State of the Tulane Chris: Part I

Well, that sucked.

I had some blood drawn in December when I changed doctors, and about a week later the nurse called to tell me everything was “fine.” Well, last week I thought, “You know… college. I’d like to make sure my liver is working,” so I called to ask for a printout of the lab results, and everything is not “fine.” I’m not dying, but…

-     HOMEBOY IS TOO FAT. My blood is apparent the vampire equivalent of a Mallowmar. It doesn’t so much “flow” as “ooze.” My general cholesterol level is low, but it’s essentially all bad cholesterol – and guess who’s coming for dinner? Diabetes. It’s not here yet, but it’s got my address and is getting directions from Google Maps. It texted metabolic syndrome to see if it wanted to come too but hasn’t heard back.

-     HOMEBOY HAS AWFUL HEREDITY. Apparently I carry three out of four genes “associated with sudden ischemic heart disease,” or as I like to call it, “heart-gonna-explode-pox.” I also have a gene that means I can’t take popular cholesterol-lowering drug Plavix, because it might kill me.

-     HOMEBOY IS DEFICIENT. In Vitamin D and “omega-3 oils.” No wonder my bones snap in a stiff wind and my hair is dull and lifeless.

And this is just the shit I can understand. Silver lining is that my liver seems to be tootling along just fine, turning its homework in on time and getting eight hours of sleep at night.

Now, here are my emotions about the above:

-     GRANTED, I’m too fat. I did not think I had been NEARLY fat enough for NEARLY long enough that my pancreas felt it had to sit me down for “the talk.” I don’t think this is fair.

-     I have a guardian angel. About four years ago, I was so poor I almost took part in a clinical trial for Plavix. This involved taking enormous doses of Plavix and eating oranges “to see if it would still work.” I got strep throat the day before and couldn’t do it. This, you know, might have killed me. (I’m exaggerating, but not by a lot.) I like to imagine my guardian angel – I’d say it was Rue McClanahan because she apparently likes me (MORE ON THAT NEXT WEEK!), but she was still alive – floating to the hospital, touching her wand gently to a pile of medical waste, floating back over my sleeping form, and then scratching the hell out of my tonsils with her infectious wand.  (I also clearly like to merge the concepts of guardian angels and fairy godmothers.)

-     Sometime this week, my mother, uncle, and aunt will all get letters from me warning them not to take Plavix. I wrote these on postcards because I think if I amuse the postal workers they’ll be more likely to bring me my mail on time.

-     To remedy my “severe” omega-3 deficit, I’ve started taking fish oil. This results in three or four sardine-flavored burps each day. Since I can no longer have sweets, I’ve decided to try to think of the fish burps as a new dessert concept. It is not working.

-     I’m mad as a Goddamn hornet. Why the hell didn’t the doctor think this was worth telling me? It’s not like it takes much time to say “Lose thirty pounds YESTERDAY and occasionally make eye contact with a multivitamin.” I want to write a furious letter, but I’m afraid they’ll then want me to come back in and retake the bloodwork, and I want to have a few months to do better before being confronted with more red-bordered numbers.

-     I have a new game called “Diabetes Is Watching.” I’ve created a personality and work history for diabetes so I can think of it as a person I’m avoiding through good judgment rather than a fatal metabolic disease I’ll develop if I keep frying ice cream. Here are the text messages I sent Butter Legs about my new enemy diabetes last night:

Diabetes: it’s watching.

Diabetes: it knows the last four digits of your social security number.

Diabetes: it just made eye contact with you from across the bar and tipped its Kahlua Mudslide in a little salute while raising an eyebrow flirtatiously.

Diabetes: it has one IMDB credit – the prisoner early in “Silence of the Lambs” who sexually harasses Jodie Foster.

Diabetes: it thinks your screenplay is a weak attempt to be the next Todd Solondz.*

Diabetes: it saw a typo on your resume and didn’t tell you.

Diabetes: IT KNOWS WHAT YOU ATE LAST SUMMER

Diabetes: the honey badger of metabolic disorders.

Diabetes: it donated forty-five dollars to the Santorum for President campaign in your name.

Diabetes: it can tell you’re not a virgin.

You know what’s going to suck? Diet and exercise. I’d almost rather die, but I have so much TV to watch. If “Roseanne” isn’t a reason to stay alive I do not know what is.

*UM DID YOU KNOW THERE’S A SEQUEL TO “WELCOME TO THE DOLLHOUSE” CALLED “PALINDROMES” THAT BEGINS AT DAWN WEINER’S FUNERAL AND IS AAAAAAAAAAAAAAALLLLLLLLLLL ABOUT ABORTION? I learned this recently.

