Twenty-four trick-or-treaters, if I counted correctly. I have definitely had much better years. But once again, my favorite was a teeny tiny little girl who didn't quite get the concept. She would have been quite content to stay in my doorway for ten or fifteen minutes, transfixed by my (witch's) hat and holding out her bag, as if I would continue to drop more and more candy into it if she only hung around. Her big sister had to more or less drag her away. "Okay, we gotta go. We're done. Say bye. Say thank you."
Too freaking cute. Excuse me while I get verklempt for a wee moment over my child's adulthood, my old woman shriveled up eggs, and the fact I won't ever have grandchildren.
Okay, there, better.
Did you all dress up? If not, why not? Remember, you may be old, but you can still be immature. Um, I mean "filled with child-like wonder." Yeah, that. I have to admit, I took the easy way out this year and used stuff I already had around the house. (Why, yes, I *did* have a pointy black hat in my closet. You don't?) Hopefully next year I'll revert to being at least a little more creative.
Oh, and one more thing. Tomorrow all the candy will be half price. So if you don't have any leftover mini-Snickers bars in the house to get jacked up on, it'll be real easy to remedy that on the cheap. Happy Halloween!
xoxo
Friday, October 31, 2008
best celebrity day evah, artistic inspiration version
So. While I would still like to get drunk with the brothers Gallagher, play poker with Ms Barrymore, and do it like they do on the Discovery Channel with Mr Kiedis, followed by new tattoos for everyone, a crucial piece of information I learned just this morning has led me to an alternate scenario for Best Celebrity Day Evah.
Did you know that Tori Amos and Neil Gaiman are extremely, extremely close friends? OMG. What I would not give to spend a day hanging out, listening to the two of them discuss...well, whatever the two of them would discuss that leads to that kind of fiction and those kinds of lyrics. And if Neil wanted to let me try on his leather jacket or read to me from a piece of his WIP while I performed deviant sexual acts upon his person, I probably wouldn't say no. I mean, I know he's a married man, but how can someone be both that artistically gifted and that good-looking? All bets are off. But, I digress. Really, there wouldn't have to be any seks involved for this to be the Best Day Evah. I would just bask in their weird and wonderful creativity and hope some of it rubbed off by osmosis or something.
xoxo
Did you know that Tori Amos and Neil Gaiman are extremely, extremely close friends? OMG. What I would not give to spend a day hanging out, listening to the two of them discuss...well, whatever the two of them would discuss that leads to that kind of fiction and those kinds of lyrics. And if Neil wanted to let me try on his leather jacket or read to me from a piece of his WIP while I performed deviant sexual acts upon his person, I probably wouldn't say no. I mean, I know he's a married man, but how can someone be both that artistically gifted and that good-looking? All bets are off. But, I digress. Really, there wouldn't have to be any seks involved for this to be the Best Day Evah. I would just bask in their weird and wonderful creativity and hope some of it rubbed off by osmosis or something.
xoxo
Thursday, October 30, 2008
vice, and what happened to me this morning
No, no, no, no. Do not get your readerly hopes up. Those are two entirely separate topics. C'mon now.
Let's do the anecdote first. I need to preface it by telling you I was wearing my autumn leaf coat this morning. For those of you who have not been privileged to see it, the autumn leaf coat is a cream-colored corduroy swing coat with big brown buttons, a Peter Pan collar, and a pattern of gold and brown and black leaves on it. It is very adorable, and very distinctive. It is remarked upon most every time I wear it.
Well, this morning, as I was going to cross the street, a Boston police officer who was directing traffic around a construction site, held up his hand to me in the universal police-officer-stop gesture. I was a little confused by this, as there was no traffic in either direction. He walks up to me and says, "I have to make a comment."
"Okay."
He puts his hand on my arm. "I love your jacket. All the autumn leaves. You would brighten anyone's day in that coat."
I started laughing. "Why, thank you! Thank you very much!" And he crossed me to the other side.
Now, I am not quite sure whether he was the gayest, most Project Runway of all possible Boston cops, or whether he was trying to flirt with me. The touch on my arm pushes me towards the former, because most heterosexual men will not put their hand that familiarly on a woman they don't know, the prospects of being punched being, y'know, in the realm of possibility. But in either case, it made my day.
Now, The Book of Vice by Peter Sagal. Mr Sagal is, apparently, the host of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, which I wouldn't know, because I refuse to be the kind of person who listens to NPR. Refuse. But, anyway, he's written a most highly entertaining book, one which caused me to burst out laughing out loud on public transportation more than once, might I say. (I particularly recommend this book to Mr Indemnity, because it touches upon several topics he and I have discussed to death, like what guys get out of going to strip clubs, how the richer a person is, the more they expect to be just given shit for free, and 70s porn, which I have not seen but he most certainly has.)
Now I have some problems with the book, since his premise is that for something to be considered a vice and thus eligible for a chapter in his book, it needs to be done for pleasure. He specifically says that he doesn't cover drug use and alcohol because addictions are not done for fun. But he has a whole chapter on lying, which--does anyone here think people who lie pathologically or run scams do it for kicks? I think generally not. It's either because of addictions to other things/substances or because of mental issues like borderline personality disorder and the like. Not for fun. And, furthermore, he examines both Bill Clinton and George Bush's lying at length in a compare and contrast context. I don't think any of us would deny that they've both lied like rugs, but do any of us think they did so for fun? So that chapter doesn't fit, in my humble opinion. But, good book overall. Well worth your commuting time to read.
So good, in fact, that I feel compelled to quote some of it to you. In the strip club chapter, after comparing the typical strip club which is, face it, kinda demeaning and depersonalizing to your male customer, with a Vegas ultralounge where purchase of a $300 bottle of scotch entitles you to a beautiful black-clad waitress kneeling before you to pour your drink, put in the ice, and serve it to you (note: hotness) which is also kinda depersonalizing (but demeaning to the waitress), Mr Sagal says he has a great idea for a true gentleman's club:
"You pay your money and walk in to find a room full of astoundingly beautiful women, all of whom are delighted to see you, thrilled to talk to you, excited to be with you at last. They run up, and tug on your arm, and put their hands on the back of your neck, the way some forward women do. You endure their questioning, and their interest, for as long as you care to, and then walk into the other room and watch sports on TV. For an extra $100, you can close the door right in their faces."
Ha. I know someone who lives that out in their daily life. Well, if you stretch the "astoundingly beautiful" like Silly Putty, but, y'know, there aren't hundreds of dollars changing hands either, so it all comes out in the wash, as they say. Live the dream!
I'm still in a great mood, yo.
xoxo
Let's do the anecdote first. I need to preface it by telling you I was wearing my autumn leaf coat this morning. For those of you who have not been privileged to see it, the autumn leaf coat is a cream-colored corduroy swing coat with big brown buttons, a Peter Pan collar, and a pattern of gold and brown and black leaves on it. It is very adorable, and very distinctive. It is remarked upon most every time I wear it.
Well, this morning, as I was going to cross the street, a Boston police officer who was directing traffic around a construction site, held up his hand to me in the universal police-officer-stop gesture. I was a little confused by this, as there was no traffic in either direction. He walks up to me and says, "I have to make a comment."
"Okay."
He puts his hand on my arm. "I love your jacket. All the autumn leaves. You would brighten anyone's day in that coat."
I started laughing. "Why, thank you! Thank you very much!" And he crossed me to the other side.
Now, I am not quite sure whether he was the gayest, most Project Runway of all possible Boston cops, or whether he was trying to flirt with me. The touch on my arm pushes me towards the former, because most heterosexual men will not put their hand that familiarly on a woman they don't know, the prospects of being punched being, y'know, in the realm of possibility. But in either case, it made my day.
Now, The Book of Vice by Peter Sagal. Mr Sagal is, apparently, the host of Wait Wait Don't Tell Me, which I wouldn't know, because I refuse to be the kind of person who listens to NPR. Refuse. But, anyway, he's written a most highly entertaining book, one which caused me to burst out laughing out loud on public transportation more than once, might I say. (I particularly recommend this book to Mr Indemnity, because it touches upon several topics he and I have discussed to death, like what guys get out of going to strip clubs, how the richer a person is, the more they expect to be just given shit for free, and 70s porn, which I have not seen but he most certainly has.)
Now I have some problems with the book, since his premise is that for something to be considered a vice and thus eligible for a chapter in his book, it needs to be done for pleasure. He specifically says that he doesn't cover drug use and alcohol because addictions are not done for fun. But he has a whole chapter on lying, which--does anyone here think people who lie pathologically or run scams do it for kicks? I think generally not. It's either because of addictions to other things/substances or because of mental issues like borderline personality disorder and the like. Not for fun. And, furthermore, he examines both Bill Clinton and George Bush's lying at length in a compare and contrast context. I don't think any of us would deny that they've both lied like rugs, but do any of us think they did so for fun? So that chapter doesn't fit, in my humble opinion. But, good book overall. Well worth your commuting time to read.
So good, in fact, that I feel compelled to quote some of it to you. In the strip club chapter, after comparing the typical strip club which is, face it, kinda demeaning and depersonalizing to your male customer, with a Vegas ultralounge where purchase of a $300 bottle of scotch entitles you to a beautiful black-clad waitress kneeling before you to pour your drink, put in the ice, and serve it to you (note: hotness) which is also kinda depersonalizing (but demeaning to the waitress), Mr Sagal says he has a great idea for a true gentleman's club:
"You pay your money and walk in to find a room full of astoundingly beautiful women, all of whom are delighted to see you, thrilled to talk to you, excited to be with you at last. They run up, and tug on your arm, and put their hands on the back of your neck, the way some forward women do. You endure their questioning, and their interest, for as long as you care to, and then walk into the other room and watch sports on TV. For an extra $100, you can close the door right in their faces."
Ha. I know someone who lives that out in their daily life. Well, if you stretch the "astoundingly beautiful" like Silly Putty, but, y'know, there aren't hundreds of dollars changing hands either, so it all comes out in the wash, as they say. Live the dream!
I'm still in a great mood, yo.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
charity begins...
and apparently never ends, at the checkout counter.
At the risk of being accused of no longer being in a fabulous mood, I have a wee tiny little complaint to voice. Just an itty bitty one. I'm not even gonna tag this a rant, ok?
