She's feral on purpose. How to set your life on fire without even really trying! 😂

Pinky swear you can keep a secret?

Minnesota Nice! Live footage of my brain during a seizure.

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Hello, Lovelies,

How the hell are you?

Today, you are not going to pretend to have your sh*t together for any stranger on the internet. Here’s why:

You’ve tried that before and it’s always a complete bust-up.

No…. Today you are in a state of chronic woolly-mindedness, alternating with plucky Nancy Drew resourcefulness… You have your I’m reasonable cap on as you tap into your innately wise self while on the board conference call. It’s not a Zoom, (thank GOD), so you are taking it like a teenager, sprawled out across your bed, twirling your hair as you rejigger the ‘Cost of Customer Acquisition’ and devise beta questions. You know there’s a way through the unreasonable resistance of the one difficult dude… After all, you have a functioning AI mobile app, 3k+ customers who need help, and a GTM (go-to-market) plan that blends the organic with the strategic.

But then… it happens. Before you know it, you’re gone. You dissolve like vapor—no more than a wraith. Not a nanosecond’s warning this time.

Two hours later, you awaken face-down in the living room. Blood is everywhere. It’s like a scene from Dexter. The white shag rug is shot. (Who the hell were you kidding anyway?) Two deep gashes in your neck, one dangerously close to your jugular, where you nearly guillotined yourself on the “Oh-look-it’s-deadly! Let’s buy it!” coffee table that you thought was so cute on Amazon.

Multiple facial fractures, a dislocated jaw, broken teeth everywhere… You realize for the first time in six months, you’ve had a whopper of a Grand Mal seizure. Gaaaaaagh… How did this happen? You were being so damn good! Meds like clockwork, total sleep, complete sobriety, all kinds of farm-to-table this and that…

You text your mom-squad of goddesses. SOS! I’ve nearly decapitated myself on the flokati and need… Umm, A LOT of stitches. Can you come over?

Within five minutes, they arrive… there is no drama. They are like ninjas, moving fast and stealth. They are no strangers to the ER after 18+ years of children, illnesses, and broken bones.

There’s Selena—a former trauma surgeon—who now works with VA burn pit victims and who speaks “doctor” like nobody’s business. Nothing gets past Selena. Nothing. And she always shows up. You could be checking into hell for all eternity, and Selena would be there with an eco-lunch sack at the ready, “I packed your meds!”

There’s Renee—the Formula One getaway driver of the bunch who knows all the entrances and exits and parking to all the hospitals in the city. Renee also has great hair. How does she do that?

There’s Alisa—(yep, there are 2 of us) A Filipina dentist/surgeon, opera aficionado, and who is just SO street-fighter tough. Think Krav Maga but sexy. You want her on your team. Somehow she’s Salma Hayek meets Audrey Hepburn.

There’s Marina—who’s technically in Paris—but she is one of those people who has lived such a full, global life, she’s taught me how to never panic. I’m going to talk more about this trick later when I’m awake, awake. Plus, her steady fount of optimism is like the waters at Lourdes.

So, these women save you—the way you would save them. Hours pass. Examinations, CTs, then, an unexpected hospital transfer where you are now alone.

You are on every drug you shouldn’t be, headed for surgery where you disagree with the post-op plan only because you have been through this exact surgery twice before. But instead of it being a conversation, it’s, “We don’t like your attitude—no surgery for you, Missy.”

And you are like, “But, but, but… Crip Camp, the ADA film I worked on, Epilepsy is a protected condition…” Except, you can no longer make “B” sounds because of all the elephant-like swelling… and in the end, you squeak out, “Mut, mut, mut, choo ha uh duty uh care.” They look at each other and leave. You are sent back to your room to think about your actions.

They tell everyone that you wish to be discharged.

You write out on big Love Actually cue cards that you do NOT wish that. You wish to be fixed so that you can be a functioning person in the world again.

So, after much apologizing on your part for your attitude, and your advocate’s part, and stopping the drugs that are making you a bit bonkers, they do the surgery. In the post-op process, your maxillofacial surgeon displays his total ingenuity—doing arts and crafts by your bedside, so you have handmade tools to feed yourself upon arriving home. It is a cinematic moment that shows his Jobsian tinkering curiosity and genius.

At home, you explain what happened to the board, in flashcards on Zoom—again like that scene in Love Actually—only with much more challenged orthodontia. They had no idea at all.“We just thought you’d lost the signal…” And, in a way… you very much had.

