1.) So, yeah. My skin's still been funky. When I was at CVS the other day, looking at moisturizers, I saw they had some kind of Aveeno colloidal oatmeal bath, which, according to the package, is dermatologist-recommended to soothe skin irritation and itch from about 30 different conditions and to clean without soap. Alrighty then. Also, I remembered that many years ago when I was a wee slip of a girl working my way through college in the nursing home, one nasty old woman on my ward who had--and I shouldn't talk, because I'm probably heading in this direction--a really disgusting skin condition, had a doctor's order for Aveeno bath. Twice a week we had to fill up the whirlpool tub for her and put it in, and thankfully, she'd take it from there. So, anyway, I figured if this stuff was dermatologist recommended 25 years ago and dermatologist recommended today, it's gotta be good, right? So I bought it.
Yesterday after work I made the executive decision that it was gonna be Chillax, Andrea, Chillax Night. I made a really nice dinner that didn't involve any turkey products (to wit: scampi with grape tomatoes over angel hair pasta) and after eating, I lit the candles in my bathroom, put the iPod speakers in there so I could play my Tibetan singing bowls CD (a sound so far from any concept of Western music that it really is other-worldly and conducive to meditation), and ran my Aveeno bath. I was in the tub, candlelit, listening to what the Buddhist monks in the Himalayas listen to when they try to become one with the universe, when I had an epiphany--it smelled like I was soaking in a huge vat of porridge and, rather than facilitating meditation or relaxation, that just made me want breakfast. Even though I'd just eaten. Sigh.
2.) Read this: http://www.nytimes.com/2008/11/13/fashion/13psych.html?_r=2
Are you back? Okay. Now, D's paranoia never took exactly that form when he was sick, but one of his original delusions back when he was 17, which I've referenced before, was that he had a strange and offensive body odor, and believe you me, he was able to find himself a whole internet full of people who had the same belief. There's a plastic tote down in my cellar still to this day, I believe, full of the various colon cleanses and herbal detoxes and so forth that he bought then, after finding the whole online community of people who believed they smelt funny because there's built up food rotting in their colons or some such, and were hella distressed by that.
It's true. No matter what odd and delusional belief you have, you can probably get in contact with a whole bunch of people all over the world on the internet who will happily reinforce it for you.
3.) I keep seeing white or cream-colored sofas, both for sale and in other people's rooms on rate my space, that I want. I've got a black cat and two incredibly sloppy, filthy men in this house. I cannot have a white or cream sofa. But I WANT. It kind of cracks me up.
Happy Sunday!
xoxo
Sunday, November 30, 2008
Thursday, November 27, 2008
on the bright side
As you all also know, there's nothing that pleases me more than getting expensive stuff for cheap money. (It also honors my mother's memory, so, holiday-wise, there is that.)
I figured this evening after dessert that I would look at a few of my favorite web retailers to see if they had any Black Friday supersale merchandise up. Well! Garnet Hill. I just spent $107 on a variety of items that originally totaled $428. I do believe that's 75% off. Do the freakin' math, baby. Ahhhhhh.
xoxo
I figured this evening after dessert that I would look at a few of my favorite web retailers to see if they had any Black Friday supersale merchandise up. Well! Garnet Hill. I just spent $107 on a variety of items that originally totaled $428. I do believe that's 75% off. Do the freakin' math, baby. Ahhhhhh.
xoxo
holiday crazee
Prologue #1: I've lost a little bit of weight over the past few months. The first few pounds were intentional, then I lost a little more from stress when I was having my bad few weeks in September. That was the point at which I weighed myself and found myself to be 128. Stark naked, first thing in the morning, but after evacuating everything that could be evacuated, so to speak. (Any woman who's ever had any food or body issues knows exactly what I'm talking about, those scale games to get your lowest possible weight.) Well, as you know, Bob, I've had another little anxiety freak out this month again and consequently haven't been eating very much. The other morning when I was getting ready for work I tried on a pair of pants that are usually "5 pounds too tight" for me, and surprise surprise, they fit, and I wore them. So it occurred to me that I've probably dropped another couple pounds, and I weighed myself last night before going to bed. 128, but fully clothed at the end of the day, so yeah. End of prologue #1.
Prologue #2: The holidays are hard for me. In retrospect, I'd say they've been so maybe from the time D's father and I broke up, or maybe since my grandmother died, but certainly over the past 5 years since my mother died and D got sick. A lot of feelings of sadness, loneliness, regret, and jealousy of what I perceive other people have that I do not get called up. I know this. I try to expect it so it doesn't blindside me, and to do what I can to head it off, usually not very successfully. Like, last night, listing what I'm thankful for? True, all true, but all the positive fucking affirmations and looking on the bright side in the world really can't blot out the dark thoughts completely. End of prologue #2.
Holiday crazee: So, despite knowing my proclivities and knowing what I should and should not do, I nevertheless read something this morning that was guaranteed to trigger me big time. Guaranteed. I am so damn smahhht knowing what I should and should not do, but does that mean I do it? No. No no no. And the bad, bad thoughts came flooding in.
It was in this mood that, while getting dressed, I decided to try on some other clothes that almost certainly wouldn't fit me. And they didn't. And I immediately became so disgusted with my gross body and then almost immediately afterwards laughing at myself, because see prologue #1. If anything points up that whether or not I like what I see in the mirror has nothing to do with the actual mirror and everything to do with my internal mental state, that'd be it. So what did I decide to do after *that*?
Oh, it gets better. This probably should be prologue #3, but in case I haven't mentioned it, I haven't liked a single photograph of myself taken in at least the past 4 years. And because I expect the photo to be horrible, I freeze my face up when I know I'm getting my picture taken and it's consequently even worse. So, this morning in a black black mood and already disgusted with my body, I decide to whip out my digital camera and see if I can take a picture of my face that I like. Well. There is now officially no angle I can be photographed at which does not either play up my jowls or the "have you slept in the past 6 weeks, Andrea?" black circles under my eyes. Just horrible. And already hating myself and everyone else didn't exactly help. Erase erase erase. On the plus side, my hair did look awesomely shiny in every pic. Pfff.
Luckily for me, I had to go out to get whipped cream (yes, I *did* forget one thing I needed, huge surprise, huh?) and the paper. Thank god the 7-11 has a lovely selection of dairy products. They didn't, however, have any papers, so I walked to another couple stores looking fruitlessly for a damn Globe. The combination of the fresh air and exercise lifted the worst of the bad bad thoughts, thankfully.
Moral of the story? I dunno. Eat more whipped cream?
xoxo
Prologue #2: The holidays are hard for me. In retrospect, I'd say they've been so maybe from the time D's father and I broke up, or maybe since my grandmother died, but certainly over the past 5 years since my mother died and D got sick. A lot of feelings of sadness, loneliness, regret, and jealousy of what I perceive other people have that I do not get called up. I know this. I try to expect it so it doesn't blindside me, and to do what I can to head it off, usually not very successfully. Like, last night, listing what I'm thankful for? True, all true, but all the positive fucking affirmations and looking on the bright side in the world really can't blot out the dark thoughts completely. End of prologue #2.
Holiday crazee: So, despite knowing my proclivities and knowing what I should and should not do, I nevertheless read something this morning that was guaranteed to trigger me big time. Guaranteed. I am so damn smahhht knowing what I should and should not do, but does that mean I do it? No. No no no. And the bad, bad thoughts came flooding in.
It was in this mood that, while getting dressed, I decided to try on some other clothes that almost certainly wouldn't fit me. And they didn't. And I immediately became so disgusted with my gross body and then almost immediately afterwards laughing at myself, because see prologue #1. If anything points up that whether or not I like what I see in the mirror has nothing to do with the actual mirror and everything to do with my internal mental state, that'd be it. So what did I decide to do after *that*?
Oh, it gets better. This probably should be prologue #3, but in case I haven't mentioned it, I haven't liked a single photograph of myself taken in at least the past 4 years. And because I expect the photo to be horrible, I freeze my face up when I know I'm getting my picture taken and it's consequently even worse. So, this morning in a black black mood and already disgusted with my body, I decide to whip out my digital camera and see if I can take a picture of my face that I like. Well. There is now officially no angle I can be photographed at which does not either play up my jowls or the "have you slept in the past 6 weeks, Andrea?" black circles under my eyes. Just horrible. And already hating myself and everyone else didn't exactly help. Erase erase erase. On the plus side, my hair did look awesomely shiny in every pic. Pfff.
Luckily for me, I had to go out to get whipped cream (yes, I *did* forget one thing I needed, huge surprise, huh?) and the paper. Thank god the 7-11 has a lovely selection of dairy products. They didn't, however, have any papers, so I walked to another couple stores looking fruitlessly for a damn Globe. The combination of the fresh air and exercise lifted the worst of the bad bad thoughts, thankfully.
Moral of the story? I dunno. Eat more whipped cream?
xoxo
Wednesday, November 26, 2008
the end of civilization as we know it...
and Happy Thanksgiving!
You know I am thankful for many things this year. My wonderful friends, D's continued stability, my dad's continued health (and miracle podiatry cure!), my financial situation's having returned to equilibrium, Kelly's onion rings, Magners cider, feta, anti-anxiety cures of *all* stripes, Youk! and Dustin, that MFR class I took in July, Netflix, FIOS, and that they finally finished renovating that damn cafeteria in work.
