranch and to wear you dancing shoes. I guess I should have been a little more insightful when reading this invitation, because when I got there everyone was decked out in their ruffled skirts and cowboys boots, whilst I was in my bright blue wrap around dress from Ross and simple sandals. Oh well, it's me, Gigi, the kooky broke distant cousin. I can pull off this outfit by having a good time.

There was a woman there that stood out from the crowd too. She was plump, had frizzy hair, and wore Bobbie socks. She was like me; I felt comforted by her presence. Little did I know that this woman would have a hand into me losing my little friend, my toenail.

She was the hoe-down instructor. Yes. I went to a party where there was a hoe-down instructor, and it was really really fun in the beginning. I got to dance with all the funny old men at the party and watch my spouse flirt with all the giggly old ladies. It wasn't until I was partnered with my step-father that I felt the pain of a thousand ton elephant slamming all it's weight on my darling big toe. That is not to say that my step-father is an elephant. He is quite an attractive guy. In fact, he used to look like that guy who played The Rocketeer. That night he was wearing his steel toed boots and I, as I said before, was wearing a mere strappy sandal.

We were in the middle of do-si-doing when the dude standing next to my step-father finally recognized him hours after the small party had commenced and in his drunken hazed glee pushed my step father into me crushing my darling big toe.

Being the avid dancer, I kept dancing. I think my big toe was in shock because I didn't really feel pain. I stopped dancing when I realized that the liquid in between my foot and sandal wasn't sweat. It was blood.

I calmly sat down not wanting to cause a scene, but when I got a look at the thing I started to panic. Luckily all of my cousins are pre-med, and they bandaged my big toe, but informed me that I would probably have to part with the nail. I sat out the rest of the party and decided to drink heavily instead. I wasn't going to let a toe stop me from having a good time. It wasn't until my mother came up to me in a drunken haze and stepped on my toe once more that I decided to call it quits. And I never leave a party early.

The toenail stayed on for quite awhile. It was white and rubbery for awhile. It stayed that way for months. I thought that maybe I could keep it. But alas, as I was chatting on the phone with my BFF I was playing with it and all of a sudden. Crack. It loosened. Being a frequent lover of disgusting bodily things; I thought it might be a good idea to rip it off with my BFF on the phone. We were chatting casually as I squrimed to get the right angles to document this event on my webcam, only to pause to sever the nail from my flesh. Shush."Ahhhhhhhh. Ohhhhhh." I held the nailed up to the light, "Weird." So this is what success feels like.

                   You can't really see my naked toe, but it sorta looks like a Cabbage Patch doll.

My Life with Posion Oak Part III (the final chapter...I hope)

So, we have come up to date with the battle of my terrible ailment that has cockblocked me for years. My mother always said that boys were intimidated by my confidence, so that's why they never had a crush on me or told me I was cute. I think that was true 95% of the time, but the other 5% was probably due to my constant battle with Poison Oak outbreaks.

The most recent time I got it when I was twenty nine and visiting my parents for Christmas. Their house is in the middle of nowhere and surrounded by woods, I didn't go and frolic in them this time, because it was raining during my stay. They have three dogs that were having to weather the storm on the porch. I felt bad for the dogs, so I went out in the rain to pet them. Poor things. Poor things? No. Assholes is more like it! Those dogs are assholes.

It wasn't until I was back in the city, a wonderful concrete jungle where the only discomfort is the sulfuric smell of urine, that I started to notice a rash spreading on my upper arm. At first, I thought it was ringworm. I got ringworm once from trying on pants from a thrift store. I think they were pants belonging to an old man, because in the 90's I was way into the "old man" look, which the navy polyester pants seemed only to suit an old man in his 70's or me. I never dreamt that it could be a visit from my rashy friend Poison Oak. I hadn't been outside or around it. How the hell did I contract it? I was only petting the dogs. THE DOGS! Here is a site that proves dogs are assholes:  They can't get it but they can spread it.

Apparently you can contract the heinous rash from a dogs fur. If a dog dashes through a field of the of the dreadful plant, the oil can and will attach to their stupid fur. If a human feels sorry for a dog and pets it then they will get poison oak (with the exception of people who cannot.) Both of my parents were always incredulous when I would come home with a it. They would laugh and say, "Geez Geege I could roll around in the stuff and never get it." Yeah, that made me feel a lot better Mom and Dad. I guess it's not genetic. So, the lesson is simple: never pet your dog you might get poison oak and parents are sometimes kind of lame.

I had to make myself feel better, so I decided to gross out others and start to document my delicious rash and post it on the Internet. It's weird what people respond to. I had more comments on the state of my rash than when I posted about meeting Andre 3000 at a movie theater. People got so into it that they kept badgering me to blog about it, and you can thank those people right now; they are the true heroes.

                                 My arm covered in Calamine Lotion (which doesn't help for shit):

                                         A couple weeks after my horrible discovery:

And the grand finale: The rash that was once oozing from my flesh is all dried up in the picture below, but the scar left behind tells another tale:

 
I can honestly say that I know my dreaded friend and I will meet again. Later than sooner I hope. But the Oak is not the only dreadful thing in my dimwitted stream of bad luck. There's more...

