I’m pretty sure there is a Three Stooges episode about what happened to me yesterday.

I had the "little pricks" yesterday, six of them actually, seven if you count the fact that I now consider my doctor to be one for lying to me about how "little" they are. At least in Japan they used anesthetic. They didn’t use anesthetic on me yesterday, just made me numb it with a latex glove filled with ice. The same latex gloves that are easily transformed into chicken heads with the appropriate graffiti.

I won’t get into the specifics of the pricking (although I dare anyone who thinks it’s easy to refrain from swallowing for one minute to try it) but the aftermath was quite Stooge-like. The bandage on my neck is so big and cumbersome that I can’t turn my head even if I wanted to, and my dad says I look like I’m wearing a white turtleneck when he takes his glasses off. My brother has taken advantage of my head-turning situation, and has resorted to making faces and gestures just within my peripheral vision, but far enough outside my line of sight that I have to turn to see what he’s doing. Of course, by the time I have rotated my torso to catch a glimpse of his antics, he has already ceased the activity. Now he calls me Robot Neck Brace Girl. He likes to throw stuff at me too, mainly pieces of paper and lighters.

My neck is incredibly sore and I can’t speak. I’d like to take revenge on my doctor, but calling her a prick on my website is all I got so far… although I did draw some chicken eyes and a beak on the latex glove and left it for her on the counter yesterday as I was getting dressed in her office.

Larry, Curly, Moe, and Sue, the Lost Episodes. I’m sure they’re out there.

The Stooge episodes continue.

I thought I was dreaming last week when I saw a rather handsome young man walking his dog down my street on my way home from the doctor’s office. Now I have proof positive that I was NOT in fact dreaming, and that said handsome young man is a resident of these parts.

He moved in two doors down while I was in Japan. He has a black lab named Farley, a cute set of dimples, and every Star Wars movie on DVD. How do I know this, you ask?

Because yesterday I was retrieving some CD’s out of my car to finish all the CD burning I was doing for Jeremy, and a friendly black lab started sniffing my butt. I turned around and started petting this lab (because, after all, I am a lab owner myself) and suddenly his handsome owner appeared.

It is metaphysically impossible for me to look good upon meeting a cute guy for the first time, as most of you know. I was wearing my summer pajamas, a shirt and shorts set with little refrigerators on them with the word "Cool" in the middle of the shirt. Although it is my favorite outfit of all time, mainly because it cost $1.67 at Big Lots, it is not something I would normally wear to impress a guy. My hair was in a haphazard ponytail and I was wearing my old boot camp sneakers that were officially trashed ten years ago.

And the piece de resistance, my oh-so-attractive fat-ass neck bandage. This outfit SCREAMED for me to meet a hot guy.

He started introducing himself to me, while I fumbled for my pen and pad that I keep in my car for emergency note-writing. After a few minutes he understood why I couldn’t really speak to him in more than a stifled whisper, and we actually had somewhat of a conversation. It was revealed that he is single, debt-free, has no criminal record, and his favorite Star Wars character is R2D2, as is mine. These qualities can be summed up in a little term I refer to as, "The Mating Call."

However, realistically, I cannot assume he was making a move on me. He was obviously just being neighborly. Just pleasant chit chat between Star Wars fans.

…because if he could be remotely attracted to me with that bandage on and in that state of negligent appearance, that is one messed up dude.

I am finally speaking almost normally again, and it’s a good thing, too, because the phone rang at midnight.

I knew my brother wouldn’t get it, because a) he would have to get out of bed, and b) nothing short of hitting him over the head with a frying pan could wake him. I let it ring a couple of times in my dreamlike state, thinking it must be a telemarketer or a prank call. And then it occurred to me that a midnight call could only be one thing: A drunk friend calling from overseas!

I picked it up just before the answering machine could get it. "Hello?" I said, sleepy but excited.

"Oy, gull!"

"Huh?" I said.

"Geh up, granny! S’too airly f’bed!" he said.

I knew it could only be one of three things: a prank call, Calvin calling from Scotland, or Calvin prank calling me from Scotland.

Turns out, as those who know him have already assumed, he was "out on the piss" (see footnote) and just happened to be thinking of me. I am only able to decipher about 80% of what Calvin says when he’s sober, and 40% of what he says when he’s drunk, but I’m fairly certain he said he said he misses me, and he hopes I get well soon and that I have a cool scar to show for it, and something else about British football, but at that point he started trailing off so I can’t say for sure. He also said my Southern accent has gotten thicker since coming home. "Canny understand ya, sweethairt," he said. (See footnote.)

Call me crazy, but a drunk Scottish man accusing ME of having a thick accent is like Dolly Parton marveling at my big rack. I tried to tell him that but he claimed he couldn’t understand. Or at least, that’s what I think he said.

Footnote: In British and Auzzie language, being "out on the piss" means the pursuit of drunkenness, usually at a pub.

Footnote: For some reason, Scottish people use the word "canny" to mean "can’t." Or maybe it means "can." I’ve never been able to completely figure that one out.

I don’t know what Dr. Foster did to me today, but he pushed and pulled and mashed and squeezed on my neck with such force and diligence that I can barely move it now. It hurts so much more now than it did when I had the bandage on. It hurts so much now that my brother actually feels sorry for me and has quit throwing stuff at me.

