So what's this stuff in my hair?

What total dumbass would absent-mindedly rub hair pomade not in his hair but all over the Frankenstein scar from his summer mole excision in the morning and leave his wound covered in a thin sheen of goo that won’t wash off all day? (Though it leaves his wrist hair delightfully shiny and manageable.)

Donald Trump?

No. But that’s a highly plausible, highly informed guess. Five points for you!

It is actually I, your surgery-scarred, shiny-wrist-haired, correct-pronoun-using protagonist. And “protagonist” is an Old Norwegian (as in Jake, the Old Norwegian) word for “dumbass.”

Well, shit

I was THIS CLOSE to posting that I’d gone all day without having a bandage on my wrist with nobody noticing my still-hideous-but-no-longer-gaping wound UNTIL! someone who will not be named (because she isn’t on Facebook so there’s really no reason to shame her here there or here) noticed as we were leaving rehearsal tonight.

(Apparently I’d at one point very creatively described my wound to her as looking like a vagina because her first observation was that it doesn’t look like a vagina. I’d truly forgotten that I’d ever made that comparison. But I cannot disagree with the poetic imagery.)

So the key takeaways here are:
1. My wound is so much better that I feel safe leaving it unbandaged for a day.
2. It’s still gross enough, though, that I’m politely refraining from posting a photo of it here for fear you’d vomit all over yourself when you innocently scrolled by it.
3. HOLY SHIT DONALD TRUMP IS SO FUCKING BBEEYYOONNDD OFF THE RAILS TODAY WHAT THE HELL IS WRONG WITH HIM OH MY GOD OH MY GOD OH MY GOD

Mistakes were made

I weirdly had neither a rehearsal nor a performance tonight, and as I walked to my car after work wondering what the hell it is you people with free time DO with your free time, I noticed that it was perfect running weather outside. Mistake 1. So I texted Scott and Rob to test the waters and see if they might be up for an impromptu evening run. Mistake 2. Rob, to his eternal credit, already had a theater commitment LIKE A NORMAL PERSON. But not only was Scott free, his response to my query was “what time?” And I texted back to tell him when I’d be home. Mistake 3.
Fast-forward a bunch more mistakes. We’re standing in my driveway, noticing that it’s WAY more humid than I’d thought. But we take off running, with me secure in the knowledge that I’ll have to phone a tailor when we’re done to have all my pants taken in because of all the inches that were destined to melt off of me after surprising my body with an impromptu Monday evening 3-mile run in cleansingly heavy humidity.

Fast forward one mile, when I completely run out of will to live.

Anyway, here’s a photo of Scott looking like a dewy lotus blossom and me looking like a hair clog from the drain of a New Deal-era public pool after trudging back from our not-three-mile run:

In slightly exciting news, it WAS my first serious exertion since my stupid mole removal and I didn’t split open and exsanguinate all over our pretty running trail. SMALL. VICTORIES.

Dear LORD that was a long day

I cleared some stuff out of my storage unit, sold a ton of books (for a meager $20, but still), learned choreography for 4.5 hours with a delightfully talented choreographer and a cast of dancers half my age, did a show that was spiced up with a tornado delay and a couple dropped lines on my part, emptied the litter box, decided to sleep with my gross wrist wound unbandaged to see how it survives a night in the open air, and took a helicopter selfie with Jeffrey Epstein’s alleged neck creases (too soon?) in our Kountry Krafts guest room where I’m still sleeping because the final push of my bedroom project has become kind of overwhelming. Good night!

My! Stitches! Are! Finally! Out!

Also: Marlin! Shorts!

I’ve been wide awake for no useful reason since four o’stupid

I’m not supposed to exert myself for fear of ripping out my sutures, but it’s been six days and the massive gash in my wrist seems to be healing nicely (I have suitably gruesome photos of it if you want to start your day with a good splash of emesis) and I’m bored and restless and feeling fat from not exercising for a whole week AND WOULD IT REALLY CRIPPLE ME FOR LIFE IF I RAN THREE TEENSY LITTLE MILES IN THIS PERFECT RUNNING WEATHER?