On my way home this afternoon I had to stop and do a couple quick errands, one of which involved going into Shaws for cat food and paper leaf bags. At the register, the young woman asked me if I wanted to donate a dollar to, I dunno, feed hungry children or some such. And because I had, no more than two or three weeks ago, been hit up for this (or some very similar-sounding charity) at the other Shaws I sometimes go to, I said no, I already had. I was the last customer in her line, so as I was leaving, she went over to bag for the other cashier and I heard her say, with a little sigh, "I feel bad, I've only sold ten of those." The subtext being, I'm sure, cheap bastard. Well, maybe I am, but I think if Shaws, with its huge warehouses full of food, were really all that concerned with hungry children, they could do something more direct about it than shaking down their customers.
And maybe I'm just being cranky about it because on Sunday I was asked at CVS to donate two packages of tissues to the troops. I kinda thought my tax dollars were already buying tissues for the troops, but maybe that's just tanks and MREs, and General Petraeus and the guy after him expect the soldiers to wipe their noses on their sleeves. I dunno. But, anyway, I donated of course. I'm not that much of a cheap bastard. But I ain't donating twice.
I think this whole giving-enforced-by-public-embarrassment thing is getting out of hand. Sometimes I just want to buy my cat food in peace, not save the world while I'm doing it, y'know?
xoxo
At the risk of being accused of no longer being in a fabulous mood, I have a wee tiny little complaint to voice. Just an itty bitty one. I'm not even gonna tag this a rant, ok?
On my way home this afternoon I had to stop and do a couple quick errands, one of which involved going into Shaws for cat food and paper leaf bags. At the register, the young woman asked me if I wanted to donate a dollar to, I dunno, feed hungry children or some such. And because I had, no more than two or three weeks ago, been hit up for this (or some very similar-sounding charity) at the other Shaws I sometimes go to, I said no, I already had. I was the last customer in her line, so as I was leaving, she went over to bag for the other cashier and I heard her say, with a little sigh, "I feel bad, I've only sold ten of those." The subtext being, I'm sure, cheap bastard. Well, maybe I am, but I think if Shaws, with its huge warehouses full of food, were really all that concerned with hungry children, they could do something more direct about it than shaking down their customers.
And maybe I'm just being cranky about it because on Sunday I was asked at CVS to donate two packages of tissues to the troops. I kinda thought my tax dollars were already buying tissues for the troops, but maybe that's just tanks and MREs, and General Petraeus and the guy after him expect the soldiers to wipe their noses on their sleeves. I dunno. But, anyway, I donated of course. I'm not that much of a cheap bastard. But I ain't donating twice.
I think this whole giving-enforced-by-public-embarrassment thing is getting out of hand. Sometimes I just want to buy my cat food in peace, not save the world while I'm doing it, y'know?
xoxo
Monday, October 27, 2008
i cannot imagine
I was just randomly browsing the craigslist employment ads for massage therapists--not that I'm looking for a massage job, I just like to see who's hiring--and I saw one for "Knockouts", a day spa for dudes. They're looking for hair stylists and MTs. Well, besides the vaguely suggestive Hooters-type name, they've got some pictures attached to the ad of their current employees in team uniform. In other words, a bunch of young girls in tight t-shirts and short track shorts.
Now, maybe there are a bunch of hairdressers who wouldn't mind plying their craft in that kind of get-up in search of better tips. If an obnoxious customer tries to grope them, they've got sharp objects readily at hand to jab them with. And they don't already live with the confusion between their profession and whoredom. But I cannot comprehend a professional bodyworker who would take a job like that. For the amount of inappropriate touching and skeevy suggestions you'd have to fend off, you'd might as well just be a cocktail waitress if you're a sexy young thing. The money's better, you'd get the same level of benefits (basically none), and you wouldn't have to blow thousands of dollars on massage school tuition.
Wow.
xoxo
Now, maybe there are a bunch of hairdressers who wouldn't mind plying their craft in that kind of get-up in search of better tips. If an obnoxious customer tries to grope them, they've got sharp objects readily at hand to jab them with. And they don't already live with the confusion between their profession and whoredom. But I cannot comprehend a professional bodyworker who would take a job like that. For the amount of inappropriate touching and skeevy suggestions you'd have to fend off, you'd might as well just be a cocktail waitress if you're a sexy young thing. The money's better, you'd get the same level of benefits (basically none), and you wouldn't have to blow thousands of dollars on massage school tuition.
Wow.
xoxo
Sunday, October 26, 2008
incongruous
Did you know there's a clothing company called Buddhist Punk that makes, like, $200 t-shirts?
I don't think that's very Buddhist. Or punk, either.
xoxo
I don't think that's very Buddhist. Or punk, either.
xoxo
defending myself publicly
I am an empathetic and loving person, full of the milk of human kindness--Mother Theresa in semi-expensive lingerie, as it were--if given to bouts of melancholy and introspection and fond of dark music, dark literature, and dark films, and filled with the tiniest bits of glee over my latent ability to make my ex-spouse's life a living hell--which I would of course never use (see above)--and only given to fits of rage on the Green Line during rush hour or when Fenway is emptying out and when the staff of my family's medical providers refuse to just do their jobs, and charmingly cranky over the foibles of humanity manifest on the internet, as well as the predilection of certain of my loved ones for putting jars of apple sauce back in the refrigerator empty. I am, in fact, a woman who lives her life according to the motto
Love is free
Love me
Say HELL YES
who hugs anyone who will let her, who never gets impatient with the crying sick babies and screaming frightened toddlers entrusted to her care and hides it very well when she gets impatient with their parents, and who sometimes tears up a little in private over her teenage patients with the cutting scars on their arms.
What I am not now, nor have I ever been, is "surly." Got that? Good!
One more thing. I'm up to the second season of Torchwood, and in the first second season episode, there's a fight scene choreographed to Song 2 by Blur. I want to point out that this is also a song which is guaranteed to put you in a good mood. In fact, if you listen to it and you don't want to dance around your house going Woo Hoo!! at the chorus, I'll send you a buck. That's my good mood guarantee!
Happy Sunday!
xoxo
Love is free
Love me
Say HELL YES
who hugs anyone who will let her, who never gets impatient with the crying sick babies and screaming frightened toddlers entrusted to her care and hides it very well when she gets impatient with their parents, and who sometimes tears up a little in private over her teenage patients with the cutting scars on their arms.
What I am not now, nor have I ever been, is "surly." Got that? Good!
One more thing. I'm up to the second season of Torchwood, and in the first second season episode, there's a fight scene choreographed to Song 2 by Blur. I want to point out that this is also a song which is guaranteed to put you in a good mood. In fact, if you listen to it and you don't want to dance around your house going Woo Hoo!! at the chorus, I'll send you a buck. That's my good mood guarantee!
Happy Sunday!
xoxo
Saturday, October 25, 2008
just like sarah palin!
As I've mentioned before, my ex-husband is heavily involved in local politics in a nearby community. He is, in point of fact, a selectman in a town known for its contentious politics, mud-slinging elections, vicious backbiting amongst its officials, and, y'know, the like. We (meaning me, my dad, and D) follow his "career" in the newspaper, usually with a lot of chortling and eyerolling involved.
Well, the other day, my dad sticks the paper in front of me gleefully. There's a *half-page* article on him and how he was the only one on the board/council for (or possibly against, I dunno) a certain issue, totally in opposition to every other one of the selectmen. "OMG!" I said. "He's a maverick! Just like Sarah Palin!" Then I laughed so hard I almost hurt myself. Because I'm in a good mood. Or possibly manic.
And my good mood is only enhanced by my knowledge that if he were to ever aspire to any Sarah Palin-like higher offices, I could squash him under my thumb like a bug. If I chose. Oh, the stories I could tell to any concerned media outlet. Now, I wouldn't, both because I really don't bear him that kind of ill will--I tend to feel more sorry for him than anything, knowing that on his deathbed he's probably gonna realize everything he thought was important is shit--and I'm not vindictive anyway, and because I wouldn't embarrass our child with sordid admissions to the press. But the knowledge that I could? As they say, priceless. The power I hold in reserve is intoxicating. (Does that make me a bad person? Probably. Oh, well.)
xoxo
Well, the other day, my dad sticks the paper in front of me gleefully. There's a *half-page* article on him and how he was the only one on the board/council for (or possibly against, I dunno) a certain issue, totally in opposition to every other one of the selectmen. "OMG!" I said. "He's a maverick! Just like Sarah Palin!" Then I laughed so hard I almost hurt myself. Because I'm in a good mood. Or possibly manic.
And my good mood is only enhanced by my knowledge that if he were to ever aspire to any Sarah Palin-like higher offices, I could squash him under my thumb like a bug. If I chose. Oh, the stories I could tell to any concerned media outlet. Now, I wouldn't, both because I really don't bear him that kind of ill will--I tend to feel more sorry for him than anything, knowing that on his deathbed he's probably gonna realize everything he thought was important is shit--and I'm not vindictive anyway, and because I wouldn't embarrass our child with sordid admissions to the press. But the knowledge that I could? As they say, priceless. The power I hold in reserve is intoxicating. (Does that make me a bad person? Probably. Oh, well.)
xoxo
Thursday, October 23, 2008
technical question
I have one.
Would someone who will not point and laugh and then mock me for the rest of my natural days for not knowing the (probably extremely obvious to anyone who isn't an idiot) answer to it kindly shoot me an e-mail so I can ask it in private and not humiliate myself in public on the internet any more than I usually do?
Thanks in advance. You're swell.
xoxo
Would someone who will not point and laugh and then mock me for the rest of my natural days for not knowing the (probably extremely obvious to anyone who isn't an idiot) answer to it kindly shoot me an e-mail so I can ask it in private and not humiliate myself in public on the internet any more than I usually do?
Thanks in advance. You're swell.
xoxo
going old skool on ya ass
In the words of my fantasy boyfriend, or perhaps his even more heavily tattooed compatriot:
Unimpressed by material excess
Love is free
Love me
Say HELL YES!
I'm still in a good mood. Who'd a thunk it?
xoxo
Unimpressed by material excess
Love is free
Love me
Say HELL YES!
I'm still in a good mood. Who'd a thunk it?
xoxo
Wednesday, October 22, 2008
so, yeah
I've been looking at other people's decorating again, and since no one's bribed me sufficiently to shut up about it, you get to hear more disgruntlement!
1.) If I see one more dining room painted red, or even orange, I may have to hurt someone. Apparently someone somewhere published the "fact" that those are the optimal colors for stimulating the appetite and now 3.4 million Americans have red dining rooms. I have nothing against red, but the ubiquity of it stuns. Besides, who says I want to stimulate my guests' appetites so much? I might run out of food, yo.
