Adventures With Eczema

My ecczema is pretty bad right now. Normally my eczema only acts up when I've been hitting the sauce too much and poppin' that ass too hard on the dancefloor. It likes to come out as a reminder for me to get some sleep. I usually have minor, dry patches that aren't very noticeable and don't even bother me that much. I like to pretend that they are wounds I sustained during my tour in 'Nam or that time I was moonlighting as a bodyguard and took a bullet for Whitney Houston. My past is painted in mystery, danger, and ballads whenever my eczema acts up.

There are no flashbacks to dodging bullets in the jungle or carrying Ms. Houston through a crowd today. No jollies to be had at all. I've woken up almost every night unwittingly clawing my skin off. I thought I was incubating a xenomorph with the way I was tearing at my chest. In regards to my last post, now would be the best time for that butter yellow onesie with the pre-installed, baby mitten covers. Like an enormous baby, I am a danger to myself. My eczema began on my neck and spread to my torso and even a few bits on my arm. I damn near pulled a Harry Osbourne and smashed the  mirror when I saw that it had spread to my face. Not the moneymaker!!! As a complimentary kick in the groin and a stab to the old ego, the ad agency I interviewed with last week did not contact me today as they said they would. I thought I had dazzled them at that interview, yet here I sit horrifically disfigured and unemployed. I'm inadequate. I'm out of shape. I'm a monster. You know that scene in The Fly when Jeff Goldblum's nose, ears, and other pieces of his body fall off? It's just like that, only I'm not a scientist. I'm unemployed. Jeff Goldblum is so lucky.

Since my eczema hasn't been this bad in years, I have taken this opportunity to try some home remedies. I've been using coconut oil as a moisturizer, and it has changed my life. I don't just spot treat with it though. I douse myself in it. I am marinating in its coconutty goodness. Literally, I use a tiny spatula to scoop the coconut oil out of a bowl because the original container is a gallon-sized bucket. It's too big for me to put on my bathroom counter and too small for me to sit in so I opted for a bowl with a tiny spatula. I'm not Kevin Costner anymore. Now I can pretend I am an enormous crustacean being prepared for a Hawaiian meal. Gone are the days when I exited the shower only to smell like soap and lotion. Now I smell like an Asian fusion dish. I love fusion food so I don't know how I'll ever go back. I'll probably go  back once this eczema clears up.

I've also tried pure aloe juice from an aloe plant. I read that aloe helps heal and relieve itching for eczema sufferers, and I had used it to treat burns since I was a kid. Feeling the spirit of Mother Earth, I snipped a branch off the aloe plant at home and prepared for amazing results. Wow that shit burned! I think it inflamed the broken skin that I accidentally scratched. I've since stuck to the coconut oil and occasional oatmeal mask.

One remedy that I've used for a few years now is an alcohol-free, aloe, and witch hazel toner. While it doesn't smell like a luau, it does help with the itching, and the lack of alcohol is less drying on the skin. I bought this toner because Patrick Bateman also uses products with "little or no alcohol, because alcohol dries your face out and makes you look older." He's also a big Whitney fan which makes me think Patrick and I could be best friends if only he didn't kill women.

It's been about a week of demonic eczema and still no signs of it clearing up. So far it's been pretty easy for me to hide my decrepit body and mutilated face though. Having no friends and no job does have its perks! I've been keeping busy indoors and avoiding physical human contact. I don't want the villagers to find out and try to smoke the hideous creature out of the house. My parents wouldn't like the smell getting in the upholstery. I suppose I'll just have to look on the bright side and dream up new storylines that include this my disfigurement as a plot device. I could be Tommy Lee Jones' portrayal of Two-Face in Batman Forever! I already drink out of two glasses simultaneously so I'm halfway there! How exciting, I've always wanted to commandeer a circus, and bother Val Kilmer. This could be the beginning of an amazing chapter in my life. I could have so much fun in my head. I won't ever have to be around people or leave the house again. Oh God, someone call me please!!!!!!

I Can't See Shit

The great Stevie Wonder once said, "I can't see shit." Along with a killer wardrobe, Stevie and I have this in common. My eyesight is truly terrible. With the innovative wizardry of today's modern medicine, I have made it a life goal to one day have lasers blast my corneas to 20/20 vision. No longer will I hear noises in the dead of night and scramble first for my glasses and then for my sawed off shotgun loaded with rock salt, you know, for ghosts and shit. Gone will be the days when I flee the vacuum cleaner because I've mistaken it for a short, menacing person. After my lasik procedure, I will be one step closer to becoming a professional badass with impressive side-abs.

