Wednesday, April 29, 2009

Monday, April 27, 2009


No untruths here, kittens: I was scared for my eye and my life as I made my way to the cosmetic opthamologist, with amma in tow (my vision would be compromised by the sexy pirate eye patch, so the doctor's office had asked me to bring along a friend) today. At what cost was I trying to rid myself of this chalazion? Anesthesia in my eyelid? A scalpel right next to my eyeball? One slip and I'm a goner, right? "This guy gets paid to make people beautiful," I reminded myself between frantic prayers. "There will be no slippage of the scalpel. There will be NO slippage of the scalpel."

I tried to focus on my breathing, on mental images of scalpels not slipping, and on mental images of me sporting an eye patch as amma and I made our way to the doctor's office. Before I knew it, I was sitting in a chair that looked a hell of a lot like a dentist's chair. You have correctly deduced that this did absolutely nothing to calm my already frayed nerves. The doctor strode in and at that moment of intense anxiety at the thought of the scalpel now slipping into my eye and permanently destroying what are arguably my best features, I decided that he was the sexiest man I've ever seen and that I loved him. I obviously Stockholm syndrom'd the situation, just like I did back when I had all four of my wisdom teeth removed back in college and decided that I was in love with my orthodontist. Stockholm syndrome aside, I love MP and everyone knows that David Benioff is the sexiest man I've ever met in my life (he's so much hotter than his pics that it's sick; it gives me a stomach ache every time I think about it).

Anyway, so there I am, stone-still in a dentist's chair, waiting for the cosmetic opthamologist to accidently slip his scalpel and blind me forever. But there's something even more horrible that I've forgotten about, kittens: the anesthesia. And my cosmetic opthamologist gently (sexily) reminds me that it's going to be the most painful part of the surgery.

"What could possibly be more painful than a scalpel in my eye?" I wonder and brush the warning aside until, holy Allah in Jannah with all of his angels, the cosmetic opthamologist sticks me right in the chalazion with a needle. And what I proceed to feel is fiery hot and spicy damnation spread all across my lower lid until all I want to do is go home with my chalazion intact and fuckin' cuddle with it at every milestone from here to freakin' eternity.

But the pain subsides. I stop squirming. Cosmetic opthamologist flips my lower eyelid inside out with something that might look like an eyelash curler and I'm horrified but am able to keep my eyes closed so the horribleness subsides, or so I think. Cosmetic opthamologist instructs me to take deep breaths, that I'm way too tense but when I proceed to follow his instructions, he tells me not to move my face, so I try to breathe without moving my face. I hear him snipping (there is no scalpel, apparently, only scissors) away at the chalazion and I feel pressure on my eyelid and I hope and pray that cosmetic opthamologist doesn't accidently poke me in the eye with the scissors. Then he says that he's going to cauterize the incision and that I may smell something burning and I try not to pass out.

And then we're done and cosmetic opthamologist slaps gauze onto my eye and I'm thinking that he'll put the patch over the gauze. He slaps tap over the gauze and I think, surely there will be an eye patch. But then the dentist's chair is being pushed up and I'm being told that I need to schedule a post-op appointment and I have to interrupt cosmetic opthamologist: "You mean this is the eye patch??" and I he laughs and says yes, what was I expecting and I feel like he's stabbed me in the eye with a scalpel. "A pirate's eye patch," I manage and he says that those are for pirates and for the movies, alas, and sends me along.

I take public transportation with my mom, not looking like a trendy pirate but like a freak and by the time we finally stumble into a train, there's room only for my mom to sit down and I'm totally fine standing but the guy sitting next to amma takes pity on my ugly eye patch and offers me his seat, which I take because, wait a minute, is that my anesthesia wearing off?

Yes. Yes it is. So, by the time we get home, the upper right quadrant of my face feels like it's been bashed in by a hammer (even my gums hurt) and, forgetting about the patch, I fall asleep.

I'm fine now, kittens: the patch is festering in the trash and though my eye is slightly swollen and lightly bruised, I'm well on the road to recovery and a chalazion-free life.

Here's a picture of my not-a-pirate's-patch. A pirate wouldn't be caught dead in this get-up. See what I mean?


I've been a very bad blogger. I used to blog almost daily until this very blog introduced me to my current fiance and though my relationship with MP hasn't by any means robbed me of my charming nerdiness, it has robbed me of my free time. And now we're planning a wedding and I need a whole seperate post to explain to you how miserably stressful wedding planning and choosing a wedding planner and keeping everyone happy has been (hell, I probably need a whole new and anonymous blog to do that without stepping on toes and hurting feelings, winkwink).

Speaking of parenthetical winkwinks, I will have a scalpel very close to my right eyeball tomorrow. Yes, kittens, your terribly neglectful blogger is going under the knife! Remember that chronic sty/cancer on the lower eyelid of my right eye?

Well, it's still right here with me, folks.

The chronic sty has been on my eyelid for nearly five months now. It's been with me through some very meaningful milestones: my engagement party, MP's move to JC, his 33rd birthday, my 30th birthday party, the year 2009.

Chronic sty has been right here, illegally squatting on my eyelid and making me feel like a freak.

Except it isn't a chronic sty, after all. I went to a third opthamologist a couple of weeks ago (this one is a surgeon--a cosmetic opthamologist--referred to me by the wonderful second opthamologist I saw (as an aside, second opthamologist is the closest thing to a small town doctor in this town and I'm happy to refer anyone who needs an opthamoligst to him. For real)), who declared that the eyelid squatter was no chronic sty. It's actually a chalazion, a lump formed in the eyelid when one of the many oil-secreting glands we have along our lids become blocked with the very oil they secrete. The gland is supposed to rupture, releasing the built up oil but, in my case, it's deep in the eyelid and there appears to be too much skin surrounding it for that to happen.

