Once Upon An Appendectomy....

Clouds tend to follow me.

I'm sure it's obvious by now that I was in the hospital for appendicitis, but I doubt many of you know the wonderful story behind it. It's probably a little conceited of me to assume you'd want to read about my experiences before and after my surgery, given that it's such a personal story, and also that you probably don't give a crap.

But whiners gonna whine, so you must accept that this blog entry will continue as thus.

It seems fitting that I'm documenting my ailment once again, as my first blog entry after a long hiatus came about after a grueling wisdom tooth operation. I was bored, heavily drugged, and feeling like a depressed, chipmunk-cheeked coward. These are all perfect circumstances for writing. It seems that when I'm at my worst, my inspiration to write with anger and fervor are at their best - so when suddenly I found myself without an appendix, but with a catheter, I felt an instinctual need to rant my head off to the Goddess of Curmudgeons.

Dear Una,

(Not sure if reading your blog daily qualifies me to address you informally, so forgive me Mrs. LaMarche, if it does not....)

I'm writing to you in hopes of being christened a curmudgeon; it's something I've been meaning to ask for a few weeks now, but I've been too much of a pussy to do it. (I'm cutting to the punch here; I can pretend I had "things to do", but I know myself better.) Let me first say that you are an inspiration to curmudgeon writers everywhere, and if I hadn't found your blog I might not have continued mine.

My blog, Interrobang (formerly called "Goy Vey".....it's a long story) is a completely selfish personal account of things I like to whine about. Also, bittersweet nostalgia (mostly about childhood). And self-deprecation. So essentially, it's Freud's wet dream.

However, I haven't written in awhile, as I often suffer from bouts of crippling writer's block. There are times when the self-deprecation doesn't even make it to the page, because of, well....me being so self-deprecating. And for awhile I was unsure if being a curmudgeon was something I deserved. But I think this quote pretty much sums me up:

A curmudgeon's reputation for malevolence is undeserved. They're neither warped nor evil at heart. They don't hate mankind, just mankind's absurdities. They're just as sensitive and soft-hearted as the next guy, but they hide their vulnerability beneath a crust of misanthropy. They ease the pain by turning hurt into humor.....
Perhaps curmudgeons have gotten a bad rap in the same way that the messenger is blamed for the message: They have the temerity to comment on the human condition without apology....Their versions of the truth unsettle us, and we hold it against them, even though they soften it with humor. (Jon Winokur, whoever the fuck that is)

Sure, I've been known to start loud, obnoxious scenes to vent my anger; complain openly and adamantly about my life, even though it's incomparable to the rest of the world's woes; and my amount of negativity is seriously impressive, if not frightening. Whether I'm to be proud of this, I'm not sure. Sometimes it's just nice to have the knowledge during your monotonous commute that at any point your rage can be directed into a fistful of bitch out.

At other times, this behavior seems more attributed to say, criminals, or schizophrenics.

But, I can honestly say that at this point, I've racked up enough grievances to warrant my curmudgeon-dom. These passed two months have truly been filled with the stuff of curses:

1. Tara has email hacked. By some asshole in Nigeria. Apparently I am in London, was robbed at gunpoint and need money to get back to the states. Since my life is on Gmail, this ultimately blows. It takes a week of troubleshooting and lengthy explanations to friends, family, coworkers and my gynecologist that I am safe in Brooklyn. Although London sounds preferable.

2. Tara has credit card stolen. This happens 2 weeks after the hacking, yet is completely unrelated, and blows infinitely more. Some bitch in Brooklyn decided to go on a shopping spree at Burberry with card numbers that were most likely stolen by someone delivering me a burger. Bank freezes my account and the $1800 they stole until they verify that I'm not lying. I insist that I'm really more of a Kmart girl.

3. Student Loans Increase. Rent Check Bounces. Sobbing, screaming phone calls are exhibited in the workplace as a result. Those around me shrink upon my presence to avoid evil eye.

4. Tara has emergency appendectomy. I can only guess that the amount of stress and pure bloodcurdling anger at recent events was cause enough for my appendix to peace out. Three days of hospital hell later, I'm infected with a UTI. Six days later, I am sitting at home typing this with a catheter tube up my hoo-ha and a bagful of urine hanging from my leg. I have degenerated to an 80 year old.

