Saturday, April 08, 2006

Yo, Easter Peeps

The thrillingly Christian holiday known as "Easter" will be upon us in a matter of days and yours truly is preparing vigilently because I will have no family members in the area in which to celebrate with.

Now usually, when a family holiday such as this arrives and my family members are no where in the vicinity, I would commence doing what I usually do.

I like to call it the "Stacy Anti-Depressant Initiative."

It's simply really.

I begin by throwing off all my clothing into various corners of my overpriced bedroom until I'm completely naked.

I know. Eww, gross.

To quote past girlfriends: "It's like Gilligan and Pee Wee Herman had an illegitimate anorexic baby and then threw up on it."

I sure can pick 'em.

Once my clothing is wandering the floor aimlessly searching for fabric softener, I curl up in the fetal position. I grab a large bag of Cheetos and commence shoving them down my medicated gullet.

The capper to this entire event is my uncontrollable sobbing.

Neighbors who can hear me through the privacy muting wall usually call the Animal Shelter because they believe a small kitten is being sacrificed during their sacred holiday.

I usually wake up hours later with neon orange Cheetos powder all over my fingers and face.

I know. Eww, gross the sequel.

But this year I have developed a new corollary to the "Stacy Anti-Depressant Initiative."

I call it "Yo, Easter Peeps."

I purchase a dozen boxes of the prototypical all-American carb filled, calorie hogging Peeps.

On the morning of Easter, when everyone is enduring the company of relatives they only see twice a year, I will open each box quickly and with purpose. I will commandeer a portion of my bedroom floor and anal-retentively line them up in equal numbered rows and columns.

I will begin to play a premixed introduction (that I have voiced myself) to bring me on my virtual stage.

Massively over the top epic MUSIC begins to play as the closet door to STACY'S BEDROOM slowly opens to reveal the honored guest known as STACY WITHOUT AN E.

APPLAUSE can be heard thundering from the massive rows of expressionless PEEPS, each one as unresponsive as the next.

STACY WITHOUT AN E clears his throat annoyingly three or four times until he coughs up something small and brownish red from his lungs. STACY realizes that all the PEEPS are glaring at him, so he shoots his hand behind his back, landing the entire intestinal mess on the back of his suit.

(looking at the back wall of the bedroom)

Yo to you all, my fellow Peeps!

STACY glances around hoping for some acknowledgment as to the creativity of his pitiful pun, but as usual, to no avail.

Ahem, well, let me tell you why we're all here.

The dotted eyes and circular mouths of the PEEPS remain as they always have been.

Every year at this time, your kind are created in
mass quantities so the consumer may injest you.

STACY is gesturing wildly to no one in particular.

What a sad existence! Chomped down, sometimes head
first, other times at your behind, but always with total
disregard for your future!

STACY slams his fist down on a non-existent podium and falls to the floor.

The PEEPS stare emotionless at STACY'S antics as HE managed to slam his head into the slightly used nightstand his sister bought him many, many years ago.

As STACY regains consciousness, he looks up to see a majority of the PEEPS he had been speaking to just as they were, except a few in the front row are missing their heads.

(whispering to himself)

My God...the horror.

What happened next will be spoken of for numerous religious holidays to come.


Oh my God!!

STACY, ever the vigalent and compassionaite roommate, races to her side.


What's the matter? What's the problem?

STACY'S ROOMMATE'S eyes remain on the catbox in the bathroom and her voice is shocked as she speaks.


Cinder is crapping bright yellow!

The remainder of the story is quite fuzzy, but I believe STACY WITHOUT AN E, being of good cheer and melancholy, arranged the remaining PEEPS around the body of his roommate and took numerous photos.

Presently, we assume STACY is looking for a new place to reside.

The moral to this story...don't mess with the Easter Peeps yo.

Tuesday, April 04, 2006

Drowning Hopes in a Sea of Disappointment

I remember the weeks leading up to my second kidney transplant. For whatever reason, my mind had created this perfect vision of how much better I would feel once the procedure was over, how I could return to work and get on with my life.

Unfortunately, that fairytale never materialized in that chapter of my life.

Once you're transplanted, you're buried in steroids so your immune system won't reject the kidney and nosedive your health into oblivion. Since you're vulnerable to viruses and infections, they add antibiotics and antivirals to the equation.

You try thinking straight taking fifteen medications a day. It's life numbing.

But that's not why I'm blogging today.

I have been looking forward to the fancy new Dialysis clinic. Sparkling new TV's with a workable sound system. A front door that doesn't slam down on my fingers before I can enter. Reclining chairs that actually recline.

Sigh. I should have known better.

I shuffled into Dialysis last night to behold my new clinic. Although it's situated in an office park, the interior resembles any newly constructed hospital you'd find in any ordinary American city.

Antiseptic walls attempting to bleed out the pain felt behind their struts. Minimalistic paintings hiding the horror of the impending future nearby.

Because of my health, I've resided in different hospitals around the nation. Because of my career, I've done the same in apartments.

So feeling comfortable in a new location comes quite naturally to me.

Except when it comes to Dialysis.

When I feel good, I like to rib the staff. It's fun, and they know I'm joking. I was sarcastically bitter when I plopped down my backpack.

"I thought there were going to be belly dancers and showgirls here."

Farnkay has a good sense of humor, although sometimes I think he ignores me just to get his work done so he can go home.