So, I'm having the squatter removed tomorrow because: 1) while a chalazion might taste delicious if it was an Italian pastry, it's actually just an inflamed, ugly, but luckily small and useless mess at the moment; 2) I'm getting married so, as much as this guy's been a part of all of the milestones this year, I won't miss it at all next year; 3) and I get to sport a patch after the procedure, which is pretty cool.

I'll need to focus on these reasons tomorrow when the doctor injects my eyelid with anesthesia (he admitted that this would hurt like a mofo) and then scoops the shi-zat out.

Gulps and petrified sighs from JC. Wish me luck. Believe it or not, I've missed you g

Thursday, February 12, 2009

Seriously? SERIOUSLY??!

So, we're less than two days away from the shebang and get this: I have a chronic sty on the lower lid of my right eye and what appears to be half a button candy-sized subconjunctival hemmorhage north and slightly east of my left iris. The sty is barely noticeable but has been squatting on my eyelid for quite some time now. Obviously, it's cancer but the opthamologist I visited on Friday said it was nothing more than a sty that wasn't being treated and, as a result, was not going away. Well, I've been treating it opthamologist-lady and guess what? IT'S STILL RIGHT HERE ON THE LOWER LID OF MY RIGHT EYE.

I didn't notice the subconjunctival hemmorhage until an hour ago, as I was removing my contact lenses and getting ready for bed. The websites I've frantically consulted (as well as MP, to whom I cried cautiously, half expecting my tears to be laced with blood) since are assuring me that it's nothing but a rupture of blood vessels under the conjunctiva caused, apparently, by strenuous exercising, coughing, vomiting, touching/widening eyes, sneezing, pulling extreme g-forces, choking, straining. I strenuously exercised this morning (long live boxing), which I suppose could have caused the rupture. It's a small enough hemmorhage for me to have missed during the day. I also did sneeze violently a couple of times today; the last time I sneezed violently was 2.5 hours ago as I re-watched The Westminster Dog Show that I'd DVR'd (yes, I hate the idea of breeding dogs and cats when there are millions in shelters but, no, I can't deny that those dogs in the show are precious). That could've been it, right? I also widen my eyes a hell of a lot when I'm talking and there was a lot of that happening earlier tonight over dinner with girl friends.I have to learn to stop that. I haven't vomited, choked, or experienced extreme g-forces lately, so I'm ruling those causes out.

But what if this hemmorhage is a sign of something much worse like cancer? And what if it is somehow connected to the chronic sty on the other eye? Well, I'm going to attempt to get an answer some time tomorrow.

There's just one thing I know: I WILL wear sunglasses to our Friday night engagement party if these eye issues persist.

Thirty is a little over a month away and I'm already crumbling to age, dear readers. Oh dear.

Tuesday, February 10, 2009


I have nothing but a no good, long-ass list of excuses for why I haven't blogged in a very, very, very long time. So, instead of detailing why I haven't blogged in a painfully long time, I'm going to jump right into blogging. How about that?

My engagement party is this Friday. Yes, it's Friday the 13th, but as amma said, "Our people don't believe in any of that garbage." It's going to be a big to-do. Not only will I be decked out in the traditional shalwaar kameez but the folks have already told me that they're expecting: 1) MP to re-propose to me in front of everyone (no, seriously) and 2) a Bollywood-like number (no, seriously).

But before we discuss the pomp and cinema of my engagement party, can we talk about that lame-ass Wikipedia entry for shalwaar kameez that I've linked to in the previous sentence? What the fuck, Wikipedia (or the common folks, like you and I, who uploaded this shit on the site)??! Is this the best picture you could find to show the world what a freakin' shalwaar is?

Seriously? SERIOUSLY?

Sure, this picture of a Muslim Sindhi girl circa 1870 is pretty cool:

But is this really the best example of a "modern style shalwaar kameez" you could find?

A white woman wearing an anything but fashionable lime green kurta suit? Hells to the no. Sure, she was probably the only one who cared enough to upload a damn photo into this entry but that doesn't matter. If I hadn't brought any of this up, all of you non-South Asians would have followed my link above and thought that the shalwaar kameez is an ugly-ass traditional outfit, when it's anything but. So, for the sake of shalwaar kameez, I was considering uploading photos of some lovely outfits from this site but turns out I have to create an account before I can upload any images to Wikipedia and, really, who has time for that? Not I. So, I guess I'll just deal.

Tuesday, January 20, 2009


I would be remiss to not comment about Obama's inauguration earlier today.

What a spectacular, amazing, and awe-inspiring moment. If someone had told me four, eight, twelve years ago that in 2009, America would have a black president called Barack Hussein Obama, I would have told him to get the hell outta town. I'm ashamed to say that as recently as a couple of months before last year's presidential elections, I refused to let myself believe that my fellow citizens were evolved enough to elect a black man (how could a people who elected Bush a second time possibly do anything in its best interest?).

I've never been happier to be proven utterly, utterly, utterly wrong.

Here we are now, twelve hours into having a brand-new, 44th president. He may not be able to fix all of the problems our nation--as well as the world (we are a global neighborhood, after all)--faces right away but having a capable, respectable, calm, charismatic, and intelligent commander-in-chief leading the way will, without a doubt, mollify our collective anxiety. And as Obama's said, he won't be able to bring solutions to the crises that we face today without our help. By challenging each and every citizen to rebuild this nation through service to his or her community, Obama's ushering in a new era of responsibility that we haven't seen in a very long time.

I have never been more inspired.