2.) Next up in the ubiquity stakes! Four out of five teenaged or early 20-something women have that Target picture of Audrey Hepburn in their bedrooms. (I know it's from Target, I've seen it there.) If I didn't know better, I'd think there'd been some kind of statute passed requiring it or something. Again, I'm an Audrey fan, and a Breakfast at Tiffany's fan, but you can find *other* likenesses of the woman to put on your walls if you must. It's not like she was never photographed.
3.) If anyone posts any room that's the least bit "girly", especially a bedroom, the snark starts flying about how the poster must not be married (which, I guess, is shock! horror!) and/or that a man's head would explode if he entered it. In defending someone else from this charge, a woman commented that her husband has said he likes feeling like he's in a woman's bedroom. I thought that was fascinating. I never thought of that before, but it's got to be one of those things that some guys imprint on in adolescence. You know, like going to bed with your ::yawn:: wife/girlfriend in a room she's made frilly, floral, and foofy is spiced up because of erotic associations with, say, sneaking into your high school girlfriend's frilly, foofy bedroom. (I suppose that means there's gonna be a whole new generation of men who can only get it up when a cheap print of Audrey Hepburn is staring down at them, god help us.)
That's it for now.
xoxo
1.) If I see one more dining room painted red, or even orange, I may have to hurt someone. Apparently someone somewhere published the "fact" that those are the optimal colors for stimulating the appetite and now 3.4 million Americans have red dining rooms. I have nothing against red, but the ubiquity of it stuns. Besides, who says I want to stimulate my guests' appetites so much? I might run out of food, yo.
2.) Next up in the ubiquity stakes! Four out of five teenaged or early 20-something women have that Target picture of Audrey Hepburn in their bedrooms. (I know it's from Target, I've seen it there.) If I didn't know better, I'd think there'd been some kind of statute passed requiring it or something. Again, I'm an Audrey fan, and a Breakfast at Tiffany's fan, but you can find *other* likenesses of the woman to put on your walls if you must. It's not like she was never photographed.
3.) If anyone posts any room that's the least bit "girly", especially a bedroom, the snark starts flying about how the poster must not be married (which, I guess, is shock! horror!) and/or that a man's head would explode if he entered it. In defending someone else from this charge, a woman commented that her husband has said he likes feeling like he's in a woman's bedroom. I thought that was fascinating. I never thought of that before, but it's got to be one of those things that some guys imprint on in adolescence. You know, like going to bed with your ::yawn:: wife/girlfriend in a room she's made frilly, floral, and foofy is spiced up because of erotic associations with, say, sneaking into your high school girlfriend's frilly, foofy bedroom. (I suppose that means there's gonna be a whole new generation of men who can only get it up when a cheap print of Audrey Hepburn is staring down at them, god help us.)
That's it for now.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 21, 2008
financial news of the week
I kept saying that when my Fidelity statement came for the quarter, I wasn't going to open it. But I lied. My rate of return for the year to date is -30%.
I just laughed. I dunno. It's all theoretical money to me anyway. I have absolutely no faith I'll ever see any of it. And M2 and I decided we can probably massage people till we're almost ready to drop, anyway, and when we are really ready to drop, we can switch to Reiki-ing them. That's pretty non-labor intensive. So, y'know, we're all set to work till we're 85. I mean, we've seen the pictures of Ida Rolf, who--I don't know how old she really was, but--looked 104, teaching her little acolytes how to Rolf people from her wheelchair.
Or, alternately, I could work harder on finding me a rich contractor husband before my looks totally go.
Either way, I ain't depending on no 401k, I'll tell you what.
xoxo
I just laughed. I dunno. It's all theoretical money to me anyway. I have absolutely no faith I'll ever see any of it. And M2 and I decided we can probably massage people till we're almost ready to drop, anyway, and when we are really ready to drop, we can switch to Reiki-ing them. That's pretty non-labor intensive. So, y'know, we're all set to work till we're 85. I mean, we've seen the pictures of Ida Rolf, who--I don't know how old she really was, but--looked 104, teaching her little acolytes how to Rolf people from her wheelchair.
Or, alternately, I could work harder on finding me a rich contractor husband before my looks totally go.
Either way, I ain't depending on no 401k, I'll tell you what.
xoxo
Sunday, October 19, 2008
quick question
Can I go back to hating on JD Drew now? Please? It might give me solace.
On the other hand, you all can take solace in that this ends my baseball posting for 2008. See ya next year. Sigh.
xoxo
On the other hand, you all can take solace in that this ends my baseball posting for 2008. See ya next year. Sigh.
xoxo
woodland adventures
...in which Andrea and Mr Indemnity almost DIE in the wilderness...
So. If you look back a year or so ago in this blog, you will see an entry in which Mr Indemnity and I went hiking in the Middlesex Fells and enjoyed it immensely. We enjoyed it so much we always planned to repeat the experience, but you know how it is. It rains on the weekends, other obligations interfere, the need to drink beer and go shopping seems more pressing, blah blah.
Today, however, though the weather was, shall we say, brisk, and my ankle is still wrapped, it was sunny, the foliage is turning, and Mr Indemnity's girlfriend, the lovely J, was swamped with work, so it seemed like as good a time as any to go to Stoneham and commune with nature. But first we went to IHOP for breakfast. Well, technically, lunch, but if it involves lots and lots of pancakes, I consider it breakfast. And it's a good thing we ate lots and lots of pancakes and carb-loaded, because we would need those glucose reserves for the ordeal we were about to endure. Duh duh DUH. <-----that's foreshadowing, kids.
So, we go back to the Sheepfold, which is where we entered the Fells the last time. And, to our best recollection, last time we stayed on the white trail, which is the "moderate" hike and which took us considerably less than the three hours the hiking book told us it was supposed to take. Today we originally planned to take part of the orange trail, which is 5 hours long and "strenuous", by walking in one direction for an hour or hour and fifteen minutes and then just turning around and retracing our steps. But when we started to do that, we realized it soon intersected the white trail, and we figured, what the hell, that was pretty easy last time, let's just do that loop again. Our time check heading into the woods was 2:20 pm. Plenty of time to make it out before dark even if it did take three hours, right? RIGHT?
Well. Apparently we somehow missed part of the trail last time. Now, if you haven't been to the Middlesex Fells, let me explain that for part of the trail you basically are in someone's backyard, and for another, you are actually forced out of the woods onto the road, so as not to get too close to the Winchester town water supply. But we were way past that point and deep into the woods, beginning to get tired and definitely thirsty (because, moronically, we did not bring water with us), and it was 5:10 when we came across a sign that said Sheepfold 2 miles. Oh fuck me. One cannot cover two miles on those trails in twenty minutes, especially since Mr Indemnity's quads were giving out on the almost-vertical uphills (not having my powerful bulgy Polish catcher's thighs) and I was taking the almost-vertical downhills very gingerly, being really afraid I was gonna land wrong on my weak right ankle. Nevertheless we picked up the pace. Fear of DYING will do that for ya.
And obviously, we made it out alive. At like 6:10. In the twilight. Where we immediately drove to Medford, looking for a convenience store to sell us some Gatorade, VitaminWater, and Snickers bars.
I was, however, flooded with endorphins. So that's a good thing! And I'm sure I burned off the pancakes and the Snickers bar and some of my excess fat, right?
Hope you all had a nice Sunday full of endorphins, too!
xoxo
So. If you look back a year or so ago in this blog, you will see an entry in which Mr Indemnity and I went hiking in the Middlesex Fells and enjoyed it immensely. We enjoyed it so much we always planned to repeat the experience, but you know how it is. It rains on the weekends, other obligations interfere, the need to drink beer and go shopping seems more pressing, blah blah.
Today, however, though the weather was, shall we say, brisk, and my ankle is still wrapped, it was sunny, the foliage is turning, and Mr Indemnity's girlfriend, the lovely J, was swamped with work, so it seemed like as good a time as any to go to Stoneham and commune with nature. But first we went to IHOP for breakfast. Well, technically, lunch, but if it involves lots and lots of pancakes, I consider it breakfast. And it's a good thing we ate lots and lots of pancakes and carb-loaded, because we would need those glucose reserves for the ordeal we were about to endure. Duh duh DUH. <-----that's foreshadowing, kids.
So, we go back to the Sheepfold, which is where we entered the Fells the last time. And, to our best recollection, last time we stayed on the white trail, which is the "moderate" hike and which took us considerably less than the three hours the hiking book told us it was supposed to take. Today we originally planned to take part of the orange trail, which is 5 hours long and "strenuous", by walking in one direction for an hour or hour and fifteen minutes and then just turning around and retracing our steps. But when we started to do that, we realized it soon intersected the white trail, and we figured, what the hell, that was pretty easy last time, let's just do that loop again. Our time check heading into the woods was 2:20 pm. Plenty of time to make it out before dark even if it did take three hours, right? RIGHT?
Well. Apparently we somehow missed part of the trail last time. Now, if you haven't been to the Middlesex Fells, let me explain that for part of the trail you basically are in someone's backyard, and for another, you are actually forced out of the woods onto the road, so as not to get too close to the Winchester town water supply. But we were way past that point and deep into the woods, beginning to get tired and definitely thirsty (because, moronically, we did not bring water with us), and it was 5:10 when we came across a sign that said Sheepfold 2 miles. Oh fuck me. One cannot cover two miles on those trails in twenty minutes, especially since Mr Indemnity's quads were giving out on the almost-vertical uphills (not having my powerful bulgy Polish catcher's thighs) and I was taking the almost-vertical downhills very gingerly, being really afraid I was gonna land wrong on my weak right ankle. Nevertheless we picked up the pace. Fear of DYING will do that for ya.
And obviously, we made it out alive. At like 6:10. In the twilight. Where we immediately drove to Medford, looking for a convenience store to sell us some Gatorade, VitaminWater, and Snickers bars.
I was, however, flooded with endorphins. So that's a good thing! And I'm sure I burned off the pancakes and the Snickers bar and some of my excess fat, right?
Hope you all had a nice Sunday full of endorphins, too!
xoxo
Saturday, October 18, 2008
more signs of the unexplained good mood
or possibly the apocalypse.
While I was in with a patient this morning, one of the hospitalists left a note on my counter in the back room, where he thought I would be sure to see it, basically asking me to call him back because he wanted a favor. Instead of my normal reaction, which, especially if I were cranky, would be @!!#%$!@@*@!!!! what the hell do these people want from me now?, I just felt a vague sense of amusement that my on-call doctor, who apparently suggested he take this course of action, hadn't called me himself. Apparently he was afraid I'd yell at him. (Who, me?)
