hitting the fan

I used to joke about being the most accident prone person on the planet and then 2009 rolled around and I realized the time I broke my arm playing dodgeball and broke my leg tripping on a twig were nothing compared to the tremendous physical cosmic joke going on in my life right this very minute. Let's take a look, shall we?

1. 12/30/08 (basically 2009): Fell down the stairs, broke elbow, massively bruised right butt cheek, placed pride firmly in check
2. 2/1/09: Broke foot walking.
3. 2/5/09: Slipped disk falling on the ice and, later, bending over to put on one shoe (since other shoe was in a foot cast that made me look like an extra in I Am Sam).
4. 3/6/09: Found out that the reason my eye is tearing and feels like it's got most of the world's sand collected in the lid is because I scratched my cornea. How? Blinking. Literally. Apparently "very dry eyes" can actually tear themselves apart...or something like that. Regardless, I went to get my prescription at my local CVS where people cleared a path for me since I looked like the ocular equivalent of Typhoid Mary.

When I can finally use both of my eyes I will write more. For now...Cyclops. Out.

one more thing sarah palin and i have in common

A sample of my famous pumpkin muffins

Since I know that only two people read this blog and both of you know I'm interning in a hospital-based hospice, I don't need to say it again. I guess I just did. So you're hearing it twice. Not that this is unusual. As you also know, I frequently repeat my favorite stories or biographical facts. My sisters refer to this as "Oh no, Jenny's Telling an Ireland Story." This bulky label refers to a time (ok, most of a decade) after I returned from studying abroad in Ireland that - according to those little minxes - I did nothing but regale anyone who came within two feet of me with the EXACT same tales of comical woe from my stay in the Land of Eire. My repeat performances were so identical - right down to inflection, hand gestures, and over-the-top facial expressions - that they claimed they forgot what day, month, and year it was when I climbed aboard my soap box for a little Irish cheer. "Is it June of 1994? Or March, 2002?" one sister who shall remain nameless said when I launched into my personal fave: "Did I ever tell you about the day the University closed the library because they said it was "too windy" but really it's because there was a big soccer match on?" This story is very funny but I won't go into it now because I'm pretty sure you've heard it.

A perfect time to segue back to the point of this post. So every Wednesday there's a "team" meeting at the hospice. Doctors, nurses, chaplains, social workers, the music therapist (more on her later). We're mostly there to catch up on who died during the past week and to discuss the plan for the folks who are still with us. The meeting can be a little grim, so I decided to lighten things up by bringing in a sumptuous pink box of my moonface & wally goodies. I'd be the hero of the hospice. Everyone would love me. The cute doctor who looks like the Baltics version of Elvis would think I was radically fly. All of these thoughts were pumping through my brain as I baked up a batch of pumpkin bread "cookies" from an improvised recipe at 1am while listening to Chet Baker on repeat and reading about schizophrenia (for school and not because I was attempting to self-diagnose).

Now, I know better than to try to pass off any untested gluten-free/vegan recipes I've created at the spur of the moment, especially when I've listened to "Funny Valentine" 8000 times. But I decided to wing it. The next morning I made a batch of maple icing, slathered it on the sizeable "cookies" and rolled out the door.

So I get to the meeting and plunk my pink box (not THAT pink box...sorry mom) on the table and everyone lunges for it. I settle into my seat convinced that my myriad skills will be lauded and that Gorky Park Elvis will turn his sideburns my way. The reality? Apparently, the "cookies" may have looked ok, but turns out they more closely resembled a toasted hockey puck in weight and texture. For anyone who hadn't broken a tooth with the initial bite, there was a soft (ok, softer) center, but few made it that far. More than one iced puck was bitten into and accidentally dropped and flipped (icing side down) on to the table because the eater wasn't expecting the jawbreaker quality and unwieldy size. The meeting was peppered with sounds one would normally expect from grapefruit sized hail slamming into concrete.

Goal!

have you seen this man?

You know when people tell you "I had the weirdest dream last night!" and then proceed to regale you with 5-10 minutes worth of nonsensical detail, peppered with the occasional chuckle at their own wackiness, and the disclaimer (when they notice you're considering falling asleep yourself) "but here's the REALLY weird part." Well, I'm about to do just that. So sue me.

Last night I had a dream that was so totally bizarre I actually woke myself up wondering if I had officially turned the corner and gone completely nuts. Based on family history, losing my mind is sort of a given, but even this made the usual Warner lunacy seem comparatively normal.

So in the dream, I've hung up a shingle and have a little therapy business going. Who should walk in but the Quaker Oats guy looking exactly as he does on the box. I soon learn that he's struggling with his bisexuality, promiscuity, and some homicidal tendencies that have been irking him for awhile. We spoke for awhile, I offered him some tea (which I had conveniently brewed under my chair), and he left with many thanks for my time.

What the...??

In the interest of full disclosure, I did wake up laughing at my own wackiness. Or maybe the laughter was just symptomatic of the budding insanity.

Sweaters McTubeSocks - "The Dope Cat of Montclair" - Dead at 16

Sweaters "Sebastian" McTubeSocks, who brought his love of food, baggy fur sweaters, and fuzzy "tube socks" to the suburbs of New Jersey, died today near his home in Montclair. He was 16.

