They removed the Robocop arm scaffolding yesterday. Yesssssss!
I’VE GOT GIRLY ARM!! NOOoooo!
It’s amazing what 6 weeks of enforced inertia did to my anatomy. There’s basically no change in the circumference of my arm from wrist to elbow now. And it smells. Woof, does it smell.
I’m also pretty sore, now that the supporting structure is gone. Even small wrist and elbow movements produce twinges, and I can’t lift anything heavier than my spirits. This was all to be expected after a full elbow reconstruction, but it does mean I still have to go easy on activities for a few more weeks. Especially: typing with my left hand. Dr. Butcher specifically warned against hammering away on a keyboard until my physical therapy is done. So this, like my past several entries, is being produced single handedly. Could you tell?
Considering how sore I am, and how slow 1-armed typing is, I’m gonna wrap this up here. Well, wrap up the fresh content, anyway. Below you will find an entry I wrote a few years ago on my other blog. I’m re-posting it here because it perfectly dovetails today’s “Daily Prompt: Melody” with my now one feminine arm.
I called it:
The Sensitive Male Blues
“Oh, oh, oh, go totally crazy-forget I’m a lady
Men’s shirts-short skirts
Oh, oh, oh, really go wild-yeah, doin’ it in style
Oh, oh, oh, get in the action-feel the attraction
Color my hair-do what I dare
Oh, oh, oh, I wanna be free-yeah, to feel the way I feel
Man! I feel like a woman!”
How The Advertising Exec Portrayed It:
Have you seen the commercial where the 5 ethnically mixed dudes are packed into that pickup truck, and the guy in the middle-back seat is all rockin’ out to Shania there? He’s singin’ and swayin’, with that goofy White Guy Overbite we all do in-between lyrics, unconcerned that he’s acting like a drag queen sans makeup. After all, he’s among friends. Male friends all have an unspoken buddy ethos of “Unconditional Acceptance of Behavior”.
The buddies, meanwhile, are growing visibly more uncomfortable, although they don’t say anything. The only real sign of overt disapproval is the two guys on either side of ShaniaMan, who squirm as far away as they can towards the door posts. The point of the commercial is that this particular pickup truck has an awful lot of interior space for just such an emergency.
How It Really Would Have Happened:
1. If the guys are college educated and/or over the age of 25.
An ethnically homogeneous group of 5 guys is driving along in a 2013 Toyota Camry when Shania starts her ode to eggs. Guy in the back starts singing along. Either the driver or the front seat passenger reaches over and changes the station before ChoirBoy can get out the third syllable. There is a tacit understanding among them that the incident will never be mentioned again, although the singer finds himself being invited to fewer and fewer outings from then on.
2. If the guys wear blue denim shirts with their names sewn on the breast pocket, or are under the age of 25.
An ethnically homogeneous group of 5 guys is crammed into a primer colored 2004 Ford F150 when the static on the Emerson stereo lifts long enough to make out Ms. Twain empowering herself. One of the guys in the back unconsciously starts to hum along.
The Ford bucks to a halt on the shoulder and the miscreant is forceably ejected, along with his fishing tackle. If there are empty beer bottles in the cab he is also sporting several new contusions and hematoma.
There are always empty beer bottles in the cab.
Because the trip from Sandusky Ohio to the fishin’ hole in Manitoba is exactly halfway completed when this gentleman parts from his colleagues, his walk back takes up the entire rest of his vacation. A number of Ford F150’s pass him along the way, but none stop. They all recognize what those bruises mean.
How It Really DID Happen:
It’s Friday night. Dangerspouse and NewWifey(tm) are heading down Rt.80 in the Mighty WRX to a friend’s house for dinner. Friday night is the one night of the week that Dangerspouse can stay up past 6 p.m. so they usually try to cram all their social obligations into this one evening. Fortunately, thanks to Dangerspouse, they are pretty much social pariahs. One night a week is plenty.