I'm hoping that, with your blessing (as you are indeed the queen of curmudgeons), I will break through the walls of writer's block and continue to share my rantings with all who will listen. But most importantly, I'll be giving myself a reason to express myself again. Perhaps being an anointed curmudgeon will light that fire under my ass and scare my critical ego into slinking away into obscurity. I know that writing this has already done wonders.

Now if you'll excuse me, I need to empty my bag of pee.

Yours truly,

Tara

So why expound further? Well, why not? I've been thinking about why so many unbelievably odd and inopportune experiences so often plague me. It's a dumb luck inherited from the Stromberg clan, the depths of a past which I have only begun to discover.

OR...perhaps the universe just wanted to give me some great material to write with. If that's the case, then I better do so - don't look a gift horse in the mouth, as they say.

Here are the cliff notes of that fateful day:

• I eat tacos. Immense abdominal pains follow. I assume I have really indigestion.
• After attempting to use the bathroom, I realize I can hardly walk. Okay...it must be really bad indigestion.
• I frantically Google "appendicitis." I then fall asleep wondering if I'm going to die.
• I wake up, thankfully. I must REALLY need to poop.
• Stay home from work because....I need to take a dump? This is greatly embarrassing....So, I travel limp-like-a-hunchback-ready-to-hurl to the doctor in hopes of finding a better excuse for skipping work.
• Doctor sends me to ER. I am seen at 5pm. I drink lots of iodine.
• The cleaning lady walks in while they're doing my uterus scan. She refuses to leave until she takes out the garbage, which is right next to my straddled legs.
• I get a CAT scan and some crazy drugs that make me feel warm and squishy inside.
• While waiting in the aisle of the ER at 9pm, doctor greets me with an enthusiastic "You have appendicitis!"...........at least it wasn't diarrhea? 
• I am introduced to 15 doctors, only 5 of which will actually be in the OR.
• I use the anesthesiologist's iPhone to update my Facebook status per my imminent surgery (so cheeky, am I.)
• They ask me what music I would like to doze off to as they fiddle around with my insides. I say, anything but Lady Gaga....
• ......"Ra-ah-ah-ah"-CRAP!
• Last thing I remember is funky smelling oxygen mask....

I find it suiting that I should end this entry with a graphic interpretation (emphasis on "graphic") of how my surgery probably went down:

Pretty symbolic if you ask me.

‽

So About My Family [Briefly]....

I spent the weekend before last in my hometown of New Jersey, for quality time with the aforementioned fam. It was dad's surprise 50th, so there was an immediacy to this visit (don't want you to think I'm going all soft.)

Well really, I just needed a haircut, but the family was there, so I figured, what the hey - might as well kill two birds with one stone.

Like most family functions, my father's thirteen Stromberg siblings and boyhood pals decided twas best to use this celebration to roast all 50 years of his wonderful memories. I was also chosen to write  a roast speech. When my Uncle Robby, the organizer of these shenanigans, first proposed this, it was September. By the time I arrived in October, I still had nothing written.

Frantically nearing the hour of truth, after driving around crazily like a Jersey housewife on steroids, dragging my victims (er, guests) for the night, Josh and Cara, through confusing U-turns and overpriced Halloween stores with costumes like "Money Ho," "the Blow-Me Breathalizer" and "Testey Tea Bags" (we're really not trying to overcome stereotypes in Jersey, it seems), I finally came to a realization:

I needed to write this freakin' speech.
(Even if my audience would be mostly intoxicated by then.)

So I did what any normal twenty-something would do in this situation - I winged it improvised. Using a previous blog entry, and sketches drawn by my sister, I put together what I thought was a lovely summary of dad's life.........of pain.

Surprisingly, for such little preparation it drew quite a bit of laughs (story of my life.) And coming from the Strombergs and one Joshua Goolsby ("sarcasm extraordinaire"), this is saying a lot.