My Life With Poison Oak (or Ivy) Part II

 My second noteworthy occurrence with Poison Oak happened while attending S.U.N.Y Purchase in New York. I was twenty. Technically, what I refer to as Poison Oak from my native state, California, is a similar plant called Poison Ivy in New York. Here is further discussion about said argument:

 Poison Oak vs. Poison Ivy

I don't remember how I got this Poison Ivy, but the end result was similar to 5th grade experience, because it ended up all over my face completely disfiguring me and another break up with a boy. This picture doesn't do the rash justice, but to understand the severity, compare the eyes.

                                       

At the time I was "hooking up" with a guy. I called him my boyfriend, but he wasn't. I didn't really understand what the term "hooking up" meant. Despite my blistered swollen mess of a face, I didn't hide my face in shame. I went to class and hung around with friends. Against the doctors orders I smoked cigarettes, knowing full well that I could be inhaling Poison Ivy into my mouth and lungs (that didn't happen, thank God).

One of those days I was hanging out at my friends house and the "hooking up" guy was lounging on a couch reading a book. I hadn't seen him in awhile and had heard a rumor that he was "hooking up" with this white girl with dread locks. I was offended by this for two reasons 1) because she smelled of patchouli and 2) Because no white girls should ever have dreadlocks under any circumstances.
So obviously I wanted to gain his attention in hopes he would see my beautiful face and forget about this lame dreadlocked girl, so I grabbed the book he was calmly reading, rubbed it all over my face, and then handed it back to him. I thought we'd have a laugh about my horrible face and myabe makeout? ( I really don't know what I was thinking.) Instead, he became severely disturbed and started yelling at me. I was confused by this, but I yelled right back at him. I'm Italian. Italians only response to screaming is more screaming.

 The fight escalated with him holding an egg crate over his head and then throwing it at me. I ducked and it missed my head, but not my friends window. He immediately thought that he had contracted the Poison Ivy from my face and that he couldn't continue reading the book that he was half way through. We stopped hooking up after that and I started going to therapy.

                                                       I want to be like this guy:

                                                                   

How is all started: My Life with Poison Oak Part I

  

      When I was a kid, and to this day, Poison Oak has been the bane of my existence. Once my arm was so badly swollen that I wasn't able to wear long sleeved shirts for two weeks. I am so allergic that I don't even have to touch the stuff to contract it. It can be from the air or the touching something that has touched the deadly and toxic oil. The first notable "Gigi Nasty" occurrence was when I lost a 5th grade boyfriend because of my dreadful allergic reaction to my arch-nemesis: Poison Oak. 

  

        I grew up in a small town with a lot of open space and forest to play in. In my backyard Poison Oak was king. One day, while exploring in the forest with my friends, we I found a secret "waterfall" (probably an open sewer line.) The "waterfall" was hidden underneath brush and surrounded by Poison Oak. I thought that it would be okay if I entered the entrancing atmosphere as long as I took a shower and avoided the plant. Boy, was I wrong. The next morning I woke up screaming because my eyes were swollen shut. I looked liked the guy from that movie Mask with Cher.

 So, obviously, I didn't want my boyfriend, whom we all affectionately called Burrito Butt, to see my morphed appearance.

        The next day was Burrito Butt's birthday. It was common knowledge around our neighborhood that if you were "going out" with someone that you had to supply them with a gift. Before my disfiguring, I had gone to the quaint music store in my small town, and purchased the single of Whitney Houston (R.I.P) singing the National Anthem at the 1991 Superbowl. My Mom said it was a good gift. But, deep down, I knew I should have bought Pearl Jam. 

        Despite my unfortunate disfigurement, Burrito Butt insisted that he visit me, and we both knew that "going out" rules clearly state: birthdays are sacred and a gift must be delivered on the exact date of birth, or else the relationship is null and void. I tried to reason with Burrito Butt, but upon my better judgement, I relented and said he could come over; he would receive his cherished prize.

        When I opened the door, and he was bombarded with my disfigured melon, his eyes widened. I realized how horrible I looked when I saw his expression and I quickly dropped the gift bag into his hands, shut the door, ran into the bathroom, observed my horrible reflection in the mirror, and clutched my face while screaming.  

       He called me twenty minutes later and told me that we should probably stop "going out". Was it the fault of Whitney Houston's rendition of our National Anthem cassette or my face?  I wonder if I could ask him on facebook, or would that be too weird? I dunno, maybe he's reading this right now and can put an end to my tween curiosity. 

Oh, Whitney:

(I was always fascinated with the sweat that collected on her upper lip. Maybe it was because of all that crack she was smoking. Too soon?)

Hey! This is about me being a dumb ass! Read on!

     So, I never thought I would do a blog. "Blogs are lame," my boy toy/husband/inactive collaborator whined, "everyone has a blog. You should write your stupid screenplays."

     He's right. I should write my stupid screenplays and everyone does a have a blog. But, it wasn't until it was pointed out that I really love to post images on the Internets of all the horrible and totally preventable bodily accidents, that I realized: not only do I have stupid screenplays to write, but I also have stupid stories to tell! And they all can be filtered through my klutzy, naive, and idiotic behavior. This, I'm sure, is what you (the world) has been waiting for! Me! Talking about my sore back, burns, rashes and bowel movements, or lack thereof.

      So, if I've offended you in any way already, you probably don't want to read this blog. But if I haven't, read on! More beautiful sentimental stories about me getting myself into bodily debacles awaits! I promise to entertain, educate, and alleviate all of your pangs and curiosities as to the world of

                                                                Nasty Gigi.

(Me on the phone with my bestie as I pull off my dead toe nail. This true story and more of the truest and most sensational stories to come!)