Emergency: supplemental report

"Ah..." said Agatha, over the telephone.

She's far too collected to ever raise a flap, but I sensed a certain strain untypical of her for a Saturday evening. When she told me that she had inadvertently slashed her hand, and that an ER was in the cards, I told her I was coming with her. Her 'thank-you' sounded relieved.

It was a measure of her condition that she also asked me to drive. Now, Aggie's auto these days is a 60s-vintage Mini Cooper. None of this recent revisionist Teutonic crap -- the noisy little original, with wheels the size of tea saucers, a pair of cranky side-draft carburettors, and a general mass suited to go-kart tracks, or being beaten up by Swatch Smart Cars in back alleys. In (naturally) British racing green. Perfect, actually, for coyotes that drive by chinning themselves on the steering wheel with their front paws, shifting the stick with our right hind paws, and tap dancing between the, uh, petrol, and the brake with our left hind paws. Clutch? Coyotes don't need no stinkin' clutches. We don't need no stinkin' cops, either. We not only don't have a valid operator's license, we don't even have pockets to put one into.

Wth a blip or two of the throttle (in vintage Brit, one never revs, one blips) we roared smokily off to the ER, Aggie clutching a sizeable towel around one hand, and the weekend Times of London in the other. She knows the state of Canadian health care, and she's a planner. I considered asking for details of the accident, then thought better of it. I considered asking details of the wound, and thought better of that. We chatted about other things.

The intake nurse had her seen-it-all, Saturday-night game face on, but it was early, so the regulars weren't out of the bars yet, and seating was plentiful. She said the wait would be only two hours. We settled in with the Times, Hockey Night in Canada, and a little anthropological observation. With aid in sight, if not yet very close, Aggie amused me greatly with her adventures at IKEA. We yukked it up so hard that a couple of possible heart attacks began to look askance at us. We were, frankly, obnoxious. Lucky for them, they were ahead in the line-up and could escape

We waited for the predicted two hours, knowledgeably discussing the other intakes: "I bet he's gangrene," and, "Ooh, d'ya think she's a prussic acid overdose?" -- that sort of thing. We noticed that that women with large stomachs and labour pains got quick preferential treatment, and approved. Then the PA quacked, sending Aggie to Urgent Care. Where she stayed for another two hours, as Saturday night reaped its Darwinian toll. The waiting room grew feistier, and more festive.

Two female cops brought in a handcuffed guy with no shirt. Shirtless Guy was impressively fat, and otherwise unremarkable. But I was fascinated by the cops. I couldn't help scoping ring fingers, and facial expressions for signs of recent decree nisis. Was it possible that the tall blonde amazonish one might conceivably have an ex-husband who is a firefighter...? She gave me a fishy stare, kinda brushed her Glock with her hand. I thought better of asking her about it and hastily lowered my snout into the Times personals. Coyotes don't got no IDs in their non-existent pockets either, and I wasn't aiming to cause trouble. Aggie needed my moral support. Or at least her car keys, still in my hot paws.

It was well past the witching hour, and both hockey games had long ended, when Dame Agatha sauntered back in. A glance at her spoke volumes.

"Ma'am, unless I am highly mistaken, you have been behaving extremely saucily with a very young medical intern or three, have you not?"

The answering smile was pure, vintage Agatha -- mysterious, demure, ladylike -- positively Mona Lisa. But I'd seen the complacent micro-smirk that preceded it. Our Aggie was definitely well on the mend, already. We broke into howls of laughter, then beat a hasty retreat into the night. The third possible heart attack, in the queue behind, seemed, perhaps, relieved...

And maybe that intake nurse had seen a thing or two more than usual. Certainly she'd had the night cleaning staff wet-mopping around me pretty regularly....

Image: www.hungryhugo.co.uk

Emergency - No Meeting

Last evening (ie. Saturday night) after the Ikea Incident , I had an accident that involved running with scissors that resulted in my index finger looking like the above photo. It was an EMERGENCY.

I thought about calling an ESI Emergency Meeting, but instead, I called Coyote, who I know is level-headed in these kinds of situations. He very kindly drove me to the ER while I held my bloody finger in a towel in the passenger seat. Some people gave us strange looks when they saw Coyote's pointy little snout peering over the steering wheel. However, he seemed to fit right in with the motley crew in the ER.

In the ER, we waited and waited and waited. We watched the hockey game and commented on how ridiculous the 15-second-delayed closed captioning was, and how annoyed we'd be if we were hearing impaired. When the hockey became tiresome, We watched the deadpan-faced intake nurse interview patients: "You slid off the roof?" "How many feet?" "How did you land?" "On your feet?" Then, we commented on the fellow who walked in with a bottle of coke in a mixing bowl, and agreed that it is a myth that Coke is good for nausea.

Finally, they called my name and I followed a series of yellow dots to Urgent Care where I waited for another couple of hours in an examination room. I walked around a bit and checked in on some of the patients. My wounded finger was not considered to be top priority. The guy who fell off the roof spent some time in a stretcher in the hall after a fainting spell. The barfing guy was just noisy and annoying so I stayed away from him.

Close to midnight, a sixteen-year old intern named Matt came in to examine my finger. He said, "Hmmm. I don't know if you need stitches or not. These are the kind of decisions I guess I should be making myself." I assured him that it was ok if he wanted to get another opinion. He brought in an old geezer doctor who said to Matt, "Yes, definitely stitches. Three of them. A digital square. Do you know how to do that?" Matt said he did. Then, when the doctor left, Matt confessed that my index finger was the first he'd ever stitched. He added that he was proud of the work he was doing and was excited about how the stitches were turning out. I congratulated him. Then, we talked about the tetanus shot I would get later, and he explained what "lockjaw" was, which just sounds nasty.

