(I just had to use that title before the month was over and we ceased and desisted with the musical nostalgia-fest. Deal.)
Okay! So, did you ever get all keyed up and prepared to fight with someone, and then you didn't have to, and damn! you've got all the adrenaline flooding through you with no outlet?
I called my dad's doctor's office on Tuesday early afternoon to get his blood pressure med refilled and to make an appointment for him, since he's way overdue and I knew they wouldn't do it unless he had something scheduled. The nice lady took all the info on his prescription, including the pharmacy phone number, made us an appointment in September, and told me it would be all taken care of. By late Tuesday afternoon when I checked CVS, they didn't have it, but I figured, okay, maybe it takes them a day or whatever. So last night, having given them way more than 24 hours, I check again, and nope. My dad says no one called him from the doctor's office saying there was any problem or anything.
So I prepare to call them this morning and start yelling if necessary***, about do they want an old man to drop dead because he doesn't have his meds, and is it *his* fault you couldn't squeeze him in for six weeks, and blah blah blah. But, of course, I'm very polite to the (other) lady who answers. She checks for me. "Oh, that was called into Walgreens yesterday." Um, no, CVS please. He hasn't used Walgreens for a year. "No problem. I'll have them send it to CVS for you today." Thanks much.
I call dad and tell him what's transpired so he'll stop worrying. And then I hang up and realize that, yeah, flooded with adrenaline. My mouth is dry and I'm suddenly starving. It must be time to go get lunch. Except, no. It's 10:30 am.
On the plus side, there's a giant zucchini sitting on my counter here at work even as we speak.
xoxo
***It's sad, but this is how I am now conditioned after my months and months of fighting with those morons at D's psychiatrist's. I just assume now that whoever I talk to at a physician's office is going to be rude, unhelpful, obstructive, and incompetent.
Thursday, July 31, 2008
Wednesday, July 30, 2008
sex and candy
I had no candy today, but I did have salad made with stuff from the farmer's market: red leaf lettuce, pickling cukes, and little yellow heirloom tomatoes, which, yum. I think that's close.
M1 promised me last week that when she came in to work this week Thursday or Friday, she'd bring me some of the zucchinis which are over-running her garden. You know what this means, doncha? My annual adventure in zucchini bread making. It never exactly comes out good, no matter what I do or what recipe I try, but I persevere. This might be my year!
If you have a super awesome zucchini bread recipe that I cannot fuck up, please share.
xoxo
M1 promised me last week that when she came in to work this week Thursday or Friday, she'd bring me some of the zucchinis which are over-running her garden. You know what this means, doncha? My annual adventure in zucchini bread making. It never exactly comes out good, no matter what I do or what recipe I try, but I persevere. This might be my year!
If you have a super awesome zucchini bread recipe that I cannot fuck up, please share.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 29, 2008
everlong
We had a meeting this afternoon with D's case manager (cougar L) to go over, and sign, the service plan for next year. (I don't know exactly why I sign it, as well as he, since he's his own guardian. Just, I guess, to say I was present at the meeting.) Anyway, digressions aside, the reason that the yearly comes up at the beginning of August, is that July 27th is D's anniversary date. Two years and two days ago he was discharged from the hospital, with his shiny new diagnosis and his shiny new services.
How do I know that so exactly? I know it because I still have his plastic hospital bracelet. Yeah, I know. Keeping it is probably sicker than buying a human-heart-shaped lamp made out of leather, but we all deal with pain in our own way, no?
We talked a little bit about that in the meeting: about how two years out of the hospital is a long time, about how many, many people who are as sick as D was aren't able to make it that long without relapsing, and about how a lot of the credit for that D could take himself, for being so compliant with his treatment and working on his recovery. What did I say in here the other day, about believing the worst of times are over? I do; I guess I've admitted to myself that I do. But y'know...everlong.
Most people relapse. Even on treatment, most people do. On the gold-standard we-give-it-to-you-only-when-nothing-else-works drug D is on? Maybe not so much, but there's still the possibility. So, yeah, you've seen me in here worrying about that too of late. Anniversaries do that to me. I get even more introspective, pensive, stuck in my head, than usual.
It's been the anniversary of a lot of things in July. Don't worry. Two more days and the month will be over and I guess I can go back to bitching about the Red Sox.
xoxo
How do I know that so exactly? I know it because I still have his plastic hospital bracelet. Yeah, I know. Keeping it is probably sicker than buying a human-heart-shaped lamp made out of leather, but we all deal with pain in our own way, no?
We talked a little bit about that in the meeting: about how two years out of the hospital is a long time, about how many, many people who are as sick as D was aren't able to make it that long without relapsing, and about how a lot of the credit for that D could take himself, for being so compliant with his treatment and working on his recovery. What did I say in here the other day, about believing the worst of times are over? I do; I guess I've admitted to myself that I do. But y'know...everlong.
Most people relapse. Even on treatment, most people do. On the gold-standard we-give-it-to-you-only-when-nothing-else-works drug D is on? Maybe not so much, but there's still the possibility. So, yeah, you've seen me in here worrying about that too of late. Anniversaries do that to me. I get even more introspective, pensive, stuck in my head, than usual.
It's been the anniversary of a lot of things in July. Don't worry. Two more days and the month will be over and I guess I can go back to bitching about the Red Sox.
xoxo
milk it
TMI warning. Read at your own risk, suckas.
I really don't know why I click on links on my welcome screen. Especially since I was just claiming in here within the last week that I learn from experience. Sigh.
Today's "news" is that 45% of respondents to a poll in Babytalk (which is apparently some sort of parenting magazine, but I wouldn't know, being out of the loop on such things these days) find cross-nursing--and I quote--disgusting or weird. Cross-nursing, if you are unaware of the fancy-shmancy terminology, is nursing another woman's infant. Like, you know, wet nurses and family members have been doing for millennia. "Disgusting," huh? I mean, I can see how people in our strange, body-phobic society might find it slightly "weird", wet nursing being out of fashion for 70 or 80 years, but disgusting? Are you serious?
So, then, to completely use up all my sanity points for the day, I read the comments to the online article. You know, this is definitely where you find that the American Public R stoopid. And ignorant. And far, far more crazy than I ever thought of being. One woman felt compelled to opine that breastfeeding itself is disgusting and since *bottles* have been invented, everyone should use them. After all, "we aren't animals, we've evolved." I wonder if she ever has sex with anyone, since that's something animals do too. If so, why isn't she just using a vibrator, since technology has taken care of that too? Flesh! Body fluids! Ooo! Gross!
Anyway. Lemme just say this. Back when baby D was drinking from the tap, so to speak, even though I had to go back to work when he was 6 weeks old--in pediatrics--other women's babies would cry and my milk would let down. In fact, for months after he was weaned, I, as women do, could still produce some milk with proper stimulation. And sometimes, I'd have a baby screaming in my office, and for some reason or other, the mom wouldn't be there, and I'd be jiggling and rocking the baby and trying to give it a bottle, which it didn't want, in order to quiet it down so I could test. And the baby would be "rooting" as they say, in my arms. And I'd think, crap. If I could *just* whip out my tit without getting fired, everyone's problems would be solved. It's kind of a natural instinct when you're a nursing mother.
