Drop Edge of Yonder

When I bit into it, I could hear the ocean.


I often refer to the fact that I’m mostly missing one nipple. I tend to leave it pretty cryptic; but since this happened almost 20 years ago, plenty of people know the story now. I figured I ought to post it somewhere permanently so I wouldn’t have to rewrite the whole thing every time someone asks for details.

Thus, here is the story of how I ended up with, essentially, one and one-third nipples instead of the typical two. Warning: Graphic (but hilarious) injury described ahead.)

I stepped into the shower on a particularly crisp and cool October morn. Unbeknownst to me beforehand, my roommate had fully opened (rather than cracked) the bathroom window. Hence, it was nipply: so said my nips!

I set about my regular hygiene routine. I shampooed and rinsed, washed my body, etc. Then it was time to shave my ‘pits.

I soaped up my hands, then dabbed my underarms. Then I proceeded to shave, using a razor with a brand-new (replaceable) blade. Shaving under my left armpit while using my right hand was fine and trouble-free.

Then tragedy struck.

As I tried to transition the razor from my right hand to my left, my grip slipped due to the slipperiness of the soap and the shower and the water. I freaked out for a split second, envisioning the brand-new blade neatly slicing off a tiny, terribly cute toe on my foot on its descent down. (Oh, what could have been!)

Operating purely on instinct, my right hand grasped wildly for the razor’s handle—thinking only of saving my terrific toes. (Look, I’m short and chubby—but I have nice feet. That’s not something with which one gambles.) I didn’t count, unfortunately, on the fact that the cool, wafting breeze from the open window had put me in peril.

So, yeah. My nipples were at full attention—as if they were in a life-or-death drill down at band camp—but I wasn’t at that point fully aware of my body’s autonomic responses.

My right hand continued its reach for and successfully grasped the razor, but a split second too late! I sliced right through that erect left nipple—and that was all she wrote.

Well, you know, except for the fact that “she wrote” torrents of blood in the shower stall. Turns out there must be some sort of huge artery or vein or something beneath the mammary glands, because the wound poured blood for fuckin’ ever. In fact, it didn’t even pour initially: it shot like a machine gun: PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA-PA.

And in the meantime I had the unique and shiver-inducing privilege of seeing that meaty sliver of niplet I’d accidentally excised swivel around, around, around the drain until it disappeared into the depths of some unholy receptacle reserved for piss and turds.

I know you think I’m making this shit up: Everybody does. But I have two measures of defense.

First, you can ask anyone who’s seen me in person in the last 20 or so years.

Second, take a good, hard look at my physique if we ever meet. I have PHENOMENAL BOOBS, but the nip slit mars their magnificence. It’s particularly noticeable when it’s cold, but if there’s even the hint of a breeze you can usually tell I suffered “an accident” because one nip points north and the other points south—much like Hagdalena Magdalena Hoopasteina Walkadeina Hogan Logan Mogan’s teeth.

And that? Really was all she wrote. 🙂

I swear. (Because who would lie about this shit?)

Photo courtesy of Laszlo Ilyes and used under Creative Commons.

Wait. Would the Cave Have Cable?

Yesterday I heard this story on NPR’s All Things Considered. The gist of it is some scientists descended into and explored a couple of supercaves, the depths of which the article compares to inverting Mount Everest.

A clip promoting the segment was enough to scare the bejesus out of me. I mean, let’s think about this for a second. These guys plumb the pits of the planet, seeking to see and explore things no human ever has. And do you know why the deepest interiors of these supercaves have remained untouched for all time? It’s only partly because, as the segment explains, there are at least 50 “normal” ways to die while exploring supercaves. But apparently I’m the only one who paid attention when television and film were busy teaching us that if you go poking around in deep, dark, dank mysterious holes, you are going to awaken some awful ancient evil—and there will be hell to pay.

Seriously. Do you know what lives in caves? Balrogs. You might not have heard, but one time a balrog fought the greatest wizard ever, and they both died. Now that is some serious shit. Also consider the Grootslang. The Grootslang might not look scary in that artist’s rendering, but think about this: it’s a serpent that lures elephants into its cave to devour them. Elephants, people.