However. I fear we are one step closer to the abyss. D has on MTV, watching a True Life marathon, and I just saw they're making a new season of A Shot at Love. Except, instead of the insect-like Tila Tequila, it involves bisexual identical twins. Hence, A Double Shot at Love.
Imagine my face, filled with shock and horror. Yeah, that.
xoxo
You know I am thankful for many things this year. My wonderful friends, D's continued stability, my dad's continued health (and miracle podiatry cure!), my financial situation's having returned to equilibrium, Kelly's onion rings, Magners cider, feta, anti-anxiety cures of *all* stripes, Youk! and Dustin, that MFR class I took in July, Netflix, FIOS, and that they finally finished renovating that damn cafeteria in work.
However. I fear we are one step closer to the abyss. D has on MTV, watching a True Life marathon, and I just saw they're making a new season of A Shot at Love. Except, instead of the insect-like Tila Tequila, it involves bisexual identical twins. Hence, A Double Shot at Love.
Imagine my face, filled with shock and horror. Yeah, that.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 25, 2008
anthropomorphising
That's not quite the right word for the concept I want to talk about, but I don't know what the right word is. I'm sure one of you all will help me out with that.
Anyway. I have to give you the tangential story that led me to today's line of thought. There's a story on my AOL welcome screen today about the Taliban acid attacks on young Afghani girls going to school and how the world is outraged. I felt about this the way I feel about all such similar things, like, say, American/Western outrage about female genital mutilation in Africa. There is nothing defensible about throwing acid on little girls for the crime of trying to get an education as there is nothing defensible about removing a girl's clitoris and/or sewing up most of her vaginal opening, no matter what your cultural norms are. Some shit is just wrong.
However, before we as Americans get outraged about this (with a thin sheen of unspoken "oh those savage barbarians!" coating our outrage) perhaps we should examine, and take care of, the injustices against women in our own country and culture. I just signed a petition last week about US servicewomen being made to pay for their own fucking rape kits when they are raped (usually by a fellow serviceman). I don't know what is more stomach-turning, that a raped women would be charged for the collection of evidence needed to press charges, or that a US soldier, fighting for her country, would have to fear her own compatriots as well as the enemy. I'm pretty "outraged" about both those things.
Or--and I promise we're getting to the point of this all real soon--I was thinking, you want to wring your hands about the Taliban's twisting of religion to the point where mutilating a woman or girl is somehow justified, how about the members of several different religious groups here in America who are working really hard to get a woman's right to a legal abortion taken away from her even in the case of rape, even in the case where the mother would likely, or certainly, die in the event she continued the pregnancy. That even a six-week-along glob of fetal tissue would have more rights and more worth to these people than an adult woman, a woman with friends and a family and perhaps other children, perhaps a job, perhaps a talent or a gift for something or other, someone with definite worth and value and contribution to society, I find that as hand-wringingly religiously-twisted as any other bit of faith-based cruelty. And I find it kind of incomprehensible.
But then I was thinking about why people feel that, in an attempt to comprehend. Did any of you all see Lake of Fire? It's one of the few documentaries I've ever seen that really looks at an issue fairly and with balance to all sides. That no matter *what* your own preconceived and firmly held beliefs about the subject are, at some point during the film, you'll be questioning them. It's kind of remarkable that way. Well, anyway, someone at some time in the movie makes a point about how differently you as the parent of said fetal tissue feel about its personhood depending on whether the pregnancy is dearly wanted and hoped for or not, and I thought, bingo!
When you are pregnant with a pregnancy that you are going to carry to term, and you are at a prenatal visit and you hear the heartbeat for the first time, it's exciting. It makes the fetus *feel* like a baby to you, like the potential person they're going to be. When, really, why should it? Lots of pretty primitive creatures have heartbeats. It doesn't imply personhood at all. And there's a fetal heartbeat long, long before there's any real brain function, certainly long before there's even a possibility the fetus can think or feel or have any kind of consciousness at all, all of which are far more important to personhood than electrical activity in cardiac tissue, I think/hope we would agree. But because you want the baby so much, because in a way you're already falling in love with the baby, or at least the idea of the baby, the heartbeat makes you anthropomorphise that fetal tissue. It's symbolic.
And for many people who have nothing to do with anyone else's pregnancy other than sticking their noses in, that tendency to anthropomorphise fetal tissue comes not from the fetus as a symbol of a future person whom they will love, but as a symbol of The Innocent. Human beings have an innate predisposition to wanting to protect the weak, the helpless, the cute. (Which is a good evolutionary strategy to keep us from chucking our own, or other people's, crying babies over a cliff, y'know?) And while fetuses are not cute, they are certainly weak and helpless.
It's the same tendency that caused people to want to string up Michael Vick over the dog fighting thing. I mean people kill, rape, mutilate, torture, and otherwise fuck up and fuck over other human beings every single freaking day; in that context, dog fighting, while not defensible, is also not by a long shot the worst crime a person can commit. We've seen our pro athletes accused of far worse. But, ooooo, doggies, they're so cute and sweet. (And you people know I love animals. But the hysteria and outrage whipped up over that case was ridiculous.)
So, in that context, the reason some people would value the rights of a clump of fetal tissue over the rights of an adult (not weak, not helpless, not so cute) woman is perfectly understandable. Well, especially when you add to it that that adult woman has been proven to have had sex(even if it's married sex or forced nonconsensual sex), which is the other part that flips these religious whackos out. But anyway, it's a good object lesson to me: every time human behavior or ideas pop up that have no logical explanation to me, I can, if I try hard enough, probably figure out what primitive instinct or drive they're serving instead of logic.
I'll shut up now.
xoxo
Anyway. I have to give you the tangential story that led me to today's line of thought. There's a story on my AOL welcome screen today about the Taliban acid attacks on young Afghani girls going to school and how the world is outraged. I felt about this the way I feel about all such similar things, like, say, American/Western outrage about female genital mutilation in Africa. There is nothing defensible about throwing acid on little girls for the crime of trying to get an education as there is nothing defensible about removing a girl's clitoris and/or sewing up most of her vaginal opening, no matter what your cultural norms are. Some shit is just wrong.
However, before we as Americans get outraged about this (with a thin sheen of unspoken "oh those savage barbarians!" coating our outrage) perhaps we should examine, and take care of, the injustices against women in our own country and culture. I just signed a petition last week about US servicewomen being made to pay for their own fucking rape kits when they are raped (usually by a fellow serviceman). I don't know what is more stomach-turning, that a raped women would be charged for the collection of evidence needed to press charges, or that a US soldier, fighting for her country, would have to fear her own compatriots as well as the enemy. I'm pretty "outraged" about both those things.
Or--and I promise we're getting to the point of this all real soon--I was thinking, you want to wring your hands about the Taliban's twisting of religion to the point where mutilating a woman or girl is somehow justified, how about the members of several different religious groups here in America who are working really hard to get a woman's right to a legal abortion taken away from her even in the case of rape, even in the case where the mother would likely, or certainly, die in the event she continued the pregnancy. That even a six-week-along glob of fetal tissue would have more rights and more worth to these people than an adult woman, a woman with friends and a family and perhaps other children, perhaps a job, perhaps a talent or a gift for something or other, someone with definite worth and value and contribution to society, I find that as hand-wringingly religiously-twisted as any other bit of faith-based cruelty. And I find it kind of incomprehensible.
But then I was thinking about why people feel that, in an attempt to comprehend. Did any of you all see Lake of Fire? It's one of the few documentaries I've ever seen that really looks at an issue fairly and with balance to all sides. That no matter *what* your own preconceived and firmly held beliefs about the subject are, at some point during the film, you'll be questioning them. It's kind of remarkable that way. Well, anyway, someone at some time in the movie makes a point about how differently you as the parent of said fetal tissue feel about its personhood depending on whether the pregnancy is dearly wanted and hoped for or not, and I thought, bingo!
When you are pregnant with a pregnancy that you are going to carry to term, and you are at a prenatal visit and you hear the heartbeat for the first time, it's exciting. It makes the fetus *feel* like a baby to you, like the potential person they're going to be. When, really, why should it? Lots of pretty primitive creatures have heartbeats. It doesn't imply personhood at all. And there's a fetal heartbeat long, long before there's any real brain function, certainly long before there's even a possibility the fetus can think or feel or have any kind of consciousness at all, all of which are far more important to personhood than electrical activity in cardiac tissue, I think/hope we would agree. But because you want the baby so much, because in a way you're already falling in love with the baby, or at least the idea of the baby, the heartbeat makes you anthropomorphise that fetal tissue. It's symbolic.
And for many people who have nothing to do with anyone else's pregnancy other than sticking their noses in, that tendency to anthropomorphise fetal tissue comes not from the fetus as a symbol of a future person whom they will love, but as a symbol of The Innocent. Human beings have an innate predisposition to wanting to protect the weak, the helpless, the cute. (Which is a good evolutionary strategy to keep us from chucking our own, or other people's, crying babies over a cliff, y'know?) And while fetuses are not cute, they are certainly weak and helpless.
It's the same tendency that caused people to want to string up Michael Vick over the dog fighting thing. I mean people kill, rape, mutilate, torture, and otherwise fuck up and fuck over other human beings every single freaking day; in that context, dog fighting, while not defensible, is also not by a long shot the worst crime a person can commit. We've seen our pro athletes accused of far worse. But, ooooo, doggies, they're so cute and sweet. (And you people know I love animals. But the hysteria and outrage whipped up over that case was ridiculous.)