Since they couldn’t agree on which CD to load up – Dangerspouse wanted “Sponge Bob’s Barnicle Singalong”; NewWifey(tm) lobbied hard for the Barenaked Ladies – they decided to just leave it up to the radio. Pleasant conversation ensued while a professionally programmed assortment of non-offensive songs droned in the background.
Twenty minutes into the trip there was a lull in the conversation. The strains of Shania, playing at that exact time, were pushed to the forefront. Dangerspouse, oblivious as always to repercussions, picked up the refrain:
“Oh, oh, oh, get in the action-feel the attraction
Color my hair-”
The radio shut down suddenly with a ‘POP!’ as NewWifey(tm)’s fist hit it.
NewWifey(tm) had that pale and dampened look of one who’s dinner was about to exit through the same orifice it entered. Dangerspouse put the Subaru’s ABS to the test and they came to rest on the shoulder. He rushed around to open the passenger door so NewWifey(tm) could vomit on something other than his custom floor mats.
NewWifey(tm) did not have to vomit. She looked straight at Dangerspouse and said in a low, even voice “Let me see your penis.”
“Let. Me. See. Your. PENIS.”
Rt.80 was as busy as it ever gets, Friday night being prime time for residents to escape the New Jersey toxic waste pits for weekend cabins in the Poconos. Streetlamps every 10 yards lit the scene like a Shuttle launch.
Dangerspouse dropped trou.
NewWifey(tm) inspected the goods for a minute. “Well it ain’t much, but it’s still a penis. Get back in the car, we’re going to have a talk.”
Dangerspouse tucked Little Elvis away (and in his defense – it was 12 degrees below zero out that night) and got back behind the wheel. The “talk” started before the key was even turned.
“How the fuck do you know the words to that song?”
“Huh? What song?”
“WHAT SONG?! That Shania Twain ‘I Feel Like a Girl’ song! You were singing it!”
“It’s ‘I Feel Like a Woman’. And I was singing it, I dunno, ’cause it’s kinda pop-fun, and has a catchy hook. What’s wrong with that?”
“What’s wrong with that? You’re my HUSBAND, not my wife. You’re not supposed to sing about how glorious it is to have a pussy. How do you think that makes me feel?”
“C’mon, it’s just a song. You know I’m on a Soft Rock station every morning. This song is a big hit – they must play it 3 times an hour. It stuck in my head. Besides, you sing ‘guy perspective’ songs. I heard you belting out the Eagles’ ‘Takin It Easy’ just an hour ago. Does this ring a bell: …it’s a girl, my lord, in a flatbed Ford, slowin’ down to take a look at me.“
“That’s different, I’m a chick. We’re allowed to.”
“But that’s a double standard!”
“It is not. Chicks are allowed to because it feeds male lesbian fantasies. We’re encouraged to sing along with songs about desiring women because it enhances our femininity in the eyes of men. But when YOU sing songs about wearing short skirts and MAC foundation, it DIMINISHES your masculinity. Whatever masculinity you have left.”
At this point Dangerspouse shut up and spent the rest of the trip silently replaying all the humiliating episodes from his youth where he was admonished by family, teachers, and girlfriends to “get more in touch with his feminine side”. (Although it was usually phrased “stop being such a fucking pig of a man”. But the intent was the same.) Then he mused on how, just when he had mastered that unnatural skill, he married a woman from the Midwest. A woman who wanted a Man, dammit, not some pansy-ass flower child who sings about the joys of estrus.
He remembered how the next several years were spent re-learning how to belch in public, and scratch inappropriately at family functions. He mounted a gun rack on the 4×4 (even if they don’t own a gun. Or a 4×4.). She got him a subscription to Hustler. He drinks Bourbon now, neat. His collection of Hugh Grant movies have been erased and taped over with Victoria’s Secret specials and Lee Marvin war classics.
He realized that since getting married, he has been expected to change to suit the whims of his partner. He doesn’t have the same friends anymore, listen to the same music, or eat the same foods. He tailors his responses and decisions based on his spouse’s preferences. He has to have sex whenever it’s demanded.
Man. I feel like a woman.