Also: Look at the weird stuff you can find on the Internet when you’re wide awake for no useful reason at four o’stupid.

A moving story

Not to toot my own horn (TOOT! TOOT!) but in the middle of all my don’t-get-my-wrist-mole-excision-sutures-wet bullshit (TOOT!) drama, the flapper in my toilet (WHERE I TOOT!) tank started leaking. LOUDLY. LIKE A BIG LOUD TOOT. I’M SURPRISED YOU ALL COULDN’T HEAR IT. And not only did I buy the right-size replacement flapper ON ONLY THE SECOND TRY, but I also managed to remove the old one, install the too-small replacement one, remove the too-small replacement one and finally install the right-size replacement one ALL WITH ONE HAND.

TOOOOOOOOOT! Flush.

OUCH!

The football field that Dr. McDreamy hacked out of my wrist has almost as much acreage as the care instructions the nurse gave me—on a piece of paper that at the moment is really hard to hold without dropping. I hope the function in my fingers comes back sometime soon.

Goodbye, unsightly thing on my wrist!

I’m talking about the huge scabby mole, which just got scraped—which, I’m sorry, is just as icky as it sounds—and is being sent off to an undisclosed location filled with people who spend lots of time looking at mole scrapings—which, I’m sorry, would be a terrible name for a band—and we’re all eagerly waiting to hear their determinations—which, I’m sorry, had better not be delivered in band song.

I’m not, for the record, talking about the huge pink bump, which is called a pisiform (which is a weak band name), which is defined as a “knobbly, sesamoid bone” (which is a clumsy band name), which in my case has anyways been so exaggerated in size that it’s made it uncomfortable to wear a watch or a gladiator wrist cuff (WHICH I CALL DIBS ON AS A BAND NAME).

I’m kind of a big thing over at Politicked ...

I JUST GOT MY FIRST LUMP-FREE (LUMPLESS? DE-LUMPED?) HAIRCUT!

Behold my newfound normalness!

The bad news:

I've been lying to all our Full Monty audiences. I have not at any time during our rehearsals or run been fully naked; I've been wearing stitches in my head for the last 12 days. I've also had a band-aid on my ripped fingernail since Wednesday, but in comparison that barely qualifies as unsexy so stop whining and demanding refunds on your tickets.

The good news: I JUST GOT MY STITCHES OUT! (Also, the lab results showed the cysts were benign, but they're by nature benign and the lab work was just a precaution in case they were an abomination of nature like those damn gays.) Anyway, my stitches-less scalp and I are finally going MEGA FULL MONTY this weekend!

The bad news: The cute dude in the doctor's waiting room never once said hi or gave me butterfly kisses. Probably because I didn't put any product in my hair this morning because of my stitch-ectomy so my hair is doomed to be man-repellent-level floofy all day.

The good news: The temperatures here have yet to drop to sub-arctic levels, so nobody's cysts or stitches have frozen off for free yet--which would be totally unfair to me. But the snow has drifted a foot above the bottom of my office window (and I'm on the 94th floor, which makes it borderline alarming) and my skin is itchy to the bone, so once the temperatures drop I think it's safe to say that winter is finally here.

Today in Stupid

Guess who—after eagerly waiting six months to finally have two big ugly pilar cysts removed from his head—initially went to the wrong doctor’s office this afternoon and had to race across town to get to the right one in time for his appointment?

THIS NO-LONGER-LUMPY GUY!

There were never such devoted cysters

I know two of the (currently four) lumpy little (fatty, non-cancerous) pilar cysts on the back of my head had grown significantly bigger over the last year, and I finally had my mom take a picture of them for me because I somehow was unable to take a decent selfie of the back of my head and anyway HOLY CRAP HOW COME NOBODY TOLD ME HOW HORRIFYING THEY LOOKED? I’m so sorry for scarring all your retinas with their alarming hideousness, but I’m pleased to announce that they’re finally meeting their oozy, squishy, gross demise today at 2:30. (But don’t think the terror is over; there are two left, and I’ve had four removed to date ... and the damn things keep sprouting up. So my disfigurement is more of a journey than a destination.)