Although I thought of the name "Francis" to sum up my medical condition (created in a drunken state, about a month or so ago), it is ironic that one of the most destructive storms in history, aptly named Hurricane Frances, has just graced the U.S. East Coast and forced many people into homelessness. I am so sad for them. They lost everything, and all I really have to lose is my voice for a little while and a few thousand bucks. This is one of those things that keep life in perspective, just like that rusty tricycle at the Hiroshima Museum. Even though it is excruciating to yawn, sneeze, swallow, move, or basically breathe, I know things could always be worse.

We all have our storms to weather, I guess.

Sept. 9, 2004 Thurs.

I have been walking around without a bandage for a while now, and I must say it is the most psychedelic bruise I have ever had. There are six penumbral circles of purplish green rippling out from each place where I was assaulted by a needle, and an ocean of yellow in the background, like a horizon. Some tiny veins are illuminated in the spaces, making a little pattern like a maze or connect-the-dots. Mom said it looks like colorful ringworm. Dad said it looks like a hippie spider web. My brother said it looks like I have gangrene, or maybe that I haven’t bathed in a while.

I saw Hot Neighbor outside playing with his dog earlier, and since I had bathed and combed my hair today I decided to go out and speak to him. He had never heard my voice before.

"Wow, you have kind of a raspy, Earth-girl voice. Like one of the Indigo Girls," he said. Oh man, was this guy saying all the right things or what?!

"Thanks," I rasped. "Check out my bruise." I tilted my head a little to the side.

"Cool! It looks like you tried to tie-dye yourself."

I started to ask him if he wanted to play connect-the-dots, but I decided to leave it alone for now. I don’t want to overload him with my charm just yet.

Byron (coworker in Japan) and I had been joking on e-mail about how I could possibly find a way to use my neck deformity to pick up guys. I was only kidding at the time, but now I’m wondering if Byron was on to something.

I threw up all weekend, after doctor’s orders to stop taking the meds I was on, and my abdominal muscles are now recovering from such a workout. Steve (my brother) has stopped calling me Robot Neck Brace Girl and now varies between Pukella McBarferson and Hurley McYakkitup. During the last Linda Blair episode, I threw up so hard that now my eyes have little busted capillaries, and they match the spider-webby look my neck has.

The good news is that I actually don’t feel so bad now. I’ve been trying to go to the gym as much as possible to keep up my strength (and to tone up all this loose skin I have from losing so much weight so fast), so when my buddy Ashley called me to see if I wanted to play racquetball, I asked her what time she wanted her ass-whooping.

Ashley has been my friend for many years, my last remaining high school buddy here in the old hometown. She is one of those friends that every gal needs. She’s always up for anything. She actually prefers to be the designated driver, and has driven me to many bars and waited patiently while I got wasted and hit on the bartenders or band members (I haven’t done that in a while, though). She never complains about driving me home after I’ve passed out in her car, and she never gets grossed out by anything I do. If I call her and say, "Hey, Ash, there’s a midget rodeo I really wanna go to, but I need a ride and twenty bucks to get in," she would say, "Shall I stock my cooler full of your favorite beer before I come get you?" And then I would say yes.

Anyway, since a few of my American friends have whined about not being on my website while I yap away about my Japan buddies, I have decided to start with a short ode to Ashley and our gym experience:

EXTREME RACQUETBALL (as per the Susan & Ashley Court)

Rules:

1. Ball may bounce any number of times and still be considered legal.
2. The ceiling holds the same status as the back wall.
3. Ball may bounce from side wall to opposite side wall and still be considered legal.
4. If players bother to keep score, additional points may be awarded for creativity of hit.
5. If anything resembling a ballet move is employed during the hit, additional points may be awarded.
6. If player misses the ball entirely but succeeds in killing a fly or gnat, it is still considered a legal hit.
7. If ball is hit through the space close to the ceiling and into the next court, player will be awarded five points, and if there are hot guys in the next court, eight points.
8. Players who succeed in breaking a ceiling light will be awarded ten points.
9. Any ball hit in manner of Stefi Graf will be awarded two points (to be judged by the opponent, who, as per the rules, is a generous individual).
10. Players must be generous individuals concerning the awarding of Stefi Graf points.
11. Players who hit the ball in a less then professional manner must walk to the front of the court themselves to obtain their stray, rolling ball.
12. All conventional rules of racquetball, in case it is not obvious by now, are null and void under the Susan & Ashley Court of Extreme Racquetball.
13. If a player is struck by a ball as a result of the opponent’s hit, the opponent must pay a penalty of an apology and a beer.
14. Regardless of points, winner will be determined by whose face is the reddest at the arbitrary conclusion of the game, provided both racquets are still in serviceable condition. If either racquet is deemed unserviceable at any point in the game, both players must forfeit and retire to the NuWay for a cold pitcher.
15. If any drinking is required as per rules #14 and #15 and a player is not allowed to drink at that time because of Francis, she will keep a list of how many beers she is to drink later.

Rules Specific to Susan & Ashley:

1. If Ashley hits me anywhere near my throat either with a flying ball or her racquet, I have permission to kill her.
2. If I make fun of Ashley’s athletic ability at any point in the game, she has permission to punch me in the throat.