Even a lot of non-cave dwelling creatures are pretty fearsome and favor subterranean lairs. Perhaps you’ve heard of the Turok-Han—which live in (that’s right: not on, but in) the Hellmouth. How could that end well? The best-case scenario is you lose an entire coastal city to a giant pit of nothingness. (But, mysteriously, that giant pit doesn’t fill with ocean water. I think that’s what they mean when they say “look at the bright side.”) Also, you always run the risk of rousing C.H.U.D.s, and everyone who grew up in the 1980s knows that can’t end well.

I mean, I don’t need to look through the chronicles for references to a warrior beast to suspect these spelunking scientists are going to miff some maleficent monster by disturbing its satanic slumber. Hell, even the scientists themselves freak out a little. They even refer to something some spelunkers suffer called “the rapture,” which NPR describes as “an extreme reaction to darkness and depth…similar to an anxiety attack while on methamphetamines.” I’ve had neither anxiety attacks nor methamphetamines in my life, but that sounds like it would be as terrifying as, um, BEING KILLED BY A BALROG.

My Glee Wishlist

If you know me at all, you know I’m obsessed with Glee. And when I say “obsessed,” I mean I have it as bad as I did for Buffy and Star Trek. But just like with those shows, I know Glee isn’t perfect. Here’s my open letter bulleted list to Ryan Murphy and company regarding how they can keep this show from going completely off the rails. (No spoilers ahead; I am, in fact, completely spoiler-free.)

  • Stop after season two. This show is already getting a bit meta. (You can’t use the term “Puckleberry.” That’s way too shippy for showrunners, you guys. It wasn’t worth the cheap joke you got out of it, anyway.) Besides, the actors who play Puck and Finn already look like they have wives and 2.3 kids each sitting at home. Let’s not do the whole Andrea-from-90210 thing here, okay?
  • Stop with the frequent guest stars. You have a HUGE (and incredibly talented) ensemble cast, and some of the members get precious little screen time and even fewer lines. I love Kristin Chenoweth and am still smarting from the cancellation of Pushing Daisies, but her second appearance was unwarranted. Would it kill you to let T-T-T-Tina talk (Especially now that she’s lost the [unconvincing] stutter?)?
  • If you can’t (or won’t) give up your guest star addiction and devote more screen time to your awesome ensemble, realize that at some point in the second season you’re going to have to take a cue from BtVS‘s “Superstar” episode and turn the whole show on its head for 44 minutes. I need to see how this club appears from the perspective of bit players such as Mike and Matt. And also Brad. I would LOVE an entire episode from Brad’s perspective; in fact, if I don’t get it, I’m probably going to have to satisfy that desire by writing my first fanfic. (Readers, you’re probably wondering to yourself, “Who is Brad?” Kill yourself! Also known as Tinkles, he’s the plucky piano player who gives the most delicious eye rolls and dubious expressions on the entire show. I mean, the man writes chorales with his countenance when he accompanies Glee members who are being especially douchey or diabolical.)
  • That said, don’t EVER let Matt say a word. (Readers, you probably also don’t know who Matt is because we’ve gone through 14 episodes and the kid has never once spoken. You might call him “handsome black guy who dances with Other Asian,” or perhaps you call him “Shaft”—just as Sue Sylvester once did.) Show, you’ve gone so long without letting Matt speak that now his doing so can’t possibly live up to the audience’s expectations no matter what spectacular dialogue you give him; as such, he’s going to have to remain the affable, strong and silent type. (Alternate option: If the actor has the chops, let Matt go off on an angry, vicious, two-minute tirade when the club [inevitably] dissolves into fingerpointing during [another] crisis—and then don’t ever let him speak again.)
  • I’m not the first person to say this and certainly won’t be the last, but Matthew Morrison needs to stop with the rapping and break dancing. I know he loves it, but it’s embarrassing and NEVER, EVER WORKS. (The Thong Song was absolutely wretched, and you can very clearly hear him fart when Emma falls on him. Don’t believe me? Pull out that DVD. See, even your sound people realize it’s ridiculous and aren’t cutting him any slack—even when he cuts the cheese.) Besides, if he’s capable of doing stuff like this, you can do without that bullshit.
  • Please tell the promo monkeys over at Fox to stop putting Brittany’s remarks in the previews/commercials. It’s like unwrapping a birthday present and having someone yell, “It’s a Samaurai sword!” before you get all the Scotch tape off or sever the first slice of a sliver of skin. I’d rather be surprised, you know?
  • I know you may find this hard to believe, but one of the big draws of the show initially was the emotion. You’ve traded much of that for cheap laughs, anvils and lampshading all over the place. You can’t rely on Rachel’s Sad!Face and Kurt’s coming out story for the heart-string tugging. (Although you can’t do away with those things, either. Besides, I will CUT YOU if Burt Hummel doesn’t appear at least once every four episodes.)
  • Stop so strictly alternating in what order who writes the episodes. Going straight down the list of who wrote what episode shows you haven’t yet deviated from this order: Ryan Murphy, Brad Falchuk, Ian Brennan. This has to stop. Perhaps a more collaborative effort is in order, because the tone of each episode immediately indicates to regular viewers precisely who wrote them—and not in a good way. If you want to please your audience, stop pandering to it and instead collaborate so we get all the gooey goodness in every ep.
  • Stop giving Sue so much…heart. It’s just all wrong. Sue is the one character who can be a caricature because Jane Lynch brings so much to the table. Sue doesn’t need to be a villain with vulnerability: she just needs to be completely outlandish and outrageous.