But because I was running about ten minutes behind and had a baby waiting for me, I didn't call the hospitalist right back, just left his note exactly where he put it. Well, while I was in with the baby, he apparently came down looking for me again, saw my door was still closed, and moved the note onto my door, so there was no way I could miss it. On seeing this, I did *not* think, What the fuck is wrong with you? I will call you back when I get a chance. Chillax, dude. I just called him back and cheerfully volunteered to do what he wanted.
What do you think is wrong with me? Does it sound like a brain tumor? Do you think someone has been slipping something into my Snapple? I need answers!
xoxo
While I was in with a patient this morning, one of the hospitalists left a note on my counter in the back room, where he thought I would be sure to see it, basically asking me to call him back because he wanted a favor. Instead of my normal reaction, which, especially if I were cranky, would be @!!#%$!@@*@!!!! what the hell do these people want from me now?, I just felt a vague sense of amusement that my on-call doctor, who apparently suggested he take this course of action, hadn't called me himself. Apparently he was afraid I'd yell at him. (Who, me?)
But because I was running about ten minutes behind and had a baby waiting for me, I didn't call the hospitalist right back, just left his note exactly where he put it. Well, while I was in with the baby, he apparently came down looking for me again, saw my door was still closed, and moved the note onto my door, so there was no way I could miss it. On seeing this, I did *not* think, What the fuck is wrong with you? I will call you back when I get a chance. Chillax, dude. I just called him back and cheerfully volunteered to do what he wanted.
What do you think is wrong with me? Does it sound like a brain tumor? Do you think someone has been slipping something into my Snapple? I need answers!
xoxo
important blog announcement
...for your convenience.
There are now 30 shopping days until my birthday. You all know where your local mall is, right? Also? For the right amount of bribery, I could probably be induced to stop posting about baseball, Nirvana songs, my own boobs, or, really, any other topic that's worn out its welcome.
You are very welcome! Think nothing of it! De nada!
xoxo
There are now 30 shopping days until my birthday. You all know where your local mall is, right? Also? For the right amount of bribery, I could probably be induced to stop posting about baseball, Nirvana songs, my own boobs, or, really, any other topic that's worn out its welcome.
You are very welcome! Think nothing of it! De nada!
xoxo
Friday, October 17, 2008
joyless nutritionists, revisited
Last year around this time I regaled you all with one of my sordid fantasies, i.e. porn in which some insufferably prim and joyless nutritionist (that is to say, any one of them) is tied down and forced to eat chocolate ganache, nay, made to beg for the chocolate ganache and admit that it is good. Very good. If I remember correctly, that was in response to one sniffing in the newspaper that one shouldn't make a habit of 100-calorie portion-controlled snacks, because even 100 calories' worth of cookies or chips are Bad! Bad! Evil! Then there was that whole debacle last spring/early summer about *half* a baked potato being considered a serving. I think it's clear how I feel about these people.
And I don't remember exactly what triggered it, but I was wondering earlier this week whether anyone has ever done a study on what percentage of college nutrition majors either have clinical eating disorders, borderline eating disorders, are supposedly in recovery from eating disorders, or, at the very least, have majorly fucked up relationships with food and/or their bodies. I'm betting it's over 90%. I also wonder if it's an "open secret" amongst the faculty/administration or whether people actually acknowledge and talk about it.
In a somewhat related note--related enough that I'm cobbling it together in here, so deal--I read an interesting internet discussion/argument today about the new law in NY that requires restaurants to post calorie counts, only calorie counts, no other nutritional information, and publicly posted, not in a pamphlet or on the website. A lot of people who work with eating disordered patients dislike it, and are fighting it, because a.) it's triggering for a lot of anorexics, among other people and b.) because it's fucking stoopid.
I could enumerate a long list of reasons it's stoopid, but I'll just mention the one that galls me the most: I think the nanny state wants us fat fucking American slobs to, I dunno, be so shamed by the 800 calories next to our cheeseburger on the menu that we order steamed broccoli instead. Yeah, that'll work. It'll work great on people like me who will then order two hamburgers just for spite while waving a jaunty middle finger somewhere in the direction of the Department of Public Health. If the government wants to worry about my cheeseburger, I think I'd prefer them to be worrying if I'm gonna get e.coli from it, y'know?
Meanwhile, spite a joyless nutritionist and your overbearing local government tonight. If you're gonna eat a food ending in "li", make it cannoli, not broccoli. Andrea said it was okay.
xoxo
And I don't remember exactly what triggered it, but I was wondering earlier this week whether anyone has ever done a study on what percentage of college nutrition majors either have clinical eating disorders, borderline eating disorders, are supposedly in recovery from eating disorders, or, at the very least, have majorly fucked up relationships with food and/or their bodies. I'm betting it's over 90%. I also wonder if it's an "open secret" amongst the faculty/administration or whether people actually acknowledge and talk about it.
In a somewhat related note--related enough that I'm cobbling it together in here, so deal--I read an interesting internet discussion/argument today about the new law in NY that requires restaurants to post calorie counts, only calorie counts, no other nutritional information, and publicly posted, not in a pamphlet or on the website. A lot of people who work with eating disordered patients dislike it, and are fighting it, because a.) it's triggering for a lot of anorexics, among other people and b.) because it's fucking stoopid.
I could enumerate a long list of reasons it's stoopid, but I'll just mention the one that galls me the most: I think the nanny state wants us fat fucking American slobs to, I dunno, be so shamed by the 800 calories next to our cheeseburger on the menu that we order steamed broccoli instead. Yeah, that'll work. It'll work great on people like me who will then order two hamburgers just for spite while waving a jaunty middle finger somewhere in the direction of the Department of Public Health. If the government wants to worry about my cheeseburger, I think I'd prefer them to be worrying if I'm gonna get e.coli from it, y'know?
Meanwhile, spite a joyless nutritionist and your overbearing local government tonight. If you're gonna eat a food ending in "li", make it cannoli, not broccoli. Andrea said it was okay.
xoxo
good writing, right here
You people know I do so enjoy a well-crafted metaphor. Well, here's Bill Simmons on Jason Bay:
"I can't look at Bay and not think of Manny. At least not yet. Bay is like the dutiful, pretty second wife who does everything right … and yet, I can't stop thinking about the soul-wrenching tramp who married me first and broke my heart. I wish it wasn't that way, but it's going to take some time."
I wish I had written that.
xoxo
"I can't look at Bay and not think of Manny. At least not yet. Bay is like the dutiful, pretty second wife who does everything right … and yet, I can't stop thinking about the soul-wrenching tramp who married me first and broke my heart. I wish it wasn't that way, but it's going to take some time."
I wish I had written that.
xoxo
snatching victory from ignominious defeat, baybee
And because I'm a godless heathen with absolutely no faith in miracles and who had to be up at 5:30, I went to bed when they were losing 5-0. That's okay! My boss did the same thing. We're both still happy this morning. And rested!
xoxo
xoxo
Thursday, October 16, 2008
disclosure
At work today, I was talking to one of the doctors I know about her teenaged son, who is, at the moment, giving her no end of agita. "How old is he? Sixteen? Yeah, they're obnoxious at that age," I said. "But they outgrow that and eventually become sweet and decent human beings again."
So that led her to asking about how D is doing. She was one of the people who, when he was in the hospital, was an incredible source of emotional support, care, and concern for me, which really, I cherish all the more because we weren't close, close friends. She's just a kind and gentle person. Anyway, I was filling her in on how well he's doing and we were discussing the plethora of meds he takes, some to prevent side effects and others to deal with the side effects he's got, along with, y'know, the ones he needs for his brain. And she laughed and said, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm on five (psych) meds now," and named them. I really had no idea. She said, "I realized I'd been depressed for twenty years. Functional, but severely depressed. I don't know how I did it." That segued into a conversation about how she, and at times I, had done it because we had to: when you're a single parent, you get up and take care of the kid even if you feel like staying in bed and crying for a month; when you have a job where people are depending on you, you get up and go to it. You can function, not optimally, but certainly okay--especially if your baseline is bright and capable--for long periods of time when internally you are absolute crap. And it also segued into a conversation about fleeting suicidal ideation and how, similarly (and luckily) you can reject it totally because your sense of obligation to other people is so strong.
But my point isn't really to tell you all that, because we've covered that all before in here, but to say how I felt really good that she chose to disclose all that to me. Much in the same way that I've told those of you who've opened up in here, or in the old blog, about your own experiences with the crazee, how honored I feel that you chose to do so in the Adventures. It can be a deeply private thing, and when people feel comfortable sharing private things in your space because they're comfortable with you, that does feel great.
On the other hand, it bothers me just a little that I feel that way, because--and I hope this shows through--one of the big reasons why I talk openly about the crazee in here, D's and my own, why I tell you stories about having had suicidal thoughts or hypomanic reactions to SSRIs, isn't because I have loose boundaries or something, it's because if I could do one good thing in my life, it would be to make people realize that things like that, while they may be private in that you have every right to share or not share them with whomever you choose, shouldn't be private in a shameful way. If I could wave a magic wand and make the societal stigma about psychiatric illness go away, I would. It's none of my business if any of you, my blog readers, have diabetes or asthma or a seizure disorder unless you choose to make it my business, and the same with any chronic psychiatric illness you may or may not have. But I realize that I wouldn't feel honored if you told me you had diabetes in the same way I'm honored if you tell me you have a mood disorder, and that kind of bothers me. It bothers me because it points out the stigma is still so societally strong and it points out that I probably have internalized it to some degree, despite my own glibness in talking about it.
Huh.
xoxo
So that led her to asking about how D is doing. She was one of the people who, when he was in the hospital, was an incredible source of emotional support, care, and concern for me, which really, I cherish all the more because we weren't close, close friends. She's just a kind and gentle person. Anyway, I was filling her in on how well he's doing and we were discussing the plethora of meds he takes, some to prevent side effects and others to deal with the side effects he's got, along with, y'know, the ones he needs for his brain. And she laughed and said, "Well, if it makes you feel any better, I'm on five (psych) meds now," and named them. I really had no idea. She said, "I realized I'd been depressed for twenty years. Functional, but severely depressed. I don't know how I did it." That segued into a conversation about how she, and at times I, had done it because we had to: when you're a single parent, you get up and take care of the kid even if you feel like staying in bed and crying for a month; when you have a job where people are depending on you, you get up and go to it. You can function, not optimally, but certainly okay--especially if your baseline is bright and capable--for long periods of time when internally you are absolute crap. And it also segued into a conversation about fleeting suicidal ideation and how, similarly (and luckily) you can reject it totally because your sense of obligation to other people is so strong.