Okay. Now that I've planted that image in your minds, you all can just go back to thinking of my breasts as something that hold up expensive camis and confuse the FIOS guy. 'K? hahaha
xoxo
I really don't know why I click on links on my welcome screen. Especially since I was just claiming in here within the last week that I learn from experience. Sigh.
Today's "news" is that 45% of respondents to a poll in Babytalk (which is apparently some sort of parenting magazine, but I wouldn't know, being out of the loop on such things these days) find cross-nursing--and I quote--disgusting or weird. Cross-nursing, if you are unaware of the fancy-shmancy terminology, is nursing another woman's infant. Like, you know, wet nurses and family members have been doing for millennia. "Disgusting," huh? I mean, I can see how people in our strange, body-phobic society might find it slightly "weird", wet nursing being out of fashion for 70 or 80 years, but disgusting? Are you serious?
So, then, to completely use up all my sanity points for the day, I read the comments to the online article. You know, this is definitely where you find that the American Public R stoopid. And ignorant. And far, far more crazy than I ever thought of being. One woman felt compelled to opine that breastfeeding itself is disgusting and since *bottles* have been invented, everyone should use them. After all, "we aren't animals, we've evolved." I wonder if she ever has sex with anyone, since that's something animals do too. If so, why isn't she just using a vibrator, since technology has taken care of that too? Flesh! Body fluids! Ooo! Gross!
Anyway. Lemme just say this. Back when baby D was drinking from the tap, so to speak, even though I had to go back to work when he was 6 weeks old--in pediatrics--other women's babies would cry and my milk would let down. In fact, for months after he was weaned, I, as women do, could still produce some milk with proper stimulation. And sometimes, I'd have a baby screaming in my office, and for some reason or other, the mom wouldn't be there, and I'd be jiggling and rocking the baby and trying to give it a bottle, which it didn't want, in order to quiet it down so I could test. And the baby would be "rooting" as they say, in my arms. And I'd think, crap. If I could *just* whip out my tit without getting fired, everyone's problems would be solved. It's kind of a natural instinct when you're a nursing mother.
Okay. Now that I've planted that image in your minds, you all can just go back to thinking of my breasts as something that hold up expensive camis and confuse the FIOS guy. 'K? hahaha
xoxo
Monday, July 28, 2008
bitch
Another week, another conversation amongst the "girls" at work. This one I'm definitely going to blog about, because, yes indeed, I do have me a thesis statement for this one.
The three women directly involved in this conversation are in their twenties to thirties, all have young children; two are married and the (youngest) single one is in a relatively new but quickly-becoming-serious relationship with a guy who says he loves her and wants her to have his babies. One of the married women, whose husband was home today, was preparing to be pissed because she thought he wasn't going to do the dishes she'd left, even though she'd asked him to. "I'm always really appreciative when he does things for me," she said, "but not when I have to ask him to." Let's review: she's pissed that he's not going to do it, but even if he does, he's screwed because she had to mention it in the first place.
Other woman: "You know what you do if you come home and the dishes aren't done? You take them out of the sink and you scatter them all over the house. Then you don't give it up for a month."
Now, I like all these women. They're fine co-workers. I've got no problem with any of them. But I'm in the next room, listening to this, alternately biting my tongue and wanting to smack my head against the wall. And I say to myself, just shut up, Andrea. Who are you to give anyone any relationship advice, anyway? Look at your track record. Nope, these women are all in long-term committed relationships and/or are with men who love them. They obviously know what they're doing, and you don't. The key to relationship success (if not proven happiness) is apparently this: act like a bitch and a cunt, make demands--not all of which have to be, y'know, rational--and withhold sex.
Because you men? Despite what you may claim, that's apparently what you want. You all are either a bunch of closet emotional masochists or you like the drama. Probably both.
xoxo
The three women directly involved in this conversation are in their twenties to thirties, all have young children; two are married and the (youngest) single one is in a relatively new but quickly-becoming-serious relationship with a guy who says he loves her and wants her to have his babies. One of the married women, whose husband was home today, was preparing to be pissed because she thought he wasn't going to do the dishes she'd left, even though she'd asked him to. "I'm always really appreciative when he does things for me," she said, "but not when I have to ask him to." Let's review: she's pissed that he's not going to do it, but even if he does, he's screwed because she had to mention it in the first place.
Other woman: "You know what you do if you come home and the dishes aren't done? You take them out of the sink and you scatter them all over the house. Then you don't give it up for a month."
Now, I like all these women. They're fine co-workers. I've got no problem with any of them. But I'm in the next room, listening to this, alternately biting my tongue and wanting to smack my head against the wall. And I say to myself, just shut up, Andrea. Who are you to give anyone any relationship advice, anyway? Look at your track record. Nope, these women are all in long-term committed relationships and/or are with men who love them. They obviously know what they're doing, and you don't. The key to relationship success (if not proven happiness) is apparently this: act like a bitch and a cunt, make demands--not all of which have to be, y'know, rational--and withhold sex.
Because you men? Despite what you may claim, that's apparently what you want. You all are either a bunch of closet emotional masochists or you like the drama. Probably both.
xoxo
hey man, nice shot
I have to brag (just a wee little bit). L was the first person outside the immediate family to see the still-ongoing bedroom renovation and she said, about my faux-finished walls, paraphrased, "It looks like we're in some kind of palace or castle or something!" Score. Totally the look I was going for. Well, a cross between that and a 1920s whorehouse, obviously. Boho paradise, baby!
I don't know if any of you all remember, but I wrote, near the beginning of this blog, about how when D was really sick and I was in school, and I was totally overwhelmed physically and emotionally, I let the whole upstairs fall into a state of clutter, dirt, and disrepair, to the point I wouldn't let anyone else up there. And then, last late summer-early fall, when I was semi-unemployed, I worked really hard to clear the junk out and make it habitable again, and it felt like I was exorcising some of the bad memories. Starting to re-do it now, making it not just habitable but pretty (well, as pretty as it can be with that @&#&$@&!!&@ gross carpeting), feels like a further step forward. Like I'm saying to myself (admitting to myself?) that the real bad times are over. I dunno.
(It occurs to me that I should have tagged these home decor posts, since I apparently can't shut up about it. Oh, well.)
xoxo
I don't know if any of you all remember, but I wrote, near the beginning of this blog, about how when D was really sick and I was in school, and I was totally overwhelmed physically and emotionally, I let the whole upstairs fall into a state of clutter, dirt, and disrepair, to the point I wouldn't let anyone else up there. And then, last late summer-early fall, when I was semi-unemployed, I worked really hard to clear the junk out and make it habitable again, and it felt like I was exorcising some of the bad memories. Starting to re-do it now, making it not just habitable but pretty (well, as pretty as it can be with that @&#&$@&!!&@ gross carpeting), feels like a further step forward. Like I'm saying to myself (admitting to myself?) that the real bad times are over. I dunno.