Finally, I was ready to leave. Coyote had his nose in a newspaper, and didn't complain about the wait.

Lessons learned: 1) Coyote is good in an emergency. 2) Don't run with scissors.

Coyote and Dating

Coyote should not listen to any ESI pressure to enter into dating world. Dating is an evil construct, based on regressive, repressive outdated courtship rituals. Don't go there, Coyote!

Lavalife and all those places are spaces for people who think they are too busy to get away from their monitors or who just generally have screen addictions. Do you really want to hang around with these types?

In addition to the lavalife stuff, there are a plethora of "dating advice" sites and quizzes out there that are completely obnoxious, and promote relationships that last forever. That's not very postmodern, is it? And talk about heterocentric! We're still in the middle ages with all this dating propaganda.

I also think some of these sites give bad advice. One site advised young men to use this pick-up line: Carry an empty chair to a woman's table and say, "Is this seat taken?"

Now, I would likely tell the young man to bugger off if he used that one. I dare you to try that one, 4th Dwarf! Or, Chair, you could use this line, and replace the word "seat" for "chair". That might be appealing to the ladies, especially if you asked it rhetorically: "Is this Chair taken? Why yes, I believe it is!"

But back to the dating thing, Coyote. The goal should be good old-fashioned shagging, not dating. Don't date. Just shag. Shagging is good for you, you shaggy dog, you!

So Long to the Rat Mole

"The technical term is basal cell carcinoma, but I think you might as well call it a rodent ulcer," said the surgeon at our first consultation.

"Rodent ulcer?" I asked.

"Uh huh," he said and went on to explain that yes, it's "malignant" but almost never metastasises, and it's no big deal to remove.

I nodded calmly, but in my head, I was thinking, what kind of medical marketing genius came up with rodent ulcer as a euphemism? Might as well call it a rat mole.

Anyway, the pesky thing is gone now. It was interesting how few people seemed to notice the growing scabby thing on my forehead while it was there. Many more people noticed the bandage, but I suppose when you use it as display space that is only natural.

First, I went with a post-it note that said "You should see the other guy." Later I realized I could save myself $2.50 on a birthday card. I was surprised at how many people read "Happy Birthday, Jim!" on my forehead and assumed I was Jim. People who actually seemed intelligent in other ways.

"I'm not Jim," I politely said when they wished me a happy birthday. "If I was Jim, this would be written backwards."

Back to the rat mole, it's gone. The stitches come out on Friday and the biopsy results will be a few weeks.

Robbed Again

The Rabid Posse is back at their dastardly tricks! This time, they have kept us off the prestigious Ottawa Xpress Best of Ottawa Readers Poll for best Ottawa blog!

Let's have a look at the nominees and I'll tell you what is wrong with them:

Dial 6-1-3_: It's a music blog. Do they have a cam in the sidebar column for music videos? No. In this post they said "no shows on Monday." The Xpress differs. And the Xpress doesn't even mention the music that's always on at that quaint little pub at Elgin and Frank. On top of that, they don't even mention Bjorn Again at the Casino tonight!

rob mclennan's blog: Of course they had to put that genius at self-promotion on this list, but really, a blog about poetry? More worthy than a blog about blogs?

The Blog of Amanda Earl: Yes, in a transparent attempt to be put on the ballot, she gives links to her erotic writing. But has she ever helped someone find the right mojomaster for their birthday? No.

Matilda: This Jennifer Whiteford is too good to be true. She writes well, is kind to everyone she comes across, loves children, is into indie rock. Even used to be in a band and likely will be again some day. I'd ask where is her edge,? but she hangs out with that sex fiend Megan Butcher. But has she ever posted a series of cartoons that create a comment thread that turns into an alien abduction theory? No.

Asteroidea Press: Speaking of sex fiend Megan Butcher, here she is on the award ballot. Yes, none of us has volunteered to have needles stuck into our tender flesh to gain readership for the blog, and Megan has us beat there. Perhaps IO or CS, this is what you could do to get back into our good graces. Still, Butcher has never created a game based on a blog.

David Scrimshaw's Blog: This pathetic lad may have something going with his groundbreaking series on binder clips. But reading his blog, you'd get the idea that he hasn't had a date since the late 80s.

Humanyms: This is one of those blogs that you have to follow for a while to understand what is going on. Not like our readily accessible blog.

John W. MacDonald's Weblog: This MacDonald is taking terrific portraits of Ottawa writers and artists. He's still getting out even though he's a new father. Admirable, yes. But his blog is so huge it loads forever and where's the RSS feed?

Through the Broken Viewfinder: Fine photos, an RSS feed, but does he have excellent advice on how to get along in a relationship? No.

OnVertigo: She takes amazing photos, and apparently she has big boobs and looks great in a short skirt. But if you've seen me in a kilt, you know I could say the same thing (aside from the photos).

Space to Live: Well, well. Look who is at the bottom of the ballot. Our old friend Lana. Yes, I've heard through the grape vine that she doesn't hate me. But answer this, how does someone who hasn't posted since September 30, and whose blog has only 15 postings wind up on the ballot when we're on the scrap heap?

Conclusion: We're not at our best. Musie is lying low and certain Irregulars have become more like Incommunicados. But I'd match the recent work from the Chair against anything on these other blogs. (Except perhaps Ms Butcher's tattoo photos.)

Still, we're not the only ones who got robbed. What about Marmite and Sot?