The other night we were watching an episode of "True Life"--which is, if you've never seen it, a pretty good show despite being on MTv--about oxycontin addicts. It was an old episode, from 2001, and I found myself disappointed at the end, wishing there was follow-up telling us where the people profiled were now five or six years later, who was alive and who was dead, who was still using, who was clean.
In particular, there was a young man from Maine who had started using as soon as he went away to college and over four years progressed to IV use. He seemed to be a nice kid, with a really supportive and concerned mom and sister. He went to a rehab center where they did "rapid detox" where they put you under anaesthesia and give you a drug that blocks your opiate receptors and when you wake up several hours later, you supposedly aren't physically addicted anymore. Then you go through a month of intensive counseling to work on how and why you started using and how to keep from going back, etc. At the end of the program, they showed him three months after rehab. He was working construction, not using, living at home, but basically not socializing at all because all his friends and acquaintances used drugs and he couldn't be around them. I was really rooting for him to make it. But it underscored for me what I really don't understand about addiction.
In my family there is a lot of alcoholism, on both sides. There are also--as you know, Bob--a lot of mood disorders. The two things go together, both people self-medicating their depression and anxiety with booze and the fact that the two traits are genetically linked. What we don't seem to have, though, are addictive personalities. If you know me personally, you probably know my joke about how I *know* I don't have one--I won't repeat it here. And my dad was (I guess, in rehab-speak, is) an alcoholic, though he hasn't had a drink in over thirty years. He was a very functional alcoholic; when his boss took him aside and told him his drinking was starting to affect his job, that's the day he decided to quit. And he was physically addicted. He had to go to detox and he had the hallucinations, the whole thing. But once he got out, he just never drank again. No AA, no relapsing. He even went back to his part-time second job, bar tending for my uncle for years and years, which is, I guess, a huge no-no for people "in recovery."
I could tell you other stories like that about other close family members, but it's the same point: physical addiction, can't handle alcohol on a physical level, can't drink moderately like a regular person, but no apparent addictive personality. When they wise up and realize it's a problem, they just quit and that's that. None of this relapsing and/or making their whole life about *not* drinking that seems par for the course in everything you see and hear about addicts.
So, I guess what I don't understand is this. I believe alcoholism and drug addiction are diseases. I've seen for myself that inability to physically process alcohol like normal people do. But is the psychological addiction, the addictive personality, also a disease? A separate disease or part of the same disease? Why should the young man in Maine who isn't physically addicted to opiates any more and who wants to stay clean and have a normal happy life and who has a nice family who loves him not be able to stay off the drugs?
Well, I mean, I hope he did.
xoxo
Friday, November 30, 2007
Thursday, November 29, 2007
rowwrrr
D had a doctor's appointment yesterday and we met up with his case manager L there. She is always trying to get him to go places or do things with her, to work on the social anxiety/agoraphobia thing, and he always politely declines. Well, yesterday, we had been talking in the appointment about exercise--D saying he might start lifting again, since he's got weights at home--and afterwards L said, "D, would you ever want to go for a walk around your neighborhood with me?" (Her sister lives near us and she told us when we first met her not to be surprised if we saw her around our way, that she often walked by our street.)
D, of course said "no" and I said, "I think he's afraid of running into someone he knows, L." She was like, "Why?!? Do you think they would know who I am?" I said, "Yeah, they'd just think L was your older girlfriend. That would have to up your street cred."
And then she said, deadpan, "And, not for nothing, but I am hot." We were dying. I said, "Yeah. What's that word? Cougar?" and she rowwrr'd. D was just smirking at us and shaking his head like: And I'm the one who's supposed to be mentally ill here?
My Skills and Dynamics teacher, the one who had such a stick up her ass regarding therapeutic boundaries, would have said this whole conversation was *highly* inappropriate. But I'll say this--D did later make a commitment to go Christmas shopping with L so he could buy my present, which is fabulous. I think the Commonwealth is damn lucky to have her working for them and we're damn lucky to have had her assigned to us.
xoxo
D, of course said "no" and I said, "I think he's afraid of running into someone he knows, L." She was like, "Why?!? Do you think they would know who I am?" I said, "Yeah, they'd just think L was your older girlfriend. That would have to up your street cred."
And then she said, deadpan, "And, not for nothing, but I am hot." We were dying. I said, "Yeah. What's that word? Cougar?" and she rowwrr'd. D was just smirking at us and shaking his head like: And I'm the one who's supposed to be mentally ill here?
My Skills and Dynamics teacher, the one who had such a stick up her ass regarding therapeutic boundaries, would have said this whole conversation was *highly* inappropriate. But I'll say this--D did later make a commitment to go Christmas shopping with L so he could buy my present, which is fabulous. I think the Commonwealth is damn lucky to have her working for them and we're damn lucky to have had her assigned to us.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
and as an extra bonus bit of cardio
When I came downstairs a little bit ago after finishing working out, my dad was freaking because he had just let Evil Kitty in and she had brought with her a bird. A live bird. Which was now flying around the downstairs of my house.
Cue ten minutes of chasing it around the kitchen, dining room, and living room with a towel until I was finally able to grab it and liberate it out the front door.
So today it was 55 minutes of grueling cardio, suckas.
xoxo
Cue ten minutes of chasing it around the kitchen, dining room, and living room with a towel until I was finally able to grab it and liberate it out the front door.
So today it was 55 minutes of grueling cardio, suckas.
xoxo
Monday, November 26, 2007
45 minutes!
of grueling cardio, suckahs. It took a lot of (post)punk to get me through that. But, yes, day one was a success.
(I'll also note that no one is stepping up to the plate and volunteering to go bowling with me. I think this is a sad replay of last year's kickboxing debacle, by which I mean to say, as nicely as is possible, you all suck.)
Now, for some substance and actual content: I finally finished reading Atonement, a book I only bought because the trailer for the film has been played before every single movie I've gone to for the last three months. Now, without spoiling either the book or the movie--should it actually follow the book--all I can say is I was pleasantly shocked and shockingly pleased at the ending, in which it becomes clear that what you've assumed is true or what you assumed you've been reading is in fact something different. I don't know how they'll have filmed it to carry off the same structure. It seems like one of those literary techniques that is elegant on the page but would seem lame dramatized. But now I suppose I'll have to go see it and find out.
Plus, of course, Kiera Knightly, so yeah.
xoxo
(I'll also note that no one is stepping up to the plate and volunteering to go bowling with me. I think this is a sad replay of last year's kickboxing debacle, by which I mean to say, as nicely as is possible, you all suck.)
Now, for some substance and actual content: I finally finished reading Atonement, a book I only bought because the trailer for the film has been played before every single movie I've gone to for the last three months. Now, without spoiling either the book or the movie--should it actually follow the book--all I can say is I was pleasantly shocked and shockingly pleased at the ending, in which it becomes clear that what you've assumed is true or what you assumed you've been reading is in fact something different. I don't know how they'll have filmed it to carry off the same structure. It seems like one of those literary techniques that is elegant on the page but would seem lame dramatized. But now I suppose I'll have to go see it and find out.
Plus, of course, Kiera Knightly, so yeah.
xoxo
Sunday, November 25, 2007
it's a new dawn, it's a new day...