So, in that context, the reason some people would value the rights of a clump of fetal tissue over the rights of an adult (not weak, not helpless, not so cute) woman is perfectly understandable. Well, especially when you add to it that that adult woman has been proven to have had sex(even if it's married sex or forced nonconsensual sex), which is the other part that flips these religious whackos out. But anyway, it's a good object lesson to me: every time human behavior or ideas pop up that have no logical explanation to me, I can, if I try hard enough, probably figure out what primitive instinct or drive they're serving instead of logic.
I'll shut up now.
xoxo
more linguistic confusion
In the grand tradition of rod iron and wallah!, we now have working progress. As in, "I haven't finished this yet, it's still a working progress." I have seen this multiple times of late. Do you really think that's what that phrase is? It (unlike rod iron) doesn't even make sense.
Jesus wept, and so do I for the literacy of the American public. But then these are the same sort of people who advise other people to get rid of their bookcases and replace them with a nice sofa instead, so, y'know, it's to be expected.
xoxo
P.S. I actually also saw someone on craigslist yesterday advertising "rot iron" furniture. Dude! I don't want your disintegrating coffee table.
Jesus wept, and so do I for the literacy of the American public. But then these are the same sort of people who advise other people to get rid of their bookcases and replace them with a nice sofa instead, so, y'know, it's to be expected.
xoxo
P.S. I actually also saw someone on craigslist yesterday advertising "rot iron" furniture. Dude! I don't want your disintegrating coffee table.
Monday, November 24, 2008
come as you are
Oops. I forgot, I'm supposed to be having a moratorium till the new year. Anyway. Ignore the title.
So. A couple recent conversations have left me musing. Can we all agree that we all have our own character flaws and our bad relationship habits? Um, okay, can we then all agree we all have our own little quirks and idiosyncrasies? Better?
Well, as a virtual wellspring of all of the above, I feel perfectly qualified to speak to the question in my mind, which is this: how much can we, should we, will we change for another person? (And, you know by "another person" I mean someone with whom we are sleeping in the actual and/or metaphorical sense, not our mother or our employer or the lady who does our hair.) My long held and fervent belief regarding this has always been "not at all." I've always been a take-me-as-I-am kinda girl, which probably explains my long history of not being, y'know, taken, but whatever. I don't think that nullifies the point.
A friend said to me "I wish I were [insert attribute friend thinks is admirable, that, to me, is neutral]" because being more [whatever] would endear them more to the object of their affections. Well, I wish I were three or four inches taller, too, but that ain't gonna happen, barring wearing really high shoes. We are who we are, personality-wise as much as physically. I wish I were less lazy, less crazy, and less cranky but experience has taught me that I am not magically, or even through dint of sheer will, going to be transformed into someone who is super-industrious, anxiety-free, and mellowly non-temperamental. Experience has also shown me that I can however, for example, recognize the crazee and attempt to deal with it in a somewhat rational manner, arrange my life so that I don't have to be super-industrious to survive and even prosper, and control my temper with most people so that I am not That Miserable Cunt. And experience has shown me that another good way to deal with this all is to hook up with people who are, for example, mellow, so that they balance me out, and with people who are capable of finding amusement and even charm in my cranky, anxiety-ridden, slothful self.
(Experience has not shown me how to shorten the above paragraph, alas for your poor eyeballs.)
What experience has also taught me is that hooking up with someone who says, "I wish you'd stop freaking out and worrying obsessively about stupid things" is not, y'know, good for me, good for my self-esteem, good for them, or good for the small appliances that then get broken. We have basic qualities to ourselves that are immutable; we can learn to deal with them better, but we cannot just change them because that hot guy or girl would love us to.
On the other hand. We all have unfortunate, or even just quirky, habits and ways that we probably could change if we tried hard enough. Me, for example? I'm sure if it were important to someone who I was involved with, I could by sheer force of will, learn to curb my appalling potty mouth. I mean, I don't use the word "fuck" every ten minutes in work, particularly in front of my five-year-old patients, capice? But this is the kind of change I've always resented and been suspicious of. If I'm capable of speaking perfectly politely when need be, but enjoy a good four letter word in casual conversation amongst my peer group, why be with someone who found that appalling in a literal, rather than humorous, sense? If it doesn't bother me, and it doesn't negatively affect anyone, why hook up with someone who it does bother, and have to change myself? Take me as I am. Come as you are.
I dunno. I find myself deeply conflicted about my long-standing stance on this, though, listening to a couple of different friends struggle with the issue in their own relationships. Why throw away an otherwise good relationship if you could stop doing the things that annoy your partner if you tried hard enough? On the other hand, shouldn't your partner try harder not to be annoyed by non-crucial quirks of yours? Isn't there a happy medium?
And isn't it just cool when you find someone who likes all your quirks? At least for a little while. (See above: long history failed relationships, kthxbai.)
xoxo
So. A couple recent conversations have left me musing. Can we all agree that we all have our own character flaws and our bad relationship habits? Um, okay, can we then all agree we all have our own little quirks and idiosyncrasies? Better?
Well, as a virtual wellspring of all of the above, I feel perfectly qualified to speak to the question in my mind, which is this: how much can we, should we, will we change for another person? (And, you know by "another person" I mean someone with whom we are sleeping in the actual and/or metaphorical sense, not our mother or our employer or the lady who does our hair.) My long held and fervent belief regarding this has always been "not at all." I've always been a take-me-as-I-am kinda girl, which probably explains my long history of not being, y'know, taken, but whatever. I don't think that nullifies the point.
A friend said to me "I wish I were [insert attribute friend thinks is admirable, that, to me, is neutral]" because being more [whatever] would endear them more to the object of their affections. Well, I wish I were three or four inches taller, too, but that ain't gonna happen, barring wearing really high shoes. We are who we are, personality-wise as much as physically. I wish I were less lazy, less crazy, and less cranky but experience has taught me that I am not magically, or even through dint of sheer will, going to be transformed into someone who is super-industrious, anxiety-free, and mellowly non-temperamental. Experience has also shown me that I can however, for example, recognize the crazee and attempt to deal with it in a somewhat rational manner, arrange my life so that I don't have to be super-industrious to survive and even prosper, and control my temper with most people so that I am not That Miserable Cunt. And experience has shown me that another good way to deal with this all is to hook up with people who are, for example, mellow, so that they balance me out, and with people who are capable of finding amusement and even charm in my cranky, anxiety-ridden, slothful self.
(Experience has not shown me how to shorten the above paragraph, alas for your poor eyeballs.)
What experience has also taught me is that hooking up with someone who says, "I wish you'd stop freaking out and worrying obsessively about stupid things" is not, y'know, good for me, good for my self-esteem, good for them, or good for the small appliances that then get broken. We have basic qualities to ourselves that are immutable; we can learn to deal with them better, but we cannot just change them because that hot guy or girl would love us to.
On the other hand. We all have unfortunate, or even just quirky, habits and ways that we probably could change if we tried hard enough. Me, for example? I'm sure if it were important to someone who I was involved with, I could by sheer force of will, learn to curb my appalling potty mouth. I mean, I don't use the word "fuck" every ten minutes in work, particularly in front of my five-year-old patients, capice? But this is the kind of change I've always resented and been suspicious of. If I'm capable of speaking perfectly politely when need be, but enjoy a good four letter word in casual conversation amongst my peer group, why be with someone who found that appalling in a literal, rather than humorous, sense? If it doesn't bother me, and it doesn't negatively affect anyone, why hook up with someone who it does bother, and have to change myself? Take me as I am. Come as you are.
I dunno. I find myself deeply conflicted about my long-standing stance on this, though, listening to a couple of different friends struggle with the issue in their own relationships. Why throw away an otherwise good relationship if you could stop doing the things that annoy your partner if you tried hard enough? On the other hand, shouldn't your partner try harder not to be annoyed by non-crucial quirks of yours? Isn't there a happy medium?
And isn't it just cool when you find someone who likes all your quirks? At least for a little while. (See above: long history failed relationships, kthxbai.)
xoxo
oh, and an animal question
I bought these two "ceramic fan electric heaters", one for my bedroom because it's the coldest room in this house, and one for my dad's room, where he hangs out, because he's turning into one of those old people who wear a sweater in July and I am not keeping the downstairs thermostat on 70 or 72 just to prevent his bitching, whining, and moaning.
Anyway. Evil Kitty hates these things. If she is in my room with the door closed and it's on, she will meow and rattle the door and otherwise freak out until she is liberated. And it has nothing to do with the fan blowing right on her or anything. Is it possible it gives off some kind of sound that humans cannot hear but that hurts her ears or is she just being bizarre as always?
xoxo
Anyway. Evil Kitty hates these things. If she is in my room with the door closed and it's on, she will meow and rattle the door and otherwise freak out until she is liberated. And it has nothing to do with the fan blowing right on her or anything. Is it possible it gives off some kind of sound that humans cannot hear but that hurts her ears or is she just being bizarre as always?
xoxo
wicked boring update
Truth in advertising.