(It occurs to me that I should have tagged these home decor posts, since I apparently can't shut up about it. Oh, well.)
xoxo
Sunday, July 27, 2008
money for nothing
You may have seen this, but apparently some woman wrote an article on boston.com detailing how she saved $12,000 in three years by simply putting away every five dollar bill that came into her possession. I saw mention of it in the blogosphere, with people pledging to do the same, and I thought, yeah, I could try that. However, three days and $20 stuck in my desk drawer later, it becomes apparent to me that there's a major flaw in this reasoning.
I may not be a financial genius, to say the least, but as far as I can see, the only way you will actually save any money this way is if you also pledge to only go to the ATM once a week, withdraw only a certain set amount of cash, and then never touch your checking account again until the next week. I mean, if that twenty bucks in cash in my drawer means I go to the ATM on Tuesday instead of Wednesday, or that I decide to pay for something with my debit card instead of cash because I'm running low, how the hell am I saving anything? I'm just moving my own money around from one place to another.
Don't you think Suze Orman would be proud of me for figuring that one out my own self?
xoxo
I may not be a financial genius, to say the least, but as far as I can see, the only way you will actually save any money this way is if you also pledge to only go to the ATM once a week, withdraw only a certain set amount of cash, and then never touch your checking account again until the next week. I mean, if that twenty bucks in cash in my drawer means I go to the ATM on Tuesday instead of Wednesday, or that I decide to pay for something with my debit card instead of cash because I'm running low, how the hell am I saving anything? I'm just moving my own money around from one place to another.
Don't you think Suze Orman would be proud of me for figuring that one out my own self?
xoxo
Saturday, July 26, 2008
girls just wanna have fun
I was just talking to L about our plans to celebrate (belatedly) her birthday tomorrow and she suggested that, besides fascial manipulation, presents, and possible swimming, she might just want to go to Kowloons in this fit of Route 1 nostalgia she's been going through. (I've already been to Hilltop with her this year; all we have to do is play putt putt under the giant orange dinosaur and the trifecta would be complete.) "Cool!" I said. "I can buy you a virgin pina colada. Or one with alcohol, though I know you prefer without."
"That's okay," she said. "Either way, I can pretend it's my 21st birthday all over again."
"No, no, no," I said. "We were legal at 20, not 21." It's true; you can look it up.
So that led to a discussion of how it didn't really matter, and all the clubs we got into before we actually were legal, it being a whole different world in 1981. "Jacob's Ladder in Revere," I mused fondly. L didn't quite remember going there with me and our friend I (more than once! I think the early onset Alzheimer's is sneaking in) but when I told her about how the three of us sat at the outside bar by the pool and ate all the bartender's fruit garnishes while his back was turned, she had to admit it sounded right. That's how we rolled.
This led to more fond remembrances of our escapades with I. There was the time we went to Jason's (?), the then-famous dance club in the Back Bay, and I, who was driving her father's humungous late-70s era Cadillac (aka the Greek Pimpmobile) and who couldn't drive under the best of circumstances, never mind buzzed on champagne and trying to back a car the size of a battleship out of a postage stamp-sized parking lot, hit about six different cars by the time she made it out to Boylston Street. (I think that was my 18th birthday, but I couldn't swear to it. The early-onset Alzheimer's is catching. Even over the phone, apparently.) Followed by the time our friend I backed that self-same Cadillac onto a fire hydrant across from L's house. This, in the middle of the afternoon, and not drunk.
L said, "Oh, those were the days, when that was the biggest thing we had to worry about, how to lie about the scratches on I's dad's car..."
But you know what? I think in reality we're both actually glad to be the people we are now, not the people we were when we were 19, worries and all. Though I still wouldn't leave any pineapple chunks unattended around us, you understand.
xoxo
"That's okay," she said. "Either way, I can pretend it's my 21st birthday all over again."
"No, no, no," I said. "We were legal at 20, not 21." It's true; you can look it up.
So that led to a discussion of how it didn't really matter, and all the clubs we got into before we actually were legal, it being a whole different world in 1981. "Jacob's Ladder in Revere," I mused fondly. L didn't quite remember going there with me and our friend I (more than once! I think the early onset Alzheimer's is sneaking in) but when I told her about how the three of us sat at the outside bar by the pool and ate all the bartender's fruit garnishes while his back was turned, she had to admit it sounded right. That's how we rolled.
This led to more fond remembrances of our escapades with I. There was the time we went to Jason's (?), the then-famous dance club in the Back Bay, and I, who was driving her father's humungous late-70s era Cadillac (aka the Greek Pimpmobile) and who couldn't drive under the best of circumstances, never mind buzzed on champagne and trying to back a car the size of a battleship out of a postage stamp-sized parking lot, hit about six different cars by the time she made it out to Boylston Street. (I think that was my 18th birthday, but I couldn't swear to it. The early-onset Alzheimer's is catching. Even over the phone, apparently.) Followed by the time our friend I backed that self-same Cadillac onto a fire hydrant across from L's house. This, in the middle of the afternoon, and not drunk.
L said, "Oh, those were the days, when that was the biggest thing we had to worry about, how to lie about the scratches on I's dad's car..."
But you know what? I think in reality we're both actually glad to be the people we are now, not the people we were when we were 19, worries and all. Though I still wouldn't leave any pineapple chunks unattended around us, you understand.
xoxo
shine
On the other hand? This?
Just disturbing. Did Hannibal Lector sign up to do one of those Target designer lines, or what?
Just disturbing. Did Hannibal Lector sign up to do one of those Target designer lines, or what?
xoxo
Friday, July 25, 2008
our lips are sealed
Oh, I have such a story I wish I could tell you all today. It ties up my job, the prison bus, and a semi-infamous and/or hilarious local news story of the past year with a tidy bow, and is punctuated with a hearty slice of, "hahaha, what a douche!" Unfortunately, since it involves my job, and thus patient confidentiality, I just cannot. Not only would the HIPAA police rightfully bitchslap me for it, it would violate my own code of conduct.
But goddamn. I wish. You ever have one of those epiphanous moments when you learn a tiny bit of information that just makes a formerly mysterious situation come together and you go, "Oh! Okay!" (and then, possibly, "hahaha, what a douche!")? I did!
Since I mentioned the prison bus, let me assure you, in case you are now worrying, that, no, it didn't involve Possibly Irish Danny, who still appears to be worryingly MIA. Since I mentioned the local news, let me also assure you it did not involve my ex-husband. (Or James Marzilli, for that matter!)
Now, really, my lips are sealed, and I must change the subject. Did you know that Tarzhay online has an amazing selection of ugly/cute nana lamps? Look at this one, for example: http://tinyurl.com/654qp8 Do you think I need that?
xoxo
But goddamn. I wish. You ever have one of those epiphanous moments when you learn a tiny bit of information that just makes a formerly mysterious situation come together and you go, "Oh! Okay!" (and then, possibly, "hahaha, what a douche!")? I did!
Since I mentioned the prison bus, let me assure you, in case you are now worrying, that, no, it didn't involve Possibly Irish Danny, who still appears to be worryingly MIA. Since I mentioned the local news, let me also assure you it did not involve my ex-husband. (Or James Marzilli, for that matter!)
