Amy Blair Makes Computer Happy Time!

fun times destroying my boyfriend's manhood!

I asked Arie to go to the drugstore for me to pick up a few items since I can’t get around very well on my stupid crutches.

Item number one on my list was “black socks.” Shortly after he left for Duane Reade I received an uncomfortable phone call from him. “Trouser socks? knee highs? microfiber?” It ended with him saying “aha! a 6-pack of black cotton socks. This is what you’re getting.” And basically hanging up.

Two minutes later the phone rang again. “Burt’s Bees Color Keeper Conditioner. Is that the same as Burt’s Bees Color Conserver Conditioner? Because you wrote ‘conserver,’ not ‘keeper.’”

Phone call #3: “Vitamin B-12 complex, Time Release B-12, High Potency B-12??! Which one?!”

After that, he had to pick up my Nuvaring from the pharmacy counter.

This is the worst day of his life.

Riding The Bus With Blair, Part I

This morning I hobbled up the steps onto the M103, and took my customary seat in the disabled section right behind the bus driver (fuck crutches). Seated across from me was a mentally disabled man whom I pretty much see every morning. Today when I got on he was deeply engaged in conversation with the bus driver — a lovely man (though perhaps a bit of a lead foot behind the wheel), who enjoys quietly cursing under his breath throughout the ride, violently opening his window to yell obscenity-laden, though surprisingly thoughtful greetings to other bus drivers, and referring to every woman who gets on the bus under the age of forty as “baby.” Nice guy.

Anyway, the mentally disabled man and the bus driver were discussing the various busses that the mentally disabled guy takes on a regular basis (we’ll call him “Frank” for the purpose of making this story easier to tell, and also because I think that’s potentially his name). So, Frank was rattling off the various bus routes, and he mentioned that he also takes the M101. The driver was surprised for some unknown reason (hard to believe that this guy would take any other bus, I know), and asked if he also knows the driver on that route. Frank answered in the affirmative, and told him that the other driver is the same color as him, but has a white beard. The driver, a black man, chuckled, and asked if he looks like Santa. Frank told him no, he looks like that guy from the A-Team, except with a white beard. The bus driver was outwardly pleased to hear that his colleague (I’m guessing one of the guys he greets out the window) on the M101 line looks like Mr. T with a white beard to this mentally disabled guy.

The two of them then went on to have a spirited discussion about the A-Team, culminating in them trying to remember all of the characters’ names. They put their heads together and quickly came up with B.A. Baracus and Murdoch before getting stumped (though the conversation went on for a good ten minutes more), and it was all I could do to keep from screaming “FACE! FACE! How can you forget Face?!?” But overall I decided it was best not to get involved, lest I wind up having to talk to them every morning thereafter. That’s New York for you.

Anyway, needless to say, the first thing I did when I turned on my computer at work this morning was to google the 4^th member of the A-Team. Hannibal. Oh, totally.

philosophical

Is it wrong to use tumblr to try to guilt your boyfriend into letting you have a shitty little dog?

your crummy email marketing campaign has hit the wrong target

Dear AMY,

The holiday season is starting early for you this year. You’re invited to be a founding member of Thinkers & Dewar’s, a free and exciting program that celebrates Blended Scotch Whisky and the guys that appreciate it most.

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Dear Dewar’s,

For one, I am not a guy, but thanks for assuming. For two, I drink bourbon, not Blended Scotch Whisky. So suck it, you sexist bastards.

ps.

Have I mentioned my external bone stimulator? (Insert your own ‘bone stimulator’ joke here — I’m too lazy and filled with general malaise to be bothered).

Happy: Seeing Bob Dylan tonight.

Sad: Having to take the BUS all the freaking way to 177th Street because of my stupid fractured hip, which is going to take at least two hours. Also, having to get up to the balcony with my idiot crutches. Maybe the ushers will take pity on me and upgrade me. (Or not).

Appropriate songs for this evening: Sad Eyed Lady of the Lowlands, Tangled Up In Blue, Desolation Row.

here's some fun news

I have arthritis, bursitis AND a fracture in my hip.

Tomorrow I’ll be seeing an orthopedic surgeon.

Friends are attempting to comfort me by saying that since I ran a marathon on a fractured hip, childbirth will one day be a piece of cake for me. I’m not sure if that makes me want to laugh or cry.

hips don't lie

My hip injury is just getting retarded at this point. One of my co-workers brought me a cane (a cane!!) today to help me walk. Seriously. A cane.

My x-rays came back and showed ARTHRITIS. Am I really 80 years old? I guess I am. Although my doctor doesn’t think that’s the source of my problem. That’s just something else fun and exciting to think about.

Last night I went for an MRI. I am horribly claustrophobic, so to get through it I played the “name all the teams in the NFL” game. I am proud of myself because I only had a mild panic attack and never hit the GET ME THE FUCK OUT OF HERE button, and also I think I managed to name every team. I’m getting brave.

My doctor has prescribed some prescription painkillers for me. I’m a big fan of painkillers, so I decided to take one early in the morning last week. Then I went to physical therapy. We started the session with me groggily admitting that I felt really high, then getting all cold and clammy and nearly passing out. That was cool. Then I went to work where I felt so tired and dizzy that I had to go to the NURSE’S OFFICE and lay down.

So to re-cap. I have a cane. I have arthritis. And I went to the nurse’s office.

As previously suspected, I’m either 6 years old or 60.