I had a lot I wanted to get accomplished this weekend, but I think I only hit about 20% of it. And I got no excuse. Yeah, I've got a (minor, only slightly annoying) cold and my skin is being funky again, but really, I've got no excuse except sloth and lack of initiative. But here's a rundown of some things I did do!
I tried out my new crockpot that D gave me for my birthday by making a pot roast. Thumbs up, but I've either got to not cut my vegetables up so much or maybe keep them on top of the meat (contrary to the instructions) because I kinda ended up with potato/onion mush. Oops. I've never had a slow cooker before, so this'll take some experimentation.
I bought my very first Christmas present, which I will not detail in any way, in case the future recipient is reading. But I will say that even though it was an online purchase, there were about two hours of effort involved and all kinds of tabs open and the newspaper being consulted and things and stuff while I figured out exactly what I wanted to do. And I'm still not sure I went exactly the right route. Oh, the pressure, the pressure. Ha!
I've got all my Thanksgiving groceries and, as far as I can tell, I didn't forget anything crucial. We'll see.
I've got my new picture hung in the dining room. So pretty.
And miscellaneous even more boring things like vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom (note: CVS brand cleaning and disinfecting wipes? perhaps they disinfect--I dunno, I didn't have a petri dish handy--but they don't clean), picking up my dad's prescription, Target run, the usual six loads of laundry, blah blah.
And a little more of Brotherhood. I'm not confused about who the characters are now, but I'm still not understanding why some of 'em do the things they do. Not sure if this is good writing with slow subtle character development or piss-poor writing with character development that'll never come. But why is the pol's wife cheating on him with the not-very-attractive mailman in cheap motels and getting high surreptitiously in her own bathroom? Are we supposed to accept it's a midlife crisis and that's that? I dunno. I do know the fake-ass "Rhode Island" accents are killing me. Especially hers. Annabeth Gish, shut up. Oh, and when is sending a girl a severed ear a smart courting move, even if she has reason to be happy about the ear's owner being made to suffer? I think I can speak for most, if not all, of womankind here: flowers good, mutilated bodily appendages not so good.
That's all I got.
xoxo
I had a lot I wanted to get accomplished this weekend, but I think I only hit about 20% of it. And I got no excuse. Yeah, I've got a (minor, only slightly annoying) cold and my skin is being funky again, but really, I've got no excuse except sloth and lack of initiative. But here's a rundown of some things I did do!
I tried out my new crockpot that D gave me for my birthday by making a pot roast. Thumbs up, but I've either got to not cut my vegetables up so much or maybe keep them on top of the meat (contrary to the instructions) because I kinda ended up with potato/onion mush. Oops. I've never had a slow cooker before, so this'll take some experimentation.
I bought my very first Christmas present, which I will not detail in any way, in case the future recipient is reading. But I will say that even though it was an online purchase, there were about two hours of effort involved and all kinds of tabs open and the newspaper being consulted and things and stuff while I figured out exactly what I wanted to do. And I'm still not sure I went exactly the right route. Oh, the pressure, the pressure. Ha!
I've got all my Thanksgiving groceries and, as far as I can tell, I didn't forget anything crucial. We'll see.
I've got my new picture hung in the dining room. So pretty.
And miscellaneous even more boring things like vacuuming, cleaning the bathroom (note: CVS brand cleaning and disinfecting wipes? perhaps they disinfect--I dunno, I didn't have a petri dish handy--but they don't clean), picking up my dad's prescription, Target run, the usual six loads of laundry, blah blah.
And a little more of Brotherhood. I'm not confused about who the characters are now, but I'm still not understanding why some of 'em do the things they do. Not sure if this is good writing with slow subtle character development or piss-poor writing with character development that'll never come. But why is the pol's wife cheating on him with the not-very-attractive mailman in cheap motels and getting high surreptitiously in her own bathroom? Are we supposed to accept it's a midlife crisis and that's that? I dunno. I do know the fake-ass "Rhode Island" accents are killing me. Especially hers. Annabeth Gish, shut up. Oh, and when is sending a girl a severed ear a smart courting move, even if she has reason to be happy about the ear's owner being made to suffer? I think I can speak for most, if not all, of womankind here: flowers good, mutilated bodily appendages not so good.
That's all I got.
xoxo
Saturday, November 22, 2008
let's complain
...about shit we cannot change.
1.) The weather. I'm sorry, but it's too freakin early for it to be this cold. I left for work this morning wearing my down jacket, a scarf, gloves, and a hat. No. I am vehemently opposed to wearing a hat before Thanksgiving. In fact, before January. However, when I left for work Friday morning sans hat or scarf (though wearing a turtleneck that fairly well swallows my head), my ears seemed headed for frostbite in the fifteen minutes I was waiting for my bus. (Oh, note to MBTA: run on time, you bastards! Kthx.) So a hat it was.
2.) Shoddy Gap merchandise. This sweater I'm wearing today? A pretty color, warm, soft, machine washable. Except when you do wash it, it leaves pretty heather-plum colored fuzz all over every other garment in the load. And it pills. I've come to terms with the fact that a $15 or $20 top from the Tarzhay is gonna either fall apart or look like shit after about the tenth time you wash it, if not before, but garments from stores like the Gap that cost $40 or $50? No. Everything I've bought from them over the past two years, other than jeans or other casual pants, has been crappy, crappy quality. They're getting no more chances from me. I'll still buy jeans there because they tend to fit my body well, but that's it.
3.) Lack of captioning. I put the first season of Brotherhood in my Netflix queue, and I finally got around to watching some of the first DVD last night. It's more or less a cross between The Sopranos and The Wire--one brother's a state pol, one's a mobster--but set in Rhode Island, so we got the local angle too. Well, there are no subtitles/close captioning on this DVD. I *like* my captioning on a DVD, especially in these kinda intricately plotted TV shows, where you wanna make sure you get all the dialogue. So, fuck you, Showtime.
4.) And speaking of that, I have to watch the first episode over, because I really couldn't keep track of which character was which a lot of the time. I mean, I know they're all youngish-to-middle-aged Irish guys from the hood, but that doesn't mean you can't cast them with actors who have some kind of recognizable physical difference from one another. Neck tattoos, something.
Okay, that's all I've got. How 'bout some more cat video?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wvo-g_JvURI
xoxo
1.) The weather. I'm sorry, but it's too freakin early for it to be this cold. I left for work this morning wearing my down jacket, a scarf, gloves, and a hat. No. I am vehemently opposed to wearing a hat before Thanksgiving. In fact, before January. However, when I left for work Friday morning sans hat or scarf (though wearing a turtleneck that fairly well swallows my head), my ears seemed headed for frostbite in the fifteen minutes I was waiting for my bus. (Oh, note to MBTA: run on time, you bastards! Kthx.) So a hat it was.
2.) Shoddy Gap merchandise. This sweater I'm wearing today? A pretty color, warm, soft, machine washable. Except when you do wash it, it leaves pretty heather-plum colored fuzz all over every other garment in the load. And it pills. I've come to terms with the fact that a $15 or $20 top from the Tarzhay is gonna either fall apart or look like shit after about the tenth time you wash it, if not before, but garments from stores like the Gap that cost $40 or $50? No. Everything I've bought from them over the past two years, other than jeans or other casual pants, has been crappy, crappy quality. They're getting no more chances from me. I'll still buy jeans there because they tend to fit my body well, but that's it.
3.) Lack of captioning. I put the first season of Brotherhood in my Netflix queue, and I finally got around to watching some of the first DVD last night. It's more or less a cross between The Sopranos and The Wire--one brother's a state pol, one's a mobster--but set in Rhode Island, so we got the local angle too. Well, there are no subtitles/close captioning on this DVD. I *like* my captioning on a DVD, especially in these kinda intricately plotted TV shows, where you wanna make sure you get all the dialogue. So, fuck you, Showtime.
4.) And speaking of that, I have to watch the first episode over, because I really couldn't keep track of which character was which a lot of the time. I mean, I know they're all youngish-to-middle-aged Irish guys from the hood, but that doesn't mean you can't cast them with actors who have some kind of recognizable physical difference from one another. Neck tattoos, something.
Okay, that's all I've got. How 'bout some more cat video?
http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Wvo-g_JvURI
xoxo
Friday, November 21, 2008
media report report
I got my EW today, surprisingly, since it doesn't usually come till Saturday, and now you're gonna have to hear all about it.
First of all, "the 50 sexiest movies ever." Now, I know, these things are totally subjective and in this case has more to do with individual taste and, indeed, fetish than even the usual "best of." I mean, a quick perusal of the list shows it to be top-loaded with girl-on-girl action, which...yawwwwnnnnnn. But even so, Unfaithful only #27? Are you kidding me? Not only is the sex in the stairwell scene so scorchingly hot I *dare* you to watch it without getting aroused, but Diane Lane looks so beautiful throughout, lit in such a way that she glows, and thus it strikes me as breathtakingly honest. While we non-Hollywood chicks do not have the benefit of cinematographers following us around, we do in fact glow in a certain way when we have had exceptional sex. Help me out, ladies, it's true, isn't it?
Then, a couple book reviews:
Disquiet by Julia Leigh. "...fleeting, indelible images of not-quite-horror, barely explained, one after the other." Dude. I know I'm always saying "I could write that" in here, but I think I *have* written that. But none of it was ever reviewed in EW. I should probably read this book though. In a comfy chair at Borders, because I'm not paying for a novella.