This really isn't so much of a rant as it is a long expression of befuddlement. I'm still kind of processing the whole "bad parent! bad parent!" thing I observed on the internet, and I realize that one of the things that befuddles me the most is how much parenting of small children has changed, not only since I was a small child, but even since D was. Listening to what some people today apparently think is essential for normal child development makes me wonder how any of us ever learned to read and write, get along with others, or prepare to live in society.
I heard a whole bunch o' stuff about how "kindergarten is the new first grade" and how children must be in preschool by the time they're three or they'll be at a horrible disadvantage in life. Okay. Lemme say this. I am so old that not only wasn't kindergarten the equivilent of first grade in my day, it wasn't even mandatory. And I, like many of my contemporaries, did not go. I remember my first day of first grade (at age 5 years, 9 months), wherein Sister Linda had on the bulletin board fall leaves made of construction paper with our names printed on them and the first order of business on entering was to see if you could find your own name. It wasn't expected that you could. Any reading ability at all put you ahead of the game. And despite that shocking fact, we all became literate. Many of us even went to college. Amazing, no? Must have been the Schoolhouse Rock. (G'head, sing "Conjunction Junction," you know you want to.)
I also heard a bunch of stuff about it being "high time" that a first grader was involved in afterschool activities, that it was borderline neglect if they weren't in Brownies and soccer and dance class. Well, lemme see. I will admit I was a Brownie and then a Girl Scout until it became hopelessly uncool. I don't think it did anything for my social, intellectual, or spiritual development per se, though we did have the Menstruation Film there, thank god, or when I got my first period in 5th fucking grade, I'd have thought I was dying. Otherwise, it was a pretty useless waste of a couple afternoons a month. There was also at some point candlepin bowling league (couldn't bowl then, can't bowl now, though, goddamn, if any of you all ever want to go bowling, say the word, because it sounds like a hoot!), some basic swimming and dancing at the Y, and a brief, brief stab at guitar lessons, which my parents were not very supportive of, it being a known fact that no one in our family has any musical talent at all. And they conflicted with Saturday morning cartoons, so you know there was no long-term in it for me.
But, y'know, I was deeply introverted, then as now, and seriously, after school and having to deal with people all day, I was exhausted. Mostly I wanted to just go home and watch "Match Game," or play Barbies with my cousin who lived downstairs, or read my library books, or walk to the Dairy Queen with Debbie L. What happens with kids like me these days? Is the theory that if you force them to constantly be involved with other people in groups and goal-oriented activities that you will remake their natural personalities and they won't be people who like to be alone or with just another person or two, thinking and reading and using their imaginations? And even if that works, is that really what's best for society? Don't you all need people like me? Where's the next generation of overly-analytical bloggers coming from, I ask you. Sigh.
So, yeah. It's a whole new world out there. And I remain perplexed.
xoxo
I heard a whole bunch o' stuff about how "kindergarten is the new first grade" and how children must be in preschool by the time they're three or they'll be at a horrible disadvantage in life. Okay. Lemme say this. I am so old that not only wasn't kindergarten the equivilent of first grade in my day, it wasn't even mandatory. And I, like many of my contemporaries, did not go. I remember my first day of first grade (at age 5 years, 9 months), wherein Sister Linda had on the bulletin board fall leaves made of construction paper with our names printed on them and the first order of business on entering was to see if you could find your own name. It wasn't expected that you could. Any reading ability at all put you ahead of the game. And despite that shocking fact, we all became literate. Many of us even went to college. Amazing, no? Must have been the Schoolhouse Rock. (G'head, sing "Conjunction Junction," you know you want to.)
I also heard a bunch of stuff about it being "high time" that a first grader was involved in afterschool activities, that it was borderline neglect if they weren't in Brownies and soccer and dance class. Well, lemme see. I will admit I was a Brownie and then a Girl Scout until it became hopelessly uncool. I don't think it did anything for my social, intellectual, or spiritual development per se, though we did have the Menstruation Film there, thank god, or when I got my first period in 5th fucking grade, I'd have thought I was dying. Otherwise, it was a pretty useless waste of a couple afternoons a month. There was also at some point candlepin bowling league (couldn't bowl then, can't bowl now, though, goddamn, if any of you all ever want to go bowling, say the word, because it sounds like a hoot!), some basic swimming and dancing at the Y, and a brief, brief stab at guitar lessons, which my parents were not very supportive of, it being a known fact that no one in our family has any musical talent at all. And they conflicted with Saturday morning cartoons, so you know there was no long-term in it for me.
But, y'know, I was deeply introverted, then as now, and seriously, after school and having to deal with people all day, I was exhausted. Mostly I wanted to just go home and watch "Match Game," or play Barbies with my cousin who lived downstairs, or read my library books, or walk to the Dairy Queen with Debbie L. What happens with kids like me these days? Is the theory that if you force them to constantly be involved with other people in groups and goal-oriented activities that you will remake their natural personalities and they won't be people who like to be alone or with just another person or two, thinking and reading and using their imaginations? And even if that works, is that really what's best for society? Don't you all need people like me? Where's the next generation of overly-analytical bloggers coming from, I ask you. Sigh.
So, yeah. It's a whole new world out there. And I remain perplexed.
xoxo
so many, many thoughts
Lots I want to blog about, but I think I shall do it thusly: group the shorter entries into this post and then do the big rant as a topic all its own. Let's get started then!
1.) Eunice Kennedy Shriver. There was a story on the early news this morning about Ms Shriver being in MGH over the past week, probably prompted by some digging around as to why Maria and the Governator were in town for the Celts game on Friday. The news bit showed Ms Shriver receiving some award or other in the not-so-distant past--a tiny, tiny, emaciated woman in a sequined gown with a wild blondish shoulder-length bob framing a face so wrinkled you could barely make out her facial features. Now I really don't mean to be mean, but the effect was like nothing so much as if someone had unwrapped a mummy, stuck it in a cocktail dress, and plopped a wig on its head. First of all, you people have more money than God: buy the poor woman a fucking case of Ensure, okay? Secondly, this should be a cautionary tale to all of us about the importance of sunscreen. Seriously, she's only four or five years older than my dad and she looked about 116.
2.) The Police. Tripleindemnity and I mock Sting endlessly for a wide variety of things: Tantric sex, the lameosity of his solo career, the fact that on the reunion tour he apparently was no longer able to hit any of his high notes, the incident when tripleindemnity's bro played on a bill with Sting Jr. that proved--to me anyway--that Sting Sr. is, personality-wise, a self-important douche, and (finally) the fact that one of Eddy's life aims is to "have Christmas with Sting and Trudie Styler!" is one of the funniest Ab Fab jokes ever. Yes, I am aware that the mockery of a couple of middle-aged Massachusetts peasants/music fans probably makes Sting weep as he dives in his piles o' cash. Nevertheless, despite all the mockery, tripleindemnity recently gifted me with a two-disc Police CD, enabling me in my recent music nostalgiafest in which it is still 1981. (I swear, it'll pass soon.) I was listening to this CD today, and again, all Sting-bashing aside, I must say that The Police were an awesome band. Those songs hold up, sounding as good as they did 25 years ago. If you were to hear them on the radio today, they'd sound fresh and modern. I think there are two interrelated reasons for that (besides the fact that, yeah I know, the 80s nostalgiafest is not just going on in my head): no one else sounds like them and they were not endlessly copied by other, lesser bands.
