Back at Olde Reed February was International Mustache Month. Anyone who grew out a mustache during February would get in free to beer gardens, parties and other special events. Those of us unendowed with facial hair could opt to wear a fake or draw one on. So, I’d like to invite all you tumblrs to celebrate the glory of International Mustache Month. And even if you choose not to play along this month, you can live vicariously through my blog, where I’ll be posting all manner of things mustache-related.
I actually have to disagree with Vickie, and say that hers is the second best fortune ever. I hold that the best fortune I ever saw was one that read, “If you’re still hungry, have another fortune cookie.” Holy shit, did that blow my mind at the time. It was so simple, but so true. The fortune came to me (in a cookie) at a time, years ago, when I felt surrounded by people who took themselves for martyrs. Instead of solving their problems, they flagellated themselves, glorified their suffering, and then complained to me about how unfair it all was.
I liked that fortune so much, I kept it with me in my wallet. Sometimes I’d take it out to remind myself: Be a Scheiner, not a whiner. If you’re hungry, shut up and eat a god- damn cookie.
This, in turn reminds me of a phrase my mother would lovingly utter whenever my sister and I complained of hunger; “Eat your fist.” I urge you to try this, dear reader, at least once. While the appetite-suppressing characteristics of this technique have not been fully evaluated, it is certainly effective at shutting a kid up.
- Duncan: what's up?
- Me: reading. writing.
- Me: reading about reading and writing.
- Me: writing about writing and reading. im not even kidding.
I’m sitting in the nurse’s chair and I’m close enough to the bed to lean my elbow on it. Crooking up arm back up, I’m in the perfect position to rest my cheek in my hand. Except I’m thinking: humerus, radius, ulna, phalanges, zygomatic. Anatomy seems more relevant here in the hospital.
On the bed, M is sleeping. I’d be tired, too, if I’d just had that much demarol and morphine pushed into my arm. So he’s sleeping, and I’m trying to sleep, but damn if the ER isn’t the worst place on Earth to nap. Out in the hallway metal cabinets slam shut; soft-soled shoes squeak against linoleum; somewhere close by the linoleum is being vacuumed. Loudly.
Every once in a while, a machine in the hall starts beeping. It’s more than a simple beep- it actually has two tones: Bee-BEEP, Bee-BEEP. It occurs to me that the machine is beeping in Iambic. The beeping goes on for feet and feet, meter after meter. I try to count the beeps, and then the silent time between stanzas. Twelve sets, then 45 seconds of quiet. I need to concentrate to hear over all the other ambient noise. Sometimes, during the quiet, I’m listening so hard that I hear phantom beeps. I redouble my concentration. Thirty seven sets, and over a minute of quiet. Then another twelve, followed quickly by 7 more. I don’t know what it means, and I feel myself growing frustrated by the randomness. If I can’t sleep, I at least want to know the pattern, but it looks like I’m not getting either wish. I give up counting and start narrating. The beeps fade behind me and things can start making sense again.