Love Junkie by Rachel Resnick. "...the sexually obsessed Resnick, who sought the constant validation of abusive men. Resnick, who calls her addiction 'lethal,' says she gave into anything that would please her partners, even if she knew it would be emotionally damaging..." Oh, please. This sounds so familiar. Does anyone want to guess what her screenname was You Know Where? Ha! Who knew you could get a book deal from that, not just cyber hugzzzzz? I should probably read this book too, just to see how much it alternately pisses me off and cracks me up. (Have I mentioned lately that I think the whole concept of "sex addiction" is bullshit? Consider it mentioned!)
And finally? I'm sorry, it's not the long awaited Guns N' Roses album, it's just Axl. You have to have at least two core members of the original band for it to be, in fact, the same band. I have spoken.
xoxo
First of all, "the 50 sexiest movies ever." Now, I know, these things are totally subjective and in this case has more to do with individual taste and, indeed, fetish than even the usual "best of." I mean, a quick perusal of the list shows it to be top-loaded with girl-on-girl action, which...yawwwwnnnnnn. But even so, Unfaithful only #27? Are you kidding me? Not only is the sex in the stairwell scene so scorchingly hot I *dare* you to watch it without getting aroused, but Diane Lane looks so beautiful throughout, lit in such a way that she glows, and thus it strikes me as breathtakingly honest. While we non-Hollywood chicks do not have the benefit of cinematographers following us around, we do in fact glow in a certain way when we have had exceptional sex. Help me out, ladies, it's true, isn't it?
Then, a couple book reviews:
Disquiet by Julia Leigh. "...fleeting, indelible images of not-quite-horror, barely explained, one after the other." Dude. I know I'm always saying "I could write that" in here, but I think I *have* written that. But none of it was ever reviewed in EW. I should probably read this book though. In a comfy chair at Borders, because I'm not paying for a novella.
Love Junkie by Rachel Resnick. "...the sexually obsessed Resnick, who sought the constant validation of abusive men. Resnick, who calls her addiction 'lethal,' says she gave into anything that would please her partners, even if she knew it would be emotionally damaging..." Oh, please. This sounds so familiar. Does anyone want to guess what her screenname was You Know Where? Ha! Who knew you could get a book deal from that, not just cyber hugzzzzz? I should probably read this book too, just to see how much it alternately pisses me off and cracks me up. (Have I mentioned lately that I think the whole concept of "sex addiction" is bullshit? Consider it mentioned!)
And finally? I'm sorry, it's not the long awaited Guns N' Roses album, it's just Axl. You have to have at least two core members of the original band for it to be, in fact, the same band. I have spoken.
xoxo
Wednesday, November 19, 2008
i promised you content
And yet, there is none. How about some random remarks instead?
I'm reading Obama's first book. I'm sure you've probably heard the quote by now, but some commentator remarked that he's the first president since Wilson to have a prose style and the first president since Grant to have a good prose style. I know nothing about either Wilson or Grant's writing abilities, but, yes, Mr Obama can write. And, better yet (for the sake of our country, anyway), I'm finding that he seems to have a remarkable facility for self-reflection. Take it from me: that doesn't necessarily keep you from doing stupid shit, but it does tend to keep you from doing the same stupid shit over and over and over again. That's probably not a bad thing for, y'know, the leader of a major world nation.
I also (and, sadly, this is the major if not only thing I accomplished today) have decided on a paint color that I could use both upstairs and downstairs without clashing with anything or resorting to barely-off-white. It's called chai latte and it's exactly the "very warm-toned tea with cream in it" color (as per the name, duh) I had in my head for my massage room and new guest room, plus I think it would look great with my new dining room drapes plus *whatever* new furniture I get for the living room when I can afford same.
And if you haven't seen this video yet:
http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/11/19/roomba-cat-goes-for-a-ride/
you must have been under a rock today, because it's been linked to everywhere. Understandably. It's great.
xoxo
I'm reading Obama's first book. I'm sure you've probably heard the quote by now, but some commentator remarked that he's the first president since Wilson to have a prose style and the first president since Grant to have a good prose style. I know nothing about either Wilson or Grant's writing abilities, but, yes, Mr Obama can write. And, better yet (for the sake of our country, anyway), I'm finding that he seems to have a remarkable facility for self-reflection. Take it from me: that doesn't necessarily keep you from doing stupid shit, but it does tend to keep you from doing the same stupid shit over and over and over again. That's probably not a bad thing for, y'know, the leader of a major world nation.
I also (and, sadly, this is the major if not only thing I accomplished today) have decided on a paint color that I could use both upstairs and downstairs without clashing with anything or resorting to barely-off-white. It's called chai latte and it's exactly the "very warm-toned tea with cream in it" color (as per the name, duh) I had in my head for my massage room and new guest room, plus I think it would look great with my new dining room drapes plus *whatever* new furniture I get for the living room when I can afford same.
And if you haven't seen this video yet:
http://icanhascheezburger.com/2008/11/19/roomba-cat-goes-for-a-ride/
you must have been under a rock today, because it's been linked to everywhere. Understandably. It's great.
xoxo
Monday, November 17, 2008
pay tribute!
It is now approximately 6 1/2 hours until I turn the big 4-6, blog readers.
Comments are open, as always, if you wish to say happy birthday, tell me how very much you've enjoyed reading The Adventures over the past year, remark how in dim lighting I don't look a day over 32, or raise a virtual (or real, because lord knows, I heartily approve of drunken blog commenting) glass in my honor.
And maybe later I'll give you some actual content!
xoxo
Comments are open, as always, if you wish to say happy birthday, tell me how very much you've enjoyed reading The Adventures over the past year, remark how in dim lighting I don't look a day over 32, or raise a virtual (or real, because lord knows, I heartily approve of drunken blog commenting) glass in my honor.
And maybe later I'll give you some actual content!
xoxo
Saturday, November 15, 2008
shopping hint and other stuff
I don't know if it's the crappy economy or if I just haven't been shopping online in the right places in the past, but I've noticed a new (to me) phenomenon. If you leave something in your shopping cart, or in the case of art.com this week, save a custom framing you've been playing with, without actually making a purchase, the merchant will then send you an email reminding you that you've done so, and give you a discount code/coupon to entice you to buy. Sweet!
I just bought myself a birthday present: a beautiful framed and matted (huge!) print called "lotus pond" for my dining room wall, all because art.com gave me 20% off on it this morning. Plus free shipping. I was going to upload it for you, but I can't get blogger to accept the image. So just trust me when I tell you it's lovely and the way I framed and matted it is perfect. I wasn't quite prepared to pay the non-discounted price, especially since now I'm gonna buy myself some acupuncture, but the sale price, yup.
In other news, there's this online ad on my AOL mail screen for some kind of Special K protein water drink. I think this whole fortified water thing is getting out of hand, and that's coming from a woman who, as you know, throws plenty of business to the makers of VitaminWater. If I want some protein, I will eat a steak, or possibly some chicken, thankyouverymuch. I do not need to "keep my figure" by ingesting the protein I need to survive in the form of low calorie beverages. Bastards.
And in other (doubly-related) news, there was a link on my mail screen yesterday to an article some moronic online columnist wrote about what middle-aged men really care about in a woman's appearance. One of his contentions was that you all like us to look put-together. Well. That would directly contradict my own experience of a couple days prior when I was specifically told that the fact I was wearing sweatpants from the Tarzhay was no impediment to my attractiveness nor to certain handsome gentlemen wanting to, um, ease my anxiety. Take that, online columnist!
His other contention was that you all don't care if we are thin or fat, just that we are "shapely" and (this is the part I disagree with) that while we can't all be thin, we can all be shapely. Bullshit. A woman's breast-waist-hip ratio is probably even more genetically out of her control than what her weight set-point is. God knows, I spent enough of my life loathing and impotently fighting my bulgy Polish catcher's thighs to prove it. (Now of course I've wised up to the fact that they just make my waist look smaller in comparison, so they're really a good thing. Plus, I could block the plate if I had to.) Anyway, again, moron!
Have a lovely Saturday, people.
xoxo
I just bought myself a birthday present: a beautiful framed and matted (huge!) print called "lotus pond" for my dining room wall, all because art.com gave me 20% off on it this morning. Plus free shipping. I was going to upload it for you, but I can't get blogger to accept the image. So just trust me when I tell you it's lovely and the way I framed and matted it is perfect. I wasn't quite prepared to pay the non-discounted price, especially since now I'm gonna buy myself some acupuncture, but the sale price, yup.
In other news, there's this online ad on my AOL mail screen for some kind of Special K protein water drink. I think this whole fortified water thing is getting out of hand, and that's coming from a woman who, as you know, throws plenty of business to the makers of VitaminWater. If I want some protein, I will eat a steak, or possibly some chicken, thankyouverymuch. I do not need to "keep my figure" by ingesting the protein I need to survive in the form of low calorie beverages. Bastards.
And in other (doubly-related) news, there was a link on my mail screen yesterday to an article some moronic online columnist wrote about what middle-aged men really care about in a woman's appearance. One of his contentions was that you all like us to look put-together. Well. That would directly contradict my own experience of a couple days prior when I was specifically told that the fact I was wearing sweatpants from the Tarzhay was no impediment to my attractiveness nor to certain handsome gentlemen wanting to, um, ease my anxiety. Take that, online columnist!