3.) Exercise. Now that I'm back more or less working five days at the hospital, weight gain seems inevitable. There is nothing to eat in that cafeteria that isn't carbs and grease, plus there is always a crapload of food in the office itself, especially once holiday season rolls around. I've decided the only way I can possibly combat that is to exercise every day from now through Christmas, and I'm asking you guys to please hold me accountable. I do a lot better when someone's holding me accountable. Gracias.
4.) Chav. I learned a new word this weekend! Do you know what a chav, a chavette, or chavvy is? A chav is, apparently, a British species of white trash. Go look it up in the urban dictionary for further clarification, if you'd like. I loved the description of a chavette (female chav, of course) wearing a hairstyle called "the Croyden facelift"--i.e. a ponytail or bun so tightly pulled back that she has a permanent look of surprise. This is paired, apparently, with accessories like huge hoop earrings and a pram full of at least two crying babies which she is swearing at. And it occurs to me that I see women with that exact same hairdo and jewelry, (and poorly taken-care-of babies) just about every day here in greater Boston. Which leads me to wonder: how exactly do *poor people* trends spread? The teenage moms at the welfare office in Croyden UK or in Salem MA are not picking up that look from the pages of Vogue, TV shows, or even rap videos. So how do they dress and groom exactly alike with the Atlantic Ocean between them? It is a puzzlement.
xoxo
Friday, November 23, 2007
you named your kid *what*?
I had a little girl in work the other day who was named Dezirea...pronounced like the (real, actual) name Desiree. I have no idea if this was a conscious choice in creative spelling or whether mom had just never seen the name in print and took her best shot. I also have no idea which of those possibilities is sadder.
But the atrocity of this pales next to my two favorite patient-name stories. There was the family in which the two brothers were called Harley and Bud. It makes me sad to this day that their mom never (as far as I know!) gave them a little sister Marlboro. And then there's my very very favorite: a baby girl named Nautica. She's just lucky she wasn't a boy, or her name would've been MembersOnly. Or, possibly, North Face.
Okay, I'll stop now.
xoxo
But the atrocity of this pales next to my two favorite patient-name stories. There was the family in which the two brothers were called Harley and Bud. It makes me sad to this day that their mom never (as far as I know!) gave them a little sister Marlboro. And then there's my very very favorite: a baby girl named Nautica. She's just lucky she wasn't a boy, or her name would've been MembersOnly. Or, possibly, North Face.
Okay, I'll stop now.
xoxo
Thursday, November 22, 2007
is there something wrong...
with someone who, watching a Court TV show about a maximum security facility for juvenile offenders, hears a bit wherein a very agitated young man is being cajoled by a negotiator to give up a possible weapon with the promise of a phone call to his mom, and bursts into tears on her living room sofa?
Yeah! That's what I thought too!
Jesus he'p me.
xoxo
Yeah! That's what I thought too!
Jesus he'p me.
xoxo
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
because I was prodded
It was brought up to me that I never discussed going to Alibi for my birthday. That would be a conscious decision. I'm afraid I've been putting forth the impression that I am a lush, which would be highly inaccurate.
But, if you must know, I did have some pomegranate martini thingies at Alibi. I did also sit on an extremely lovely leather sofa while surrounded by jail bars at Alibi. None of these facts caused me to get into any trouble whatsoever, surprising or disappointing as that may be to any of you all.
Happy Thanksgiving.
xoxo
But, if you must know, I did have some pomegranate martini thingies at Alibi. I did also sit on an extremely lovely leather sofa while surrounded by jail bars at Alibi. None of these facts caused me to get into any trouble whatsoever, surprising or disappointing as that may be to any of you all.
Happy Thanksgiving.
xoxo
in praise of napping
Seriously, I think I've done this blog before, but goddamn. There is very little I find more pleasurable in life. In fact, if I were ever to finish filling out my complete profile on here, I might just list napping as my number one interest.
Now, if you need an excuse, you could always have sex beforehand, or you could flip on a game or put on a DVD for an "accidental" nap. But the best napping, IMO, is climbing under the nice toasty covers purposefully in the middle of the day with the unapologetic intention to sleep. Ahhhh.
I had an interesting dream whilst napping today, though. I dreamt that someone called me while I was sleeping, but when I tried to access the voicemail on my cell, Sprint had changed the interface completely and the menus on my phone didn't do what they were supposed to do any more. So I had to listen to the messages on the XM radio. Because XM and Sprint had merged.
I guess that's the one downside to napping. You remember your dreams and then you bore your friends recounting them.
xoxo
Now, if you need an excuse, you could always have sex beforehand, or you could flip on a game or put on a DVD for an "accidental" nap. But the best napping, IMO, is climbing under the nice toasty covers purposefully in the middle of the day with the unapologetic intention to sleep. Ahhhh.
I had an interesting dream whilst napping today, though. I dreamt that someone called me while I was sleeping, but when I tried to access the voicemail on my cell, Sprint had changed the interface completely and the menus on my phone didn't do what they were supposed to do any more. So I had to listen to the messages on the XM radio. Because XM and Sprint had merged.
I guess that's the one downside to napping. You remember your dreams and then you bore your friends recounting them.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
judgmental judgers who judge
One of the things that has come to my attention in the dozen or so years that I've been on the internet is just how free and happy people are not only to judge other people's behavior and choices, but to loudly and publicly announce these judgements, as if how anyone else lives their life is any of their business. And I'm not even talking big sticky social/moral issues, like deciding for other people that they can't have an abortion or marry their (gay) boyfriend--I'm talking about not agreeing with other people's parenting or relationship or financial or, for god's sake, fashion decisions and feeling this means you have a right to comment on them.
I mean, we all make many many conscious and unconscious judgments every freaking day. And we all have our little pet peeves that make crazy with brief irrational hatreds, right? (Move *into* the train, just move into the fucking train, you goddamn fucking morons, or go back to Iowa or, possibly, Sudbury where you belong, 'k?) But here's the difference. Most of us in real life keep our little judgments and irrational prejudices and opinions to ourselves unless we are asked. Is it just the anonymity of the online experience that makes people feel free to tell other people that their choices, or other people's choices, are wrong?
Or does this go on in real life too, and I am insulated from it for the most part because I don't gossip?
xoxo
I mean, we all make many many conscious and unconscious judgments every freaking day. And we all have our little pet peeves that make crazy with brief irrational hatreds, right? (Move *into* the train, just move into the fucking train, you goddamn fucking morons, or go back to Iowa or, possibly, Sudbury where you belong, 'k?) But here's the difference. Most of us in real life keep our little judgments and irrational prejudices and opinions to ourselves unless we are asked. Is it just the anonymity of the online experience that makes people feel free to tell other people that their choices, or other people's choices, are wrong?
Or does this go on in real life too, and I am insulated from it for the most part because I don't gossip?
xoxo
Monday, November 19, 2007
chem question
(You know I like to put these questions forth to you, my lovely blog readers, because I trust your intelligence and knowledge implicitly, right?)
