Never look a gift horse in the mouth…..or, in my case, don’t kiss a random horse on its nose.
In a cruel twist of fate, the week I quit Facebook turned into one of the craziest weeks I’ve had in awhile. The first incident was just a few days after my FB exodus, and it went something like this…..
I met this horse. It was a standard horse, typical – brown coat, black mane, black tail, big, wet chestnut eyes. He was alright; I gave him a little pat and then I wandered off to meet his pal.
His friend was a lovely soft grey in color. She was a bit bossy – demanding all the grass and wheat and whatnot I could shove through the barbed wire fence. She kept smashing her big fuzzy wet horsey nose at me, so I did what any other regular human would do – I kissed her. I smooched her nose, and it felt like warm velvet and for a brief moment it was heaven.
And then my lips swelled up. And then my eyes swelled shut. And there I was, in the middle of the blasted countryside, looking like some kind of goofy squishy-faced horse monger. Thank god for my buddy, Amber. She fed me water and Benadryl and, while she was absolutely my enabler during the horse kissing, she was quick to remind me afterwards that I should not EVER kiss a horse EVER because watching my face swell up was really REALLY scary. Dayna. Really. Don’t kiss horses.
After a restful sleep fuelled by all the Benadryl, I woke up to a chilly house. I opened my closet to grab a pair of socks, and – here’s incident number two – there were mousey poops all over my closet floor. Oh jeepers. I went into the dining room and opened another closet and yep you guessed it – more poops. And then I opened my pantry and there were poops in there too. And then I found mouse turds in my living room. So all of this was terribly overwhelming and upsetting, but it came to a head when I spotted mouse poop all over K8s room. Now that’s crossing a line. Go ahead and f**k with me, mice, but don’t you dare f**k with my daughter. Commence Operation Get These Assholes Out of My House.
17 bags of poison, 10 mousetraps, one can of expanding pest foam, eight audio rodent repellent discs, two weeks of insane stress and high-alertness, four mouse sightings in one day, and a panel of drywall later – the mouse poops have seemed to slow down. Every single space in my condo has been filled or plugged. A bag of poison has been dumped down into the laundry intake area, and, unless a deaf mouse manages to pop into my place, the audio discs should scare the little bastards away. Sidenote: we did manage to catch and kill one little Mickey. Well, he perished of his own volition after eating a lethal dose of Warfarin. The things kids do to get high these days.
Crazy event number three was the removal of Herbert. Herbert was a fancy little tumour fella (aka lipoma) who had decided to hitch a ride on the back side of my left shoulder. I don’t know how long he’d been living in my body, but he made his appearance after I lost some weight.
Herbert was estimated to be about the size of a golf ball. I anticipated a small incision, just big enough to pull out the lipoma. After a pleasant all-day-long wait at Fort Saskatchewan Community Hospital, it was finally time to go under the knife. My fantastic surgeon, Dr Farooq, joked with me about slicing into my tattoo. All the nurses were concerned that my ink would be wrecked. My biggest concern was having this hunchback removed – because I’m a vain asshole. I have to say, right before I succumbed to the delightful combination of Fentanyl and Propofol, my super awesome sarcastic and cranky anesthetist, Dr Holt, reminded me that although Michael Jackson died from a propofol injection, I was in safe hands. He reassured me that he was trained to perform CPR. Whew. I think I smiled a bit before I blacked out.
When I woke up, I saw my buddy Amber beaming at me. I beamed back. And proceeded to tell her, very happily, that she should really have surgery because boy oh boy did I ever feel GREAT! I remember her laughing at me (with me?). Because of this incredible feeling of euphoria, I was able to quickly get over my disappointment of not being able to meet Herbert face to face. I had requested a meeting, because I wanted to thank him for our time together, but reassure him that the next stage of his life would be integral to his journey. Dr Farooq grabbed Amber’s phone, and tried to rush off to get a picture of Herbert, but it was too late. He was en route to the lab. I always knew he was a mover and a shaker. Epilogue: Herbert surpassed everyone’s expectations, and ended up being the size of my surgeon’s palm. I have a 4-inch incision (soon to be scar) that starts at the very tip of my beetle’s wing – the tattoo is unscathed. If you have to get any sort of lumpy thing removed, I would definitely recommend the team in Fort Sask.
There are a few other strange things that have happened, but they don’t seem too story worthy at the moment. Which brings me to this.
Previously, I could have (and would have) turned to my Facebook friends and critics for support and advice and lambasting. I’d have asked for solutions to mouse infestations. People would have probably given me great advice, and others would have told me I was a dick because I was considering killing a harmless animal. And then maybe someone else would have said they hate PETA or cats. And then, before you know it, there’s a conversation thread that deviates from the topic at hand and ends up in a debate over the Hunger Games and circus animals.
Instead, I had to problem-solve in a way that was completely foreign to me – without the input of the Internets. Solo. All by myself. Actually, that’s a lie. It turns out I have some pretty amazing ‘real life’ people who have been around to help me out. We talked on the phone, we sent text messages, and we hung out in person. This made the crazy, tolerable.
There was a time where I believed I had to be on Facebook. I might be missing out, it’s true – I don’t know whose birthday it is today, for instance – but I really don’t miss too much. I don’t miss being told what I should read, or who I should ‘like’, or what online game I should play. I don’t miss being messaged and asked why I ‘unfriended’ someone. I don’t miss all the stuff about wounded animals, and I don’t miss the god damn Friday Five. If you’re really thankful for five things on Friday – why do you have to make it public? It only feeds your ego because people tell you how amazing you are.Write it in your journal, and pat yourself on the back. Be content with the choices you make – you don’t need validation from people you only know from the Internet.
I know I’m alright. I know what I’m thankful for. And I wouldn’t be who I am, and I wouldn’t be where I am, if it wasn’t for the people around me. The ones I hug and share laughs and smiles and life with. They are my people, I am their people – we are connected here on Earth….and not in the Cloud.