Why Chris will never see "The Fourth Kind"

Halloween is finally over. Not to say I didn't have fun on Halloween, because I had a blasty-blast. But it's the Halloween planning that I cannot handle. What am I going to be? Where am I going to go? Halloween is like New Years', in that both holidays have a shitty planning to fun ratio. This year, my much-heralded costume idea (MIA from the Grammy's) fell through, so I scrambled for a costume last minute, thereby giving myself a lifetime's supply of ulcers. In the end, I settled on "the walk of shame", which involved me not wearing pants, which Meg can attest to my extreme discomfort as I never leave the house without head to toe coverage. I will say, however, if you ever want to get attention on the streets of New York City, don't wear pants. You'd think with people like the Naked Cowboy gallivanting around, Manhattanites would be desensitized, especially on Halloween. But you'd be wrong.

Getting back to my point, Halloween is finally over. So can someone please explain to me why my apartment is still haunted?

When Meg and I lived together in Brooklyn many moons ago, we had a haunted apartment. Pots would fall off otherwise sturdy shelves. Things would move of their own accord. Before Halloween, I carved a pumpkin and put it on my windowsill, only to have it smashed inside my room the next day. We went to great lengths to exterminate the presence in our apartment, including burning sage on a regular basis. I don't think it worked, in fact, we probably just made whatever it was in there hate the smell of sage. But I figured once we moved out of that place, I would be done with it.

If you follow me on Twitter, or if you read any of my posts back in June, you'd know I moved into my own place a few months ago. And things had been going swimmingly until this past September. One random, lame Friday night, I decided to hit the hay around 9:30. I had not imbibed any alcohol, had refrained from my usual nightly peyote. I just wanted to get some sleep. So I turn out the light, and get ready to go to bed. All of a sudden, I get real cold, so I turn over to grab my comforter, and standing right next to my bed is a ghost. So I'm freaking my shit out because holy crap, I'm staring at a ghost. Whereas the ghost is mouthing "It's ok," like she's not dead and I'm having a heart attack for no reason. 30 seconds later, she disappears. Naturally, my first instinct (after turning on the light and changing my sheets) is to call everyone I've ever known and to tell them what just happened. The only way I can describe the ghost is: a girl in her late twenties with long brown hair in white nightshirt (a la Emily Binx in Hocus Pocus). I'm not one to say I believe in ghosts, but it's hard to maintain that belief when one is staring you in the face. However, in retrospect, the ghost looked kind of like Sophia Bush, and this was right around the time Sorority Row was coming out. So I chalked this up to a really intense trailer, turned on the TV (of course, I slept with the TV on that night), and went back to bed.

A few weeks go by, and nothing further happens. After reassuring myself that I'm not crazy and that I probably just drank some expired milk, I logic away the possibility of there being a ghost in my apartment. Then, right before I leave for Mexico, she strikes back. I'm in my bed, and about to fall asleep, and then I feel something tugging at my comforter. Turn over, and there's Sophia Bush's ghost waving at me. Waving. Like we're old friends. And then she's gone. And now I've soiled my bed again.

I'm sure you're skeptical. Hell, I'm still skeptical. Because both times this has happened, I've been by myself and about to go to bed. Maybe I just nodded off both times and had a vivid dream (and my subconscious loves Sophia Bush).

But last night, my bf was staying at my place. We went to bed around midnight or so. Let me preface this by saying that I keep a sound machine (so I can lull myself to sleep with the soothing sounds of ocean or rain or loons. It even has a "heartbeat" function, in case you want to simulate being inside the womb) on the windowsill next to my bed. Anyway, I woke up around 4 in the morning, because I hear a bird in my apartment. "That's not normal," I think to myself and slowly come to realize there's not actually a parrot in my apartment, but that my sound machine is on. I definitely did not turn it on myself, and it's too high for me to have rolled and turned it on inadvertently. I wake up the bf, genuinely spooked, and ask if he turned it on, which he didn't. Oh shit, it's Sophia again.

I've also come to the conclusion that Sophia Bush means no harm. She's just lonely being all dead and shit. Because the two times I've seen her, she's a) tried to calm me down and b) waved at me. And last night, she just wanted me to have a good night's sleep. Still, having a supernatural experience is not calming, and I'm on edge when it's time to go to bed anticipating seeing her again. I don't watch One Tree Hill specifically so that I don't have to see Sophia Bush and be reminded of my ghost. I don't want to run away from my apartment screaming, but I also don't want to not do that. I'm still not saying I believe in any of this ghost crap, because I could just have an overactive imagination and random, flailing limbs. But I'm legitimately freaked out. So for any of you that like to play the stock market, I would look into buying stocks in sage and holy water, because I'm about to stockpile that shit.

Now if I can just find an old priest and young priest....