As I was discussing with tripleindemnity, I am thinking about making cranberry sauce from scratch for Thanksgiving. Why is another great question, because my family likes the crap in the can, but again, that's neither here nor there. My real question is thus:
I looked up how to do this in How to Cook Everything, my fall-back resource for instructions and recipes for basic things that I don't know how to do or make. It said to use 1 1/2 cups sugar, or 2 cups sugar if you want it thicker. So am I right to deduce from this that there is something in the chemical properties of the sugar that makes the sauce gel, and that it would be impossible to substitute splenda for some or all of it?
xoxo
As I was discussing with tripleindemnity, I am thinking about making cranberry sauce from scratch for Thanksgiving. Why is another great question, because my family likes the crap in the can, but again, that's neither here nor there. My real question is thus:
I looked up how to do this in How to Cook Everything, my fall-back resource for instructions and recipes for basic things that I don't know how to do or make. It said to use 1 1/2 cups sugar, or 2 cups sugar if you want it thicker. So am I right to deduce from this that there is something in the chemical properties of the sugar that makes the sauce gel, and that it would be impossible to substitute splenda for some or all of it?
xoxo
Friday, November 16, 2007
it occurs to me...
that I could have just combined the previous two entries, because all available evidence points to A-Rod liking bleached-blond, fake-boobed women who either a.) wear inappropriate clothing or b.) take it off for money. Ah, when blog topics collide.
But that's neither here nor there. I just really wanted to report back that not only did my friend G send me an actual card in the mail (as, you may remember, I had suspected was in the works) but also enclosed a DVD copy of Psycho Beach Party.
As they say: squeeeeeeeee!
You can bet I'll be back with a review.
xoxo
But that's neither here nor there. I just really wanted to report back that not only did my friend G send me an actual card in the mail (as, you may remember, I had suspected was in the works) but also enclosed a DVD copy of Psycho Beach Party.
As they say: squeeeeeeeee!
You can bet I'll be back with a review.
xoxo
I am divided
Today's little news item that made me go "hmmmm" is the one about the girl (excuse me, woman) who was kicked off and/or made to change clothes on Southwest Airlines last summer because she was too skimpily clad and is now cashing in on her ten minutes of fame by posing for Playboy. I really don't know how I feel about this.
On the one hand, I certainly don't think posing nude is disgraceful, shameful, or any other -ful. And, you know, I am not now, nor have I ever been, rolling in the dough, so if the opportunity to make a big chunk of change in some way which was neither illegal nor contrary to my morals or sense of self, I certainly would take it, and can't fault anyone for doing the same.
On the other hand, she works at Hooters. And has implants and bleached blond hair. Which are, you know, cardinal signs of being a useless douche.
So, yeah. Divided.
xoxo
On the one hand, I certainly don't think posing nude is disgraceful, shameful, or any other -ful. And, you know, I am not now, nor have I ever been, rolling in the dough, so if the opportunity to make a big chunk of change in some way which was neither illegal nor contrary to my morals or sense of self, I certainly would take it, and can't fault anyone for doing the same.
On the other hand, she works at Hooters. And has implants and bleached blond hair. Which are, you know, cardinal signs of being a useless douche.
So, yeah. Divided.
xoxo
Thursday, November 15, 2007
crossing my fingers
I hope hope hope the news pans out and A-Rod stays with the Yankees where his prima donna, divisive, poor sportsmanship-like, choker ass belongs. That would make my Thanksgiving.
Hell, it would make me happy all the way through New Year's.
xoxo
Hell, it would make me happy all the way through New Year's.
xoxo
virtual andrea
I spent hours yesterday--hours!--on this site where I could make a cartoon Andrea which could then be used to print cards and invitations and stickers, etc., (for money) or to make e-cards (for free), and I was very pleased with the result. It really does look like a cartoon Andrea, complete with ponytail, huge purse, cuffed jeans, sunglasses, and even Evil Kitty as my familiar. What I really wanted to do was to make it as an avatar for my blog, but apparently to do that you need to request it from them and they set it up so it links back to them to raise money for breast cancer and you need to tell them what size it's supposed to be and blah blah and it sounds very complex, far more complex than I can probably deal with.
So! In case I never actually get it up and working as a blog illustration, but you want to see what I'd look like as a cartoon, lemme know and I'll send you an e-card!
xoxo
So! In case I never actually get it up and working as a blog illustration, but you want to see what I'd look like as a cartoon, lemme know and I'll send you an e-card!
xoxo
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
rejection
Several different conversations I've had lately have left me thinking about rejection. Specifically, that our responses to perceived rejection, real or imaginary, our experiences with rejection, and/or our fears of rejection inform most of our dealings with other people and much of our everyday behavior.
My own lil cross to bear in this department is the marked tendency to reject people first before they can reject me. I've struggled with this for a long time, and while the self-awareness involved in knowing that it's my default setting is, I guess, a step in the right direction, it doesn't mean that I don't slip right back into the behavior pattern if I'm not watching myself carefully. What's even sadder is seeing echoes of it in my kid, whether from inherited temperament or learned behavior or, most likely, that murky stew of both.
One of my closest friends is my exact opposite in this. Wherein, if I think someone may possibly not like me, my reaction is to think "god, what a [insert your favorite insult here]" and to think I wouldn't want a person like that as a friend, so there. Her reaction if she thinks someone doesn't like her is to wonder obsessively what she's done to make them not like her and what she can do to reverse the tide. I'm not sure which of us is actually more fucked in the head, but I'm pretty certain that I don't need a PhD in psychology to decide neither of us handles this particularly well. Heh.
And then we won't even discuss how I've managed to make it into my 40s without ever actually being dumped, because of a.) preemptive dumping or b.) hooking up with people whose dysfunction in this area is to just behave really really badly when they want out, so that they never have to be the bad guy by being the one to leave. Or c.) both.
I dunno. Being a human being is an interesting condition.
xoxo
My own lil cross to bear in this department is the marked tendency to reject people first before they can reject me. I've struggled with this for a long time, and while the self-awareness involved in knowing that it's my default setting is, I guess, a step in the right direction, it doesn't mean that I don't slip right back into the behavior pattern if I'm not watching myself carefully. What's even sadder is seeing echoes of it in my kid, whether from inherited temperament or learned behavior or, most likely, that murky stew of both.
One of my closest friends is my exact opposite in this. Wherein, if I think someone may possibly not like me, my reaction is to think "god, what a [insert your favorite insult here]" and to think I wouldn't want a person like that as a friend, so there. Her reaction if she thinks someone doesn't like her is to wonder obsessively what she's done to make them not like her and what she can do to reverse the tide. I'm not sure which of us is actually more fucked in the head, but I'm pretty certain that I don't need a PhD in psychology to decide neither of us handles this particularly well. Heh.
And then we won't even discuss how I've managed to make it into my 40s without ever actually being dumped, because of a.) preemptive dumping or b.) hooking up with people whose dysfunction in this area is to just behave really really badly when they want out, so that they never have to be the bad guy by being the one to leave. Or c.) both.
I dunno. Being a human being is an interesting condition.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 13, 2007
ssssslick!
So, when someone sends you an e-mail the week before your birthday that says, "Sweetie darling! Could you send me your address when you get a moment?" do you think that possibly means they are sending you an actual real paper b-day card that requires stamps and a trip to the mailbox, instead of a lame-ass e-mail one like you made and sent to them from the comfort of your living room sofa?
My friends are the best.
Even if they're not real good with the whole cloak n' dagger stuff.
xoxo
My friends are the best.
Even if they're not real good with the whole cloak n' dagger stuff.
xoxo
my salad
I'm sitting here eating a huge steak tip salad full of feta-y goodness, with pita bread on the side, and thinking about what it represents.
