Room 622: Sending a Nickel to get $25

My Poor Man's Mentality cannot bring myself to throw away personalized mailing labels, pens, nickels, or (randomly) gloves that non-profits send me to get a donation. And Poor Mandy cannot always donate. So what to do with all the "Please Accept Our Free Gift"'s? It's not really free since it is designed to guilt you into donating and if you don't or can't then it costs you an ounce of self-respect when you use those "gifts". I thought I had put myself on a "Don't send me junk mail" list and maybe I did. But I guess I found myself on a Sold List. And I blame the ASPCA. Because I give to them. And now I'm getting Wildlife stuff, Save the Wolves, Humane Society, and some one about horses that I didn't open. I was afraid of being confronted with Sad Horse Eyes. But if it was only a letter then I could confidently say, "I have to limit my giving so I shall tear my name and address off and shred it and then recycle the rest." That's not actually word-for-word. I guess I'm trying to win you over with my conscientiousness to justify keeping the LA SPCA wrapping paper this past Christmas...and actually using it. So that there is the problem: it's not just a letter. It's free stuff. Free stuff that borderline hippies like me will feel guilty about throwing away and guilty about keeping without donating. However, I don't feel bad about the mailing labels anymore. Someone once said to me, "I see it as free advertising for their cause. And that's my donation." I know: weasel. But it's enough to reserve my guilt for something else. Like those damn nickels that some organizations tape to their solicitation. What's that about? I'm assuming they did some research that assured them that the return would more than make up for the lost coins. (Side note: when I was younger, I was afraid to use those pennies and nickels for fear they were counterfeit. I guess I thought they were like the fake credit cards that came with the applications. You know, like Amex's with the name CF Frost. Remember that faux dude?) But I CANNOT. THROW. MONEY. AWAY. So I bury it in my plastic Improv cup with the legitimately earned nickels and dimes. And then I won't know I'm using tainted money when I later on need vending coins. Not that it always works. I know it's in there. Waiting...

The Fret Level is overwhelming enough that I need to go lie down and snuggle with my Humane Society blanket...

Amenities of Room 622: Special WWF Suite.  Fridge stocked with National Park Service water bottles and Baby Seal Snicker bars.  Pay What You Can laundry bags.

Grand Staircase: Me and My Inflatable Donut

I spent most of the Christmas holiday with a cold. And just when it was tapering off, I celebrated by falling down my stairs. In mid-flight, I accidentally knocked my dog over but she recovered much quicker and far more gracefully than I did. It was dark. And turned my head to see a police car go down the back alley and suddenly my bum was step-surfing. I haven't injured myself in quite a while but I fully expected to unleash a string of exquisitely detailed obscenities. Much to my surprise, I yelled, "Oh! Shoot! Shoot! Shoot! Ow! Ow! Ow!" I apparently was momentarily possessed by Grandma. I guess I didn't want to offend my pot-smoking neighbors whose window was open very near to where I fell. Which was very kind of me, considering it was midnight. And since it was midnight, I continued with the ritual of taking my dog out for the Quick Pee In Front Of the Bank. Upon returning...slowly...to my abode, I turned on the computer to consult the World Wide Web for a "What To Do". Because "It's Midnight" wins out over "Real Doctor Advice". I wrapped up my jammed fingers and went to bed.

I went to work the next day. My co-workers' reactions ranged from "What happened?" to "Why did you come into work?" The latter was an excellent question. Why? Well, first off: good story. Secondly: sympathy and attention. Like I said, it's been a while since I've been injured. Should I pass up the opportunity? But eliciting sympathy is a little precarious. Overdo it and you're not Poor Bruised Tailbone Mandy. You're a pain in the ass. GET IT?!?! Bruised Tailbone? (Side note: I can't believe this joke never occurred to me until this moment. I'm slipping...GET IT?!!? I fell!) Yes, I bruised my tailbone. Or as many delighted in telling me, I may have cracked it. So maybe I should have gone to the doctor. Apparently it wouldn't matter. Bruised or cracked, all I can do is wait it out. Just like the jammed finger. (I self-diagnosed that one as well. I could bend my finger without screaming Grandma-style again so I figured it couldn't be that serious.) Oh, that jammed finger? Of course, it had to be on my right hand. Specifically, my middle finger of my right hand. You use that finger quite a bit, I realize, when you're right handed. And it swelled up nicely. It was like that finger was replaced by a burly man's middle finger. I had an obese bird.

Now just over a week later, the finger is still swollen and bruised. The tailbone still hurts like crazy. Mainly when I've been sitting for a long time. Hence the Inflatable Donut. Hence not seeing Avatar yet.

And I bought that mini inner tube with no embarrassment of any kind. The shame only kicked in when others called it a Hemorrhoid Donut. Awesome. I feel I should go back to the CVS and explain to the cashier why I actually bought the donut. (Side note: I've been spelling it donut and not doughnut. It feels correct to leave "dough" out of it.) It's gotten a wee bit better though. Or I've gotten used to it. Or I've finally perfected the Art of Standing Without Engaging the Coccyx.

Warning: Staircase is steep. Please proceed with caution.