(Readers [if  you still exist], you’ll notice I didn’t explain my seven-month hiatus from blogging. I was busy, okay?)

These Boots Were Made For Stompin’

Just kidding.  Anybody who knows me is aware that I don’t own a pair of boots.  There are certain Southern stereotypes I’m just not willing to play into.

But the truth is that I’m a heavy walker.  (When I say that out loud, it always sounds very Seinfeldian to me.  Wasn’t there an episode about a low talker?)  When I walk, things literally shake in my wake.  Knick-knacks are always toppling to the ground when I breeze by if they’re not pushed back far enough on the shelf.  People have been known to refer to my entrances as sounding like a herd of elephants.

I don’t know why I’m a heavy walker; I just always have been.  You’d think I’d be a little lighter on my feet since I’m so short, but it’s as if I make up for my lack of height with my astounding mass.  I try to walk quietly, but I can’t do it.  The only time I can walk without announcing my impending arrival 20 steps beforehand is when I shuffle in socks.  Thank goodness I don’t have to wear heels on the concrete floor of a classroom anymore, I suppose.

Almost Falling

I’m so far on the drop edge of yonder that I’m almost falling off into the ether.

This is the fourth incarnation of this blog.  The first two were on Blogspot, but I had my own domain name for the third.  I couldn’t afford the fees to renew the hosting in the summer of 2009.  Four months later, I realize that I’ve lived without a blog long enough.  Too much of my life happens online because of the nature of my work and my relationships, and I can’t pare all that down into 140 characters on Twitter (You can find me there listed as @DropEdge) or a cheesy status update on Facebook  (You can find me there if you know my real name).

In the last four months things have managed to somehow remain the same and yet change dramatically.  After more than a year of unemployment in a decidedly uncertain economy, I’m doing the kind of work I’ve always dreamed about doing--and I’m doing it online from the comfort of my own home.  (And usually naked.  But don’t worry; it’s not that kind of online work.  I’m working as a freelance writer, editor, and virtual assistant.)  On the other hand, I found out today that my home won’t be my own by this time next month, which means that I have to find a new place to live ASAP.  Part of me wants to pick up and move somewhere totally new and unexpected, and part of me wants to stay right here in this lovely little community in the gently rolling hills of rural Arkansas.

As usual, I still don’t have any idea what I’m doing when it comes to customizing a personal blog.  Expect this space to remain plain and ridiculously unadorned.  If I could figure out how to do cool stuff, I would.  Probably, anyway.  Maybe someday I’ll figure out how to transfer everything from the last blog to this one, but there’s no time for that now.  I have an eBook to research, 33 product descriptions to write, and 1200 people to request as friends on Facebook for various freelance jobs.