oopsie daisy

On Pencil Sharpening. Seriously.

My friend David Jacobs is incredibly smart and even more opinionated. But the thing is: he’s one of those guys who’s has a strong viewpoint on everything, but also wants to seem nice. Which, when we’re talking about me, is totally my favorite.

For example, yesterday he was telling me – AGAIN – what a great writer I am. I know, I know. You’re not supposed to admit to stuff like that if you want people to take you seriously, but you know what? BECAUSE I want you to take me seriously, I’m going to admit to stuff like that. Because, um, hi. Writers don’t write so that we can sit at home all alone with our cats and cheap grocery store wine while perusing our journals from high school. You think I wrote those journals for ME? Please. Every single word I’ve every written was in the hopes that one day—some day—I’d have an audience who wanted to read them.

Duh.

Anyway. Back to me. (Oh right. Because we ever leave that topic.) Earlier today my smart, talented, super intelligent friend David Jacobs and I were talking about great I am. Okay FINE. We were actually talking about football, but in between that, he might have said something kind of exactly like:

“You could write about pencil sharpening and I'd read it.”

So, my awesome friend David Jacobs. This post is for you.

On Pencil Sharpening: An instructional how-to for people who don’t know how to sharpen a mother fucking pencil. In 34 easy-to-follow steps.

1. Before we can really tackle this subject, first we need to discover why it is you feel the need to write with a pencil. As far as I’m concerned, the only important difference between a pencil and a pen is that a pencil is impermanent. Erasable. Changeable. Uncertain. So maybe the bigger question here is: WHY A PENCIL?
2. I’m not a therapist, but I have one who’s outrageously expensive and would happily chitchat with you about everything except your need to use pencils. Bonus: he’ll also laugh at all of your jokes. Sometimes for, like, twenty seconds. Which you’ll later calculate cost you $1.34. But, I mean, hi: it’s kind of worth that much just to have someone laugh at your jokes, am I right?
3. Anyway, after you get validation that your childhood was pretty fucked up and that it basically makes sense why you are the way you are, hopefully you’ll have the confidence to buy a pack of goddamn pens (which pen specifically is too broad of a subject to tackle here, but when you’re ready, rest assured: I have an opinion) and end this pencil nonsense.
4. In the meantime, because, yes, the therapist’s job is to drag this out for weeks/months/years, let’s talk about your stupid pencil.
5. Am I going to set you back with your shrink if I ask why you’re not smart enough to buy a mechanical pencil?
6. Fine. I’ll pretend for the sake of this exercise that you’re taking a standardized test. Maybe the LSAT! Your parents always did hope you’d amount to more…
7. I guess I’m also now pretending that we live in the 1980s and they don’t offer these tests on magical machines called computers.
8. Honestly, if you’re going to make me go back in time, can we at least go back to a time when Huey Lewis & the News didn’t rule the airwaves?
9. PSYCH! I LOVE HUEY LEWIS & THE NEWS! (You remember “psych,” don’t you? It’s from the ‘80s. When you still had things like “hope” and “dreams.” And the confidence to write in pen. FINE, it was erasable, but still.)
10.  Anyway, no point in living in the past. Here we are. Just you and your pencil. Your unsharpened, good-for-nothing pencil.
11. Um, yeah. I just Googled “unsharpened pencil” and was assaulted with this result: “Life without God is an unsharpened pencil.” Mostly I blame myself for relying on Google for help when I’m feeling uninspired, but also? FUCK YOU. (You is YOU, not Google. Just in case that wasn’t clear.)
12.  So, just so I’m clear, we are now in total agreement that life is far better without unsharpened pencils and/or pencils in general, right?
13. I hate you.
14. Okay. Take the pencil. Now find your sharpener. OH RIGHT. This is basically impossible because pencil sharpeners aren’t an actual thing that exist! Kind of like “happy marriages” and “good parenting.”
15. You know what? Because I’m feeling so generous and because you’re basically the most demanding and insecure person I’ve ever met, I’m going to help you out. Go to my bathroom. Look on the third shelf all the way to the right. There. See that blue plastic thing? That’s my eyeliner sharpener. TAKE IT. It’s a gift. No seriously. Keep it. I can totally afford a new one.
16. Now stick your pencil in my sharpener.
17. Ew.
18. No seriously. Ew.
19. Wow. Really?
20. Still?
21. Awesome. I’ll just sit here while you….
22. Okay. Now, oh god. This is only going to get… Now turn your pencil in my—I mean—THE—sharpener.
23. Keep turning it. Like a good nine or ten solid turns.
24. Now pull your pencil out.
25. ARE YOU KIDDING ME?
26. Assess the tip of your pencil. This is a personal preference. Personally, I like a pencil so sharp (not that I write with pencils because I’m not a savage, but IF I DID) that I may very easily shatter the tip with one forceful crossing of a “t.” You seem like you may like your pencils a little more, well…accessible. But hey—whatever. You can always come back and sharpen it again.
27. Speaking of. Oh my god. Did you let the pencil shavings spill all over the floor in step 23? Jesus Chris Mother of Mercy. You’re supposed to sharpen your pencil over a wastebasket. Or even the toilet. Were you raised in a barn? Oh, this is my fault because I didn’t tell you exactly how to do it? Well played. Well. Played.
28. Pick that shit up.
29. Hopefully by now your therapy is starting to resonate and you’re feeling like the things you have to write are worth inking for eternity. But just in case you have a relapse, let’s try the pencil out.
30. Here’s a single sheet of binder paper. That seems like something people who use pencils would be into.
31. Write whatever you want.
32. Oh, look at you. An “F,” a “U,” a “C”…
33. Oh! Look at that. Someone’s pencil broke already! Next time try writing with less “enthusiasm.”
34. Also, is that REALLY your handwriting? Yikes. Good luck with that.