First of all, it represents my complete moral weakness and lack of strength of character, since it's drug company swag, and I know that the fact that our [name deleted] rep has the advertising budget to casually and spontaneously drop by with a $75 lunch for eight people, only three of whom can actually write prescriptions, is part of the reason that meds cost so much and little old ladies eat cat food and families with no insurance lose their houses trying to pay for their drugs. Some little old woman is probably eating Friskies right now just because I'm chowing down a free salad. When, god knows, I could afford to buy my own lunch. And I don't need this huge mess of 800-calorie feta-y goodness at noon anyway.
But, damn, who passes up free food? Especially when it's free yummy food. A person with much stronger moral fiber than me, apparently.
Secondly, it represents what I would miss most, culinarily-speaking, were I ever to move away. Which I won't. But if I ever did--like say if I ever became fabulously rich and was able to buy property on some Caribbean island, or better yet, an island, and spend 11 months a year there, coming back to New England only in October so I could hike in the foliage--I would need to send my staff on my private jet back to eastern Massachusetts at least once a month to procure me a steak tip or chicken kabob salad. Because I don't think if you venture beyond the Land of the Greek Sub Shop, such things really exist.
Which is a shame. Feta-y goodness should belong to all the world's citizens. As long as, like, they pay for it themselves.
xoxo
First of all, it represents my complete moral weakness and lack of strength of character, since it's drug company swag, and I know that the fact that our [name deleted] rep has the advertising budget to casually and spontaneously drop by with a $75 lunch for eight people, only three of whom can actually write prescriptions, is part of the reason that meds cost so much and little old ladies eat cat food and families with no insurance lose their houses trying to pay for their drugs. Some little old woman is probably eating Friskies right now just because I'm chowing down a free salad. When, god knows, I could afford to buy my own lunch. And I don't need this huge mess of 800-calorie feta-y goodness at noon anyway.
But, damn, who passes up free food? Especially when it's free yummy food. A person with much stronger moral fiber than me, apparently.
Secondly, it represents what I would miss most, culinarily-speaking, were I ever to move away. Which I won't. But if I ever did--like say if I ever became fabulously rich and was able to buy property on some Caribbean island, or better yet, an island, and spend 11 months a year there, coming back to New England only in October so I could hike in the foliage--I would need to send my staff on my private jet back to eastern Massachusetts at least once a month to procure me a steak tip or chicken kabob salad. Because I don't think if you venture beyond the Land of the Greek Sub Shop, such things really exist.
Which is a shame. Feta-y goodness should belong to all the world's citizens. As long as, like, they pay for it themselves.
xoxo
Monday, November 12, 2007
more updatery
It occurs to me that as much as blogging is by definition the ultimate in self-absorption, writing updates to previous blog entries--as if anyone is carefully remembering what you've written before and waiting breathlessly to hear what happened next--is self-absorption squared. Nevertheless I shall proceed.
1.) I forgot to tell you all, but my ex won his election last week, the smear campaign being apparently unsuccessful. It does my heart good to see voters considering the issues, instead of the gossip. Or maybe the losing candidates just really sucked.
2.) My Superior Immune System is letting me down. I didn't start back on the vitamin C drops quickly enough and I have a tiny, tiny cold.
3.) The Red Sox are still world champions, Eric Gagne remains dead to me, and I ain't getting any younger.
Carry on.
xoxo
1.) I forgot to tell you all, but my ex won his election last week, the smear campaign being apparently unsuccessful. It does my heart good to see voters considering the issues, instead of the gossip. Or maybe the losing candidates just really sucked.
2.) My Superior Immune System is letting me down. I didn't start back on the vitamin C drops quickly enough and I have a tiny, tiny cold.
3.) The Red Sox are still world champions, Eric Gagne remains dead to me, and I ain't getting any younger.
Carry on.
xoxo
Sunday, November 11, 2007
in which I almost remove a digit
So, my best friend L was coming over today for dinner and a massage. While at the supermarket this morning buying a shitload of groceries, I decided to buy flowers too, so the table would look nice. They had sunflowers. I love sunflowers. Sunflowers have long stems. I needed to trim them to fit into the vase. You see where this story is going, right?
Yeah, somehow I managed to slip with the knife, which was really too dull for the job, but plenty sharp enough to take a shallow but quarter-inch-wide section of skin off my left index finger. "Motherfucker!" I yelled. Then I spent--I'm not exaggerating--an hour and a half attempting to get it to stop bleeding. I tried direct pressure, lots of direct pressure. I tried bandaids...I bled through three. I tried liquid bandage, which apparently doesn't work too well when you're spurting blood.
L called me to tell me she was leaving Worcester. "I'm having a big problem," I said. "I cut my finger and it won't stop bleeding." "Ohmygod, do you think you need stitches?" "No, no, it's not deep, it's just the top layer of skin, it's very vascular. I just wanted to let you know in case you get here and there's no food cooking." "We can go out for dinner. But leave me a note on the door if you decide to go to the hospital."
Finally I got some tissue to adhere to the cut (like when you nick yourself shaving?) and wrapped the whole finger so tightly in so much waterproof tape that no blood could leak out through it and that basically the circulation to the whole finger was, like, compromised. This enabled me to make salad, dressing, and meatballs without bleeding into any of it. And by the time L arrived, I was able to take the whole mess off without the bleeding starting up again. (In fact, I even eventually was able to give her her massage without incident.)
But I will say this. This is what I get for using the words "bleeding" and "seeping" in a figurative sense in e-mail yesterday.
Or maybe they just need to keep me away from sharp objects.
xoxo
Yeah, somehow I managed to slip with the knife, which was really too dull for the job, but plenty sharp enough to take a shallow but quarter-inch-wide section of skin off my left index finger. "Motherfucker!" I yelled. Then I spent--I'm not exaggerating--an hour and a half attempting to get it to stop bleeding. I tried direct pressure, lots of direct pressure. I tried bandaids...I bled through three. I tried liquid bandage, which apparently doesn't work too well when you're spurting blood.
L called me to tell me she was leaving Worcester. "I'm having a big problem," I said. "I cut my finger and it won't stop bleeding." "Ohmygod, do you think you need stitches?" "No, no, it's not deep, it's just the top layer of skin, it's very vascular. I just wanted to let you know in case you get here and there's no food cooking." "We can go out for dinner. But leave me a note on the door if you decide to go to the hospital."
Finally I got some tissue to adhere to the cut (like when you nick yourself shaving?) and wrapped the whole finger so tightly in so much waterproof tape that no blood could leak out through it and that basically the circulation to the whole finger was, like, compromised. This enabled me to make salad, dressing, and meatballs without bleeding into any of it. And by the time L arrived, I was able to take the whole mess off without the bleeding starting up again. (In fact, I even eventually was able to give her her massage without incident.)
But I will say this. This is what I get for using the words "bleeding" and "seeping" in a figurative sense in e-mail yesterday.
Or maybe they just need to keep me away from sharp objects.
xoxo
Saturday, November 10, 2007
ho ho ho
I just realized yesterday, in a work conversation about "wait, is anyone seeing patients the day after Thanksgiving?," that that's in two weeks. Holy crap. Thanksgiving is on the earliest possible day this year.
