I woke up at 2 a.m. feeling like I’d been in a fight. A specific fight, actually; the one from 1998 when the guy tried to break my nose and failed when I moved, causing him to clip me hard on the cheekbone. My face was so swollen and bruised for a few days I thought I might have a zygomatic fracture.

So I woke up feeling like that. I’d been fighting an ugly pimple inside my left nostril (C’mon, ladies, honesty is sexy, right? Hello?) for a few days and figured it was finally time for a come-to-Jesus moment with a #11 X-Acto blade. Imagine my surprise when I turned on the light and discovered the left side of my face looked like I was wearing Maurice Evans’ Dr. Zaius makeup from Planet of the Apes.

I followed my usual course of rational action and cried like an 11-year-old girl for 20 minutes before settling down to make an actual plan. It takes a lot to get me to the doctor. Suddenly having a face like an accident victim is one of those things.

Tossed and turned for the next six hours until I could get up and call the doctor. They got me in at 11:45, and a mere three hours and four pharmacies later (another time for that story), I had my diagnosis of cellulitis (“let’s try to catch it before it gets into your brain.” Thanks, doc.) and my course of Augmentin to hopefully kill it.

In the meantime… well, I’m fairly stoic but I’m a whiny bitch when comes to my face, and that half of my head feels like someone battered it. And fried it.

I relayed the short version to Mischief (yes, she’s getting married, yes, we’re still friends. Did you really expect anything else?) who promptly, upon learning that my face is twice it’s normal size, dubbed me Two-Face.

She’ll pay. Just wait.

Mischief said something that struck a chord in an e-mail she sent earlier in the week. “I’m glad you’re the last man I dated before I got married.”

I thought about it, and realized how often that precise event has happened in my life. Short story: a lot. There’s a smart-assed bit of pop-psychology I like to remind people of from time to time… The one consistent element in all of your failed relationships is you.

I guess at some point I’m going to have to face that reality. But not right now. Not tonight.

“The Last Man You’ll Date Before Marrying Someone Else.”

I’m gonna get that tattooed across my chest in the most ghetto, 160-point faux-calligraphy script I can find. It’s much better in Latin: “permaneo vir vos mos balanus pro vos matrimonium alius”

Everything’s classy in Latin, right? Even my past..?

2 Responses to A Few Latin Terms

  • Freiherr Karza von Karnstein says:

    I wish you a speedy recovery from the cellulitis.

    On a lighter note, in Latin “Pacific Rim” translates into something like “Peaceful analingus.” Magellan must get mixed, but nevertheless interesting, reviews from the inhabitants of that region for naming the ocean so.

  • Honey West says:

    well, several thoughts on all this, first, I’m now utterly hooked on your blog (thanks a lot, as if I don’t have enough problems! lol) , two, I’m glad you didn’t go through with your self-surgery via the X-Acto knife, although it can be tempting to circumvent those pesky surgeons and docs who at times know more about medical matters than us mere mortals (although rarely!), and third, hey, get well soon! a bit tmi, but that’s what great blogs are made of, right?

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