"Well, I can belly dance if you'd like," Farnkay responded as he jotted down a fellow patient's blood pressure.

"I've already vomited once today Farnkay."

And so it begins.

The trouble started with the chair. Once I was hooked up and running for my three hour tour of duty, I discovered, much to my chagrin, that the chair wasn't very mobile.

"What kind of cheap carney ride are you guys running here? I can't move my frickin' chair."

A tech approached and grabbed some sort of handle on the back.

Great. My head is lying back but my feet are way up in the air now.

"I don't want a Pap Smear, I just want to watch TV."

One of the other tech's nearby thought that was funny.

Another didn't.

Tough room.

Political correctness was never my forte.

The TV's are all affixed to the ceiling with one of those hospital speakers on a cord for access to the volume. I tried my headphones and I couldn't lower the volume without turning it off. I tried the clinic's free pair of airline headphones and I couldn't get any sound either.

Since we could only access the four local networks, quite possibly this was a blessing.

Two hours into my treatment my Stacy Sense began to tingle.

Something horrible was about to happen.

Occasionally I feel a twitch in my calf, a precursor to impending cramps.

But Dialysis is a tricky creature.

Instead, I was treated to a quick rise in temperature through the entire length of my body. I started to sweat profusely and thought I was going to vomit up all the water I had injested.

After speaking to a number of the other patients, Farnkay determined it was probably the scale. The boiling and the sweating are symptoms of too much fluid being removed. The new scales weren't calibrated correctly.

Sigh...the poor, follow up sequel to the original "sigh".

At this point I was begging for clarity, because I should have been paying attention.

8:00pm. 8:17pm. Didn't I start at 4:45pm??

I called another tech over and asked what the hell was going on.

Apparently Farnkay had written down the wrong start time and pushed it an hour forward.

Whether this was a fault of Daylight Savings Time or Frankay's inability to tell time, I can't be certain.

But it sure did piss me off.

The needle burn was worse than usual and even the broadcast of my favorite show "Deal or No Deal" couldn't ease the pain.

Or steal myself away from the fact that I had been there WAY TOO LONG.

I didn't yell. I didn't curse.

I sat patiently and stewed in my anger as I was finally removed.

The capper for this fantastically annoying evening was out in the parking lot. Since the office park is brand new and we have had overcast skies infiltrating our area lately, it was pitch black ll across the newly painted concrete slab.

I couldn't even create a visual of my hand carrying my lifeless backpack.

I wandered slowly along the white stripe on the ground next to the concrete sidewalk and eventually discovered that I hadn't been carjacked.

My truck, Blue Devil, was sitting, staring into the giant glass windows of my personal hell.

As I opened the truck door, I could almost feel his wheels give way slightly, as if he were preparing for the weight I was transferring from my shoulders to the driver seat.

Blue Devil has been stalling and sputtering lately, much like my Dialysis treatments.

But he's never broken down, never given up on me when I needed him.

Which is all I can really ask of myself.

Sunday, April 02, 2006

Melanie the Intuitive

When you toil in the bastions of radio, you occasionally have the chance to meet famous and interesting people.

At the company Christmas party, Dick Smothers performed his famous yo-yo routine. I've watched it before on TV Land, but there was an electrical essence sparking his every move.

A few weeks ago I shook the hand of the creative genius that I hail above all others: John Lasseter. I hold his Pixar films in high regard as they've brought me so much joy and happiness over the years while I've marvelled at the sheer genius it took to get all the pieces to fit together into one cohesive, entertaining whole.

And plus, he signed my Buzz Lightyear radio.

So as I was driving into the station this morning, our morning show was interviewing Melanie the Intuitive.

They were taking calls from listeners and by simply hearing the person's voice and listening intently to the question, she could interpet what was going to happen in an individual's future.

I rarely take advantage of our ability to garner CD's and concert tickets, but I wasn't about to allow Melanie to leave without asking her a very important question related to the future well being of yours truly Stacy Without An E.

She answered her last question and gave her phone number again, so I needed to time my entrance properly. I waited for the commercials to start, the on-air mic light to flicker off and then I opened the studio door.

Melanie must have known my question was imminent, because she nearly had one foot out the door.

"Excuse me, Melanie. My name's Stacy. I'm on the air right after the morning show. I was wondering if I could ask you a question before you leave."

I could tell she wanted to go, but she was polite and forthcoming.

"Of course, what's your question?"

I took in a big breath of air and asked.

"I have been on the kidney transplant list for some time now and I was wondering if you knew when I could expect a kidney."

"Well, I see some markers. You have some common markers, don't you?"

"Oh my God, yes. They're genetic markers. I was told by the doctors that mine were very common, increasing my odds for a kidney."

"I believe you can expect a call from them within the next year."

I was stymied. In my mindset, a kidney has seemed like an unattainable dream. Something not quite real.

"Thank you for your time, I really appreciate it."

"You're welcome Stacy, take care."

And then she was gone.

I've never put much faith in psychics, intuitives or fortune teller's, but the fact that she knew about my marker history was eerily relevant.

You can actually call and have a full intuitive reading about your life. I'm not sure I really need that much guidance, but above all else Melanie gave me a gift I couldn't have purchased with the wealth of my own past history.

She gave me hope.

And that's all I can really ask for at this point in my life.