About me: My husband Chuck, our six-year-old Junior, our three-year-old Everette and I live in a town in Connecticut I affectionately call Mulletville Lite (aka my childhood hometown). My friends call me Nutjob, and they're right. In my husband's spare time he dresses up as a Viking and chases ghosts (and I'm the nutjob?). When I'm not busy working as a graphic designer, I lie in a ball in the corner.
Wednesday, April 15, 2009
You can laugh at my near-death experience if you want. I kind of did…after I coughed up the hairball
Until today, I’d only come to close to dying once before, when I choked on a chicken finger at a pool bar. I don’t know if you’ve ever choked at a dive bar; if not, I don’t recommend it. Even though you’re flailing your arms and hopping up and down, no one really cares. People would rather take their pool shots.
As I was choking, I rushed over to a friendly looking biker man and mouthed “eeellppp me!” He grabbed me in a reverse bearhug and tried to make a milkshake out of me, at which point I elbowed him; then he dropped me. Thankfully a woman who happened to be a nurse came to my rescue. The whole time I was thinking, a fucking chicken finger is the cause of my demise? I’d settle for asphyxiation from ogling Hugh Jackman while hanging from a rope hanging from a helicopter while flying above his mansion. But choking on a chicken finger at the Lakeview Tavern? No.
Fast forward to this morning. At 6:30 a.m. I’d gathered my unwashed hair into a mound on the top of my head and shoved 20 bobby pins into it without the visual aid of a mirror. I didn’t think anything of it until I started getting strange looks in the hallway at work. When I went to the bathroom to examine my head, I realized I was sporting...a hair beret.
So I began the task of removing bobby pins and stuffing them between my clenched teeth (I wasn’t going to rest them on the germ-encrusted sink). I was halfway through when my friend, Ellen, walked in. She’s one of the few people I actually like at work, so I eagerly greeted her by grunting “ello.”
And by inhaling several bobby pins.
And a few strands of hair.
Of course, I immediately started gagging and drooling and coughing. I couldn’t breathe. I panicked. Ellen rushed over, cranked open my mouth, hooked her finger around my tongue and pulled out the bobby pins. Then she shook me by the shoulders and called me an asshole for scaring her before she'd had a chance to caffeinate.
When I got back to my desk, I emailed Ellen my profuse thanks for saving my life. She wrote back, “I’ll never use a bobby pin again. And what the hell is going on? I had to reach down my grandson’s throat this weekend to get a chicken finger.”
If I wasn’t sure life had a twisted sense of humor, I sure as fuck know now.