Upon resurfacing more, you find out your dear friend, a fellow writer, has inexplicably passed away. The calculus of this loss makes no sense given your recent lively conversations, and you don’t know how to talk about it yet.

Suddenly, you realize your horoscope was WAY off this week…

WTF, Chani?

Now, onto the doofuses, this week it’s personal.

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Doofus(es) of the Week

Now, for our regularly scheduled programming!

Doofus #1: Dr Cleon Yee, Sutter Health: Refused me care and threatened to send me home without surgical intervention—just broken facial bones, broken teeth, a dangling head, and a dislocated jaw unless I improved my attitude. Is this 1956? You don’t have to like me to operate on me. Even though I think you’ll find, I’m super fun at dinner parties and my desserts are aces. But you just had to kick me in the teeth—even when I didn’t have any left. And you did it while grinning all the way. A special vein of rage is reserved for sadists like you.

I just tried to subconsciously cut my own head off on a conference call, Cleon. I think I win for balls.

Butthead.

Then, when I arrived home from the hospital, I discovered that during surgery, I’d somehow acquired a hernia, potential sepsis, and a perforated abdominal wall. That’s never happened before. I now have to go BACK in for emergency surgery—thanks to this ass clown’s harassment during a moment of profound stress.

Alors, Cleon, I am going to go so Jack Smith on your a*s for treating me so wickedly poorly as a midlife female patient who was told not to speak or question the process. From now on, there will always be a new legal motion, a fresh deposition, an extra affidavit, a clarifying letter, an attorney meeting… Why? Because you have ensured that there will be time for it all. You see, I have the will of Nietzsche, Cleon. 😂

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Doofus #2: Slow Dumpers. With the exception of my ex-husband, who is still the smartest, funniest person I have ever known, men have proven a disappointing lot for me. The latest is by far the worst, and women should know about this MO because it’s a genuine time waster and energy suck. "Slow dumping" is essentially the relationship equivalent of "quiet quitting," the term given to those slowly checking out of work. But while the latter might be a way to avoid burnout in the workplace, slow dumping a person has a much darker impact.

Slow dumper, I hope you live with the deep, self-imposed shame of knowing what a gargantuan putz you are. Now that we’ve established that there’s no verifiable moral lucidity in the Universe, you should expect a lifetime slow drip of T-Swifting. An artist has to work things out after all. Given it’s been 9 years, 45 more years of slow dumping recovery ought to do it.

“Tell Slow Dumper. I want him to know it was me.”

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Doofuses #3: My family. Stop calling every single day and trying to force me to move home to your militia-run nightmare of an existence. I am a city person who needs to do post-op therapy near my surgeons, dentists, and speech therapists. And I need to sue Cleon. You are all living in an extended episode of Roy Tillman’s Fargo and just like Juno Temple’s character Dot, I refuse to participate. Even if it means I die in the street like a bone-tired Dickens character, so be it. I love you, but I can’t stand your political ideology, your parenting style, your refusal to read books, or your meat-based diet. And the GOP and evangelical Christianity are for the birds.

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Doofus runners-up: Sudden Kissinger A*s-kissers? Or A*s-Kissingers? I’m with lyz on this one. What’s with everybody suddenly saying nice things about Kissinger? Pretending he wasn’t a war criminal? I met him via work back when I was 24 and the world is SO much better off with him NOT in it. Did people’s balls up and evaporate?

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That’s Marvelous!

Juno Temple in Fargo - May we all be such tigers when Alt-Right militia types try to take away everything we hold dear. And when you’ve escaped once, there’s no going back…

If I sound a tad bitter from lack of stuffing, bourbon-glazed yams, and pie—I am. But here’s the thing… Coffee’s bitter and I love coffee. Cranberries are extremely tart-bitter and delicious. Even bitter Dickens characters deserve cranberry sauce.

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Beyond marvelous: Boy Genius. They’re a touch bitter too.

I really can’t wait until my hair turns Phoebe’s color. And I love her tie. It’s so my jam.

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Marvelously tender honorable mention: Leslie Jamison

For her stunning New Yorker piece on finishing a beloved colleague, Rebecca Godfrey’s book, after her passing.

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Finally, that proximity rom-coms are still possible…

Fun Sock Guy versus Boob Neighbor! It’s a whole Jane Austen-esque saga! I love that she can’t control herself. I wish I weren’t wired shut. I’d word-vomit all OVER a Fun Sock person!

@summernenglandMy worlds are colliding, and my dismissive avoidance is reigning. #fyp #socks #neighbor #booktok

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Stay safe, Lovelies, and know that I’m thinking of you always – xoxo, gotham girl

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