Mr. McTubesocks was the leader of the Grobowitz Gang, a comedy troupe of feline gastronomes who enjoyed troublemaking almost as much as they loved eating.

He was perhaps best known for his oft-quoted phrase "If you can't have fun with it, what's the point?"

"Sure, things hadn't been going so well for him lately," explained fellow troup member Mr. Simon. "But Sweaters was the Falstaff of the house. No one enjoyed basking in the sun or gorging on dry food more than him."

Sweaters is survived by Growbowitz Gang members Mr. Simon, Oreo, and Smokey; and his manager and agent Susan and Irina.

Just Because You Look Like Mariska Hargitay, Doesn't Mean You Should Be VP

Sarah Palin f*ing terrifies me. I don't know if it's her "sexy librarian" glasses, or the fact that she named her kid with Down Syndrome "Trig." Maybe it's the fact(s) that she's an NRA lifer who used to hunt moose with dad before school in the morning (who didn't?). Or that she's staunchly pro-life and supported a constitutional amendment banning gay marriage and only happened to give Alaskan gay couples partner benefits by default. She's a former Miss Alaska runner-up, with a BA in Communications, who doesn't mind drilling in the National Wildlife Refuge for oil.

Hopefully, Senator John of the Dead will finally pipe down about Obama's "lack of experience" now that he's chosen a first-term governor to be his running mate.

Oh, and her oldest kid's name is Track. Along with Al Qaeda we can all wait in terror for the day the Palin kids (including Bristol, Willow, and Piper) all descend on the Vice President's House for a day of reckoning over their names.

Winehouse and Warner: Separated at Birth

Amy Winehouse and I have a lot in common. First, there's our choice of hairstyle. The Dirty Beehive is a look I'm proud to say I've been sporting since way back in 1987 right after I got the worst perm of my life. Then, there's the body and the voice. As anyone can see, Amy is a little chubbier than I am and a slightly less talented vocally than myself, but not everyone can have it all.

Amy and I also love prescription meds. I'm a big fan when forced to go on a flight of longer than 45 minutes. Hell, I do it up even for those too. So as Jackie and I head out for our six-hour flight to Seattle today I'm doing it up right. Above is a picture I nearly mistook for myself as we depart for the airport.

2 Boobs, 1 Cop

Yesterday, I was heading home from The Paid Internship (vs. The Unpaid Internship) with two fake boobs in what looked to be an insulated lunch bag. Both boobs are covered in a nylon material reminiscent of a nightgown that my mom used to wear back in the late 70s except one is supposed to be a "white" boob while the other is a "brown" boob. To top it off these boobs have little fake cancer lumps implanted in them. So WHY was I toting around two different color lumpy boobs in an insulated tote? The short answer is I'll be giving a workshop tomorrow about breast cancer for the ladies in the job training program at the homeless organization I interned at this past year and I thought it would be a gas to break out the fake boobs and pass `em around. They feel a little like stress balls which makes them a ton of fun to play with. Spend a little time squeezing the "training boobs" as I like to call them and I defy you to not become a lesbian.

So I get to the train station and I notice that the cops are there with their little "backpack checkpoint" set up. What's their beef with backpacks? Other than school children and people in their thirties who work for non-profits, who actually carried a backpack in this city? Frankly, I've never seen the cops stop anyone at these checkpoints. They always seem embarassed to be standing there with what looks like a bake sale folding table for rummaging in random New Yorkers back packs which has got to be a treat. After riding the 2 train a few months ago with a homeless woman who pulled a bag of underwear out of her sack and strung them up on the overhead handrail like it was her personal drying rack, only to strip off her sweatpants so she could put on a fresh pair of skivvies, I don't really want to think about what's in most New Yorkers bags.

Maybe I looked a little suspicious on this particular day. I was mopping the humidity induced flop sweat from my brow with a handkerchief my youngest sister Abby refers to as a "fat man rag." But just as I'm about to swipe my card, one of the cops calls me over:

Cop: Ma'am, I need to inspect your bag.
Me: My bag?
Cop: Yes ma'am, step over here to the checkpoint
Me: (chuckling because he said checkpoint)
Cop: Is there something funny ma'am?
Me: No sir (wipe brow with fat man rag)

[Cop rummages through my bag and then motions for me to set down the Boob Tote]

Cop: Ma'am, please open this.
Me: (chuckling, uncontrollably as I flip open the bag to reveal two different colored boobs)
Cop: Are these prosthetics ma'am?
Me: Do you mean do I wear them?
Cop: Yes (cop lifts boobs out of bag and holds them up as if to put them against his chest)
Me: Um no, but they'd look good on you.
Cop: (silence)

At this point I forgot how to communicate in English, mostly because I was laughing and sweating so hard as I wondered to myself what occasion would require me to slip these badboys under my t-shirt.

Me: Training. Cancer. Boobs. Lumps. Feel. Stress ball.

The Cop - figuring I was probably a lunatic with a boob fetish - let me go. At this point, I had attracted quite a crowd, most of whom assumed I had just been caught with my falsies: one for the winter and one for when I'm sporting my deep tropic tan.