After a lovely experience of living at home again for two days amongst the Strombergians, I've realized that I haven't described my incredibly unique family members to all of the folks out there who probably don't give a damn. Why goodness, in order to understand the Strombergs, you must take a close look at the dynamics! We are a highly complex system, that has a massive weekly intake of 2% milk. And the best way to observe this rare species of American family at its peak of dysfunctionality is in their natural habitat.

*DISCLAIMER: Since I know they're reading this right now, jaws agape at the sheer audacity of the use of "dysfunction" to describe them, please realize: there are no families that exist without dysfunction, at the risk of being incredibly boring.

∆ Mom

Aside from inspiring my love of books, you may remember her from previous flashback entries concerning shitty cars. She was my first impromptu guest blogger....albeit without consent.

• Childhood Revisited...Again
• Wedding Bell Blues
• Mom Speaks of the Curse!

∆ Dad

Alas, you've had your days in the spotlight already. As well as here.

• The Stromberg Family Car Curse
• Wedding Bell Blues

∆ Nick, brother
For his last birthday, I devoted a blog entry to my little brother, praising his eccentricity. That's enough, right?

• Cinco de Birthday

∆ Ceri, sister
Her psychologically-fused drawings of sarcasm have shown up in this entry, as well as my previous one highlighting our quirks of humor.

• Insult to Injury

[NOTE: I realize that this has turned into a "Greatest Hits" list rather than a for reals blog entry.........I got lazy.]

∆ Lili, sister, &; Lexy, dog

There's a reason I've lumped these two together; obviously they're not equal on the totem pole of family hierarchy (one crawls on the floor for godsakes; although I guess you could argue that they both did at one time.)

When Lili was born, I was 14 years old and Lexy was closing in on middle age. I acted as mommy and Lexy, well, acted like a dog, as expected, as well as her counterpart. She was there to guard against ghosts in the dark and provide entertainment for the new baby. (Their trust was tested when Lexy decided to leave a nervous trail of poop all over her room; there were a few months of uncertainty, but eventually the deed was forgotten, once the smell wore off.)

Lili also provided her own entertainment, as she was the first to be caught on the family's new video camera. Even though she's grown to 10 years old now, I can still remember the cartoon-ish adventures of the two of them, which eventually inspired me to capture their sweet yet short adventure in baby/puppy-dom....

Lexy, with her two quirky ears: one Collie, one Doberman.
Lili, with her beloved stuffed pal, Fishy - a somewhat preschool Calvin and Hobbes, if you will.  

(Fishy once braved an 8 floor plummet through an elevator shaft in my old NYU dorm. Somehow he fit perfectly lengthwise through when dropped; poor Lili proceeded to scream uncontrollably. Those in the elevator with us were quite unsure of what to do. Luckily, NYU was able to retrieve Fishy, showing how persistent a stuffed fish - and an NYU janitor for that matter - could be.)

No matter how old they get - Lexy, with her arthritis and deaf ears; and Lili, with her Justin Bieber and Bratz dolls - I'll always choose to remember them this way.

‽

Insult to Injury

I'll be the first to admit that when I blog about my family, it's usually tinged with sarcasm. How awful you must think me to be. Don't I think of my poor mother‽

Of course I do. Where do you think the sarcasm comes from?

In our home, sarcasm was the #1 coping mechanism. Our family has been through some unusual unpleasant experiences; however, nothing that can't be cured by good ol' sardonic aplomb. Give us a glass half-empty, and we'll see it as such; and then we'll fill it with beer and suck it down. Cause we figure you might as well drink it up, and toast to the irony.

And while my mom was the first to point out the facts in my blog about family car woes, she did it with the hilariously flippant cynicism of a champ. You see, I learn from the best. That said, it's not surprising that I write to express myself (and that my early dream was, in fact, to become a comedian.)

My siblings are no different. Creativity by way of self-deprecation is the way to go. Our work is almost always reflexive.

Another fun fact about my family: we are accident prone. This is most definitely a Stromberg trait. I could go on and on about this one, but I'll save it for another day. For now, I'd like to use it in context with my recent situation...