So there you go David Jacobs. This is what happens when I can’t sleep at night and when I make a New Year’s resolution two weeks into the New Year that I’m going to post on my blog at least two times a week. What tough topic would you like me to tackle next?

Daisy promises to blog more in 2012 if you promise to be patient while she remembers how to do so.

Spin: The Bottle.

Ever since Tom's departure, I've been struggling to find a spin class I truly love. There's Danny, who upon finding out that I was a Tom-devotee, told me he would neither yell at me or flirt with me. (Um, then what's the point?)

There's Shermineh who thinks of her class as a bar mitvah with a spring break rave theme, sings "Welcome to Ibiza!" into her microphone, and bends over a lot so that every person in the room is sure to see her neon thong, which, of course, perfectly matches her skimpy sports bra.

And then there's Jorge.

I found myself in Jorge's class earlier this week, despite the fact that in previous classes he screamed "PUSH! PUSH! PUSH! PUSH!" for the entire 50 minutes. (Jorge: I'm spinning, not giving birth.)

This class was no different. Lectures about how "It's 80% food and 20% exercise" abounded. "If it's on your body, it's because you ate it!" "Summer is here! Don't you want to look HOT in your shorts and tank tops?" (Jorge: we live in San Francisco. What are these "shorts" things of which you speak?)

And then, my personal favorite:

"Put those sexy asses back and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH and PUSH."

Over. And over. And over again.

I went along with the class. I pushed. I put my sexy ass back. I even marched with my arms when he made us.

But when he yelled for everyone to whip her towel over her head, I just couldn't do it. We're not at a night club. We're not at a baseball game. We're at spin. Sorry Jorge, but even I have to draw the line somewhere.

After the towel-rave, towards the end of class, Jorge gave us another lecture burning fat and not muscle (something to do with when you consume food blah blah blah). Then he screamed into his microphone asking, "What are you going to do after class?!"

A chorus of blond girls in cropped pants and skin-tight tanks verbally orgasmed, "EAT!!!!"

But then there was one voice that rose above the crowd. One voice that seemed like it should have a hard time being heard over music, but suddenly was loud and forceful. One voice that bellowed:

"DRINK!!!!!!"

If records were still a thing, one definitely would have scratched.

I looked around the room to see who'd said it. Clearly there was at least one girl in this room with whom I had a kinship. One girl I'd commiserate with after class in the locker room. One girl who also kept a bottle of vodka under her pillow at night, just in case.

But then I realized everyone was looking at me.

That I was the girl who'd yelled to the room about how she couldn't wait to get drunk. That instead of mass-climaxing to the mere thought of a tuna sushi roll, I'd shot my load, loudly and unapologetically, over an ice-cold bottle of Sauvignon Blanc.