His other contention was that you all don't care if we are thin or fat, just that we are "shapely" and (this is the part I disagree with) that while we can't all be thin, we can all be shapely. Bullshit. A woman's breast-waist-hip ratio is probably even more genetically out of her control than what her weight set-point is. God knows, I spent enough of my life loathing and impotently fighting my bulgy Polish catcher's thighs to prove it. (Now of course I've wised up to the fact that they just make my waist look smaller in comparison, so they're really a good thing. Plus, I could block the plate if I had to.) Anyway, again, moron!
Have a lovely Saturday, people.
xoxo
Friday, November 14, 2008
it's a little far
So, you know, over the past few months I've had a series of GYN problems and irregularities, then the weird not-satisfactorily-explained skin rash, along with the dollops of severe anxiety/panic attacks. Hell, we'll even throw in my unexplained bout of happiness as a mood swing! In totaling up this little bunch of apparently (but probably not) unrelated problems, Mr Barma suggested to me the other day that perhaps my chi is messed up. Okay, I'll go with that. Western medicine hasn't proven all that efficacious.
I've been thinking maybe I ought to go have some acupuncture. At least two of my friends have had really good results from it (one of them for GYN problems, as a matter of fact). However, neither of them live in the immediate Boston/North Shore area, so I couldn't conveniently go to their practitioners. But then I was thinking, there was this really nice young female acupuncture doctor, Melissa, who I sometimes worked with at the Evil Massage Place back in 2007. I would totally trust her to work on me. So I googled her to see where she was practicing these days.
Googling her name + Boston acupuncture was getting me nowhere. So I googled "her name" acupuncture. Oh. She's apparently moved to Washington DC (probably so traumatized by those rotten thieving bastards we worked for that she had to leave the state, ha!). I'm thinking that's a little far for me to go to have needles stuck in me.
Sigh. Now I'll just have to pick someone at random whose picture I like and who has good Yelp reviews.
xoxo
I've been thinking maybe I ought to go have some acupuncture. At least two of my friends have had really good results from it (one of them for GYN problems, as a matter of fact). However, neither of them live in the immediate Boston/North Shore area, so I couldn't conveniently go to their practitioners. But then I was thinking, there was this really nice young female acupuncture doctor, Melissa, who I sometimes worked with at the Evil Massage Place back in 2007. I would totally trust her to work on me. So I googled her to see where she was practicing these days.
Googling her name + Boston acupuncture was getting me nowhere. So I googled "her name" acupuncture. Oh. She's apparently moved to Washington DC (probably so traumatized by those rotten thieving bastards we worked for that she had to leave the state, ha!). I'm thinking that's a little far for me to go to have needles stuck in me.
Sigh. Now I'll just have to pick someone at random whose picture I like and who has good Yelp reviews.
xoxo
Wednesday, November 12, 2008
can i also just say?
Today's anti-anxiety medication was even *bettah* than tequila. In efficacy and in taste.
(Oh, I crack myself up.)
Also? I did order light fixture #1, so bring on the foo-foo!
xoxo
(Oh, I crack myself up.)
Also? I did order light fixture #1, so bring on the foo-foo!
xoxo
Sunday, November 9, 2008
for your actual viewing pleasure
I promise, no more disgusting skin condition pics! Instead, three light fixtures I am considering for my dining room. I think I have ruled out the last and am heavily leaning towards the first, but whatcha think?
xoxo
xoxo
Saturday, November 8, 2008
don't fuck with my craziness pt2
I don't even wanna admit to you all what I just spent two hours looking at online, but it's fair to say the crazee is back full force. And this after a lovely night's sleep last night which should have quelled any "omg what if they're wrong and I do have scabies after all" and "omg what if my house is infested with bedbugs (despite not having stayed in any hotels for, now, literally years, and not having brought in any new used furniture)" kind of thoughts. Can we rewind to a couple weeks ago when I was happy happy unaccountably happy, please?
I know that part of why my anxiety is kicked in full force is that those morons at D's clinic screwed up the sending of the blood work form to the pharmacy again, so I couldn't pick up his clozapine tonight, and am anticipating many frustrating and angry phone calls Monday as I fight with them to do it by the end of the day, before the holiday Tuesday. Freaking out about one thing only leads to freaking out about other things. I'm really tempted to take an Ativan.
But here, for your viewing pleasure:
This guy's rash looks almost exactly like my rash, though his is on his chest obviously and mine's on my lower abdomen. And his is shingles. I wonder if you can have shingles that *isn't* extremely painful? One of the things I read about it is that anxiety can be a symptom during an attack. They didn't specify if the anxiety was actually caused by the neurological process of the varicella itself or if it was all due to people either being in pain or thinking they had parasitic diseases. Sigh.
xoxo
I know that part of why my anxiety is kicked in full force is that those morons at D's clinic screwed up the sending of the blood work form to the pharmacy again, so I couldn't pick up his clozapine tonight, and am anticipating many frustrating and angry phone calls Monday as I fight with them to do it by the end of the day, before the holiday Tuesday. Freaking out about one thing only leads to freaking out about other things. I'm really tempted to take an Ativan.
But here, for your viewing pleasure:
This guy's rash looks almost exactly like my rash, though his is on his chest obviously and mine's on my lower abdomen. And his is shingles. I wonder if you can have shingles that *isn't* extremely painful? One of the things I read about it is that anxiety can be a symptom during an attack. They didn't specify if the anxiety was actually caused by the neurological process of the varicella itself or if it was all due to people either being in pain or thinking they had parasitic diseases. Sigh.
xoxo
Friday, November 7, 2008
various, with a mixture of sundry
1.) Since Mr Indemnity said this email I sent him cracked him up and was worthy of its own blog entry, here ya go:
I was so irritated with Verizon too, because changing over to FIOS meant I got a new voicemail access number which they *did not make clear to me*. I knew they said you'd have to re-record your greeting and set a new password, etc, but if they told me the new call-in # anywhere, you can't prove it by me, all my email from them, and the packet FIOS left behind. I had to call this morning to automated customer service, where it went like this:
robot voice: say 'next'
Andrea: next
robot voice: when you are ready, say 'next'
Andrea: NEXT NEXT NEXT NEXT motherfucking NEXT
2.) On the other hand, I loves me some online tracking. I had a package sent to me on October 28th, which as of yesterday, I had not yet received. That seemed excessive, so I went on DHL's site, put in the tracking number, and found that my package had been sitting in the DHL facility in Boston since 11/03. I emailed them, and this morning got back a very nice reply, apologizing for the delay which was due to their handling error, and promising delivery by the end of the day. It's just like that DHL commercial I enjoy so much with the guys in the golf cart.
3.) And in the "you really shouldn't fuck with Andrea's craziness" annals:
So, I've had this little patch of rash on my R abdomen since last Friday. I actually woke up with it Friday morning, scratching at it. I thought it was flea bites from goddamn Evil Kitty, because she was sleeping in bed with me that night, and in fact, under the covers. And I didn't think too much more about it. But by Wednesday, though it hadn't spread or gotten worse and was only very very mildly itcy and mildly irritated from having scratched at it and from my clothes rubbing on it, it hadn't gone away. In fact, it was looking pretty red. So the paranoid hypochondria starts sneaking in. I pull out my Pathology textbook from massage school and start looking at pictures of skin conditions. And of course, get psychogenically itchy all over my body.
So, it's definitely not ringworm. (Which, btw, is not a worm at all, but a fungal infection of the same class as athlete's foot and jock itch.) Could it be scabies? OMG, it looks something like scabies. Except scabies in the itchiest of all itches; people with scabies can't sleep at night for the incredible unrelenting itchiness. And you can only get it from prolonged skin-to-skin contact with someone who has it--which is why it's a concern for massage therapists and one of the reasons we're taught to be very suspicious of other people's rashes. But I've only been massaging close personal friends lately, all of whom would be sure to tell me if they had contracted any weird skin diseases. And since I don't have any little kids in daycare, either, who've come home itching, the chances of my having it were, basically, akin to my having testicular cancer.
So I come into work yesterday, and only one of my neurologists is here, because the others are all away at a conference. I show him my rash for reassurance, thinking he's gonna say, "oh, that's nothing." He looks at it and goes, instead, "Is that flea bites? Or scabies? Let's look up scabies on the internet." Um, thanks, dude, I can look at the scary pictures my own self.
So he gets all excited googling and he's like, "Oh, you should have your doctor look at it. I'm a neurologist, what do I know? But it kinda looks like scabies."
Yes, don't fuck with Andrea's craziness. Please. I'm like immediately panicking. Despite the fact I'm not horribly itchy and who the hell could I have contracted it from anyway? It doesn't cross species. Cat and dog scabies don't live on humans. "Can I go home now then?"
"No no no no. I need you to do this kid for me first."
Anyway, I eventually get to my doctor's office where the nurse practitioner basically breaks out laughing at the scabies theory. However, when she looks at my rash, its location and appearance, she gets all frowny and furrow-browed, and grabs a passing MD to come look too. They have me roll over so they can look at my back too. "You're sure it doesn't hurt, right?" To *them* it looks like shingles, though it hasn't spread around my side, and shingles hurts like a mofo.