As I was [finally] leaving the hospital a few weeks ago (I know, the suspense must be killing you by now - explanations to come later), my sister, Ceri, was on her way to a hospital, via ambulance. This is her first year at Savannah College of Art and Design. I suppose that the only way to celebrate this wonderful opportunity was to do so in the Stromberg tradition: accidental, self-inflicted injury.

It was a deep cut, but only to her finger. Conveniently enough it was during an attempt to cut a bagel.  All she was trying to do was eat. By 4am she was glued up and sent back to school with another scar to add to her collection. The perfect college initiation, by way of bagel. (Jewish joke anyone? Anny-body?....)

The most amusing part about this story is that it was in no way surprising to the family. Upsetting? Yes. Stressful? Most definitely. Inevitable? Of course; and thus, pretty hilarious.

Now, before you decide I'm quite possibly the worst sister in the world, I must remind you of the nature of my family. Instead of being bitter, Ceri takes it all in stride, by using her injuries to fuel her creative musings. It's a running gag that both she and my father (most likely the giver of the accident gene) have racked up a long line of ridiculous impairments. And since she has an artistic gift, Ceri decides to document them:

Since then, there has also been the Bagel incident, as well as the Bowl incident, which occurred when a glass bowl exploded over an open flame in Home Ec, sending shatters of glass into her arm. Ironically, the scars look suspiciously like the result of some retardly botched suicide attempt.

This constant barrage of bad luck, though it sucks terribly at the time, is just another Stromberg oddity. We're so used to it by now that it's almost a given that something will almost always go wrong when you least expect it. And, conversely, something incredibly right must follow. This irony is reflected in much of my writing - it's at once a curse and a blessing; the mark of my namesake.

The fact that my sister is also using it to her artistic advantage, is deserving of applause. I believe her most recent work says it best:

 

Check out Ceri's other works below. (And please buy her merchandise to fund her future hospital bills):

• Official Corrsolla Robot Website
• Deviant Art
• Facebook 

‽

FLASHBACK FRIDAY!: Wedding Bell Blues

For my ongoing theme of planes, trains and automobiles within the history of the Strombergs, below is my mother's romantic recollection of her memorable wedding to my father, 24 years ago. It is a tale of Newark hitchhiking, creepy Poconos hotels, death-defying leaps, and the quirky beginning to our family.

*[My wisdom-infused comments in italicized brackets...to shed a modern light.]

Then night before the wedding, I traveled from Brooklyn to the then unknown [to me] territory of Newark, New Jersey to pick up Aunt Nancy from the airport. At the time I drove a 1 year old Hyundai. The plane was delayed and the terminal of arrival was changed, so sometime after midnight after riding around to find the other terminal (Newark was small and its terminals and roads not well indicated back then) I picked up Aunt Nancy, started home and probably due to the late hour or my stress level or poor driving I bottomed out on a raised concrete fork in the road where there was some road construction.

So there we were, trying to flag down some help in Newark, NJ, after midnight (remember no cell phones back then; three women, alone - one with bright red hair - in Newark). A noisy, battered-up, suspicious looking car pulled up to help, immediately followed by a much nicer sedan that pulled up to the side of the creepy car exchanged some words, and the creepy car drove off. Three off-duty policeman came out of the sedan to offer there help (lucky us).

They asked if I lived nearby. Nope, of course; I was from Brooklyn. "Can your Dad or Mon come and get you?" Nope, no Dad, and Mom doesn't drive. [Mom was only 25 at the time.] I explained the circumstances: I'm getting married in a few hours. My fiancee is out with his buddies (again the era of no cell phones).

Little did I know Dad was out with Uncle Robbie jumping off the Highlands Bridge at the time! [I guess this was their idea of a bachelor party. For his wedding, he had some nice barnacle-ravaged hands.]

Anyway, the very kind policeman helped calm me down (I was pretty upset) and took my bridesmaids to dinner, while one of them took me to rent a car and vouch for me (at the time a driver under the age of 25 could usually not rent a car). I rented a car, picked up the girls at dinner, and drove home to Brooklyn. Only about 6-7 hours left.