Now, really, my lips are sealed, and I must change the subject. Did you know that Tarzhay online has an amazing selection of ugly/cute nana lamps? Look at this one, for example: http://tinyurl.com/654qp8 Do you think I need that?
xoxo
Thursday, July 24, 2008
black hole sun
So, I said to Mr Indemnity yesterday, "where's the love for my blog titles?" because I thought I've been doing good and deserved some props, and he claimed they've been a little, er, tangential. Which is not to say "reaching." Hmmmppphhh. So let me spell it out for those of you who are way too literal: black hole sun = lack of light = totally what I'm going to write about today. So there.
I went shopping yesterday in that "wandering around, hoping inspiration will strike" kind of way, rather than a real goal-oriented way, though I had a general idea of what kind of things I was looking for. I wanted to go to the big Anthropologie store on Boylston that I like and see what they had in the markdowns for house stuff (for my bedroom re-do). I ended up getting a girly little picture frame half price because it's missing some of its bling, though you need to look at it really closely to notice that, so it's all good, plus a new candle, because I rarely leave that store without a candle. However, in the nonsale stuff, they had a lantern I liked, but wasn't quite ready to pay $38 for, and they had [not] switchplates, [but what *do* you call them?] in distressed brass to cover the electrical outlets that are showing in my faux-finished walls. For $24 each. I was definitely not willing to spend $48 just for the two that are most visible. That's ridiculous. (So if anyone has any heads ups for where I could get something like that for a price that doesn't hose me, lemme know.)
Then, I wanted to go to this particular store in Cambridge where fifteen years ago I bought a bedside lamp that eventually broke, but which was the most cute/ugly example of an Art Deco-ish Victorian-ish "nana" decor ever. I want something else similar, but I have no idea where to find one that isn't an actual antique in this Pottery Barn world in which we live. I know returning to a store that I found something like this in back when Black Hole Sun really was a big hit was definitely reaching, but hey, it was worth a shot and what did I have to do yesterday afternoon that was any better, huh? Well, I get to the store in question and they are getting ready to move to a new location and while they are open, there are like perhaps 15 things for sale in the entire building. Bastards!
Thus thwarted in my lighting-needs-shopping, I went to Mr Indemnity's office, kidnapped him, and repaired to...wait for it...Charlie's Kitchen (where it was raining too hard to sit in the beer garden, alas), just because we were just talking about it. The irony that I then spent $25 for Magners and bar food and tip for our not-rude waitress, which is one outlet cover, is not lost on me. However, even though I would have that outlet cover for many years while the cider buzz that made me laugh so hard I almost fell out of the booth over my own joke about Mr Indemnity's penis needing a Going Out of Business sale (since he may just be about to enter a monogamous relationship and thus have to give up the hot but flaky MD who only wants him for his body, among other cupcakes) is long since gone, I think it was totally the right monetary decision.
xoxo
I went shopping yesterday in that "wandering around, hoping inspiration will strike" kind of way, rather than a real goal-oriented way, though I had a general idea of what kind of things I was looking for. I wanted to go to the big Anthropologie store on Boylston that I like and see what they had in the markdowns for house stuff (for my bedroom re-do). I ended up getting a girly little picture frame half price because it's missing some of its bling, though you need to look at it really closely to notice that, so it's all good, plus a new candle, because I rarely leave that store without a candle. However, in the nonsale stuff, they had a lantern I liked, but wasn't quite ready to pay $38 for, and they had [not] switchplates, [but what *do* you call them?] in distressed brass to cover the electrical outlets that are showing in my faux-finished walls. For $24 each. I was definitely not willing to spend $48 just for the two that are most visible. That's ridiculous. (So if anyone has any heads ups for where I could get something like that for a price that doesn't hose me, lemme know.)
Then, I wanted to go to this particular store in Cambridge where fifteen years ago I bought a bedside lamp that eventually broke, but which was the most cute/ugly example of an Art Deco-ish Victorian-ish "nana" decor ever. I want something else similar, but I have no idea where to find one that isn't an actual antique in this Pottery Barn world in which we live. I know returning to a store that I found something like this in back when Black Hole Sun really was a big hit was definitely reaching, but hey, it was worth a shot and what did I have to do yesterday afternoon that was any better, huh? Well, I get to the store in question and they are getting ready to move to a new location and while they are open, there are like perhaps 15 things for sale in the entire building. Bastards!
Thus thwarted in my lighting-needs-shopping, I went to Mr Indemnity's office, kidnapped him, and repaired to...wait for it...Charlie's Kitchen (where it was raining too hard to sit in the beer garden, alas), just because we were just talking about it. The irony that I then spent $25 for Magners and bar food and tip for our not-rude waitress, which is one outlet cover, is not lost on me. However, even though I would have that outlet cover for many years while the cider buzz that made me laugh so hard I almost fell out of the booth over my own joke about Mr Indemnity's penis needing a Going Out of Business sale (since he may just be about to enter a monogamous relationship and thus have to give up the hot but flaky MD who only wants him for his body, among other cupcakes) is long since gone, I think it was totally the right monetary decision.
xoxo
Wednesday, July 23, 2008
pennyroyal tea
Remember my telling you about D ordering the "right" fish oils online, because the ones I bought weren't just right, and how I had a pang of worry about that? Well, Monday he gets another box in the mail, from bodybuilder.com. Now, for you to understand why that concerned me, you need to know his history with the whole supplement thing. As I've probably mentioned before, all his original delusional stuff back when he first got sick was all body/health related. Back when he was a senior in high school and convinced that he had a body odor that only some people could smell or that he had a degenerative disease that was going to kill him within a year or god knows what other ones we went through, my kitchen cabinets were full of various supplements and quackery: colon cleanses and rubio tea and, again, I can't even tell you what all. So when I see he's buying supplements again, I can't help it, I start internally freaking. Not that millions of Americans, including me, don't. It's just his history that makes the red flags go up.
He was sleeping when his package came, so I told him, then I went to work. I didn't not say, "What the hell are you buying now!?!!" It might not be terribly apparent in this blog, but I do learn from experience. When I got home Monday night, the open box was on the floor next to the couch and I very casually sat down and looked at it. "What'd you get?" It was more fish oils, plus a bottle of liquid EFAs (i.e. as far as I can tell, expensive cod liver oil). He tells me he was reading that the liquid is better for you than capsules. Okay, then.
I don't know when it's going to stop: my being paranoid that everything is a symptom of psychosis, and his proving that, no, he's being perfectly rational and he's really much, much better. Maybe never. I'm a mom. We worry.
xoxo
He was sleeping when his package came, so I told him, then I went to work. I didn't not say, "What the hell are you buying now!?!!" It might not be terribly apparent in this blog, but I do learn from experience. When I got home Monday night, the open box was on the floor next to the couch and I very casually sat down and looked at it. "What'd you get?" It was more fish oils, plus a bottle of liquid EFAs (i.e. as far as I can tell, expensive cod liver oil). He tells me he was reading that the liquid is better for you than capsules. Okay, then.