Which means many of my neighbors are going to have their Christmas lights firmly affixed to their houses on November 23. Now, I have no problem with Christmas lights per se. They're pretty and colorful and festive. I have a bit more problem with giant inflatable Santas and such, but as much as they offend my retinas, they make the little kids happy, so that's cool. I do, however, have a problem with all this decorating happening in mid-November and then the lights coming off the house on December 26. We're not celebrating the freaking shopping season, we're celebrating Christmas. Which has twelve days.
Excuse me while I drag my Luddite-holiday ass off to grumble with the other crotchedy and out-of-step purists.
xoxo
Which means many of my neighbors are going to have their Christmas lights firmly affixed to their houses on November 23. Now, I have no problem with Christmas lights per se. They're pretty and colorful and festive. I have a bit more problem with giant inflatable Santas and such, but as much as they offend my retinas, they make the little kids happy, so that's cool. I do, however, have a problem with all this decorating happening in mid-November and then the lights coming off the house on December 26. We're not celebrating the freaking shopping season, we're celebrating Christmas. Which has twelve days.
Excuse me while I drag my Luddite-holiday ass off to grumble with the other crotchedy and out-of-step purists.
xoxo
Thursday, November 8, 2007
germophobia...
and related matters!
So, yesterday, there was a story on my AOL welcome screen (shut up) about the resurgence of bedbugs. Being as full of poor judgment as the next person, I clicked on the link. Then, being also as suggestible as the next person, I sat there in my office and scratched my way through the article.
Now, I already knew about the resurgence of bedbugs, since round about Labor Day when all the students were moving back into town, there was an article in the Globe about picking up furniture that people left on the sidewalk that mentioned it in a cautionary way. Since even back when I was a poor student, I only took my secondhand cast-off furniture from people I knew, and I am even less likely to be trawling Brighton Ave for other people's sofas today, this was a matter of idle interest only. But, according to yesterday's article, I should be AFRAID! VERY AFRAID! Bedbugs are everywhere, including, I guess, reputable hotel chains. The writer suggested keeping one's luggage on the metal luggage rack only and--get this--bringing a flashlight to inspect behind and under the hotel mattress before you sleep in it.
I'm sorry. If the day comes that I really feel I need to travel with a flashlight and flip over the boxspring before unpacking, I will just fucking stay home, preferably in a hermetically sealed plastic bubble. Do you remember the big expose on 20-20(or one of those shows) a few years ago about hotel bedspreads which are changed, like, never, and which your handy-dandy black light tests show to be full, just chock full, of other people's old bodily fluids? Well, lemme say this. Both before and after this helpful information from ABC News, I have sat my nekkid butt on many, many Hampton Inn and Marriott bedspreads and lived to tell about it. In fact, it probably helped contribute to my Superior Immune System. For all you know. You are not going to catch anything from a hotel bedspread, even if a lonely CPA from Cincinnati despoiled it while watching cable porn three weeks ago. It's just gross, not dangerous. So don't think about it, and you'll be fine. I promise.
And that was actually one of the points of the bedbug article, after they finished whipping up the hysteria. Bedbugs don't carry any diseases. They're a nuisance, not a health hazard. But since we're living in a first world country and no longer used to dealing with even the most benign of vermin, the idea of bedbugs is enough to send people on their vacations with flashlights and a thin edge of hysteria.
In another example of this, in the book Home Comforts, the author, who is certifiably a complete germophobe whacko, imparts with a palpable shudder the information that dust mites are arachnoids. The idea that there are microscopic *spiders* living in your sheets is supposed to make you swear that, yes, yes, you will wash your bedding in hot water 4x a week and vacuum every single fucking day. In fact, dust mites are not a problem unless you or a family member have dust allergies or asthma, and the fact that they are microscopic spiders doesn't change that. If you find the idea that they're arachnoids gross, don't think about it. It seriously will be a lot easier than treating your bedroom like it's an operating theater requiring sterile conditions.
And, finally, I find the bedbug article to be yet another example of how the single most important mission of the American media--it's mission statement, you might say--is to instill paranoia. If Muslim terrorists or global warming don't get you, then it's going to be the meteor that's passing too close in 20-whatever or the e.coli in your hamburger or something toxic imported from China or maybe the fact that you're too obese or not obese enough. Meanwhile, mind the bedbugs and the dust mites and the hotel bedspreads, and don't think too hard about the fact that we all die of something sometime.
xoxo
So, yesterday, there was a story on my AOL welcome screen (shut up) about the resurgence of bedbugs. Being as full of poor judgment as the next person, I clicked on the link. Then, being also as suggestible as the next person, I sat there in my office and scratched my way through the article.
Now, I already knew about the resurgence of bedbugs, since round about Labor Day when all the students were moving back into town, there was an article in the Globe about picking up furniture that people left on the sidewalk that mentioned it in a cautionary way. Since even back when I was a poor student, I only took my secondhand cast-off furniture from people I knew, and I am even less likely to be trawling Brighton Ave for other people's sofas today, this was a matter of idle interest only. But, according to yesterday's article, I should be AFRAID! VERY AFRAID! Bedbugs are everywhere, including, I guess, reputable hotel chains. The writer suggested keeping one's luggage on the metal luggage rack only and--get this--bringing a flashlight to inspect behind and under the hotel mattress before you sleep in it.
I'm sorry. If the day comes that I really feel I need to travel with a flashlight and flip over the boxspring before unpacking, I will just fucking stay home, preferably in a hermetically sealed plastic bubble. Do you remember the big expose on 20-20(or one of those shows) a few years ago about hotel bedspreads which are changed, like, never, and which your handy-dandy black light tests show to be full, just chock full, of other people's old bodily fluids? Well, lemme say this. Both before and after this helpful information from ABC News, I have sat my nekkid butt on many, many Hampton Inn and Marriott bedspreads and lived to tell about it. In fact, it probably helped contribute to my Superior Immune System. For all you know. You are not going to catch anything from a hotel bedspread, even if a lonely CPA from Cincinnati despoiled it while watching cable porn three weeks ago. It's just gross, not dangerous. So don't think about it, and you'll be fine. I promise.
And that was actually one of the points of the bedbug article, after they finished whipping up the hysteria. Bedbugs don't carry any diseases. They're a nuisance, not a health hazard. But since we're living in a first world country and no longer used to dealing with even the most benign of vermin, the idea of bedbugs is enough to send people on their vacations with flashlights and a thin edge of hysteria.
In another example of this, in the book Home Comforts, the author, who is certifiably a complete germophobe whacko, imparts with a palpable shudder the information that dust mites are arachnoids. The idea that there are microscopic *spiders* living in your sheets is supposed to make you swear that, yes, yes, you will wash your bedding in hot water 4x a week and vacuum every single fucking day. In fact, dust mites are not a problem unless you or a family member have dust allergies or asthma, and the fact that they are microscopic spiders doesn't change that. If you find the idea that they're arachnoids gross, don't think about it. It seriously will be a lot easier than treating your bedroom like it's an operating theater requiring sterile conditions.
