As you know, since I’ve spoken of little else and at this point you want me to go down like Kanye’s mom, I am having surgery next week. They sent me a strongly worded pre-op letter with all caps like your grandma’s Facebook posts…
…telling me to not take aspirin for two weeks prior (sent one week before the surgery) and DO NOT WEAR JEWELRY.
When I went to my doomsday doctor for the doomsday pre-op appt. (honestly she is the least-reassuring person in the county), I mentioned that I’ll take off my many priceless jewels but that I have not one but two daith piercings for my migraines that can’t come out of my ear unless I go down to the tattoo parlor and have them removed with, like, pliers. You should see that thing Tuna, my piercer, whips out.
Also, again with tattoo parlor. Have you enjoyed that new hit single, Camptown Races?
“Well, you’re really going to have to take those out, and that procedure has a strong chance of killing you,” said my World’s Least Reassuring Doctor. “Which won’t matter because you’re dying of ovaries anyway and there’s a strong chance the receptionist will go after you with her machete as you check out.”
Seriously. She is sans reassurance.
By the way, that soup picture up there? I’ve been following this page on Reddit called OldPersonFacebook, which features ridic things old people do on, you know, Facebook, and every day I collapse into those kinds of giggles where the dog checks on you. I realize I’m like five years from being an old person on Facebook.
Anyway, after leaving the doctor, who is out shopping for a vulture to hook to the end of my bed as she wheels me to surgery, I headed to the tattoo
to have my piercings removed. There was a gentlewoman behind the desk with a fashionable nosegay, if by nosegay we mean a giant disc in her nose. I told her about my upcoming surgery and the entire place stood up and screamed
and then she told me a lot of people come in with this dilemma. I guess you can get, like, electric shock when you keep jewelry in or something? Dr. Doom muttered something about cauterization before suggesting I get my affairs in order and offered me several coffin liners to check out, so whatever, I’ll do what she says. As opposed to the grandmother I’ve turned into, who refused to admit she had dentures on and had surgery with them in. Can you imagine? Oh, so my fake teeth go down my throat. At least I looked my best!
I sat on one of the endless leather couches at my tattoo parlor
and watched other people look for tattoos in a giant book of, you know, tattoos. I just recently read there’s a tattoo artist in I think New York who fashions tattoos from old lithographs, and dude, oh my god, I think that’s so beautiful.
“Hi, honey, I’m ready for you,” a bearded man said, who looked suspiciously like Tuna but wasn’t. I mean, he was huge and had six thousand holes in his body, but because I have careful powers of observation, I concluded he was ANOTHER large piercing guy.
“Oh, is Tuna not here?” I asked, as if Tuna lives there and can’t possibly have other things to do, like be in tartare.
“Nope, it’s his day off. I’ll take care of you, sweetheart.”
I know women get insulted when people call them honey and sweetheart but I always just love it. Perhaps it’s because I’m narcissistic
[whole room stands up and screams, “WE KNOW”]
or maybe it’s because once you’ve known me for 12 seconds you know I am not a sweetheart, but I am always delighted by it. You get an older black lady calling me those things and I melt into a puddle of comfort.
Why can’t my doctor be like Tuna Helper up in this bitch?
In case you’re not well-versed in body piercing, and I feel like you’ll forgive me for saying I see most of you as pretty vanilla middle-aged women who aren’t parading around with their parts pierced beyond that wild Saturday afternoon at Claire’s Boutique circa 1979, I will explain where the daith is.
Okay, touch the top of your ear. You know the next ridge down? That’s your daith. That’s what I have pierced. I heard it’s an acupressure point that helps migraine, and I called several piercers in the area and it was only Tuna who spoke intelligently and knowledgeably on the subject. Also, he was honest. He told me some of his clients saw a huge difference and some were like, This was tiddlywinks.
I figured it was worth $40 to try, and I swear I’ve head less-frequent and less-intense migraines on that side. Then just two weeks ago I finally got the other side pierced, not knowing I’d have to remove it.
And lemme tell you what. Getting your daith pierced? Hurts for a long time after. Like, you can’t lie on that side for months. So you can imagine how I was looking forward to removing the stubborn barbell in there with giant pliers, then sticking a piece of plastic in there to keep the hole open till after my surgery.
Did you know I’m having surgery?
Taking the earring out on the old piercing was cake. It still takes awhile cause that mother is in there, and Tuna Helper and I discussed why he’s a piercer. As a kid he was obsessed with National Geographic magazines, and got very into rituals that welcomed you into manhood, which often includes scarification and piercings. So first he worked on himself and now he pierces old white ladies with migraines.
Anyway, I won’t torment you with the deets, but let’s just say he told me the worst part would be removing the earring on the new side, that I’d feel “a lot of pressure.” Why do they say pressure when they mean pain?
And let me tell you what. That earring must have been a Taurus, because stubborn? And he was right. It was hurty. When he finally got it out I was glad. It was like 15 minutes trying to remove that barbell up in m’daith.
Then he had to take this tiny plastic tube and sort of…repierce that area to keep it open. And this is where I will abstain from making you faint and let’s just cut to the part where I said, “Oh my god let’s let it grow back. Seriously, let’s give up.”
“Are you sure?” asked Tuna Helper. “I really do hate hurting you like this.”
Maybe I need to hang around more motorcycle piercing people, because they’re way nicer than the I-have-a-degree-in-arts types I hang with now and their cynical selves.
In summary, I have one plastic earring on the old side and absolutely nothing on the left side, as I was too big of a delicate flower to keep trying to put a plastic hoop in there. The end.
Oh! But before I go, June says, never reaching the end, spending nights in white satin coffin liners.
My boss, crnt., is purchasing school-spirited shirts for herself, her spouse and their twin sons who are somewhere between 5 and 9 years old. She asked if you guys would pick shirts for them, and each one can be different or they can all be the same style.
Also, boss, crnt., don’t get mad at me for not knowing how old your kids are. You know how I am. They’re little. But going-to-school little.
Okay, here are the choices.
Here is also a link if you want to see them better than this.
I always want to like hooded sweatshirts but in reality they rip my glasses off my face whenever I remove them, so.
Okay, now I’m really going.