I don't know when it's going to stop: my being paranoid that everything is a symptom of psychosis, and his proving that, no, he's being perfectly rational and he's really much, much better. Maybe never. I'm a mom. We worry.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 22, 2008
little miss can't be wrong
Catching up on *last* week's blogging...
Last week was our semi-annual hospital-wide free lunch at work. We get a Christmas/holiday meal and, midsummer, we get a "BBQ". They close down the cafeteria and set up outside and feed us buffet style gratis. Now, the problem with this, is that despite no one having to pay and it being self-serve, both of which would make one think that things might move along quickly, it invariably leads to huge, huge lines and much waiting. This summer's was no exception. I can only conclude that every single person on the complex who normally brings their lunch or goes out avails themselves of the hospital food on these occasions because, hey!, it's free, thus leading to three times the normal number of diners.
So a couple of my docs had gone over and came back empty handed because the line was just that long that they couldn't bear to wait. Me, I went over and queued, because I was starving and it was my only chance to get food before my patient came. While I was standing in the interminable line, I see LK, she of the massage-mooching, breeze past me. I thought perhaps she'd already gotten her stuff and had forgotten silverware or something. I couldn't imagine what else she was doing.
Later, back in the office, I overhear her telling one of the secretaries who hadn't gone over yet her method for successfully cutting in line.
Are you serious? Who does that? Did we all not learn somewhere around first grade that no matter who you are or how much you want something, you have to wait your turn?
I take back what I said about people not being sociopaths. Jesus.
xoxo
Last week was our semi-annual hospital-wide free lunch at work. We get a Christmas/holiday meal and, midsummer, we get a "BBQ". They close down the cafeteria and set up outside and feed us buffet style gratis. Now, the problem with this, is that despite no one having to pay and it being self-serve, both of which would make one think that things might move along quickly, it invariably leads to huge, huge lines and much waiting. This summer's was no exception. I can only conclude that every single person on the complex who normally brings their lunch or goes out avails themselves of the hospital food on these occasions because, hey!, it's free, thus leading to three times the normal number of diners.
So a couple of my docs had gone over and came back empty handed because the line was just that long that they couldn't bear to wait. Me, I went over and queued, because I was starving and it was my only chance to get food before my patient came. While I was standing in the interminable line, I see LK, she of the massage-mooching, breeze past me. I thought perhaps she'd already gotten her stuff and had forgotten silverware or something. I couldn't imagine what else she was doing.
Later, back in the office, I overhear her telling one of the secretaries who hadn't gone over yet her method for successfully cutting in line.
Are you serious? Who does that? Did we all not learn somewhere around first grade that no matter who you are or how much you want something, you have to wait your turn?
I take back what I said about people not being sociopaths. Jesus.
xoxo
Monday, July 21, 2008
fight the power
I forgot to mention in last night's house and home update the other piece of exciting news. I got my new Dyson one day last week, overstock.com having come through for me again with a wicked good price, $1 shipping and no sales tax. (Don't tell the Commonwealth of Massachusetts on me, 'k?) It was sitting in its box for a few days, when Saturday night at like 10:30 pm I said to D, "Let's get the new vacuum cleaner out and look at it!" I know, you wish you had my life. Don't lie.
So I got it out and assembled it, not the easiest thing since there were basically no written directions, just cute little graphics that I suppose were supposed to make sense no matter which language of the 18 different countries they sell it in you speak. Not so much, though. But I soldiered on and having it more or less looking complete, I decided to plug it in and see whether it would function.
Well, holy crap. I started to vacuum just a little piece of the entrance hallway carpet and in like 10 seconds it looked cleaner than it has for approximately the last five years. I was so entranced, I kept vacuuming. I did my stairs. I emptied the cylinder twice. I did the rest of the L-shaped hallway. I woke up my poor dad who was confused about what the noise was and, on being apprised, was still confused about why in hell I was vacuuming at 11:30 pm.
This thing was so powerful it was sucking up everything in its path. I never thought vacuuming would be so fun and diverting. Two thumbs up!
xoxo
So I got it out and assembled it, not the easiest thing since there were basically no written directions, just cute little graphics that I suppose were supposed to make sense no matter which language of the 18 different countries they sell it in you speak. Not so much, though. But I soldiered on and having it more or less looking complete, I decided to plug it in and see whether it would function.
Well, holy crap. I started to vacuum just a little piece of the entrance hallway carpet and in like 10 seconds it looked cleaner than it has for approximately the last five years. I was so entranced, I kept vacuuming. I did my stairs. I emptied the cylinder twice. I did the rest of the L-shaped hallway. I woke up my poor dad who was confused about what the noise was and, on being apprised, was still confused about why in hell I was vacuuming at 11:30 pm.
This thing was so powerful it was sucking up everything in its path. I never thought vacuuming would be so fun and diverting. Two thumbs up!
xoxo
bohemian like you
I'm almost finished with my room! I finally sealed the walls I'd faux-finished. I think I like how they looked pre-sealing better, but I really didn't want a non-washable surface (um, yeah, because I'm one of those people who washes their walls all the time, uh huh, yup). Well, we'll see in the morning. I'm leaving the un-faux-finished walls as they are for now. Mainly because I've changed my mind about paint colors about 63 times in the last six weeks, so it's probably best to sit on it for awhile.
I've got one more table to paint. I was equivocating about whether to keep the chest at the foot of my bed, which originally matched my desk before its paint job, mainly because the hinges are broken on it and I don't know how to fix them. But it's a nice heavy piece of furniture that I'd only have to replace with something else that serves the same purpose, so I decided I'm going to clean it up and paint it too. I'll cross the hinge bridge when I come to it. Since I've decided to use both tables as nightstands, so I can have one for pictures and decorative objects and the other for magazines, remotes, and my beverage, etc., I need to get something else to put my tv on. Since the dvd storage solution hasn't been solved, I guess the wise course would be to get something that would serve both purposes. I also have bookcase that matches the other two bookcases in my [we'll call it a] hallway, that has been in a box, unassembled, since somewhere around Bush's first term. I think it's time to break that baby out. It's a little, by which I mean a lot, too minimalist/modern for the boho extravaganza that is my new boudoir, but I may just use it in there anyway. I might need another lamp or two, too. And a tiny bit more art. And some throw pillows.
But I'm almost done! If I ever find that camera cord, I'll post pics.
xoxo
I've got one more table to paint. I was equivocating about whether to keep the chest at the foot of my bed, which originally matched my desk before its paint job, mainly because the hinges are broken on it and I don't know how to fix them. But it's a nice heavy piece of furniture that I'd only have to replace with something else that serves the same purpose, so I decided I'm going to clean it up and paint it too. I'll cross the hinge bridge when I come to it. Since I've decided to use both tables as nightstands, so I can have one for pictures and decorative objects and the other for magazines, remotes, and my beverage, etc., I need to get something else to put my tv on. Since the dvd storage solution hasn't been solved, I guess the wise course would be to get something that would serve both purposes. I also have bookcase that matches the other two bookcases in my [we'll call it a] hallway, that has been in a box, unassembled, since somewhere around Bush's first term. I think it's time to break that baby out. It's a little, by which I mean a lot, too minimalist/modern for the boho extravaganza that is my new boudoir, but I may just use it in there anyway. I might need another lamp or two, too. And a tiny bit more art. And some throw pillows.