The final conclusion is that I must have had either a bug bite or an allergic reaction that I then scratched at and infected with staph. So now I've got topical antibiotics to put on it. And much much reassurance from the NP that I'm not contagious. Really. So I'm feeling less crazy. Even though some people, who shall remain nameless, just said to me, "Are you sure that isn't the flesh-eating kind of staph?"
Do.Not.Fuck.With.My.Craziness. KThxBye.
xoxo
I was so irritated with Verizon too, because changing over to FIOS meant I got a new voicemail access number which they *did not make clear to me*. I knew they said you'd have to re-record your greeting and set a new password, etc, but if they told me the new call-in # anywhere, you can't prove it by me, all my email from them, and the packet FIOS left behind. I had to call this morning to automated customer service, where it went like this:
robot voice: say 'next'
Andrea: next
robot voice: when you are ready, say 'next'
Andrea: NEXT NEXT NEXT NEXT motherfucking NEXT
2.) On the other hand, I loves me some online tracking. I had a package sent to me on October 28th, which as of yesterday, I had not yet received. That seemed excessive, so I went on DHL's site, put in the tracking number, and found that my package had been sitting in the DHL facility in Boston since 11/03. I emailed them, and this morning got back a very nice reply, apologizing for the delay which was due to their handling error, and promising delivery by the end of the day. It's just like that DHL commercial I enjoy so much with the guys in the golf cart.
3.) And in the "you really shouldn't fuck with Andrea's craziness" annals:
So, I've had this little patch of rash on my R abdomen since last Friday. I actually woke up with it Friday morning, scratching at it. I thought it was flea bites from goddamn Evil Kitty, because she was sleeping in bed with me that night, and in fact, under the covers. And I didn't think too much more about it. But by Wednesday, though it hadn't spread or gotten worse and was only very very mildly itcy and mildly irritated from having scratched at it and from my clothes rubbing on it, it hadn't gone away. In fact, it was looking pretty red. So the paranoid hypochondria starts sneaking in. I pull out my Pathology textbook from massage school and start looking at pictures of skin conditions. And of course, get psychogenically itchy all over my body.
So, it's definitely not ringworm. (Which, btw, is not a worm at all, but a fungal infection of the same class as athlete's foot and jock itch.) Could it be scabies? OMG, it looks something like scabies. Except scabies in the itchiest of all itches; people with scabies can't sleep at night for the incredible unrelenting itchiness. And you can only get it from prolonged skin-to-skin contact with someone who has it--which is why it's a concern for massage therapists and one of the reasons we're taught to be very suspicious of other people's rashes. But I've only been massaging close personal friends lately, all of whom would be sure to tell me if they had contracted any weird skin diseases. And since I don't have any little kids in daycare, either, who've come home itching, the chances of my having it were, basically, akin to my having testicular cancer.
So I come into work yesterday, and only one of my neurologists is here, because the others are all away at a conference. I show him my rash for reassurance, thinking he's gonna say, "oh, that's nothing." He looks at it and goes, instead, "Is that flea bites? Or scabies? Let's look up scabies on the internet." Um, thanks, dude, I can look at the scary pictures my own self.
So he gets all excited googling and he's like, "Oh, you should have your doctor look at it. I'm a neurologist, what do I know? But it kinda looks like scabies."
Yes, don't fuck with Andrea's craziness. Please. I'm like immediately panicking. Despite the fact I'm not horribly itchy and who the hell could I have contracted it from anyway? It doesn't cross species. Cat and dog scabies don't live on humans. "Can I go home now then?"
"No no no no. I need you to do this kid for me first."
Anyway, I eventually get to my doctor's office where the nurse practitioner basically breaks out laughing at the scabies theory. However, when she looks at my rash, its location and appearance, she gets all frowny and furrow-browed, and grabs a passing MD to come look too. They have me roll over so they can look at my back too. "You're sure it doesn't hurt, right?" To *them* it looks like shingles, though it hasn't spread around my side, and shingles hurts like a mofo.
The final conclusion is that I must have had either a bug bite or an allergic reaction that I then scratched at and infected with staph. So now I've got topical antibiotics to put on it. And much much reassurance from the NP that I'm not contagious. Really. So I'm feeling less crazy. Even though some people, who shall remain nameless, just said to me, "Are you sure that isn't the flesh-eating kind of staph?"
Do.Not.Fuck.With.My.Craziness. KThxBye.
xoxo
Thursday, November 6, 2008
he lives
Stressing over a few things today, but even so, I had to report in briefly.
First Possibly Irish Danny sighting in 6 months! Not on his usual bus, and I was too far away to hear what he was talking about, alas, but my boy seemed in good spirits. And when I walked by him on my way off, I saw that both his hands are entirely covered in new ink.
So maybe he's just been spending a lot of quality time with his tattoo artist rather than riding back and forth aimlessly on public transportation, diverting me with his mysterious conversations!
xoxo
First Possibly Irish Danny sighting in 6 months! Not on his usual bus, and I was too far away to hear what he was talking about, alas, but my boy seemed in good spirits. And when I walked by him on my way off, I saw that both his hands are entirely covered in new ink.
So maybe he's just been spending a lot of quality time with his tattoo artist rather than riding back and forth aimlessly on public transportation, diverting me with his mysterious conversations!
xoxo
Wednesday, November 5, 2008
ooooooo
The FIOS guy has already come and gone. I had, according to him, the ideal setup for an install and a beautifully clean garage. Okay, I'm lying about the garage.
Now excuse me while I go spend the rest of my life watching youtube and downloading music.
xoxo
Now excuse me while I go spend the rest of my life watching youtube and downloading music.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 4, 2008
voting hijinks
So, you'll remember my little screed a couple weeks or so ago about the American public being, by and large, too stoopid for democracy? Here's my polling place story for this election cycle.
Having the lovely, non-traditional work schedule that I do (and can I just, as an aside, say that if I ever had to go back to working 7:30-4 [or 9-5 or what have you] Monday through Friday as I did for so many years, I would probably commit suicide or homicide within six months; this is such a more pleasant way to live) I was able to go vote in the middle of the afternoon. Small-to-no line, no waiting. I was telling the gentleman at the table my street address so he could check me off in his ledger and give me my ballot, when a woman comes rushing up. "Do I need to live in Lynn to vote here?"
The two people behind the table look at her with barely restrained incredulity. "Um, yes, yes you do."
Heavy sigh. "You mean I have to go all the way to Peabody to vote?"
Okay. Let's recap. This woman is not 18 or 22 or under 25 at all. She is over 30. She is also most definitely not an immigrant. Now, I most definitely can't, and shouldn't, be one to throw stones. It's only been maybe within the last ten years that I've become conscientious about voting. Before that I was very laissez faire about voting, the political process, and politics in general, feeling mostly that my vote was meaningless, and the choice was usually between one guy I didn't like and another guy I didn't like even more. I still actually feel that way a lot of the time, but I've changed my mind about voting. I think it's important to do because I can do it, and now I vote in every election. But be that as it may, even the very first election I (probably) apathetically voted in, I educated myself about where I was supposed to go and what I was supposed to do and what my ward and precinct were.
I guess getting out the new voters is probably a noble endeavor, but really, I'd prefer we stick to ones who could be arsed to find out how the whole thing works, y'know? It's not that difficult.
In other election news my dad's pissed at me for voting for Obama, because I was supposed to vote for the former prisoner of war. On no other grounds at all. Because my dad's a veteran. Srsly. See above: American people too stoopid for democracy.
xoxo
Having the lovely, non-traditional work schedule that I do (and can I just, as an aside, say that if I ever had to go back to working 7:30-4 [or 9-5 or what have you] Monday through Friday as I did for so many years, I would probably commit suicide or homicide within six months; this is such a more pleasant way to live) I was able to go vote in the middle of the afternoon. Small-to-no line, no waiting. I was telling the gentleman at the table my street address so he could check me off in his ledger and give me my ballot, when a woman comes rushing up. "Do I need to live in Lynn to vote here?"
The two people behind the table look at her with barely restrained incredulity. "Um, yes, yes you do."
Heavy sigh. "You mean I have to go all the way to Peabody to vote?"
Okay. Let's recap. This woman is not 18 or 22 or under 25 at all. She is over 30. She is also most definitely not an immigrant. Now, I most definitely can't, and shouldn't, be one to throw stones. It's only been maybe within the last ten years that I've become conscientious about voting. Before that I was very laissez faire about voting, the political process, and politics in general, feeling mostly that my vote was meaningless, and the choice was usually between one guy I didn't like and another guy I didn't like even more. I still actually feel that way a lot of the time, but I've changed my mind about voting. I think it's important to do because I can do it, and now I vote in every election. But be that as it may, even the very first election I (probably) apathetically voted in, I educated myself about where I was supposed to go and what I was supposed to do and what my ward and precinct were.
I guess getting out the new voters is probably a noble endeavor, but really, I'd prefer we stick to ones who could be arsed to find out how the whole thing works, y'know? It's not that difficult.
In other election news my dad's pissed at me for voting for Obama, because I was supposed to vote for the former prisoner of war. On no other grounds at all. Because my dad's a veteran. Srsly. See above: American people too stoopid for democracy.
xoxo
Monday, November 3, 2008
oh! part deux
In more proof that everything is, apparently, coming up roses in my universe (and that I just can't keep myself from shameless self-promotion) I am one of the winners of that award I was nominated for.