I showed up at my wedding in great rented car (Dad though it was wedding surprise ha ha.) We took the car to our honeymoon in the Poconos. We were traveling late at night in the fog and stopped for directions (remember no google maps, no cell phones...)
[Yes mom, I understand, we have it SO much better nowadays.]

We ended up at a deserted hotel in the process of construction (it looked finished). The doores opened when we entered, whereupon a security guard came up and asked us if we saw Joe (don't actually remember the name he asked). He didn't ask who we were or why we were there in an emplty lobby after midnight. We asked about lodgings, he said the hotel had not opened yet (eerily, we got in with no problem) He suggested a boarding house at the end of the main street, we thanked him. He seemed worried about Joe and took off looking for him. This gave us the creeps and Dad and I quickly returned to our rented car and headed toward a major highway.

Never knew what that whole thing was about. Sounds too much like film noir or Twilight Zone.

On the way home from the honeymoon while traveling through NYC, I needed to stop for gas and got off the FDR drive in Manhattan. After getting gas and looking for the entrance back onto the FDR drive through some side streets, a man ran out between two parked cars to catch a bus, running right into the passenger side of my car, striking the passenger windshield and side window. It was horribly frightening. The man had a huge bump on his forehead, like in the cartoons; it grew as we were tending to him. There was a hospital riight across the street, where he was treated.
He was released that day.
Ominous happenings, eh?
We got married anyway...with success."

As always with the Strombergs, even through the craziest of shenanigans, things tend to work out. Like me, for instance.

.....Although, I suppose this is open to interpretation.

3/23 Update
And just for the record, here is come clarification from my dad:

"The car was a Renault Alliance not a Hyundai...The Hyundai, I totaled running into a toilet bowl after going through the front of a house on Union Ave."

Thanks for clearing that up, dad.......Wait-what?

FLASHBACK FRIDAY!: The Stromberg Family Car Curse

Sure, I'll do a theme every week. Why not?

And why shouldn't it have something to do with my childhood, since that seems to be my fixation? (I know, I know I write about it all the time.....well guess what? Deal with it.)

*Last night I was able to dig up some concept characters from an old NYU Animation course. Lili, the cartoon depiction on the left of my real-life little sis (and her fishie), seemed like the perfect mascot for Flashback Fridays.

I figured I would start off with a great piece of Stromberg family lore:

The Infamous Stromberg Family "Carrrr Currrse"
~

::cue spooky music, thunder claps::

For as long as I can remember, my family has owned the crappiest cars known to man. We have never had the luxury of a brand new or certified pre-owned beauty; only sad clunkers, pre-used by other folks in their four-wheeled glory days, but too abused by time to be reaped of its transportation benefits by the Stromberg clan. And through the struggles of failing transmissions, broken windows and noisy mufflers, my father still insisted on maintaining a long lineage of half-assed purchases.

I am convinced that somewhere in Stromberg history, we must have royally pissed off a car. Perhaps there's something rotten in my namesake's history of engines. Nevertheless, this curse has been passed onto the next generation, ie me, for my luck with cars did not get any better once I got my license. I learned to identify the smell of anti-freeze before it even started leaking. (This is why I live in NY and take public transportation.)

Anyway, here are some of the highlights of the Stromberg transportation heritage. Or should I say, here lie the ghosts of Stromberg past. May they forever rest in pieces.

∆ Mom's Hyundai
Admittedly, it was a great little car. However, when it was broken into in Brooklyn, and the entire dashboard was stolen, mom dec</span>ided it was best to move to New Jersey. I also distinctly remember sitting in this car as a child while my mom pulled away angrily, as an insurance (or some other corporate asshole) stood waving his arms to try to get her from leaving, and nearly running him over. Don't deny it mom. It's okay. Cuz that's pretty bad-ass.

∆ Dad's White Convertible
Dad's baby. It had a pre-ripped black leather interior that would heat up like a frying pan in the sun, a black cloth top, and a decal of a naked woman bending over (that was always awkward). Dad would play the same Alice Cooper cassette over and over on the way to softball games. But the car had no heat, and it broke down at least every week.