But I'm almost done! If I ever find that camera cord, I'll post pics.
xoxo
Sunday, July 20, 2008
shock the monkey
I was having a discussion the other day about how bodywork feels good emotionally as well as physically. Of course, as a massage therapist, when someone makes a statement like that to you, your first reaction is "well, yeah." You tend to forget that it's not that apparent to the average person. But I said, "Yeah, people need to be touched. You know what happens to the baby monkeys that get the wire mommy instead of a real one, doncha?" (Everyone took Psych 101 in college, right? If not, you can look it up.)
But, yeah, we're primates. I think that we're really supposed to be sitting around in the forest picking lice off each other and occasionally having sex, not existing in this touchless culture that we have here in the U.S. of A. I don't know how we've reached this point, but I've often thought about it and, how in certain ways, it definitely has negative effects on our society.
How much teenage and random college-age sexuality is due to, apart from rampaging hormones and/or drunken lack of judgment, a simple need to touch and be touched? I mean, when you're a little kid, your parents carry you in their arms, hug and kiss you, you sit on their laps or cuddle next to them on the sofa, like all the time. (If yours didn't, chill. I'm not accusing them of being bad parents. Well, okay, maybe a little.) But then right around puberty or just before, all the touching comes to a screeching halt, if only because the kids in their normal need to separate pull away from it. But then, who's touching you when you're 12 or 14 or 16 or even 19? You sure aren't getting bodywork. If you're a teenage girl, you're maybe getting some hugs from your friends; if you're a boy, and lucky enough to have some female friends, you might get some from them. Otherwise, it's whatever grudging hugs or kisses you allow from your family, and the touch you get from your romantic/sexual partners. If you don't have any romantic/sexual partners, you're starved for touch and probably more lonely and depressed than you otherwise should be. If you do, there's the chance that you're doing things with people who you otherwise wouldn't be just because the human contact feels so good. Now, I am definitely not discounting the raging hormones. But, face it, masturbation takes care of the worst of sexual frustration, but you can't really hug, kiss, or lovingly stroke yourself.
I don't know what the solution to this is. I just think it's a failure of our culture. Yeah, I know. One of many.
xoxo
But, yeah, we're primates. I think that we're really supposed to be sitting around in the forest picking lice off each other and occasionally having sex, not existing in this touchless culture that we have here in the U.S. of A. I don't know how we've reached this point, but I've often thought about it and, how in certain ways, it definitely has negative effects on our society.
How much teenage and random college-age sexuality is due to, apart from rampaging hormones and/or drunken lack of judgment, a simple need to touch and be touched? I mean, when you're a little kid, your parents carry you in their arms, hug and kiss you, you sit on their laps or cuddle next to them on the sofa, like all the time. (If yours didn't, chill. I'm not accusing them of being bad parents. Well, okay, maybe a little.) But then right around puberty or just before, all the touching comes to a screeching halt, if only because the kids in their normal need to separate pull away from it. But then, who's touching you when you're 12 or 14 or 16 or even 19? You sure aren't getting bodywork. If you're a teenage girl, you're maybe getting some hugs from your friends; if you're a boy, and lucky enough to have some female friends, you might get some from them. Otherwise, it's whatever grudging hugs or kisses you allow from your family, and the touch you get from your romantic/sexual partners. If you don't have any romantic/sexual partners, you're starved for touch and probably more lonely and depressed than you otherwise should be. If you do, there's the chance that you're doing things with people who you otherwise wouldn't be just because the human contact feels so good. Now, I am definitely not discounting the raging hormones. But, face it, masturbation takes care of the worst of sexual frustration, but you can't really hug, kiss, or lovingly stroke yourself.
I don't know what the solution to this is. I just think it's a failure of our culture. Yeah, I know. One of many.
xoxo
Saturday, July 19, 2008
time of your life
I did it. I went on youtube this morning, found the Hey Jealousy video, and listened to it about five times, enough to successfully get it stuck in my head. Then I listened to a few other Gin Blossoms songs. Then I had to actually do some work.
But it called to mind something L said to me a few months ago, which I agreed with: radio was better in the 90s than it is now. Now, she and I have quite different musical tastes in many ways, but we both have some (okay, a lot of) lingering fondness for the "alternative" hits of the nineties. Mine is all bound up with my lingering fondness of the mid-to-late nineties in general. If you recall the strawberry soup story, you'll recall my reminiscing about how in love I was then. And, even better, I felt loved in return. Not that life was all rainbows and kitten orgasms, but it was a very happy time.
So I was thinking about that as I listened to Hey Jealousy and the line "if I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago, I might not be alone" started to resonate. But I knew that was crap, really. There wasn't anything I could have done to make him keep loving me or make him want me, because (as also previously referenced here) you can't make anyone else feel anything, and besides (I thought, kind of nastily) it was his damage that kept him from seeing what he could have had from me. But that's unfair, too, and I would never want to be unfair to anyone, especially someone whom I loved so much for so long--long past the time I had any right to.
I know that the damage is in big part mine. As I've also referenced before, I know there's something in me that doesn't inspire romantic love. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I think I am unlovable or unworthy of love in any way. Nor am I unaware that lots of people love me: D, my dad, some of my good friends. But romantic love? Not over the long run. I have my own ideas about why that is, but it doesn't really matter. I *didn't* blow things years ago. Life is just what it is. No regrets.
I'll leave you with another line from Hey Jealousy. "If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down."
xoxo
disclaimer: I know, I said no disclaimers any more. But any time I write anything the least bit introspective or wistful, certain friends--and you know who you are--start in with the "are you okay? is something wrong? are you depressed?" and I have to say, no! I'm just thinkin'. So, to forestall that, lemme say in advance, I'm fine, I'm happy, I'm enjoying that it's July, and I'm not even emo/PMS-y. I'm just thinking. Okay? Okay.
But it called to mind something L said to me a few months ago, which I agreed with: radio was better in the 90s than it is now. Now, she and I have quite different musical tastes in many ways, but we both have some (okay, a lot of) lingering fondness for the "alternative" hits of the nineties. Mine is all bound up with my lingering fondness of the mid-to-late nineties in general. If you recall the strawberry soup story, you'll recall my reminiscing about how in love I was then. And, even better, I felt loved in return. Not that life was all rainbows and kitten orgasms, but it was a very happy time.
So I was thinking about that as I listened to Hey Jealousy and the line "if I hadn't blown the whole thing years ago, I might not be alone" started to resonate. But I knew that was crap, really. There wasn't anything I could have done to make him keep loving me or make him want me, because (as also previously referenced here) you can't make anyone else feel anything, and besides (I thought, kind of nastily) it was his damage that kept him from seeing what he could have had from me. But that's unfair, too, and I would never want to be unfair to anyone, especially someone whom I loved so much for so long--long past the time I had any right to.