My eyes started to fail me at the age of 8. I refused to wear glasses until my classmates started to look like Henry Moore sculptures wiggling on the playground. Not just the fat kids either. Everyone became a blob. I needed glasses, and for whatever sick reason, my parents had the optometrist put a pair of round, Steve Urkel-style specs on my face. Those bastards. When I turned 11 and my glasses were leading me to social suicide and destroying all chances of me ever having Chad's babies, I discovered the magic of contact lenses. From then on, there was no stopping my magnificence and power... except when I took them out to shower and sleep.

I've grown accustomed to my weak sense of sight. I believe that it has heightened my other senses. My ears are widely acute to the sounds that go bump in the night, which is why I have yet to be attacked by a supernatural entity. Iron, salt, and hex bags help too. My olfactory senses are just as good, if not better, than my hearing. What's that smell in the air? Sulphur? A demonic presence? No, it's fajitas in someone's kitchen, and my super sense of smell can lead you straight to the fiesta. I have also excelled in the art of creeping due to my heightened spacial awareness. I am like a nightcrawler, feeling and sniffing my way through the darkness... and your home. Yes, you hear those mysterious noises at night before you drift off to sleep. Is it the things that go bump in night? No, it's me! Feeling and sniffing my way through your refrigerator and your laundry.

Try as you might with blasting me with rock salt and restraining orders, I only have two, true weaknesses: showering and sleeping. They are the only times I am vulnerable. I wake up each morning seeing fuzzy, familiar shapes in my room. Any new pieces of furniture or articles of clothing are viewed as possible threats that must be dealt with swiftly and lethally. This is why I have so many battle scars on my legs; the morning is far too early in the day for roundhouse kicks. Every time I shower, it is an open opportunity for an attack. I shower like every shower could be my last. Anyone can attack me, and I won't see that shit coming. If you assault me while I am showering, I guarantee you will be met with fists swinging wildly in your general direction. You know that scene in Eastern Promises? The one where Viggo Mortensen is fighting gloriously naked like a badass in the bathhouse? It will be nothing like that. I will think that I am Viggo destroying you in an awe-inspiring display of raw, masculine power when in fact, I am really having a scuffle with the shower curtain.

All that will change once I undergo my Lasik procedure. One day, I will no longer depend on glasses or contacts. I will wake up every morning ready to destroy evil. I will no longer approach cats only to find that they are actually piles of potatoes. I will never have to use the line, "You wouldn't hit somebody with glasses, would you?" to get out of sticky situations. Most of all, I will shower with confidence.

Upgrade My Body, Please

Serving food to the elderly community has taught me one thing; the human body is a machine. When one part ceases to function properly, it is completely normal to replace it with a new part. Organs, limbs, teeth, it seems these hospitals and clinics have them all. They may as well change the name of UT Southwestern to Lone Star Spare-Parts Wholesale Deluxe Superstore. Like any superstore, you can even use Groupons to purchase your body upgrades, except they call it "Medicare."  There must have been a Groupon sale for lung transplants recently because it's all the rage among transplants right now. You may even be able to get a BOGO deal on lungs at the rate they're giving them out. Like our beloved computers that require software updates and new operating systems installed regularly over time, our bodies too are eligible for premium upgrades and  installations. I've met a startling number of old men and old women who have undergone multiple procedures to keep their bodies chugging along with new parts. In the most unnatural turn of events, humans are becoming invincible.

From reinforced sets of teeth to titanium hips, old people are more and more resembling Frankenstein's monster. Their hodgepodge of human parts work together to sustain a walking, nightmarish creature from the Antiques Roadshow. Their numbers grow as modern medicine allows them to cheat death with greater and greater ease. I look out into the sea of old people munching on grilled salmon with their new teeth and twirling spaghetti with their Luke Skywalker 2.0 hands, and I think, "When I grow up, I want to be a cyborg."

With the elderly's internal systems looking like Steampunk contraptions already, I am certain that the fast progress of medical technology will give rise to a new race of human beings. Evolution will spawn an elite race of human and machine hybrids. They will be faster, stronger, but most likely drive slowly. There will be a rise of the machines. It will be very much like the movie Terminator: Rise of the Machines, only Sam Worthington will not be there to bother us with his sad excuse for an American accent. In the war between humans and cyborgs, one must choose a side. The question remains, will you choose to upgrade? When I reach this new coming-of-age, I know that my decision to upgrade will be the right one. In an epic war to be the dominant species on the planet, I will side with the octogenarian cyborgs because I want to win and I want to live. Also, because I just love Werther's Originals.