But my point isn't really to tell you all that, because we've covered that all before in here, but to say how I felt really good that she chose to disclose all that to me. Much in the same way that I've told those of you who've opened up in here, or in the old blog, about your own experiences with the crazee, how honored I feel that you chose to do so in the Adventures. It can be a deeply private thing, and when people feel comfortable sharing private things in your space because they're comfortable with you, that does feel great.
On the other hand, it bothers me just a little that I feel that way, because--and I hope this shows through--one of the big reasons why I talk openly about the crazee in here, D's and my own, why I tell you stories about having had suicidal thoughts or hypomanic reactions to SSRIs, isn't because I have loose boundaries or something, it's because if I could do one good thing in my life, it would be to make people realize that things like that, while they may be private in that you have every right to share or not share them with whomever you choose, shouldn't be private in a shameful way. If I could wave a magic wand and make the societal stigma about psychiatric illness go away, I would. It's none of my business if any of you, my blog readers, have diabetes or asthma or a seizure disorder unless you choose to make it my business, and the same with any chronic psychiatric illness you may or may not have. But I realize that I wouldn't feel honored if you told me you had diabetes in the same way I'm honored if you tell me you have a mood disorder, and that kind of bothers me. It bothers me because it points out the stigma is still so societally strong and it points out that I probably have internalized it to some degree, despite my own glibness in talking about it.
Huh.
xoxo
i think i'm dumb, or maybe just happy
Yeah, yeah, I know, no more Nirvana references in here, at least until the new year, because I'm over my quota and Courtney's probably gonna send me a bill for the royalties, 'cause you know she needs the money.
Be that as it may! I was in such a good mood yesterday that our Mr Barma actually asked me what was wrong with me. I told him I was cycling into a mania. The sad thing is I'm not sure he totally believed I was joking. For the record, I have never had an episode of mania, though I'm pretty sure I had a little period of hypomania on Paxil** But, y'know, if I start talking about cashing in my tanking 401k and taking the money to Vegas to play high-stakes blackjack, you people should probably hold an intervention. Because there's a first time for everything and I really suck at blackjack. Thanks!
Anyway. Then we watched that abomination of a Dodgers game, which I'm *sure* is just a prequel of the abomination of a Sox game that's gonna happen tonight. I am not predicting, however, that anyone on the Sox is gonna singlehandedly make three errors in one inning nor that Tito is gonna fuck up his substitutions like Joe Torre did. Also, I still maintain that Loney is not fit to lick Youk's spikes. None of that is going to lead to ultimate victory, however. Suckass Rays-Phillies Series, here we come. (And Manuel Aristides, you tried, papi, but you can't win a game all by yourself.)
And, despite this all, I'm still in a good mood! Maybe this is mania.
xoxo
** So, when I was talking about this with Dr V, who was a really good pediatric psychopharmacologist before he decided to move back to friggin New Mexico, a few years ago in relation to D's family history, he asked me why I thought I'd been in hypomania. And I started telling him about how I'd behaved in ways that were unusual and out of character for me, like I met a guy online and flew off to NJ to spend a weekend with him, basically not telling anyone where I was really going. Dr V looked at me evenly and said, "Well. Maybe you just wanted a change." hahaha Remember how I was talking in here about medical professionals who wouldn't bat an eye or judge you no matter what you said to them? Yeah, that.
Be that as it may! I was in such a good mood yesterday that our Mr Barma actually asked me what was wrong with me. I told him I was cycling into a mania. The sad thing is I'm not sure he totally believed I was joking. For the record, I have never had an episode of mania, though I'm pretty sure I had a little period of hypomania on Paxil** But, y'know, if I start talking about cashing in my tanking 401k and taking the money to Vegas to play high-stakes blackjack, you people should probably hold an intervention. Because there's a first time for everything and I really suck at blackjack. Thanks!
Anyway. Then we watched that abomination of a Dodgers game, which I'm *sure* is just a prequel of the abomination of a Sox game that's gonna happen tonight. I am not predicting, however, that anyone on the Sox is gonna singlehandedly make three errors in one inning nor that Tito is gonna fuck up his substitutions like Joe Torre did. Also, I still maintain that Loney is not fit to lick Youk's spikes. None of that is going to lead to ultimate victory, however. Suckass Rays-Phillies Series, here we come. (And Manuel Aristides, you tried, papi, but you can't win a game all by yourself.)
And, despite this all, I'm still in a good mood! Maybe this is mania.
xoxo
** So, when I was talking about this with Dr V, who was a really good pediatric psychopharmacologist before he decided to move back to friggin New Mexico, a few years ago in relation to D's family history, he asked me why I thought I'd been in hypomania. And I started telling him about how I'd behaved in ways that were unusual and out of character for me, like I met a guy online and flew off to NJ to spend a weekend with him, basically not telling anyone where I was really going. Dr V looked at me evenly and said, "Well. Maybe you just wanted a change." hahaha Remember how I was talking in here about medical professionals who wouldn't bat an eye or judge you no matter what you said to them? Yeah, that.
Tuesday, October 14, 2008
it must be said
A Phillies-Rays World Series is gonna suck even more ass.
That was a sad spectacle last evening. I'm just hoping that this is shades of 2004, where my boys are gonna play like shit just to suddenly turn it around into brilliance and snatch victory from ignominious defeat. Or something like that. I will say that I was watching the beginning of the NL game last night and I had to comment that at least one of those balls that the Dodgers first baseman couldn't keep from going into right, Youk woulda had. I'm firmly convinced.
Okay. That's all the baseball I have to talk about today.
xoxo
That was a sad spectacle last evening. I'm just hoping that this is shades of 2004, where my boys are gonna play like shit just to suddenly turn it around into brilliance and snatch victory from ignominious defeat. Or something like that. I will say that I was watching the beginning of the NL game last night and I had to comment that at least one of those balls that the Dodgers first baseman couldn't keep from going into right, Youk woulda had. I'm firmly convinced.
Okay. That's all the baseball I have to talk about today.
xoxo
Saturday, October 11, 2008
Friday, October 10, 2008
oh, Nomar
That's all I've got to say about that.
Except: Red Sox-Phillies World Series? Would suck ass.
xoxo
Except: Red Sox-Phillies World Series? Would suck ass.
xoxo
diversity
I was going to do a round up of the pluses and minuses of today in here, but I got distracted by one of the projected plus/minuses onto another mental topic. So you're going to hear about that instead. I promise, it may not be riveting, but it'll be better than listening to me whine about what the traffic in Salem is like during the month of October, n'est pas?
Okay. So some of you have already heard my lament about how they are renovating our cafeteria in work and thus my already meager lunch choices are even more reduced. Mostly we're down to premade sandwiches and salads. That's a minus. Well, at 12:15 today, I got the very last Greek salad they had. That's a plus. When I took it up to pay, my very nice butch cashier pointed out that it was looking kind of sad and wilted--that's a minus--though it had today's date on it, and asked if I wanted to get something else instead, or to grab a plain garden salad and transfer my feta and olives, etc., to that. I told her it was okay, I'd take my chances on the semi-wilted lettuce. She said "hold on," checked out the next person in line, and with her cash drawer open, took my five out and handed it back to me. I got a free lunch that I would have paid for without complaint, thanks to her kindness. That's a plus!
And it occurred to me as I was thinking about writing about this incident that absolutely my inclination was to describe her as "my butch cashier" solely because it is so very very unusual in my workplace to come across an employee who looks at all, shall we say, alternative. This girl is fairly new and I remember being really surprised the first day I went through her line. She is probably the one and only employee of the hospital that I have come across whose sexual orientation is clearly flagged by her dress and appearance. It's bizarre; obviously just by percentages there have got to be a good chunk of lesbian and gay employees, but the only ones that I know of I know of from being told, not because they don't "blend" seamlessly. Contrast that to, say, massage school, which was close to 50-50 gay/straight with the students and almost all lesbian/gay with the instructors and the visual clues mostly held true.
Similarly, and coincidentally, I overheard two guys that work in the ER walking down the hall, discussing that fact that one of them had brand new, extensive forearm tats and is apparently getting shit about it. His friend said, gesturing to his own rather visible tattoos, "Hey, they can't say anything to me, because they hired me like this." And it occurred to me that I just never even thought that people would need to hide/cover their bodyart to work at the hospital. Because it *isn't* a three-piece-suit environment, it just never occurred to me that it would be that conservative, that a man, in particular, would get crap for visible tattoos. Would you care if your nurse had half-sleeves if he appeared to know how to get your IV in on the first try?
I guess when I stopped to think about it, it really kind of bothered me that it seems for the most part the hospital avoids hiring anyone who appears to have an alternative sexuality or who has extensive bodyart. It seems weird in 2008. You can tell me it's because they don't want to make the little old lady patients uncomfortable, but I think that's selling the little old lady patients short. I bet a whole crapload of them go to swishy gay hairdressers and butch lesbian MTs (and love them!) and fondly roll their eyes and shake their heads over their own grandchildren's full-sleeves and nostril piercings (and love them too!) They don't go running out of the coffee shop screaming if the barista has pink hair. This is Boston, not small town Utah, you know?
Am I totally off-base?
xoxo
Okay. So some of you have already heard my lament about how they are renovating our cafeteria in work and thus my already meager lunch choices are even more reduced. Mostly we're down to premade sandwiches and salads. That's a minus. Well, at 12:15 today, I got the very last Greek salad they had. That's a plus. When I took it up to pay, my very nice butch cashier pointed out that it was looking kind of sad and wilted--that's a minus--though it had today's date on it, and asked if I wanted to get something else instead, or to grab a plain garden salad and transfer my feta and olives, etc., to that. I told her it was okay, I'd take my chances on the semi-wilted lettuce. She said "hold on," checked out the next person in line, and with her cash drawer open, took my five out and handed it back to me. I got a free lunch that I would have paid for without complaint, thanks to her kindness. That's a plus!