And, finally, I find the bedbug article to be yet another example of how the single most important mission of the American media--it's mission statement, you might say--is to instill paranoia. If Muslim terrorists or global warming don't get you, then it's going to be the meteor that's passing too close in 20-whatever or the e.coli in your hamburger or something toxic imported from China or maybe the fact that you're too obese or not obese enough. Meanwhile, mind the bedbugs and the dust mites and the hotel bedspreads, and don't think too hard about the fact that we all die of something sometime.
xoxo
quick update
I have a longer topic I need to address with you all, but until I get the time to do that properly, just a little follow-up from a previous topic:
I saw Mr Muscular Hispanic Bobbypinned Mechanic again! He was wearing a bronze metallic leather jacket. So now I'm forced to revise my assumption from "huge endowment" to "gay." Possibly gay with a huge endowment, of course.
Which, you know, would make him quite the popular muscular bobbypinned mechanic. So, cheers.
(Did you ever stop to think what fantasy life I'd make up for *you* if I saw you out and about in public? If so, were you skeered? Just a little?)
xoxo
I saw Mr Muscular Hispanic Bobbypinned Mechanic again! He was wearing a bronze metallic leather jacket. So now I'm forced to revise my assumption from "huge endowment" to "gay." Possibly gay with a huge endowment, of course.
Which, you know, would make him quite the popular muscular bobbypinned mechanic. So, cheers.
(Did you ever stop to think what fantasy life I'd make up for *you* if I saw you out and about in public? If so, were you skeered? Just a little?)
xoxo
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
pandora
Do you use this?
Today at work I had a 4 1/2-hour long, mind-numbingly boring task I just had to sit down and plow through and I knew there was no way I was going to make it through without music. Unfortunately, I had none with me. So, I figured, okay, yeah, let's mess about with some internet radio.
Pandora, in case you don't use it, uses the music genome project to personalize what it plays for you. You start by telling it some artists, songs, or genres you like as a starting point, and then you vote yay or nay on the songs as they come up to tweak it, etc. But what's really cool (to me, anyway) is that when a song comes up, you can click on "why is this recommended for me?" and it will tell you what "genes" are in the songs you like that are also in this selection. I thought it would be sort of simplistic: "subtle punk roots" or "electric instrumentation" are kind of self-evident. But apparently I also like extensive vamping and minor key tonality. Amongst other things. None of which I have ever heard of or have any clue about.
I may just become obsessed with this. Maybe my apparently instinctive love for minor key tonality explains why I cannot listen to country music. Or something. I'm sure it explains something.
xoxo
Today at work I had a 4 1/2-hour long, mind-numbingly boring task I just had to sit down and plow through and I knew there was no way I was going to make it through without music. Unfortunately, I had none with me. So, I figured, okay, yeah, let's mess about with some internet radio.
Pandora, in case you don't use it, uses the music genome project to personalize what it plays for you. You start by telling it some artists, songs, or genres you like as a starting point, and then you vote yay or nay on the songs as they come up to tweak it, etc. But what's really cool (to me, anyway) is that when a song comes up, you can click on "why is this recommended for me?" and it will tell you what "genes" are in the songs you like that are also in this selection. I thought it would be sort of simplistic: "subtle punk roots" or "electric instrumentation" are kind of self-evident. But apparently I also like extensive vamping and minor key tonality. Amongst other things. None of which I have ever heard of or have any clue about.
I may just become obsessed with this. Maybe my apparently instinctive love for minor key tonality explains why I cannot listen to country music. Or something. I'm sure it explains something.
xoxo
Monday, November 5, 2007
misc.
1.) Gone, Baby, Gone is a very good movie, if soul-suckingly grim. Casey Affleck's performance is amazing. No more nepotism cracks from me. Plus, the moral question the movie leaves in your mind, namely what if you do what you really think is the right thing and you are disastrously wrong?, is an interesting and important one to consider.
2.) Spent the day today with my friend S. Massages, hot tubbing, and Thai food are, all things considered, a damn good way to spend a Monday. And lots of good talk, of course. Which leads to #...
3.) More thoughts on aging! S recently turned 45 as well. We were discussing our disgruntlement with the whole concept and she said, "...and I'm almost 50." I was like, wait, no, 45 is 45, not almost 50. Though turning 45 will effectively put an end to my saying I'm in my early 40s. Sigh. But, no, I refuse to admit to being almost 50.
xoxo
2.) Spent the day today with my friend S. Massages, hot tubbing, and Thai food are, all things considered, a damn good way to spend a Monday. And lots of good talk, of course. Which leads to #...
3.) More thoughts on aging! S recently turned 45 as well. We were discussing our disgruntlement with the whole concept and she said, "...and I'm almost 50." I was like, wait, no, 45 is 45, not almost 50. Though turning 45 will effectively put an end to my saying I'm in my early 40s. Sigh. But, no, I refuse to admit to being almost 50.
xoxo
Sunday, November 4, 2007
today's epiphany
Warning: this post concerns some upsetting imagery, heh, and may be somewhat disjointed, because I don't really have time to shape it properly. I just need to get the thoughts on electronic paper before they're gone.
I was lying in bed early this morning pondering why the Johnny Rotten Nipplegate image Tripleindemnity placed in my head required so much brain bleach to remove. (WTF do you think about when you're awake way early because of the time change?) Let me be clear about this: I may be a prude, but I don't particularly want to see anyone, male or female, young or old, pretty or nonpretty, pinching their own nipples on network TV, or really, anywhere. It's just not an exhibition I personally need to be a part of. But part of the true revulsion that occurred in my poor squicked psyche was due to Tripleindemnity's description of Mr Rotten as old, bloated, fat, and in need of dentistry as he pinched his own nipples on network TV. That behavior, as aesthetically upsetting as it is, is far less aesthetically upsetting when it's done by young slinky heroin-addicted punks than by their decrepit 30 year older selves.
So. You know (or you should, peasants) my birthday will soon be upon us. It's one of those birthdays with a five in it, which is almost as horrifying as a birthday with a 0 on the end. And you know, if you've been following along, that I've been having pangs about growing older. Part of it has been wrapped up in the certainty that I am losing my looks, which somewhat confused me, since it's not as if I was ever one of those women who was beautiful, and therefore had her whole identity invested in that. I was cute and, for a brief period in my midtwenties, I was pretty. But mostly, I was, well, fairly sexalicious.
And my epiphany, which god knows, is so simple that I feel like a moron for not being able to put my finger on it sooner, is that what my identity is wrapped up in is being a sexual person. Sexually desirable, if not pretty, and possessed of a strong sex drive, even when I'm not acting upon it, and just, yeah, a sexual person. Someone who may or may not be reading this blog entry and who may or may not remember making the comment, once looked over and said to me, "You just exude sexuality," and I did, when he was around, anyway, and it was one of the nicest, sincerest compliments I ever got. And the second part of the epiphany is that I have internalized at a gut level--though I reject it on an intellectual level--the prevailing cultural idea that exuding sexuality is at best vaguely ridiculous and at worst fucking gross when you are no longer the young, pretty, slinky thing you once were. And if an important part of my self-identity is vaguely ridiculous or fucking gross, where am I?
Seriously, we all know there was a point at which scrawny ugly but sexalicious Mick Jagger screwing everything that crossed his path slipped from admirable to ewww. And, I think I may have mentioned here or elsewhere, Paula Deen, cooking show host and inventor of the best. cake. ever., is pilloried all over the internet for her bawdy Southern grandma persona because it just squicks people out no end that a fat (if exquisitely well-groomed and very attractive) old woman still likes sex and likes to talk about it, joke about it, and flirt. I guess the only way to be a socially acceptable sexalicious old person is to be completely discreet about it and never let any of it out except behind closed doors with whatever partner you've managed to snag with, I dunno, your other admirable qualities.