When I get my upgrade, I plan to install any function and application I might need to survive a war. Of course I will cover the basics for my old age, like titanium hip replacement, a full set of reinforced dentures, oxygen tank, and tennis balls on my walker. Then for my war gear, I will need to replace one of my eyes with a digital scope so that I can see when Christian Bale is sneaking around trying to shoot me. For defensive purposes, I will need to install some kind of automatic weapon. I will probably get an uzi for its portability and street cred. I also want some sort of weapon that I do not need to reload so I will probably add some retractable Wolverine claws on my hand. Adamantium, no less. Some other items I might need in future wartime include a vacuum cleaner, pneumatic drill, egg beaters, etc. As an old lady, I need to be prepared to destroy enemies and provide snacks. I'll need to install a refrigerator as well, but I'll probably settle for a slim and sexy mini-fridge. I don't want a full-size one spoiling my otherwise delicate physique. I would also like a Slurpee machine, but that would just be ridiculous. I need to stay practical in a time of war. My basic package is a pretty standard upgrade for my decrepit, obsolete, human body to be able to function smoothly and without assistance.

The Rise of Valentine's Day Part II

Following up on last night's post regarding my anxiously awaited dinner shift at Ocean's, allow me to regale you with a tale that neither Nostradamus, Professor Trelawney, nor I saw coming. (you can read last night's post here http://legendarywig.blogspot.com/2012/02/rise-of-valentines-day.html)

Our hearty staff braced for the worst tonight. A torrent of happy, rabid couples looking for a romantic dinner loomed just beyond the horizon, we were sure of it. The foreboding moments before turning on the open sign felt like that aerial shot of Agamemnon's fleet in Troy; a thousand ships bringing suburbanites with dangerous appetites for love and shellfish to our shores. Aye, I was Hector readying my battalion, for I had the most years of experience at Oceans... also because I too have a chiseled jaw and a burly chest carved by the gods themselves. But I digress.

First a few regulars came in. Then a slow conveyer of customers began setting the moderate pace that would dictate the night. Everything was fine! My crew and I could handle this. There was no need to call for reinforcements or whip out the readymade altar for a quick bargaining with the gods to take back my chest of envy in return for mercy on this restaurant. No, everything was fine. It was smooth sailing in the horizon.

At the height of the dinner rush, a typical octogenarian couple entered the building and sat at my table. When I approached them to give my usual, enthusiastic speech, I realized that I had just transported into an Eli Roth movie. Upon the old man's bald head rested a boiling pustule of mammoth proportions. I stifled a shudder and diverted my eyes from what looked to be a goddamn oatmeal cookie of horror pasted on his head. Nothing in the world could have prepared me for this visual and gastrointestinal assault. While both he and his lady friend were cordial and generally nice people, the blight on his head made me want to run away shrieking "Troll! In the dungeon!!!" Perhaps that makes me a heartless person, but that's because my heart seemed to have left my body and perched itself on top of his head where it now sat pulsating and staring at me. Judge me all you want, but you weren't there. You didn't witness the horror that happened next.

When I returned to take their order, I avoided the glare of his massive boil by staring down at his menu while he decided on what he wanted to eat. I thought, "This is safe. Don't look at it, I'll just take their order and... what the sweet baby Jesus on a biscuit is that?" I notice a red dot on the page of his menu. A dark red dot. Against my better judgement, I peered up, following the red dot's trajectory until I reached the site of its launch. Sweet Lady Gagalupe of the Holy Pokerface, it was just as I feared. His boiling pustule had breached its containment. The cherry on top of his cranial sundae of nightmares was dribbling down and planting itself deep in the fibers of our menu. I suddenly felt the cold sweat creep all over my body. Did someone turn on a fan? I started to feel a little lightheaded as I took the now-contaminated menu from his hand. 

"Keep it together, man. Don't freak out...." I thought to myself as I walked away as steadily as I could, holding the infected menu out in front of me like a bomb. Normally I am not a weenie by any means when it comes to blood, but this time I felt like I deserved an Oscar just for acting normal after coming into such close proximity to a real life creature from The Walking Dead. I am proud to say that I did not throw up, faint, or cry. While my instincts told me to burn the menu, I put it in isolation containment for disinfection at the end of the night. At least the page that came in direct contact with the droplet was a throwaway Valentine special.

Later on I was informed by my co-worker Justin that the blight on the old man's head was not a boil. It was some sort of medical Play-Doh that doctors put on one's head after removing infected flesh. Well this was something I did not know. I'm not a doctor. I'm not George Clooney. I don't know anything about medical Play-Doh. What I do know is that there is a doctor out there who is being remiss with his Play-Doh seals. Never before has the term "paper-bag it" ever  been so appropriate at a restaurant.

Happy Valentine's Day!

click to enlarge the horror!