Jorge looked at me slowly, his eyes moving up and down over my body, and finally said, "Well, at least you're honest."

And then I remembered.

Three weeks prior, as class was winding down, Jorge had opened up to us about his struggles. With weight. With self-esteem. And, last but not least, with alcoholism.

"Waiter, another bottle, please."

Giving New Meaning to "Having a Bad Hair Day"

Walking to the garage this morning, I bumped into my next door neighbor who, yes, I live directly next to (in an apartment building), but don't see that much. And, yet, because I'm super awkward and feel the need to create chitchat with everyone I encounter instead of just saying "Morning!" or "Yes, I'm over 21," I, of course, decided to strike up a conversation with her.

(Yesterday at Trader Joe's the cashier asked me if I was over 21. Instead of just saying "yes" like a normal person, I announced exactly how old I was, then freaked out and told him that if I'm that old, I probably shouldn't be announcing my age. Then he told me we're only as old as we feel, which is something only a 22 year old would say, and then we both admitted we feel 12, and then I told him that I was going house-boating and everyone was responsible for a meal and I can't cook, so I picked sandwiches. Then I also told him that all 6 bottles of wine were for me and that I wasn't sharing. SERIOUSLY. That is the conversation I had during the two minutes of checkout. Frankly, I'm surprised I didn't ask him if he wanted to be Facebook friends. I have a problem.)

Anyway, so my neighbor and I are both walking to the garage and I decide that even though it's morning and we're clearly both late, it's a perfect time to chat.

"Your hair looks great," I say.

She looks at me kind of quizzically. Which I, of course, take as a sign that I should keep talking.

"Were your bangs always like that or is that something you just did?"

Still looking at me oddly.

"I mean, were they always that short? I really like them."

Finally she replies, "I'm bald. I wear a wig."

Me: *finally speechless*

"I just assumed everyone knew!"

And then, because I cannot be stopped, "WOW. GREAT WIG! I love it! Do you wear a lot of different wigs?" Because, you know, I don't live right next door and see her in the hallway and stuff.

"I'm actually trying to get up the courage to just go bald," she tells me.

"OH. YOU TOTALLY SHOULD," I say (and then write on the blog that I said that, effectively ruining the chances that any of you will ever take advice from me again).

"I'm just nervous about how people will react."

At which point, I come up with my most sensitive response ever. "Oh, I doubt anyone will even say anything."

And so on and so on and so on. Until she was literally IN HER CAR TRYING TO PULL OUT OF THE GARAGE and I was still talking. About the fact that she's bald.

But instead of being mortified as I backed out of the driveway, I couldn't help but wonder:

Complimenting my neighbor's hair only to learn she's bald and wears a wig. Better or worse than when I told the guy, "Your cock feels so good" only to learn he'd already pulled out?

The Aftermath

Seven weeks ago, to the day, I launched a jump on my snowboard and landed it with my back. I’ve never actually experienced pain worse than the moments and hours afterwards and that’s saying a lot because I got all of my pubic hair lasered off without using numbing cream, my ex-boyfriend was really into slapping me in the face during sex (I’d slap him back and “accidentally” hit him really hard in the ear. He always complained that I had bad aim. Clearly, he wasn’t that smart.), and my brothers used to put me in a cardboard box and push me down the stairs.

When I was getting taken off the mountain in a sled behind a snow mobile while strapped down to a backboard, the pain was so agonizing that it occurred to me that I might not be able to snowboard for the rest of the season. (Rest of my life?) Instead, after a lot of ice and an overdose-worthy amount of Motrin, I woke up the next morning and decided to go snowboarding. Screw the pain. I wanted to ride.

I then applied the same approach to pretty much everything in my life.

• Spin class? Yes, please! That agonizing pain that starts about thirty minutes into my workout? Nothing a bottle of wine won’t cure. (Seriously, there's nothing better than getting REALLY dehydrated during spin and then going straight to the bar. I highly recommend it.)

• High heels? Hell yeah. The higher the better. It doesn’t matter if each step feels like a dagger shooting through my spine. I’m taller. And hotter. Because limping is totally the new fake tits. 