Alas, the winners do not get taken out to PF Chang's to be feted. We get a cafeteria breakfast. It's the thought that counts, right?
xoxo
Alas, the winners do not get taken out to PF Chang's to be feted. We get a cafeteria breakfast. It's the thought that counts, right?
xoxo
oh!
I forgot the most important news. Yes, I know there's a historic election tomorrow, the economy's tanking, and there's still a war on. That is bigger than that. They're opening a...wait for it...keep waiting...a PF Chang's next to the Cheesecake Factory in Peabody. OMG! Maybe even OMFG! Stop smirking. I do know that PF Chang's has the same relationship to actual Chinese food as the margaritas with chips n' salsa I enjoy at Border Cafe do to anything you'd actually consume in Mexico. I don't care. I'm not a duck's foot soup kinda girl; I'm a kung pao chicken kinda girl. I like PF Chang's. I like the food, I like the drinks, I like the little eensy desserts.
And they built me one at the North Shore Mall just so I'd have somewhere to replenish myself after shoe shopping (if they ever open that Nordstroms, that is). Thanks, Powers-that-be!
xoxo
And they built me one at the North Shore Mall just so I'd have somewhere to replenish myself after shoe shopping (if they ever open that Nordstroms, that is). Thanks, Powers-that-be!
xoxo
Sunday, November 2, 2008
brief update
I have this whole post in my head I wanted to write about this insight I had this weekend on my feelings about art and the artistic process and my artistic process, if I do, in fact, have one, that was all triggered by the Tori n' Neil post I wrote Friday, but...I'm too tired. (I have the feeling most if not all of you just thought, Whew! That was a close one!)
Why I am too tired? Besides the garage cleaning? I think I have some kind of cleaning/organizing ADD. I set out to do one project and one project only, which in this case was to straighten up the garage enough that the Verizon FIOS guy who is coming on Wednesday to install my super-high-speed internet (be jellus) could get to the place where my phone line enters my house and do his thing. I got that accomplished with much less agita than I was anticipating, partly because my dad, when he realized what I was doing, came out and pitched in. Which, to be fair, he really should have, because 95% of that mess was of his making.
But before I started doing *that*, which was yesterday, on Friday we had a little minor trauma in that one of the blinds in my dining room/living room broke. So rather than buy and put up a new blind, which I hate anyway, I decided to just get some curtain panels to put under the valances that were already on those windows. Stopped at Target on my way home (early) Friday, got curtains, washed and put up curtains, saw how much better that room looked with new curtains and started rearranging furniture and decluttering. Then massive vacuuming. That took all Friday late afternoon into evening, until the Halloween festivities started. And it looks so much better, even though I'm desperately in need of new living room furniture. (There's a sofa I lurvvve in the Pottery Barn catalogue, which in the fabric I'd chose [velvet] is $1999. Just for the sofa. Fuck you, Pottery Barn!) Where was I?
Oh, yeah, so after garage cleaning yesterday, I started with getting my recycling ready. There was a crapload of empty cardboard boxes in the garage, lemme tell you. I haven't even dealt with them all yet. This morning I came down, re-vacuumed because everything got tracked in from the garage and the recycling, looked at what I'd done in the living room/dining room and was pleased, but had some ideas popping in about what to do next. One of the things I had taken out in the de-cluttering was this teeny, ostensibly-sewing-machine, table of my mom's which had just been jammed in, blocking a window for no apparent reason. I had put it in the hallway temporarily to hold the Halloween candy. So today I thought, hey, I could keep that there, put the two candle holders that are in the massage room that I love but that don't go with my colors upstairs anymore on it, put the "window" mirror that I've been equivocating about moving or painting over it, then move those wall hangings... You get the idea. I cannibalized a whole bunch of stuff from other rooms to make a little entryway display. (As I said to my dad, oh, look! Now we have a foyer! It was pretty funny. We're white trash. We don't have foyers.)
Then I went out and got a couple other things that moving the things I moved made me realize I needed. Reorganizing ADD, seriously. One project snowballs into ten. So, while I got a lot accomplished, I've still got many other things that need doing. And I'm tired. Yet overstimulated.
So I think I'll finish doing laundry, then retire to my bed for some Torchwood dvds.
xoxo
Why I am too tired? Besides the garage cleaning? I think I have some kind of cleaning/organizing ADD. I set out to do one project and one project only, which in this case was to straighten up the garage enough that the Verizon FIOS guy who is coming on Wednesday to install my super-high-speed internet (be jellus) could get to the place where my phone line enters my house and do his thing. I got that accomplished with much less agita than I was anticipating, partly because my dad, when he realized what I was doing, came out and pitched in. Which, to be fair, he really should have, because 95% of that mess was of his making.
But before I started doing *that*, which was yesterday, on Friday we had a little minor trauma in that one of the blinds in my dining room/living room broke. So rather than buy and put up a new blind, which I hate anyway, I decided to just get some curtain panels to put under the valances that were already on those windows. Stopped at Target on my way home (early) Friday, got curtains, washed and put up curtains, saw how much better that room looked with new curtains and started rearranging furniture and decluttering. Then massive vacuuming. That took all Friday late afternoon into evening, until the Halloween festivities started. And it looks so much better, even though I'm desperately in need of new living room furniture. (There's a sofa I lurvvve in the Pottery Barn catalogue, which in the fabric I'd chose [velvet] is $1999. Just for the sofa. Fuck you, Pottery Barn!) Where was I?
Oh, yeah, so after garage cleaning yesterday, I started with getting my recycling ready. There was a crapload of empty cardboard boxes in the garage, lemme tell you. I haven't even dealt with them all yet. This morning I came down, re-vacuumed because everything got tracked in from the garage and the recycling, looked at what I'd done in the living room/dining room and was pleased, but had some ideas popping in about what to do next. One of the things I had taken out in the de-cluttering was this teeny, ostensibly-sewing-machine, table of my mom's which had just been jammed in, blocking a window for no apparent reason. I had put it in the hallway temporarily to hold the Halloween candy. So today I thought, hey, I could keep that there, put the two candle holders that are in the massage room that I love but that don't go with my colors upstairs anymore on it, put the "window" mirror that I've been equivocating about moving or painting over it, then move those wall hangings... You get the idea. I cannibalized a whole bunch of stuff from other rooms to make a little entryway display. (As I said to my dad, oh, look! Now we have a foyer! It was pretty funny. We're white trash. We don't have foyers.)
Then I went out and got a couple other things that moving the things I moved made me realize I needed. Reorganizing ADD, seriously. One project snowballs into ten. So, while I got a lot accomplished, I've still got many other things that need doing. And I'm tired. Yet overstimulated.
So I think I'll finish doing laundry, then retire to my bed for some Torchwood dvds.
xoxo
Saturday, November 1, 2008
more hgtv
While I was hanging around waiting for adorable children in costumes to come to my door last night, I was watching TV in that I-know-I-need-something-I-don't-have-to-pay-attention-to way. Which means, usually, HGTV. "Property Virgins" was on. There was a young couple, not even married yet, looking for (duh) their first house. Both of them were living at home with the folks, the guy in his family's basement, where they forced him to keep his dress clothes for work in the garage. To get a shirt, he had to climb over the lawn mower. It was kind of hilarious.
However, it didn't take much TV viewing to see why, if you were forced to provide room and board for the guy, *you'd* exile him to places you store the power tools too. God, what an annoying pair. They hated everything. All the kitchens were too small and had no storage. For all the gourmet cooking equipment they didn't have, you understand. The man/boy was primarily interested in whether there was a nice basement space for his big screen TV. Which, of course, he didn't own either. They seemed totally clueless that what they had to spend was not going to magically buy them the high end living space they had in their heads.
But what really really amused and perplexed me was that they were very nonplussed that two of the houses they looked at had only one bathroom in the upper floors and one in the basement. "That means if people came to the house, they'd have to use our bathroom. I'm not sure I'd like that," the woman worried.
Excuse me? Are you in the habit of inviting friends and family whose butts you *wouldn't* want on your toilet seat to your house? Really? Is that an OCD germaphobe thing or something? But then it struck me. That's not the reason. She just wants to be able to leave the sex toys drying on the sink and not worry about putting them away before Aunt Ruthie stops by.
Can't fool me.
xoxo
However, it didn't take much TV viewing to see why, if you were forced to provide room and board for the guy, *you'd* exile him to places you store the power tools too. God, what an annoying pair. They hated everything. All the kitchens were too small and had no storage. For all the gourmet cooking equipment they didn't have, you understand. The man/boy was primarily interested in whether there was a nice basement space for his big screen TV. Which, of course, he didn't own either. They seemed totally clueless that what they had to spend was not going to magically buy them the high end living space they had in their heads.
But what really really amused and perplexed me was that they were very nonplussed that two of the houses they looked at had only one bathroom in the upper floors and one in the basement. "That means if people came to the house, they'd have to use our bathroom. I'm not sure I'd like that," the woman worried.
Excuse me? Are you in the habit of inviting friends and family whose butts you *wouldn't* want on your toilet seat to your house? Really? Is that an OCD germaphobe thing or something? But then it struck me. That's not the reason. She just wants to be able to leave the sex toys drying on the sink and not worry about putting them away before Aunt Ruthie stops by.
Can't fool me.
xoxo
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