And it occurred to me as I was thinking about writing about this incident that absolutely my inclination was to describe her as "my butch cashier" solely because it is so very very unusual in my workplace to come across an employee who looks at all, shall we say, alternative. This girl is fairly new and I remember being really surprised the first day I went through her line. She is probably the one and only employee of the hospital that I have come across whose sexual orientation is clearly flagged by her dress and appearance. It's bizarre; obviously just by percentages there have got to be a good chunk of lesbian and gay employees, but the only ones that I know of I know of from being told, not because they don't "blend" seamlessly. Contrast that to, say, massage school, which was close to 50-50 gay/straight with the students and almost all lesbian/gay with the instructors and the visual clues mostly held true.
Similarly, and coincidentally, I overheard two guys that work in the ER walking down the hall, discussing that fact that one of them had brand new, extensive forearm tats and is apparently getting shit about it. His friend said, gesturing to his own rather visible tattoos, "Hey, they can't say anything to me, because they hired me like this." And it occurred to me that I just never even thought that people would need to hide/cover their bodyart to work at the hospital. Because it *isn't* a three-piece-suit environment, it just never occurred to me that it would be that conservative, that a man, in particular, would get crap for visible tattoos. Would you care if your nurse had half-sleeves if he appeared to know how to get your IV in on the first try?
I guess when I stopped to think about it, it really kind of bothered me that it seems for the most part the hospital avoids hiring anyone who appears to have an alternative sexuality or who has extensive bodyart. It seems weird in 2008. You can tell me it's because they don't want to make the little old lady patients uncomfortable, but I think that's selling the little old lady patients short. I bet a whole crapload of them go to swishy gay hairdressers and butch lesbian MTs (and love them!) and fondly roll their eyes and shake their heads over their own grandchildren's full-sleeves and nostril piercings (and love them too!) They don't go running out of the coffee shop screaming if the barista has pink hair. This is Boston, not small town Utah, you know?
Am I totally off-base?
xoxo
Thursday, October 9, 2008
semi-review
Torchwood.
I just got the first dvd from Netflix yesterday and have, so far, only watched one episode, but so far, so good. (One of) the main character(s) is a Welsh policewoman, and early on, she and her partner are discussing just who/what Torchwood might be. Her partner posits that they are forensics. "It's all that CSI bollocks these days, innit? I'd like to see them do CSI:Cardiff! They could measure the trajectory of a kebab."
Oh, that cracked me right the hell up, and I have no real idea why. I know nothing about Cardiff other than its approximate location, and certainly have no idea why they might have a blight of fast food-related violence there, but that's funny. There are other jokes/references to Cardiff perhaps being a rowdy kind of place. The policewoman and her partner, for example, are called in to break up a football-caused bar fight and she takes a punch to the face meant for someone else, and when she needs to explain away her absence to her boyfriend when she's sneaking around, trying to investigate Torchwood, she says she's taking an extra shift on at work "because there's a match tonight." But all that leads me to my one complaint about the show so far.
She runs around through the episode doing police stuff, including crowd control and breaking up fights, and for 90% of that time, her long hair is hanging in her face. Arrggghhhh. It fucks with my suspension of disbelief like you can't even imagine, and for what? Could someone please tell these TV and movie people that an attractive woman is still attractive if her hair is in a bun. Or a ponytail. Or a braid. Really! We will still find our protagonist to be a cutie pie if you put her hair back, like a real law enforcement officer.
Anyway. So far I'd have to say that if you like British TV, as I do, or scifi, as I do, you might just enjoy this series. I'll report back later.
xoxo
I just got the first dvd from Netflix yesterday and have, so far, only watched one episode, but so far, so good. (One of) the main character(s) is a Welsh policewoman, and early on, she and her partner are discussing just who/what Torchwood might be. Her partner posits that they are forensics. "It's all that CSI bollocks these days, innit? I'd like to see them do CSI:Cardiff! They could measure the trajectory of a kebab."
Oh, that cracked me right the hell up, and I have no real idea why. I know nothing about Cardiff other than its approximate location, and certainly have no idea why they might have a blight of fast food-related violence there, but that's funny. There are other jokes/references to Cardiff perhaps being a rowdy kind of place. The policewoman and her partner, for example, are called in to break up a football-caused bar fight and she takes a punch to the face meant for someone else, and when she needs to explain away her absence to her boyfriend when she's sneaking around, trying to investigate Torchwood, she says she's taking an extra shift on at work "because there's a match tonight." But all that leads me to my one complaint about the show so far.
She runs around through the episode doing police stuff, including crowd control and breaking up fights, and for 90% of that time, her long hair is hanging in her face. Arrggghhhh. It fucks with my suspension of disbelief like you can't even imagine, and for what? Could someone please tell these TV and movie people that an attractive woman is still attractive if her hair is in a bun. Or a ponytail. Or a braid. Really! We will still find our protagonist to be a cutie pie if you put her hair back, like a real law enforcement officer.
Anyway. So far I'd have to say that if you like British TV, as I do, or scifi, as I do, you might just enjoy this series. I'll report back later.
xoxo
the checklist
D had his monthly visit with the psychiatrist this morning and while I sat in there, listening to her go through the rote list of questions--any thoughts of hurting yourself or others? hearing any voices or noises?--I thought, seriously, is there anyone, no matter how sick they are, who doesn't know that the "right" answer to them is no? The only time anyone is ever going to say yes is if they really, really want help. So, how do you catch the people who want to kill themselves or their neighbors because it seems like the best idea or because the voices are telling them to? There's got to be a better system.
Anyway, then I was thinking, as you do, about the times in my life that I have had, as they say, suicidal ideation. The time I thought about it most clearly and longingly was during my first bout of real depression, when I was fourteen. And the only reason I never actually made an attempt then was because I was sure that if I could just survive to be an adult, things would be better, and life would be all rainbows and kitten orgasms. Oh, it is to laugh. But I guess that's what reaching adulthood gives you, if not rainbows and kitten orgasms: perspective. After a certain sheer number of bad things happen to you and you live through them, you realize that you can live through anything and that life cycles, such that bad times come and go and good times come and go, and if you just hang in there, you'll be on the upside again. Eventually.
So then I was reminiscing about what exactly I thought my wonderful, happy adult life would look like when I was 14. I thought that I would live in NYC in a tiny but fabulously cute apartment and write for Glamour, where I would wear adorable floral print Gunne Sax dresses (ha!) and tights to work everyday, and walk for miles. I couldn't conceive, at 14, a future life with husband or children yet, or even, I don't think, a boyfriend, (nevermind second contractor husbands, step grandchildren or crown molding) but I had this fantasy glamorous writing life all planned for myself and I had to stay alive long enough to get there.
In another bit of irony, my friend L had a roommate M freshman year of college who kind of went on to live out *my* fantasy. L and M had a prickly, difficult relationship, though they did become friends. At some point when we were all in our late 20s or so, and M was living in NYC, freelance writing with an article just published in Glamour (even by then, that still impressed the fuck out of me), and involved with some much older man, L wanted to meet up with her when she was in New York for some other reason, and M either blew her off or met up with her just very briefly. L was devastated, with the, omg, why does M hate me now? thing going on in her head, but it was obvious to me from what she said, that M was just miserable and stressed, probably living very much hand-to-mouth, and having relationship problems. I was pretty unhappy myself at that point, but not so much that I couldn't appreciate the fact that someone who had my teenage fantasy life was just as bad off.
Perspective.
Also, the lack of a theme and a point in the preceding will explain to you why no one has ever paid me to write for their high-circulation women's magazine. In case you were wondering.
xoxo
Anyway, then I was thinking, as you do, about the times in my life that I have had, as they say, suicidal ideation. The time I thought about it most clearly and longingly was during my first bout of real depression, when I was fourteen. And the only reason I never actually made an attempt then was because I was sure that if I could just survive to be an adult, things would be better, and life would be all rainbows and kitten orgasms. Oh, it is to laugh. But I guess that's what reaching adulthood gives you, if not rainbows and kitten orgasms: perspective. After a certain sheer number of bad things happen to you and you live through them, you realize that you can live through anything and that life cycles, such that bad times come and go and good times come and go, and if you just hang in there, you'll be on the upside again. Eventually.
So then I was reminiscing about what exactly I thought my wonderful, happy adult life would look like when I was 14. I thought that I would live in NYC in a tiny but fabulously cute apartment and write for Glamour, where I would wear adorable floral print Gunne Sax dresses (ha!) and tights to work everyday, and walk for miles. I couldn't conceive, at 14, a future life with husband or children yet, or even, I don't think, a boyfriend, (nevermind second contractor husbands, step grandchildren or crown molding) but I had this fantasy glamorous writing life all planned for myself and I had to stay alive long enough to get there.
In another bit of irony, my friend L had a roommate M freshman year of college who kind of went on to live out *my* fantasy. L and M had a prickly, difficult relationship, though they did become friends. At some point when we were all in our late 20s or so, and M was living in NYC, freelance writing with an article just published in Glamour (even by then, that still impressed the fuck out of me), and involved with some much older man, L wanted to meet up with her when she was in New York for some other reason, and M either blew her off or met up with her just very briefly. L was devastated, with the, omg, why does M hate me now? thing going on in her head, but it was obvious to me from what she said, that M was just miserable and stressed, probably living very much hand-to-mouth, and having relationship problems. I was pretty unhappy myself at that point, but not so much that I couldn't appreciate the fact that someone who had my teenage fantasy life was just as bad off.
Perspective.
Also, the lack of a theme and a point in the preceding will explain to you why no one has ever paid me to write for their high-circulation women's magazine. In case you were wondering.
xoxo
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
misc!
1.) Breaking my own blog rule: The other night my dad says to me, "Did you hear that Obama was a terrorist in the 60s?" I just looked at him. "Dad. Obama's my age. In the 60s he was in grammar school. First grade, to be exact." He thinks about this and starts laughing. "Yeah, well, okay, but he could still have been a terrorist. Maybe he was one of those real advanced kids." (I keep telling you, there's a reason I turned out as I did.) But, seriously? I know not every TV viewer is a half-blind, half-deaf 82 y.o. who, though cured through the miracles of podiatry, still has some difficulty with realizing how long ago any given decade was unless you force him to do the math. Be that as it may, how many of them do half-listen to the attack ads and the bogus news items and the talking points and just believe whatever? I think democracy is a very bad idea. The average American is too stoopid to vote. And I include myself right in there.
2.) True confessions: I did not stay up for game 3 or game 4. I had no faith in them winning either of those games, and I *knew* Beckett was going to suck. Unfortunately, my prediction that he would only last 2 and 1/3 innings before having to be pulled so Wakefield could come in from the bullpen and heroically knuckleball our way to a sweep did not come true. Anyway. The Angels made me nervous for no good reason. I'm feeling much better about the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Also for no good reason. Other than Red Sox-Dodgers World Series, baby!