I know that the damage is in big part mine. As I've also referenced before, I know there's something in me that doesn't inspire romantic love. Don't get me wrong. It's not that I think I am unlovable or unworthy of love in any way. Nor am I unaware that lots of people love me: D, my dad, some of my good friends. But romantic love? Not over the long run. I have my own ideas about why that is, but it doesn't really matter. I *didn't* blow things years ago. Life is just what it is. No regrets.
I'll leave you with another line from Hey Jealousy. "If you don't expect too much from me, you might not be let down."
xoxo
disclaimer: I know, I said no disclaimers any more. But any time I write anything the least bit introspective or wistful, certain friends--and you know who you are--start in with the "are you okay? is something wrong? are you depressed?" and I have to say, no! I'm just thinkin'. So, to forestall that, lemme say in advance, I'm fine, I'm happy, I'm enjoying that it's July, and I'm not even emo/PMS-y. I'm just thinking. Okay? Okay.
Friday, July 18, 2008
too shy, shy**
I saw a story online yesterday about some study in Norway, or perhaps it was Finland, that claimed premature babies grew up to be more shy, less likely to marry, less likely to have children, and more likely to be autistic. I'm not sure what's more offensive in this conflation. The implication that shyness means social retardation means borderline autism? The implication that not marrying and/or not procreating means social retardation means borderline autism? That implication that shyness leads to not marrying or that not marrying is due to shyness? It's all very WTF? as far as I'm concerned, and I wonder how much of that is due to the study itself being really crap and how much is due to the typically horrific "science" reporting in the media. Or, most probably, whether it's a mixture of the two.
The one thing that did interest me is that they posited that because premature babies' neurological systems are immature, they are easily overstimulated, and thus, may turn inward and become more comfortable with their inner world than the outer. I was a premature baby. And you all know how absolutely entranced by my own inner world I am. I'm not saying I buy the theory. I'm just saying it's an interesting one. However, I do firmly reject any implication that there's anything wrong with being entranced with your own inner world.
Do these people *want* any art and literature in the world? God.
xoxo
**The post I deleted last night was called "hey jealousy." Maybe I'll just title every single entry I write from now till the end of the month with the name of an 80s or 90s pop song. You know I could do it.
The one thing that did interest me is that they posited that because premature babies' neurological systems are immature, they are easily overstimulated, and thus, may turn inward and become more comfortable with their inner world than the outer. I was a premature baby. And you all know how absolutely entranced by my own inner world I am. I'm not saying I buy the theory. I'm just saying it's an interesting one. However, I do firmly reject any implication that there's anything wrong with being entranced with your own inner world.
Do these people *want* any art and literature in the world? God.
xoxo
**The post I deleted last night was called "hey jealousy." Maybe I'll just title every single entry I write from now till the end of the month with the name of an 80s or 90s pop song. You know I could do it.
fail!
So, last night I started writing a really long post riffing on a conversation some of my co-workers were having yesterday. I'd gotten five or six paragraphs in when I realized I didn't have a point, wasn't making a point, and in fact probably couldn't have found a point if I was sitting in a pile of sharp objects. So I deleted the whole thing. Perhaps at some future time I'll try again.
But don't you hate that? You *know* you have a thesis in there somewhere. You know you have all these thoughts that are just this close to coming together and making coherent sense. In fact, you're absolutely sure you have something brilliant and insightful to say. But it is elusive. I bet fucking Plato never had this problem. (And, yes, this is why they'll never make my name into an adjective, I'm well aware.)
In lieu of that, I would love to have posted some more pictures of amazingly well-preserved old people or discussed underwear or something, but it's been a busy morning. I had to cure the sick children!!! (If you go back to my very first entry in this blog, I predicted it would devolve into a morass of private jokes. I think we're there. In less than a year. Perhaps I'm not *totally* made of fail.)
Anyway, I promise: more content that doesn't make your IQ drop five to seven points just from reading it really, really soon.
xoxo
But don't you hate that? You *know* you have a thesis in there somewhere. You know you have all these thoughts that are just this close to coming together and making coherent sense. In fact, you're absolutely sure you have something brilliant and insightful to say. But it is elusive. I bet fucking Plato never had this problem. (And, yes, this is why they'll never make my name into an adjective, I'm well aware.)
In lieu of that, I would love to have posted some more pictures of amazingly well-preserved old people or discussed underwear or something, but it's been a busy morning. I had to cure the sick children!!! (If you go back to my very first entry in this blog, I predicted it would devolve into a morass of private jokes. I think we're there. In less than a year. Perhaps I'm not *totally* made of fail.)
Anyway, I promise: more content that doesn't make your IQ drop five to seven points just from reading it really, really soon.
xoxo
Thursday, July 17, 2008
Monday, July 14, 2008
literary license
I don't know how we got on the subject, but Mr Indemnity was telling me how he doesn't trust yelp reviews. The example he used was that he was looking up Charlie's Kitchen's new beer garden online (they have a beer garden now! genius!) and a yelp review of Charlie's mentioned (approvingly) the sneering multi-tattooed waitresses who slam down your plate.
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I knew what his objection to this would be, and I concurred. I have not been there as many times as Mr Indemnity, but I have been there enough to have been served by several multi-tattooed, punked-out or goth-y waitpersons, and there was no sneering going on. They have all been uniformly pleasant, welcoming and friendly, even to my non-hipster middle-aged self. So, obviously, either we have been fortunate to have only encountered the waitpersons who go to Tattoo Worship, and thus are highly in touch with their spiritual selves and their love for humanity, or the yelp reviewer was taking literary license, i.e. lying, in order to make his review seem cooler. Or something.
xoxo
As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I knew what his objection to this would be, and I concurred. I have not been there as many times as Mr Indemnity, but I have been there enough to have been served by several multi-tattooed, punked-out or goth-y waitpersons, and there was no sneering going on. They have all been uniformly pleasant, welcoming and friendly, even to my non-hipster middle-aged self. So, obviously, either we have been fortunate to have only encountered the waitpersons who go to Tattoo Worship, and thus are highly in touch with their spiritual selves and their love for humanity, or the yelp reviewer was taking literary license, i.e. lying, in order to make his review seem cooler. Or something.
xoxo
Saturday, July 12, 2008
new strategy
One of the wonderful things about popular music is that, just as almost any situation in life can be completely paralleled by a Seinfeld episode, there are lyrics for every occasion. I was reminded of this by my iPod this morning. The James Marzilli story, the coverage of which in his local newspaper has kept our Mr Barma so amused? It was presciently addressed by one Mr Marshall Mathers. To wit:
They said, save it, boy, we've got you on tape
Yelling at an old lady to "Touch my body!"
But then I was thinking. Perhaps this was not prescience. Perhaps this was one of those cases where an innocent, impressionable individual was led to committing a horrible crime by evil, devil music!
Perhaps someone should suggest this to Mr Marzilli's defense team. I'm sure they're only an e-mail away.
(Um, yeah. Today was the last day of MFR. Now I have plenty of time to blog again. You're happy, aren't yous?)
xoxo
They said, save it, boy, we've got you on tape
Yelling at an old lady to "Touch my body!"