I'm not fucking ready for that.
So, yeah, I remain resentful of aging. Goddamn it.
(Old women should probably stop swearing so much too, huh?)
xoxo
I was lying in bed early this morning pondering why the Johnny Rotten Nipplegate image Tripleindemnity placed in my head required so much brain bleach to remove. (WTF do you think about when you're awake way early because of the time change?) Let me be clear about this: I may be a prude, but I don't particularly want to see anyone, male or female, young or old, pretty or nonpretty, pinching their own nipples on network TV, or really, anywhere. It's just not an exhibition I personally need to be a part of. But part of the true revulsion that occurred in my poor squicked psyche was due to Tripleindemnity's description of Mr Rotten as old, bloated, fat, and in need of dentistry as he pinched his own nipples on network TV. That behavior, as aesthetically upsetting as it is, is far less aesthetically upsetting when it's done by young slinky heroin-addicted punks than by their decrepit 30 year older selves.
So. You know (or you should, peasants) my birthday will soon be upon us. It's one of those birthdays with a five in it, which is almost as horrifying as a birthday with a 0 on the end. And you know, if you've been following along, that I've been having pangs about growing older. Part of it has been wrapped up in the certainty that I am losing my looks, which somewhat confused me, since it's not as if I was ever one of those women who was beautiful, and therefore had her whole identity invested in that. I was cute and, for a brief period in my midtwenties, I was pretty. But mostly, I was, well, fairly sexalicious.
And my epiphany, which god knows, is so simple that I feel like a moron for not being able to put my finger on it sooner, is that what my identity is wrapped up in is being a sexual person. Sexually desirable, if not pretty, and possessed of a strong sex drive, even when I'm not acting upon it, and just, yeah, a sexual person. Someone who may or may not be reading this blog entry and who may or may not remember making the comment, once looked over and said to me, "You just exude sexuality," and I did, when he was around, anyway, and it was one of the nicest, sincerest compliments I ever got. And the second part of the epiphany is that I have internalized at a gut level--though I reject it on an intellectual level--the prevailing cultural idea that exuding sexuality is at best vaguely ridiculous and at worst fucking gross when you are no longer the young, pretty, slinky thing you once were. And if an important part of my self-identity is vaguely ridiculous or fucking gross, where am I?
Seriously, we all know there was a point at which scrawny ugly but sexalicious Mick Jagger screwing everything that crossed his path slipped from admirable to ewww. And, I think I may have mentioned here or elsewhere, Paula Deen, cooking show host and inventor of the best. cake. ever., is pilloried all over the internet for her bawdy Southern grandma persona because it just squicks people out no end that a fat (if exquisitely well-groomed and very attractive) old woman still likes sex and likes to talk about it, joke about it, and flirt. I guess the only way to be a socially acceptable sexalicious old person is to be completely discreet about it and never let any of it out except behind closed doors with whatever partner you've managed to snag with, I dunno, your other admirable qualities.
I'm not fucking ready for that.
So, yeah, I remain resentful of aging. Goddamn it.
(Old women should probably stop swearing so much too, huh?)
xoxo
Friday, November 2, 2007
spoiled American gits
So, I'm watching reruns of House Hunters which should really be called Spoiled American Gits, if there were any truth-in-television-show-names laws at all. Here's a couple in Minnesota with a baby under a year old walking into a prospective home and looking at the "sunroom" which is the size of my dining room and living room put together. "Oh, honey! This could be the baby's playroom!"
No, you stoopid spoiled American git, your baby does not need a "playroom" the size of many people's studio apartments.
They go upstairs and look at the bedrooms and bathrooms. "Do you think all the baby's things will fit in this room, snookums?"
How many "things" does a friggin six-month-old have, other than what goes in the ginormous playroom? Need lots of closet space so his Hugo Boss suits don't get crushed, do we?
And the master bath is a sad disappointment. "It looks ::sniff:: like the bathroom in a camper, doesn't it?"
It doesn't have double sinks. Spoiled American Gits don't use the same sinks as their spouses these days, you know. You may stick your parts in their orifices and vice versa, but you wouldn't want to spit toothpaste in the same basin they do.
Nevertheless, this is the house the Spoiled American Gits decide to buy. In the follow-up visit, x months later, they have repainted the red walls in the kitchen--the only thing that gave their McMansion any character at all--off white.
Not only are they Spoiled American Gits, they are tasteless douches. I worry for that baby.
xoxo
No, you stoopid spoiled American git, your baby does not need a "playroom" the size of many people's studio apartments.
They go upstairs and look at the bedrooms and bathrooms. "Do you think all the baby's things will fit in this room, snookums?"
How many "things" does a friggin six-month-old have, other than what goes in the ginormous playroom? Need lots of closet space so his Hugo Boss suits don't get crushed, do we?
And the master bath is a sad disappointment. "It looks ::sniff:: like the bathroom in a camper, doesn't it?"
It doesn't have double sinks. Spoiled American Gits don't use the same sinks as their spouses these days, you know. You may stick your parts in their orifices and vice versa, but you wouldn't want to spit toothpaste in the same basin they do.
Nevertheless, this is the house the Spoiled American Gits decide to buy. In the follow-up visit, x months later, they have repainted the red walls in the kitchen--the only thing that gave their McMansion any character at all--off white.
Not only are they Spoiled American Gits, they are tasteless douches. I worry for that baby.
xoxo
Thursday, November 1, 2007
Halloween recap
cutest trick-or-treater: the toddler ballerina who walked right into my house when I opened the door, pointed at the bowl of candy saying "uh! uh!", and tried her best to refuse to leave even after I put some in the bag her mom was holding. I think she was holding out for the whole bowl. Or maybe she just liked my hallway.
best costume seen in downtown Salem: two dudes dressed up as trees in outfits made of...actual trees. Impressive.
best use of cleavage to confuse door-to-door salesmen: I'm claiming this one for myself. When someone was at the door yesterday at 6 pm, I was convinced it was my first trick-or-treater of the night. Alas, it was the Verizon FIOS guy trying to convince me to buy his product. (I guess the weekly fucking junk mail they send me wasn't invasive enough. Bastards!) Unfortunately for him, I was already in my costume, lowcut as it was, with my fake tattoos accentuating the boobage, and while he was trying his best to explain to me how much money I'd be saving, he couldn't quite keep his eyes on my face. He tried, but he just couldn't. I think it threw him off his sales pitch.
That's all I've got.
xoxo
best costume seen in downtown Salem: two dudes dressed up as trees in outfits made of...actual trees. Impressive.
best use of cleavage to confuse door-to-door salesmen: I'm claiming this one for myself. When someone was at the door yesterday at 6 pm, I was convinced it was my first trick-or-treater of the night. Alas, it was the Verizon FIOS guy trying to convince me to buy his product. (I guess the weekly fucking junk mail they send me wasn't invasive enough. Bastards!) Unfortunately for him, I was already in my costume, lowcut as it was, with my fake tattoos accentuating the boobage, and while he was trying his best to explain to me how much money I'd be saving, he couldn't quite keep his eyes on my face. He tried, but he just couldn't. I think it threw him off his sales pitch.
That's all I've got.
xoxo
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