3.) I would rather rake leaves then cut grass. I would rather lie on my chaise supervising the gardener while Raul, my pool boy, brings me margaritas and rubs my feet than either, but that ain't happening. Alas.
xoxo
2.) True confessions: I did not stay up for game 3 or game 4. I had no faith in them winning either of those games, and I *knew* Beckett was going to suck. Unfortunately, my prediction that he would only last 2 and 1/3 innings before having to be pulled so Wakefield could come in from the bullpen and heroically knuckleball our way to a sweep did not come true. Anyway. The Angels made me nervous for no good reason. I'm feeling much better about the Tampa Bay Devil Rays. Also for no good reason. Other than Red Sox-Dodgers World Series, baby!
3.) I would rather rake leaves then cut grass. I would rather lie on my chaise supervising the gardener while Raul, my pool boy, brings me margaritas and rubs my feet than either, but that ain't happening. Alas.
xoxo
Tuesday, October 7, 2008
good deeds
I had one done for me today.
I was across the street from my bus stop, unable to cross because the light was against me and there was lots of early morning rush hour traffic, when the bus came down the street. The bus driver saw me and, apparently recognizing me as one of his occasional riders--I don't even take that bus every day--, stopped, blocking traffic, so that I could run across and get on. And there's another bus perhaps five or ten minutes behind him, so it wouldn't even be any kind of inconvenience for me to have missed him. But, really, it made my day, and I told him he was awesome.
It made me think back to the year D was in kindergarten. It was a pretty tough year. My grandmother was dying and my mom had taken a leave of absence from work in order to care for her 24/7, so she could die in her own house. My dad was holding down the fort, doing everything in the house and the relationship that my mom would ordinarily have been doing. I was working full time, taking care of D basically by myself since my ex-husband was totally unable to be counted upon, and trying to help my parents out as much as I could (and it wasn't much, unfortunately) with my grandmother. D was in daycare/full time kindergarten near my work, which was the best option, since (see above) I had no one else that year who could help me out with picking him up, etc.
Every morning D and I took the same bus to work/daycare and we had, for months, the same driver. He was a black guy about my age--so late 20s, maybe early 30s at the time--and he was just the nicest man. I'm not saying he didn't flirt with me, and all the other young women passengers, because he did--and frankly, that's nice too if it's done right--but he was nice to everyone. The young women, the middle aged women, the old women, the guys, and the children. He really was the kind of person meant to be in a job dealing with the general public, because you honestly got the idea that he really *did* want us all to have as nice a commute as was humanly possible. I know! Shocker!
So it happened that to get to our bus stop, D and I had to walk up a certain street and then down the block a ways to the stop. And it happened that we were usually running late and hurrying and half-jogging up that street and around the corner. (Have you tried to get a 5 y.o. out of the house in the morning?) Once our very nice bus driver realized that, he began stopping in front of the street that we came down if we weren't at the stop, and looking to see if we were trotting towards it. So we never missed the bus. I can't even tell you how much gratitude I had in my heart for that man some days.
(I also had some lust in my heart for him, being in a long period of sad, post-marital celibacy at the time. I remember one day he was wearing a thermal shirt under his short-sleeved MBTA shirt, and it had a hole in the elbow, and I spent a good ten minutes of my ride contemplating licking his arm through the hole. Yes, I know. It was probably that which pushed me over the edge into the realization that Andrea! Dude! You need to start dating again!)
Ahem. To get back to my non-salacious point, it occurred to me this morning that those little, tiny good deeds you do, the ones that probably don't even inconvenience you or cost you money or take more than a minute out of your day, can really make a stranger's day. And I kind of wanted to encourage you all to do one if the chance arises. Because I know my readers are all very nice people, too.
xoxo
I was across the street from my bus stop, unable to cross because the light was against me and there was lots of early morning rush hour traffic, when the bus came down the street. The bus driver saw me and, apparently recognizing me as one of his occasional riders--I don't even take that bus every day--, stopped, blocking traffic, so that I could run across and get on. And there's another bus perhaps five or ten minutes behind him, so it wouldn't even be any kind of inconvenience for me to have missed him. But, really, it made my day, and I told him he was awesome.
It made me think back to the year D was in kindergarten. It was a pretty tough year. My grandmother was dying and my mom had taken a leave of absence from work in order to care for her 24/7, so she could die in her own house. My dad was holding down the fort, doing everything in the house and the relationship that my mom would ordinarily have been doing. I was working full time, taking care of D basically by myself since my ex-husband was totally unable to be counted upon, and trying to help my parents out as much as I could (and it wasn't much, unfortunately) with my grandmother. D was in daycare/full time kindergarten near my work, which was the best option, since (see above) I had no one else that year who could help me out with picking him up, etc.
Every morning D and I took the same bus to work/daycare and we had, for months, the same driver. He was a black guy about my age--so late 20s, maybe early 30s at the time--and he was just the nicest man. I'm not saying he didn't flirt with me, and all the other young women passengers, because he did--and frankly, that's nice too if it's done right--but he was nice to everyone. The young women, the middle aged women, the old women, the guys, and the children. He really was the kind of person meant to be in a job dealing with the general public, because you honestly got the idea that he really *did* want us all to have as nice a commute as was humanly possible. I know! Shocker!
So it happened that to get to our bus stop, D and I had to walk up a certain street and then down the block a ways to the stop. And it happened that we were usually running late and hurrying and half-jogging up that street and around the corner. (Have you tried to get a 5 y.o. out of the house in the morning?) Once our very nice bus driver realized that, he began stopping in front of the street that we came down if we weren't at the stop, and looking to see if we were trotting towards it. So we never missed the bus. I can't even tell you how much gratitude I had in my heart for that man some days.
(I also had some lust in my heart for him, being in a long period of sad, post-marital celibacy at the time. I remember one day he was wearing a thermal shirt under his short-sleeved MBTA shirt, and it had a hole in the elbow, and I spent a good ten minutes of my ride contemplating licking his arm through the hole. Yes, I know. It was probably that which pushed me over the edge into the realization that Andrea! Dude! You need to start dating again!)
Ahem. To get back to my non-salacious point, it occurred to me this morning that those little, tiny good deeds you do, the ones that probably don't even inconvenience you or cost you money or take more than a minute out of your day, can really make a stranger's day. And I kind of wanted to encourage you all to do one if the chance arises. Because I know my readers are all very nice people, too.
xoxo
Monday, October 6, 2008
"the drunk, horny people are scaring me"
That's a verbatim quote from this weekend, which we will get to in a moment. Like, now.
Saturday evening I ended up in the bar of a Back Bay restaurant better known for its location and people-watching opportunities than for the food or value-on-the-dollar. But they do have good bread pudding, and I wanted some. And an Irish coffee. Strictly for medicinal purposes, you understand, since not half an hour before, I had badly twisted my ankle crossing Comm Ave, there being a huge construction rut in the street. Well, also because I wasn't looking where I was going, being too busy mocking the clot of BU students ahead of us. But be that as it may, I'm sure that it was nevertheless the fault of the City of Boston and I would have a huge lawsuit on my hands if only I had documentation. Anyway. I ended up having my medicinal pudding and whiskey and we had even managed to poach a table in this tiny, tiny bar, so all was well until the, for lack of a better word, bachelorette party, or part of it, moved into the adjoining table.
I say for lack of a better word because other than the presumed bride-to-be, all the "bachelorettes" had huge rocks on their left hands, and, um, there was also a man involved in this little party. Wherein hangs our story. The women at this table were all well into their fourth espresso martinis, by which I mean to say, toasted. And they were happily flirting and accepting more alcohol from a gentleman they had met at the bar. He was not dissuaded by the fact that, and I quote, they all had dibs on them, which is frankly, perhaps the most charming way of saying "married" in this situation I'd ever heard. I mean, it kind of takes the onus off of cheating. "I know your husband has dibs on you, but he's not here, is he?"
At some point my friend disappears to the bathroom for a very very long time and, while I pick at my bread pudding and sip my Irish coffee, I am drawn into the little psychodrama playing out four feet from me ever more deeply and uncomfortably. The drink-buyer in question claims he is in commercial real estate, which I take to mean "janitor." Because he also has made known that he's from Southie, and with my keen sensitivity to such things, I am totally sure he means townie South Boston, not yuppie South Boston. You could clean him up and drop him off on Newbury Street, but there's nothing about this guy that wasn't saying Irish mook to me. (Of course, it didn't occur to me until afterwards, but commercial real estate is also one of those professions that people claim to be in when their real occupation = mob. And if you actually rob banks or do hits for a living, I suppose you've got the wads of cash and the self confidence to work on picking up married tourists in upscale lounges.)
Another woman joins the party and she's almost sitting on the guy's lap and my friend has not yet returned and I'm getting extremely uncomfortable with pretending to eat my dessert and not watch/listen. So I whip out my cell and make a table-to-bathroom call. "Get.Back.Here.NOW." Also, see quote above.
I love humanity.
So, weekend part deux. I wake up Sunday am and my twisted ankle is a little swollen and stiff and I hobble around the kitchen for awhile, sure it is mildly sprained. Now, let me backtrack slightly. Do you remember my telling you all that the podiatrist was coming to the house to take care of my dad's toenails, and also, that my dad had been having severe left thigh pain whenever he attempted to walk further than from my house to the corner? Well, after the podiatrist did his business, my dad totally unexpectedly found that his thigh pain was relieved. Friday he walked all the way down to the main intersection with me, which means nothing to those of you who haven't been to my house, but for those of you who have, you'll realize that's five times longer than from my house to the corner. So my dad takes it into his head that he has had a miracle cure through the wonders of podiatry and that he is going to walk to 7-11, which is, I dunno, a half mile away?
I tell him, no, no, no, you wait until Sunday when I can walk with you, in case this turns out to be a very bad idea and you need help. So Sunday being hobbled with my slightly sprained ankle and all, I figure me and the old man will probably neither make it to the 7-11, but damnit! we're gonna try. But we both did it, and I gotta say, I am flummoxed about the "miracle cure". All I can think of is that his disgusting toenails were causing him to change his gait in some extremely weird way. Or it's all psychosomatic. With my family, you never know.