• Lifting heavy things? Silly geese. I didn’t even do that before I got injured. That’s what boys are for. Duh.

• Running for the bus? Unfortunately, this one happens far more than I’d like. But I do run. And I do catch the bus. And then I sit in the handicapped/old people section and tell myself that if someone questions my shit, I’ll just force them to touch my back which is oddly sweaty after running a hundred yards and has morphed into a single throbbing, pulsing knot.

• Snowblowing and shoveling three feet of snow that’s covering the enormous driveway? Okay fine. I only do this because the boys in my ski house apparently hate me and therefore don’t or won’t, but I roar that snow blower to life and I blow the bejesus out of that snow. Nevermind that the snow blower doesn’t actually push itself like how it looks when someone else is doing it. (I know. I had no idea either!) 

• Tennis? Why not? Sure my back seizes up so badly that I end up lying down on the court for ten minutes afterwards, but please note the word “afterwards.” Yup. I will play for 90 minutes without letting my partner know it feels like a boa constrictor is wrapped around my back and slowly suffocating me. Because heaven forbid someone think I’m a wimp.

Okay fine. That last one was a bit too much, even for me. So after the tennis game from hell (my partner said “just one more rally” forty-five times until I was sure I was going to have to be airlifted out of there), I called my doctor and made an appointment.

Anyway, long story short: I get to the doctor yesterday. She takes one look at my back and goes, “Um, your vertebrae is sticking really far out and really far to the side of your spine” and then immediately drags my ass down some secret back stairs to see the orthopedist. Without an appointment!

Then the orthopedist makes me bend over (not like that), twist to the side, touch my toes, and some other stuff, tells me I have a compression fracture in my spine, wraps me up in a brace, tells me not to "do anything dumb,” and sends me on my way.

So anyway, yeah. That snowboarding fall I took in January? IT BROKE MY BACK. Oopsie!

And now I have to wear a back brace. Which isn't nearly as sexy as it sounded when Judy Blume wrote about it in "Deenie." I know. I was disappointed too.

A few thoughts about the back brace:

1. It acts like a corset. I can drink as much booze as I want because this thing sucks my tummy in harder than a fat chick at the public pool. Which is awesome because, according to my behavior last night, there’s nothing like finding out your broke your back and ignored it for seven weeks to make you want to drink.

2. It’s hard to parallel park. No, not with the brace. Just in general.

3. I now think it’s totally appropriate to run into someone I barely know at a crowded restaurant and lift my shirt up. So yeah, nothing’s really changed there.

4. It makes me stand up straighter. Which means that if I were ever to tell my mother about my fall or broken back, she’d likely be delighted.

5. Because no one can really see it, I’m not getting NEARLY the amount of sympathy (or presents) that I would like. I mean, if you broke YOUR back, I’d totally send you flowers and wine. (Mostly just WINE though.)

Anyway, enough about this. it snowed three feet in 24 hours yesterday in Tahoe, so I’m off for the weekend! (What. He just said “Don’t do anything dumb!”)

(Yup, I'm smiling.)

 

A Story of One Girl's Rise & Fall on the Mountain

We linger over one mid-day beer at the Ice Bar for longer than usual because the mountain feels stagnant. Yes, it's a gorgeous blue bird day and yes, we're in Tahoe. We're not complaining, well, maybe about the lack of snow... a snow that seemed furious and determined in November and December, but has since been castrated by La Niña's wily ways. Leave it to a female to tease us with exactly what we want and then viciously yank it away. I can say that because I've done it myself plenty of times.

We finish our PBRs, strap into our boards, and coast down to the lift.

"What do you want to do next?"

It's the same question at the end of every run. The one you only have to say aloud when you're riding with someone. Alone, you just hop on the lift and go. It doesn't matter where you end up. It's just you.

Luckily, we usually agree. And this time, maybe because I have an assignment for a new website I'm writing for, or maybe because we're all groomered out, or maybe just because: we decide to make our way to the kiddie park in an effort to get me doing jumps again, something I've abandoned since the first snowfall of the season.

I ask him to film it. One, so I can see how little air I'm getting (I swear it feels like more when you're doing it) and two, so that I can post it on this new site I just mentioned. The first attempt is a complete disgrace to the sport and anyone who just witnessed what happened. My board barely lifts off of the ground and I'm perplexed as I make my way to the lift as to why the earth hasn't opened up and swallowed me and spared me the humiliation I'm about to endure.