Anyway, I’m providing some helpful disguise options for the current enlarged ones to protect you until they’re safely dead and gone. You’re welcome.

Happy birthday to my mom!

Happy 77th birthday to my tirelessly, modestly awesome mom who -- not to make this about me after only ten words -- has made it her personal mission to coordinate doctors, dole out ever-changing (seriously -- they change pretty much every week) prescriptions, endure hours of medically related on-hold music, battle insurance companies, dig deep into online drug-interaction research, and sometimes just pour orange juice and fold laundry for her eternally grateful -- though sometimes exhaustedly unable to show it -- big ol' bipolar son, who undeniably couldn't survive this train ride without her.

When she's not enjoying that little hobby, she's a devoted grandmother to the -- and I swear I'm being empirically objective here -- smartest, awesomeist, above-averageist, talentedist children ever to exchange inappropriate texts with their compulsively corrupting uncle who once again managed to make this tribute about himself. She and my dad are also emotional and moral and eternally inspiring community pillars who waste no time securing donated coats or shoes or furniture or shelter or food or transportation for sometimes complete strangers who desperately need it. In that vein, she also sometimes brings unnecessary butter to my sister's house; buys my dad an ever-expanding library of V-neck sweaters in a gradient palette of dark dad colors; dotingly acquiesces to our relentlessly bellicose cat's increasingly finicky tastes in wet food, blankets and inconvenient places to vomit; and occasionally indulges herself in post-season vests from the Talbots clearance rack. She loves her family unconditionally and we love her unconditionally back, even though she dances with her wrists out and puts onion salt in everything she cooks.

Last summer she weathered major shoulder surgery and months of recovery in a borrowed recliner in the living room with tenacity and courage and grace and humor and mountains of food and organized rides from a lifetime of dear, devoted friends. This year she's a 40-year cancer survivor, and I'm posting this picture from her everyone-had-to-wear-pink 30-year survivor celebration not because we all look young and attractive in it -- but now that you mention it, I guess we do -- but because it radiates the profound joy she brings to her family, her community and everyone she comes in contact with. Except the cat, who demands that her tuna be prepared only with the white sauce from the pink can, which is laboriously difficult to find.

Regular self-checkups are important

I've had three subdural lipomas surgically removed in the last 10 years but they just keep coming back -- now with Facebook accounts. At least this one has a sorority intern name and a hint of cleavage.

Back to my long-neglected bed

I've been sleeping on the couch next to my mom as she slept in a recliner recovering from shoulder surgery since July 3. But she's finally been given the all-clear to sleep in her bed again, so I'm finally returning to mine ... which has been slowly buried under a mountain of clean laundry that I didn't feel in a rush to fold over the last seven weeks. And instead of folding it now, I naturally just pushed it to one side of my bed and photographed it to post on my blog.

And yes, that's a new space kitty T-shirt from Walmart at the foot of the pile and do not judge because I'm sure there are plenty of weird hobbies you have that are keeping you single at 49 too.

It's a fine life

I'm seizing the good seats to see Newsies on the big screen with Dad and Mom and Mom's arm sling! There's a character in Newsies named Crutchie who uses a crutch so I think we should all call my mom Slingie until her shoulder heals.

Important things to know about me

1. My mom selfishly had shoulder surgery so I'm forced to fold my own laundry
2. I have an El Camino T-shirt and you suck
3. I mean you don't
4. I own underpants in a rich spectrum of blacks and blues
5. Yes, I do own a concentric tie-dyed Captain America T-shirt
6. My smiley-face shirt says "have a nice day" on the front and the back
7. Because I'm so emotionally magnanimous that I want you to be happy whether you see me coming or going
8. Yes, that is a bleach print of a mouse under a mushroom right above the chest pocket on that black T-shirt
9. Because why not?
10. El. Camino. T. Shirt.

Submitted for patent:

My next Nobel Prize will be awarded for the old sock I cut cleverly using my Möbius-strip-making skills into a longer rope to give my mom left-hand access to her right-side-attached electric recliner controller since her right arm is immobilized from her surgery.

I'm sure I'll also receive a Pulitzer for deftly crafting that last sentence.