I love humanity.
xoxo
Saturday evening I ended up in the bar of a Back Bay restaurant better known for its location and people-watching opportunities than for the food or value-on-the-dollar. But they do have good bread pudding, and I wanted some. And an Irish coffee. Strictly for medicinal purposes, you understand, since not half an hour before, I had badly twisted my ankle crossing Comm Ave, there being a huge construction rut in the street. Well, also because I wasn't looking where I was going, being too busy mocking the clot of BU students ahead of us. But be that as it may, I'm sure that it was nevertheless the fault of the City of Boston and I would have a huge lawsuit on my hands if only I had documentation. Anyway. I ended up having my medicinal pudding and whiskey and we had even managed to poach a table in this tiny, tiny bar, so all was well until the, for lack of a better word, bachelorette party, or part of it, moved into the adjoining table.
I say for lack of a better word because other than the presumed bride-to-be, all the "bachelorettes" had huge rocks on their left hands, and, um, there was also a man involved in this little party. Wherein hangs our story. The women at this table were all well into their fourth espresso martinis, by which I mean to say, toasted. And they were happily flirting and accepting more alcohol from a gentleman they had met at the bar. He was not dissuaded by the fact that, and I quote, they all had dibs on them, which is frankly, perhaps the most charming way of saying "married" in this situation I'd ever heard. I mean, it kind of takes the onus off of cheating. "I know your husband has dibs on you, but he's not here, is he?"
At some point my friend disappears to the bathroom for a very very long time and, while I pick at my bread pudding and sip my Irish coffee, I am drawn into the little psychodrama playing out four feet from me ever more deeply and uncomfortably. The drink-buyer in question claims he is in commercial real estate, which I take to mean "janitor." Because he also has made known that he's from Southie, and with my keen sensitivity to such things, I am totally sure he means townie South Boston, not yuppie South Boston. You could clean him up and drop him off on Newbury Street, but there's nothing about this guy that wasn't saying Irish mook to me. (Of course, it didn't occur to me until afterwards, but commercial real estate is also one of those professions that people claim to be in when their real occupation = mob. And if you actually rob banks or do hits for a living, I suppose you've got the wads of cash and the self confidence to work on picking up married tourists in upscale lounges.)
Another woman joins the party and she's almost sitting on the guy's lap and my friend has not yet returned and I'm getting extremely uncomfortable with pretending to eat my dessert and not watch/listen. So I whip out my cell and make a table-to-bathroom call. "Get.Back.Here.NOW." Also, see quote above.
I love humanity.
So, weekend part deux. I wake up Sunday am and my twisted ankle is a little swollen and stiff and I hobble around the kitchen for awhile, sure it is mildly sprained. Now, let me backtrack slightly. Do you remember my telling you all that the podiatrist was coming to the house to take care of my dad's toenails, and also, that my dad had been having severe left thigh pain whenever he attempted to walk further than from my house to the corner? Well, after the podiatrist did his business, my dad totally unexpectedly found that his thigh pain was relieved. Friday he walked all the way down to the main intersection with me, which means nothing to those of you who haven't been to my house, but for those of you who have, you'll realize that's five times longer than from my house to the corner. So my dad takes it into his head that he has had a miracle cure through the wonders of podiatry and that he is going to walk to 7-11, which is, I dunno, a half mile away?
I tell him, no, no, no, you wait until Sunday when I can walk with you, in case this turns out to be a very bad idea and you need help. So Sunday being hobbled with my slightly sprained ankle and all, I figure me and the old man will probably neither make it to the 7-11, but damnit! we're gonna try. But we both did it, and I gotta say, I am flummoxed about the "miracle cure". All I can think of is that his disgusting toenails were causing him to change his gait in some extremely weird way. Or it's all psychosomatic. With my family, you never know.
I love humanity.
xoxo
Saturday, October 4, 2008
oh, hi, kids
Did you notice I finally shut up for a little while?
As much as I would like to take credit for that myself, I'll have to admit it's partly because I've had some computer problems at home and, for instance, yesterday had no internet access at all. (I really don't know how I went through life fifteen years ago because a day without the internet is like a day without orgasms. Or something like that.) And, can I just say, that paying for overnight shipping when they don't actually plan on shipping my part till Monday pisses me *right* off? I mean, I realize that I will still get it much faster once they put it in the box than I would have otherwise, but put it in the box now, okay? Grr.
Anyway! While sadly being unable to check my email, get irritated with Rate My Space, see the latest lolcats, or scope out what all of you were up to, I had to fall back on entertaining myself with one of my actual books. I think I talked in here last year about Home Comforts when I bought it, because while it is a very useful and even quite engaging reference book, the author is such a clean-freak germophobe whacko that you just want to send the poor woman some Prozac in a care package so she can give up on the obsession with dust mites. She's really kind of hilariously over the top on that subject, amongst others.
Well, I was rereading part of it yesterday, and something she said just neatly tied in with some stuff (you guys know) I've been thinking about and talking about and writing about. She was discussing how one's bedroom is where one gets naked both literally and figuratively, and that in order for us to be able to cast aside the outside world and the day to day worries that consume us so that we might relax, rest, romance, and sleep--the things our bedrooms are intended for--our bedrooms must be set up and decorated in a way that makes *us* most happy and comfortable and at home. Not according to what anyone else might like or approve of or suggest, but what speaks to us individually.
So, yeah, she's singing my song.
On the other hand, there may just be some lines that shouldn't be crossed. On one of those HGTV shows the other day, they were redoing a couple's bedroom who had on one nightstand their FAX machine and on the other a file folder of their bills and correspondence. I would suggest this is a bad idea, no matter who you are or what your aesthetic tastes might be. No one relaxes better or has more satisfying sex when their FAX machine is 18 inches from the back of their head.
Similarly, there was an old posting on Rate My Space that I came across the other day in which the poster was being taken to task by (some ignorant) people for his choice of art above the bed. It was what was obviously an original painting done in a pulp-magazine style, which was actually quite in keeping with the style of the guy's mid-century modern room but which also was "real" art. It was obviously a painting that the owner saw and said, "hey, that's really cool, I need to have that," not, "oh, that matches the drapes." So, the subject matter of this pulp-style painting was a naked woman with two clothed men***. That flipped a whole bunch of people right out, and they felt compelled to complain that it was tasteless, kinky, and inappropriate. People who were defending it made the very valid point that it was, y'know, art, and that omg, if you can't have a nude painting *in your bedroom* they better get all those nekkid pictures out of the museums right now. But--and this is the point of this whole digression, swear to god there is one--one of the defenders made what I thought was another very good and also hilarious point. She said something along the lines of, "Good for you! We have pictures of my mom and grandmother in the bedroom. It's a wonder we actually managed to have children." So, yeah, while I see nothing wrong with (see previous posts) anyone putting up family pictures in the dining room or anywhere else they damn well please, I have to admit that large and prominently displayed photos of your parents or your children in the bedroom might not just be the optimal setting for, y'know, doin' it. So, keep that in mind if you are decorating. That's my helpful hint for this week.
***the owner of the bedroom/painting posted afterwards that it was entitled "Samantha and the Two Darrins" and, if you looked closely, goddamn it if it wasn't. That's so mid-century modern I could die.
xoxo
As much as I would like to take credit for that myself, I'll have to admit it's partly because I've had some computer problems at home and, for instance, yesterday had no internet access at all. (I really don't know how I went through life fifteen years ago because a day without the internet is like a day without orgasms. Or something like that.) And, can I just say, that paying for overnight shipping when they don't actually plan on shipping my part till Monday pisses me *right* off? I mean, I realize that I will still get it much faster once they put it in the box than I would have otherwise, but put it in the box now, okay? Grr.
Anyway! While sadly being unable to check my email, get irritated with Rate My Space, see the latest lolcats, or scope out what all of you were up to, I had to fall back on entertaining myself with one of my actual books. I think I talked in here last year about Home Comforts when I bought it, because while it is a very useful and even quite engaging reference book, the author is such a clean-freak germophobe whacko that you just want to send the poor woman some Prozac in a care package so she can give up on the obsession with dust mites. She's really kind of hilariously over the top on that subject, amongst others.
Well, I was rereading part of it yesterday, and something she said just neatly tied in with some stuff (you guys know) I've been thinking about and talking about and writing about. She was discussing how one's bedroom is where one gets naked both literally and figuratively, and that in order for us to be able to cast aside the outside world and the day to day worries that consume us so that we might relax, rest, romance, and sleep--the things our bedrooms are intended for--our bedrooms must be set up and decorated in a way that makes *us* most happy and comfortable and at home. Not according to what anyone else might like or approve of or suggest, but what speaks to us individually.
So, yeah, she's singing my song.
On the other hand, there may just be some lines that shouldn't be crossed. On one of those HGTV shows the other day, they were redoing a couple's bedroom who had on one nightstand their FAX machine and on the other a file folder of their bills and correspondence. I would suggest this is a bad idea, no matter who you are or what your aesthetic tastes might be. No one relaxes better or has more satisfying sex when their FAX machine is 18 inches from the back of their head.
Similarly, there was an old posting on Rate My Space that I came across the other day in which the poster was being taken to task by (some ignorant) people for his choice of art above the bed. It was what was obviously an original painting done in a pulp-magazine style, which was actually quite in keeping with the style of the guy's mid-century modern room but which also was "real" art. It was obviously a painting that the owner saw and said, "hey, that's really cool, I need to have that," not, "oh, that matches the drapes." So, the subject matter of this pulp-style painting was a naked woman with two clothed men***. That flipped a whole bunch of people right out, and they felt compelled to complain that it was tasteless, kinky, and inappropriate. People who were defending it made the very valid point that it was, y'know, art, and that omg, if you can't have a nude painting *in your bedroom* they better get all those nekkid pictures out of the museums right now. But--and this is the point of this whole digression, swear to god there is one--one of the defenders made what I thought was another very good and also hilarious point. She said something along the lines of, "Good for you! We have pictures of my mom and grandmother in the bedroom. It's a wonder we actually managed to have children." So, yeah, while I see nothing wrong with (see previous posts) anyone putting up family pictures in the dining room or anywhere else they damn well please, I have to admit that large and prominently displayed photos of your parents or your children in the bedroom might not just be the optimal setting for, y'know, doin' it. So, keep that in mind if you are decorating. That's my helpful hint for this week.
***the owner of the bedroom/painting posted afterwards that it was entitled "Samantha and the Two Darrins" and, if you looked closely, goddamn it if it wasn't. That's so mid-century modern I could die.
xoxo
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