"Just delete it," I say, without even asking.

He nods.

"Obviously, we're doing that again," I say.

Another nod.

Because that's how it works. You go for it and if you end up *not* actually going for it, or fucking it up, or just not liking how it all went down: You do it again. It's like the opposite of relationships. Instead of bailing when things get bad, you push through it. Oh. Wait.

ANYWAY.

We get off of the lift and make our way back to the park. He rides down to the first jump and pulls out his phone. I watch a four year old follow his instructor over the jumps. Sure, he's just gliding over them and not getting air and sure he's not quite three feet tall, but, I mean, he's four. I'm [redacted] years old than him for heaven's sake. I've gone through bigger parks. I've landed bigger jumps. This is all about that stupid voice in my head that appeared a few years ago after a certain birthday and refuses to let me live my life without weighing the consequences.

I wait and make sure the four year old doesn't fall after the jump; after all, the worst thing I could do would be to land on top of a child. With the way I talk about kids, no one would even believe it was an accident. I see him move on to the second jump in the park (park is a mild exaggeration, I'll admit) and I turn my board straight down the hill and go. I do my best not to speed check myself. After all, these jumps are tiny. Without any speed, gravity is going to win the fight.

I aim my board straight at the jump, slide up it and... ugh. Totally anticlimatic. Again. I can do this, I tell myself. I curve my board around the second jump and aim it towards the final jump in the park. I've got a decent amount of speed, determined to make this one count. I point my board straight, fly up the jump and suddenly I'm five feet in the air, my balance is totally off...

"Oh!" I exclaim.

Time slows down. I know things are about to go horribly wrong. But I can't fix it.

My feet are now completely out from under me and I'm falling back to the earth with my eyes facing the sky.

I land the jump. With my back.

Pain like I've never felt before overtakes my entire lower back. I can't move. I bellow like a wild animal. I try to sit up. I only do so long enough to make eye contact with the Alpine Meadows employee who is working "Tubeville," the inner tube park I've never even noticed before. I don't know how he sees the look I give him through my goggles--the please help me I think I might be dying look, but he starts running towards me.

I collapse back onto the snow, moaning like a Tyrannosaurus rex in heat.

"Are you okay?" he asks.

"No."

"I have to block off the jump. I'll be right back. Just one second, okay?"

I can hear him running up the mountain to make sure no one launches the jump and lands on my face.

The pain is unbearable. I can't breathe. I can't open my eyes. I can't move.

The next part is a blur... They don't want me to move. All I want to do is move. Campfriend takes my snowboard off (thank God) and I bend my legs. They tell me not to move again. Ski patrol is here. A doctor is here. My eyes are still closed.

"Does this hurt?" they ask as they push different parts of my body. My pelvis, my neck, my back--

"Yes. That hurts. It all hurts."

"Yeah... It's going to hurt to be on your back for a while," someone says.

"Sorry, babe." I smile. The ski patrol laugh, but Campfriend misses the obvious sex joke, focused on the back board and stretcher that have arrived. I'm just happy I'm still making sex jokes.

I'm on a back board. I'm being immobilized. They're taping my head down to the board.

"Sorry, I'm going to get your hair in this," someone apologizes. He could yank each and every strand out of my head and I wouldn't even feel it.

"I'm sorry," I keep saying. "I think I'm fine. I'm sure I'm fine." But also... "Why aren't there any dogs here?" Alpine Meadows is famous for its adorable rescue dogs. I never thought I'd be in this situation, but now that I am, I mean... it'd be so much better if there were a Golden Retriever by my side.

But there's not. And I can't move. And I can't open my eyes. And so the next thing I know they're pulling me in the stretcher behind a snow mobile to First Aid.

I want to open my eyes, to find a way to enjoy this, even though that's obviously not the point, but the pain is unlike anything I've ever experienced, so I keep my eyes closed and try to breathe. Which also hurts.

I don't know how they get me from the sled to the table in First Aid, but somehow I am there, still strapped to the back board, my neck immobilized with two cushion things, and my head taped down. I imagine someone had to lift me, the thought of which seems horrifying. But not as horrifying as when they start asking me my height and weight.

