Gulf

I hate going out. Because I'm confronted everywhere with people walking going about their business. I'm an angry and a very sad and angry little bugger at the best of times. And at the worst of times. Last year, it took me a while to figure out why people in my building were telling me I was looking better. "No, really, you do!" Finally I got it.

They were responding to the beginnings of the "steroid moonface." You know, that extraterrestrial, frightening spherical face a person gets when taking copious amounts of steroids. Except I never took nearly steroids enough to get to the evil moonface stage (not yet anyway), but round enough for people to think I looked better. (No more planes in my face. God, do I love those planes.) Ouch. "No you really do look better!" "Funny, nothing has changed one iota." "I don't know there's something..." Just stop right there. Stop.

Returning from Monday's hearing test, I was once again prescribed another six-day course of steroids. though this was the first time I ever had any prescribed by the ENT. Maybe I should make a game out of this. See if I can get every single goddamned doctor to prescribe me steroids. Sure, let's include the dentist. The psychopharmacologist. Oh! And the gynecologist too for good measure. Then we'll see what's what! (heh?)

It's just like the license plate game you'd play on long road trips. How many states can you find? Once upon a time, oil companies, via their gas stations, had cute promos for the kids. My favorite Disney record came from Gulf. All original performances. Go figure.

Another promo from Gulf (I swear it was Gulf) was a map of the U.S.; each state with its own perfect rectangle, inside it or beside it, in the proportions of a license plate. And included in the packet were stickers of the license plates for every state of the union. (Back when license plates were the same exact colors for decade upon decade.) The point of all this was when you saw that state's license plate, you'd paste in the appropriate sticker. This goes back long enough that these were stickers you had to lick. No peel and place invented yet. (Whoever thought of that...)

I loved maps. (I still do.) I thought this game (brought to you by Gulf) extremely cool. Poor little Franny. She wasn't able to control herself. I couldn't wait for car trip upon car trip to fill up that all too tempting map. I had to play with my map now. So, one afternoon, I pasted the entire United States, all 50 fucking states, each with its own corresponding license plate. It was so much fun. But when I came up for air, I realized the game was done. Over. See you next promo! Bye for now!

I was so bummed by this. (I really was.) I still get excited when I see plates from places far away. But it just bugs the hell out of me that I can't paste one fat sticker indicating that this momentous sighting actually happened. (But, to help make up for my youthful foolishness, I'm really turned on by the fact that the old New York State plates are coming back- you know, with the orange and blue. I am so happy.)

I swear, I'm just like our little cat. We can buy more goofy, fancy, sparkly toys, but she's not interested. But if you ball up a piece of paper, she's ready to have fun. And she'll sometimes even play fetch with you if she's in the mood. It doesn't take much. That's why I have no idea where Diane was coming from when she said she bet I was high maintenance. License plate viewing is pretty low maintenance. And if we flip between baseball and golf all weekend. Sounds right to me. Hockey all winter. Lots of fun, but masochistic. Let's go Rangers! Oy. Where does the high maintenance come in? I'm just as curmudgeonly as Chip. I don't make him do anything he doesn't want to do. And (not my fault), he says he doesn't mind being my nursemaid. Shit. He's good.

Good news, I have very little aural nerve damage. That's very good. My deafness is caused by swollen and stuffed up eustachian tubing. Never good, but not untreatable. If the steroids reduce the swelling, I will hear again. (No, I'm not totally deaf and how much so differs from day to day.) If they don't, do I get a stent? Do we just let me be? I don't know. All I know is the that damned M.E.L.T. lady makes me cry. And I don't like that one bit. I will confess all to my wonderful chiropractor this afternoon when I get adjusted and return to her my M.E.L.T. Kit. If I do that, do I receive absolution?