Look Down, Look Down

Phantom of the Opera was the very first musical I saw on Broadway. Followed by Miss Saigon. Which was followed by The Lion King. But the fourth Broadway musical was Les Miserables.

And I loved it. That opening music makes my whole body tremble.

Usually I make a trip (or two) up to NYC each year, but with so much going on, I haven’t been. As a substitute, I watched the movie version of Les Mis.

Here’s what I learned:

• If you give a thief all of your silver, he’ll feel so guilty that he’ll spend the rest of his life making up for it. Remember this the next time you’re mugged: Give generously.
• If your super power is super strength, never lift anything heavy in front of anyone else. Your cover will be blown.
• It’s impossible to hide in Paris. It must be a very small place.
• Innkeepers will charge you for mice… for lice…and for looking in the mirror twice.
• “On My Own” is the theme song of any girl with a crush.
• “To love another person is to see the face of God.”

Most importantly, I learned that some movie stars can actually sing. Who knew? Maybe they can’t sing as well as the Broadway performers, but they hold their own.

Favorite Comments From Last Post: Everyone who used the puppies pun…and said “asshat.”

There’s a First Time for Everything

Cupcake Dangler (CD):  While I was running errands, I ran into an old buddy, and we grabbed a drink. How was your night?

Me: It was fine…right up until the point that you stood me up.

In my 15 dating years, I’ve never been stood up. Even Mephistopheles never pulled that. He was notorious for showing up late, but he always showed up.

CD: I didn’t realize I had actually committed to seeing you tonight.

Oh no you didn’t…. The c-word rears its ugly head.

CD: I’m sorry. I messed up.

Me: It’s ok.

That “It’s ok” was the kind you feel like you have to say because someone apologized, but in reality, your feelings are still hurt and you just want to punch the asshatted douchearoo in the face.

Except for this, CD was a perfect gentleman while we dated. But it was this exchange that made me begin to realize he wasn’t the guy for me.

My friend Puddin’ put it best: “He’s nice guy. But he’s not your nice guy.”

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “That cupcake is terrifying. Look at the eyes! Cookie Monster is choking on that cookie. Why are you wasting time arguing about desserts and nicknames when you should be doing the Heimlich maneuver?”—Laura

Will You Be My Doctor?

WANTED: An OB/GYN doctor. Sees patients on time. Doesn’t pass judgment on nontraditional pregnancies. Orders the correct bloodwork. Small hands preferred.

I’m searching for a new doctor because I’m tired of mine screwing up bloodwork.

My doctor wanted to test my progesterone levels, which have to be tested on Day 21 (during ovulation) of my cycle.

So on December’s Day 21, I had blood drawn. A nurse called with test results.

Nurse: Your pregnancy test came back negative, and your blood type is O negative.

Me: Uh…I know that. I thought my progesterone was being tested.

Nurse: Hmmmm…the doctor ordered blood typing. Did you have a Rhogam shot after your miscarriage? When you’re pregnant or miscarry, the hospital tests your blood type and they give you a shot so you don’t have problems with your pregnancies.

While I was pregnant, I read about this shot. But since Kiefer and I were both negative blood types, I didn’t need it. I knew that.

But when someone with some medical background says you’re supposed to get a shot so you don’t miscarry…and you’ve already miscarried…you start flippin’ the eff out.

And if you’re me, “flippin’ out” means tearing up while thoughts run through your mind that the miscarriage could have been prevented.

A couple hours later, the doctor called me back saying the nurse was “confused”; I didn’t need the shot, but I should come back next month on Day 21 for the progesterone testing.

More needles. Fantastic.

Right before my next blood draw, I ate a piece of chocolate to calm me down…yes, just one because I don’t really like chocolate anyways I have excellent self-control when it comes to sweets because only one piece was left.

“Discover how much your heart can hold” turned out to be a prophecy for my blood work saga.

So I was chocolate-pacified and ready to be stuck. Except the doctor forgot to write up the order. So I waited. And waited. And waited.

I waited in an office full of pregnant women and mothers with babies.

And I remembered why I was there…why I was having blood drawn…and I started to tear up. And then I remembered that needles freakin’ hurt, so I started to get upset at the anticipation of that.

Finally, they called my name…and it was the most painful blooddraw yet.

Lady, my veins aren’t deep! STOP DIGGING!

And I thought that was the limit that my heart could handle. I almost passed out. But I didn’t.

Unfortunately, the blood wasn’t drawn while I was ovulating, so I have to go again next month. And every month until my blood is drawn during that 2-day window when a woman ovulates.

I thought that was the limit that my heart could hold.

It could take months to have blood drawn on the right day. Why am I still doing this stupid testing? I’m single!

Really? A few pricks were upsetting me? What happened to the woman who was completely prepared to raise a child on her own if Kiefer didn’t propose? What the hell happened to 32 and the turboslut turkey baster method?

I’m gonna kick that needle’s pointy little tushie! See you on Day 21, biatch.

Turns out my heart can hold a bit more.

Favorite Comments From Last Post:

• “Asshat. x10.”—Blissful Britt
• “I’m sure he only pinched you to make sure you were ripe.”—Skipping Stones
• “Immaculate conception by leprechaun? The Bible kept that part quiet….”—Bevchen

A Leprechaun May Have Impregnated Me

Saturday night I went out with some girl friends. Because it wasn’t actually St. Patrick’s Day, I thought it would be safe. I was so wrong.

Drunk Guy: ::Says something I don’t understand::

Me: What?

Drunk Guy: I just wish I knew if it was my baby.

Me: Whoa…. Who’s pregnant?

Drunk Guy: I just don’t know if it’s my baby. And they can’t raise a baby. But you…you’re smart. I can tell. We’re going to name our baby “Evan.”

Me: I’m pregnant?

Drunk Guy: Are you?

Me: I’m very unpregnant.

Drunk Guy: Freaking nihilists…. ::babbles something about nihilists::

Me: What?

Drunk Guy: They can’t raise a baby. But we could. I mean, you could because you’re so intelligent. Intelligenter than everyone here.

Me: Did you just say “intelligenter?”

Drunk Guy: We’ll raise the baby together. I’m going to kidnap you now.

Me: WHAT?

Drunk Guy: I’m going to do it. ::puts down his drink and gestures that he’s going to throw me over his shoulder::

Me: Um…no. Uh…you should finish your beer first.

Drunk Guy: I’m going to kiss you now.

Me: HOLY CRAP! IS THAT A LEPRECHAUN OVER THERE?

And that, my friends, is how you escape crazy drunk people on St. Patrick’s Day weekend.

It wasn’t entirely a fool-proof plan because he did manage to pinch my butt as I was walking away. But at least I managed to escape kidnapping.

Favorite Comment From Last Post: “My fervent hope is that somewhere in the mass of pub-crawling St. Patricks Day asshats* that are going to be totally boning my commute tomorrow, a leprechaun like this will create pandemonium on the platform. The hundreds of drunk people will run away, and I will catch my train.”—JM Randolph

*Putting the word “asshat” in a comment is pretty much a guarantee you’ll get Favorite Comment. That word cracks me up.