∆ Dad's Big Ugly Grave Digger

Dad's bigger baby. It was a bright yellow monster with a crappy pipe design on the side doors. When you started the engine, the whole neighborhood roared, and you most likely experienced an apocalyptic heart attack. There were also fist-sized spiders hiding in the back.

My mom HATED this truck, claiming it never worked and wasn't worth the money. But I will never forget that day in 2nd grade when that huge monster came chugging into our elementary school parking lot. Every kid out there dropped their jaws in awe; I felt like a queen as I was lifted up 3 feet to sit in the passenger seat and waved to all the gawking parents and their boring two-door coupes. It was the best day of my 7 year old life.

∆ Chevrolet Silver Lumina Van
We were so excited to finally have a VAN big enough to fit our ever-growing family! And it had working features! It was used, but it was still new to us. However, things started deteriorating after a few years. The sliding door could only be opened from the outside, while the front drivers side door could only be opened from the inside. The CD player didn't work (major bummer) and sometimes the engine would overheat, which resulted in a cascade of antifreeze to pour out from under the hood.

On the way back from grandma's on Rte 8 in Jersey, our radio kept going in and out: the battery was dying. We pulled onto the side of the road, as I sadly left the Entemann's crumb donut grandma had given me behind on the dashboard. We entered a bar to wait for dad to show up. This is when we realized that it was half bar/half chinese restaurant that also sold fried chicken and burgers. An old man stood in the corner creepily meowing like a cat, while a Steven Seagal movie played on TV.

This van may have died for a two year hiatus, collecting leaves and grime in our driveway while we still had to pay insurance, but then it was back with a brand new engine; just in time for me to get my license at 18....and subsequently crash it during a botched left turn, leaving a gaping hole in the front.

∆ Two Lincoln Continentals
They were comfy, low to the ground, and classy for a Stromberg car. But they were old. The ceiling was caving in and the mufflers were fucked so much that it sounded like a motorcycle driving down the highway.

I started driving our Continental to high school, which was an hour away. One particular spring day after class, I decided to follow a group of friends to the beach, which was only about 10 minutes away. We had only traveled a few feet when I hear a horrible scraping noise.

"Geez, who's car is making that annoying sound? Doesn't sound good."

My friend Esther and I looked out the window and saw someone in the next car signaling us frantically with their hands.

"Oh, shit. It's me."

At the beach I made the startling discovery that my muffler was dragging behind the car, hanging by a thread. A friend tied it up with twine temporarily, but warned me it wouldn't last long. Back at the school parking lot I called my dad:

Me: "Dad, there's something wrong with the car..."
Dad: "SHIT! What did you do?"
Me: "....Nothing! The muffler is hanging by a thread, it looks like it's gonna fall-"
Dad: "SHIT GODAMMIT!"
>Me: "...we tied it up with some twine..."
Dad: "That's gonna catch fire! That COCKSUCKER! I put a Pepsi can on it; I thought that would hold it!"
Me: "You put a WHAT????"
Dad: "Listen, this is what you gotta do. Get a wire hanger, and bend it, then wrap it around-"
Me: "Dad, I don't know how to do that!"
Dad: "Why can't the janitor do it?"

So, there I am, at the end of the day, crouching next to my principal who is laying under my car as he wraps a wire hanger around the muffler. He is still wearing his suit.

∆ Tara's 1972 Dodge Dart Swinger
My first car ever. My dad pushed me to get it, since he was the one who really appreciated it, but I fell in love easy. Quite simply, this car was HOT. I got more looks from dudes than I had ever gotten before (...mostly they were drooling over the car, not me). But it didn't matter; I had high hopes for this pin-up on wheels. I was gonna get it re-vamped, with some sky blue paint and a radio that played more than just the AM stations.

But this thing was 30 years old, and it showed. The floor was rotting away; there were two bowling ball sized holes on near the gas pedal, so when I drove, I worried about it turning it into the Flinstone's car. Neither the heat nor the AC functioned, and the entire dashboard would shake if you went over 60 mph. It also cost me $1,200 for a new transmission.

But I shall always remember it fondly.

***

Tune into Flashback Friday next week when I share a Matlock Memory!