I mean, I can't see him, but I'm sure Campfriend is right there. Thinking I might be about to die, I don't even bother to lie. (File under: moments I'd like back.)

There's more poking, more prodding, more "Does this hurt?" "Does THIS hurt?" "What about THIS?" and all I know is that, literally, EVERYTHING hurts. I think about how when I first fell, I was in so much pain, but assumed that I'd be at the Alpine Bar shortly enjoying a beer. I now know that's not the case. In fact, it's starting to seem like I might not be back at Alpine Meadows, much less the bar, for the rest of the season. I am determined not to let that happen.

"I'm sure I'm fine," I say. All I want is for them to unstrap me. To roll over. So that I'm lying on ANYTHING but my back.

"We need to call the ambulance," the doctor says.

"NO!"

And that's when the tears start.

"You can't do that," I protest. "I can't afford it."

"When you landed," the doctor explains," you may have compressed your spinal cord and caused a fracture."

"I don't think I did that," I say, even though I have no idea. I just want out of these straps. Off of this board.

"We won't know if you fractured your spine unless we get an x-ray," he continues. "And I don't want to move you until you get an x-ray because if I let you stand up and walk, you may start to lose feelings in your legs. And once you lose feelings in your legs, you can't get that back."

"I can't afford it," I say again, tears streaming down my face. "I just can't."

"Can you afford not to ever walk again?" he asks.

Damn this guy is good. "I'm not trying to be difficult," I keep saying. "I just... My deductible. It's six thousand dollars. I can't... I don't..."

They leave me strapped to the board while I make the decision.

I ask Campfriend to call my oldest brother. I'm in no position to make a decision, and somehow it seems better to ask someone who is far away and can't see me, helpless and in agonizing pain.

As he walks out of the building to make the call, I yell, "Tell him not to tell my mom!"

The nurse approaches and asks, "Would your mother maybe help you out?"

It's too long of a story. Too much to get into. I wish I could shake my head no, but I'm forced to use my words.

"I'm too old to ask my mother for help."

A small pep talk about how her son is 31 and she'd help him out follows, and she might be the most well intentioned person ever, but I just want someone to unstrap me so I can roll the fuck over and so I shrug and say, "Maybe."

Campfriend returns and lets me know my brother thinks I should skip the ER. Wait to see a doctor in the city, since that will be much cheaper.

I tell them I am going to walk out. There are forms to be read and signed. I can barely focus enough to write my own name, so I have no idea what I'm signing, but I know it means I can't sue. Like I'd sue someone else for the fact that I can't land a jump.

They unstrap me from the board and roll me off. I immediately turn onto my stomach. I can still feel my fingers and toes. The pain is excruciating--why won't someone give me a fucking Qualuude? Are Qualuude's even something that still exist?--but it feels better to be facing down.

Campfriend goes to get the car. I keep my eyes closed and try to think about anything other than not being able to walk for the rest of my life. I don't even want to think about not being able to snowboard for the rest of the season.

The guy who saw me fall and rushed to help me is back at First Aid, this time with a guy with a broken collarbone. He comes up to me and asks how I'm doing.

"Okay," I say.

"You really launched that jump," he says.

"Yeah," I can barely talk. But he is kind of cute, so I suffer through it. (I am nothing if not a martyr.)

"I saw the whole thing. Next time, just be sure to bend your knees more."

"Oh, there's not going to be a next time," I say. But as soon as the words come out of my mouth, we both know it's not true. He raises his eyebrows.

"Well, I've got to do it one more time. Just to know I can. But then... never again."

"Exactly," he says. "Just keep those knees bent."

 

I wake up the next morning still in massive amounts of pain. But I know what I have to do.I don't know if I want to as much as I am compelled to. So I pop six more motrin, which I've been doing every three hours since the fall, put on my snowboarding gear and go back to the mountain.

As I walk up the hill to get on the lift, I turn to my left to size up the jump that got the best of me... the jump that I am going to have my way with. Not today, mind you, but soon.

...It's gone.

 

 (Want to see the fall? Follow me past the first "I can't believe I'm letting you see how much I suck" jump and all the way to the bottom of the hill. Better viewed in full screen.)