This weekend my high school friend Anna and her husband (another high school friend) came through town for the Final Four and we managed to hook up yesterday for several hours of drinking and goofing and catching up and making new friends - because when you put me in a bar with dumb intoxicated men, I can’t help but pick on them. Though I was home by 10 and in bed by 11, said extravaganza had me awake again at 2 a.m. expelling the fruits of our adventure.

If I had to guess I’d say it was the uber spicy won ton soup at the Thai place on top of 5 or so Capt’n and Cokes, half a PBR and some blue cheese chips that threw my belly over the edge. Fragile, sweet little belly.

Sitting on the cold tile of The Mc’s bathroom floor with a stainless wastebasket in my lap lined with a plastic grocery store sack, I was glad he was away visiting family and only Amber was present to witness my disgrace.

It wasn’t enough that I could feel my belly churn and it made my nose run in anticipation (what is that!?) , or that I was all too aware of a pulled thigh muscle because I really can’t help but sit Indian style, but the cherry on top is the searing pain that ripped across my back with each involuntary stomach convulsion.

Current injury tally from hurling: one bruise left calf (ball), one bruise, right thigh (stick), one bruise right ankle (ball), one abrasion right forearm (stick), one scratch upper left arm, one set of grass-burned knees, one pulled left thigh and one sore back from hips to bra. Some photos here.

I’m fully aware this was just a horrible pile of very loosely related and incredibly unattractive events, but oooh-doggie if I could pull you into my still churning stomach to enjoy the ride I would but I can’t so I’ll just force you to travel along with the verbal vomit instead.

Cheers.

I looked and looked but couldn’t find any pictures of me as a kid with an eye patch on.

That was a joke. It was very subtle, so I’ll give you a moment to read it again.

Instead, you get this lovely shot of me at 4 years old sporting an inward turning eye and some hott octagonal glasses. Now if you can imagine how sassy I was as a 13 month old with glasses strapped to her head, I’ll welcome you to my infancy, my toddler years, and my childhood. Glasses have always been a part of my life.

The eye doctor visit last Tuesday started with the same small talk as any other. I’ve been doing this since I was a wee potato eater, and am eerily ease in doctors offices. Small talk, lots of jokes that catch them off guard, random questions and low blood pressure.

We talked about the freckle on the back of my eye, about the sty from last fall and how my lower lid never really recovered and finally about my increasing frustration with my lack of sight in my left eye.

Doc says he can’t do anything anymore, and he suggests I not bother with glasses to ease the burden on “the good eye” anymore, and I realize I’d never really known what made the bad one bad.

So I asked him and we talked about my adventures as a pirate child and both my brothers eye surgerys and my astigmatism and on and on and then he just breaks it down and says I’ve probably been misdiagnosed most of my life and that I have Refractive Amblyopia.

It sounded fun so I said it a bunch, fast. Amblyopiaamblyopiaamblyopia.

He laughed and told me it stems from childhood and that it’s a condition where the nerves that take the message/picture from your eye around to the back of your brain where they’re interpreted (which I was happy to point out is not a very efficient route) don’t form properly. He tells me the message my left eye sends is bad, so my brain just ignores it.

Somewhat relieved that my bologna had a first name, I went home and Googled. Relief didn’t last, and I was increasingly upset at what I read and what it meant for me and the way I identify myself/with myself…whatever.

So here’s how I’m workin’ it:

My new Indian name? Lazy Eye.

Bonus points because it lets me do things like this without hurting myself.

P.S. Also fun to say? Amberopia.

After nagging The Mc for weeks on end about Amber and her excessive hair loss /weight problem/said weight impeding her ability to clean her own butt – he took her to the vet yesterday.

Sure, she’s a long hair, but when I vacuumed his house stem to stern a few weeks back to eradicate the hair, I’d hoped it would be a month or two before I saw tumbleweeds of fur rolling around the living room again. Hope springs eternal.

I don’t know anything about cats, really, but I suggested that she was malnourished and bulimic. She’d run to the dish when it was filled, inhale it all and barf half of it up a few minutes later.

Turns out I was right…so sayeth the vet.

She has some skin irritation no doubt due to having to be bathed once a week since she can’t clean herself, she’s overweight, and she needs oils.

One prescription for fish oil on food, an antibiotic, and prescription cat food later - I think we’re on our way to her being a happier, healthier kitty…and not making me crazy crazier. Whatever.

I wish the black eye was a result of a bar brawl, or a ruthless fight for a brides bouquet, or even a clumsy drunken spill into a doorknob. Any story would make for considerably more luscious talk at happy hour or over dinner with people who didn’t know better.

Instead, I’m forced to reveal that I spent the weekend with The Mc and one extra large, uncharacteristically friendly kitty, that I fell victim to her charm and that I showed her affection. In return, my body rebelled in a poignant and half-assed passive aggressive manner. A fracking black eye via newly discovered allergies because I was nice to a cat. Of course. Because this is my life.

Let the record reflect that I’m not a cat person…hell, I’m barely a dog person and when I found out The Mc had a feline — it was almost a deal breaker. Almost. Her name is Amber and she’s a princess to be sure, which is almost enough to make me love her unwaveringly HOWEVER she and I have a few small issues.

~ She’s needy and insists on interrupting when I’m talking to The Mc on the phone
~ She’s overweight, takes no pride in her appearance and shows no self control at the food bowl
~ She has bootie cleanliness issues

Yeah, little Ms. Thang has quite the dingleberry collection and despite The Mc scrubbing her hamhocks on a regular basis she insists on continuing the hobby.

She also has a habit of doing wind sprints in the middle of the night, which I suspect is just an effort to outrun the dingleberries. She’ll get revved up and haul ass out of the bedroom and down the hall, with claws gripping carpet in a way that’s less than pleasing to the ears. This is usually followed by a trip to the crapper, which is one of those fancy electronic jobs that refreshes the litter 10 minutes after she’s exited. Maybe she does the sprints to pressure her bowels, but I suspect otherwise. I also suspect she hates me.

So last night went something like this:
8:00 - Get to the house, Amber hangs in the living room and eyes me skeptically.
8:15 - We eat, she eats. She’s always eating.
8:30 - We watch TV, she lays on the floor and eyeballs me.
8:45 - I go upstairs and she talks to her dad in a hushed voice about “that lady” taking her spot on the couch again.
9:00 - Attempt to sleep.
11:00 - Amber starts with the wind sprints.
12:30 - She’s trying to eat my pillow.
2:00 - She’s rubbing against one of the bedroom doors banging it on the wall.
3:30 - Now would be a good time for her to have a conversation with herself.
4:00 - More eating my pillow in an effort to get me to leave.
4:45 - Wind sprints.
5:30 - Time to wake everyone up, because the Princess is hungry.

FWIW, those turds were still clinging to her ass this morning when I left. I doubt she’ll ever successfully outrun them.