Now Reading: Dating Big Bird by Laura Zigman. Both this and the above-mentioned Shopaholic were recommendations of my new book-exchanging reader, Jessica.
Listening: Eliza Carthy's Angels & Cigarettes. Have I mentioned how excellent this CD is? It is excellent.
Watching tonight: Definite Aricle. Oh, shush. And always treat your neighbor like someone who lives near to you, okay?
Stealing: Dora's sidebar "Journal Quote of the Day" feature, but just this once, to quote her:
"Elizabeth and I are going to lose our jobs if we don't stop emailing all day about Sports Night, Buffy, and The Damn West Wing."
Amen, sister!
Anticipating: Sam, the senior analyst on my team, got called back for the second round to qualify for Millionaire. If he wins this round on Wednesday, he'll be on the show. This will be quite cool.
Join the fray that almost made me famous, sort of.
So I had an MRI yesterday afternoon.
All day, everyone kept asking me if I was worried about it, and I kept saying, "No, no, what's there to be worried about?" In my mind, when you can go to a doctor and not have to take your clothes off, it's no trouble at all.
Jeez.
I'm sure some of you have had an MRI done at some point, so you know what I'm talking about.
That thing scared the shit out of me.
When I was making the appointment, they asked me if I was claustrophobic, to which I replied, "Oh, no, no," which is a lie, because I am a little bit claustrophobic, but it's a very specific and bizarre manifestation of claustrophobia. (If you care, I can't be enclosed in a group of people if I can see open space. Which means I can be in crowded places so long as the entire place is crowded. I know it makes no sense, but there it is.)
So anyway. I go to the MRI place and the girl comes out to get me and asks me if I need to use the bathroom, to which I say, "Well, how long is this going to take?" to which she replies, "About 40 minutes."
Jeez. 40 minutes? I had no idea. I figured it was going to be just like the x-rays, where you get in there and it does its thing and then you go home.
So we go back to the big machine and I lie down on the little bed and the girl puts earplugs in my ears and puts a blood-pressure-checking type squeezy balloon in my hand. This will act as my emergency button.
An emergency? An emergency squeezy balloon?
And then she pats my leg and says, "Are you doing okay? You look a little nervous." And I was, but I couldn't admit it, because I'm an adult and brave and unflappable. "No, no, I'm fine, let's go."
And the machine whirs and makes some noises and I slide backwards and then there I am, staring at a ceiling that is all of three inches above my face. And I want to die.
There's a steady stream of air blowing at my head, which is presumably to relieve any delusions I might be having that I'm suffocating, but it also makes it quite cold. There are lights in there, which I don't really understand. I actually think I would have been better if it been dark, and I tried closing my eyes for a while, but that didn't work. Every muscle in my body was tense and I was starting to shake, so I focused on my breathing, stared at a speck on the plastic ceiling above my face, and thought about how humiliated I'd be if I actually had to squeeze the balloon.
She couldn't hear me, but I could hear her, and she'd tell me every time they were starting a new test. "This one will last about two and a half minutes, you're doing great," is what she'd say, and then there would be really loud clicking and whirring and buzz-sawing noises over and over and over again.
Finally, I heard, "That's it," and seconds later I was rolling out. And then I put on my shoes and walked out and drove home and practically collapsed from exhaustion.
The moral of the story is: if you are getting an MRI and they ask you if you're claustrophobic, for God's sake, say yes. Then they'll make sure you get one of those happy open-air ones, and all will be well.
So I'm sitting here on a Saturday night doing absolutely nothing. I almost went to Chocolat, but forces conspired against me and it just didn't happen. So here I sit.
I watched a half an hour of The Birdcage on ABC. I forgot how funny that movie is. Only saw it once, in the theater. I did remember how funny Hank Azaria is, but that was it.
I have to tell you, I'm starting to consider telling big fat lies to my manicurist. I go for fills on my nails every other Saturday morning, and every time she asks me what I did the night before and what I'm planning for the rest of the weekend, and every time I have the same answer, which is nothing.
Of course, I could go out and get a life, which would eliminate the necessity to lie, but that is so much more work.