But then I was thinking. Perhaps this was not prescience. Perhaps this was one of those cases where an innocent, impressionable individual was led to committing a horrible crime by evil, devil music!
Perhaps someone should suggest this to Mr Marzilli's defense team. I'm sure they're only an e-mail away.
(Um, yeah. Today was the last day of MFR. Now I have plenty of time to blog again. You're happy, aren't yous?)
xoxo
puzzlement
On my way through beautiful, beautiful Brighton the past three days, I noticed a building, apparently a church, with a sandwich board in front of it that said "Tattoo Worship, June 20, [time]." Now, I'm assuming this is not literal. Though, Anthony Kiedis? If you're reading? I would *so* worship yours. With my tongue. Call me, baby!
Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, I'm assuming this is a special service for people with bodyart to worship together. My question is, why? Do they need to pray for better healing time? That their artist doesn't mistakenly misspell their girlfriend's name? For a giant bag of money to fall from the sky so they can finally finish that big back piece? I dunno. It is a puzzlement.
I have the feeling this is one of those mysteries that could be at least partially cleared up if I were willing to use my amazing google-fu. However, since I am a lazy, lazy woman, I will just throw it out there, and assume that, as so often happens, one of my friends will step up and do the googling for me. And report back.
Thanks in advance. As they say.
xoxo
Ahem. Where was I? Oh, yeah. So, I'm assuming this is a special service for people with bodyart to worship together. My question is, why? Do they need to pray for better healing time? That their artist doesn't mistakenly misspell their girlfriend's name? For a giant bag of money to fall from the sky so they can finally finish that big back piece? I dunno. It is a puzzlement.
I have the feeling this is one of those mysteries that could be at least partially cleared up if I were willing to use my amazing google-fu. However, since I am a lazy, lazy woman, I will just throw it out there, and assume that, as so often happens, one of my friends will step up and do the googling for me. And report back.
Thanks in advance. As they say.
xoxo
Thursday, July 10, 2008
reporting in!
1.) Day 1, MFR...fab. Besides having my favorite instructor evah and besides having my favorite instructor evah shorten the class hours from what was originally planned by the school because she wisely realizes there is only so much information that can be crammed into your brain at one time during these things, my friend and former classmate W is taking it too, so we got to be partners and have so.much.fun. There is nothing quite like a.) learning cool new stuff while b.) laughing your butt off and also c.) getting bodywork performed on you. I miss massage school. Except for, y'know, the poverty, stressing out about assignments and grades, and leaving the house at 6:45 am in 15 degree weather.
2.) So, D. D had an appointment with the psychiatrist this morning. He had made it himself and, even after I figured out it was at a time that I couldn't possibly go with him, I dicked around about rescheduling it. So then I asked his caseworker (the cougar, remember?) pretty last minute whether she could take him. She had another appointment, unfortunately. But in talking about it, she and I kind of came to the conclusion that D could do it by himself if I called a taxi for him ahead of time, and that he *would* do it if I presented it to him as something that was necessary. I waited till yesterday morning to tell him about it because I know from experience that he (ideally) needs enough advance warning of stressful stuff to have time to rap his brain around it, but not enough time to start dwelling on it.
Me: I need to talk to you about something.
D: Okay.
Me: Don't freak out.
D: I won't.
Me: You're going to have to go to that appointment with Dr M by yourself tomorrow.
D: No! I can't!
Me: I said "don't freak out."
D: Okay.
Anyway. He did it and it went fine. Except that the ladies at the front desk wouldn't call a taxi home for him. (WTF?!??? We do this for patients all the time at my work. Bastards.) So D went back to Dr M's office and asked to use her phone. She let him.
xoxo
2.) So, D. D had an appointment with the psychiatrist this morning. He had made it himself and, even after I figured out it was at a time that I couldn't possibly go with him, I dicked around about rescheduling it. So then I asked his caseworker (the cougar, remember?) pretty last minute whether she could take him. She had another appointment, unfortunately. But in talking about it, she and I kind of came to the conclusion that D could do it by himself if I called a taxi for him ahead of time, and that he *would* do it if I presented it to him as something that was necessary. I waited till yesterday morning to tell him about it because I know from experience that he (ideally) needs enough advance warning of stressful stuff to have time to rap his brain around it, but not enough time to start dwelling on it.
Me: I need to talk to you about something.
D: Okay.
Me: Don't freak out.
D: I won't.
Me: You're going to have to go to that appointment with Dr M by yourself tomorrow.
D: No! I can't!
Me: I said "don't freak out."
D: Okay.
Anyway. He did it and it went fine. Except that the ladies at the front desk wouldn't call a taxi home for him. (WTF?!??? We do this for patients all the time at my work. Bastards.) So D went back to Dr M's office and asked to use her phone. She let him.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 8, 2008
back to random crap
1.) My dad just asked me deadpan why Julie didn't make the All Star team. And you people wonder where I get it from.
2.) In a semi-related Red Sox note, I must shamefully confess that I am never quite able to look at Mike Lowell without imagining him in a white suit and one of those hats, standing on the veranda overlooking the sugar plantation. C'mon now. Admit it. You'd suck down some mojitos with him if you were me. In your dreams.
3.) If you were a Deadwood fan, I would highly recommend reading Missy by Chris Hannan. With a plucky laudanum-addicted 19 year old whore for a heroine and plenty of alcoholism, drug use, senseless and purposeful brutality, profanity, filth, and shopping, I'm sure you can see the parallels. Fun and yet smart book. Read it on the beach, yo.
4.) Mmmmm, cherries.
5.) D's boundaries are about to be really pushed later this week. I will report back with either the good or bad news.
6.) However, my reporting may be sparse, because I'm taking my myofascial release course the end of the week. Yay! You people know how much I like fascia. Almost as much as I like topical anti-inflammatories. But I will report back at some point. You all know how responsible I feel for your entertainment needs. Ha.
7.) Oh, yeah. Do you think I ought to put one of those content warnings on this blog? How many people am I inadvertently offending and how many impressionable teenagers am I leading astray with my content anyway?
xoxo
2.) In a semi-related Red Sox note, I must shamefully confess that I am never quite able to look at Mike Lowell without imagining him in a white suit and one of those hats, standing on the veranda overlooking the sugar plantation. C'mon now. Admit it. You'd suck down some mojitos with him if you were me. In your dreams.
3.) If you were a Deadwood fan, I would highly recommend reading Missy by Chris Hannan. With a plucky laudanum-addicted 19 year old whore for a heroine and plenty of alcoholism, drug use, senseless and purposeful brutality, profanity, filth, and shopping, I'm sure you can see the parallels. Fun and yet smart book. Read it on the beach, yo.
4.) Mmmmm, cherries.
5.) D's boundaries are about to be really pushed later this week. I will report back with either the good or bad news.
6.) However, my reporting may be sparse, because I'm taking my myofascial release course the end of the week. Yay! You people know how much I like fascia. Almost as much as I like topical anti-inflammatories. But I will report back at some point. You all know how responsible I feel for your entertainment needs. Ha.
7.) Oh, yeah. Do you think I ought to put one of those content warnings on this blog? How many people am I inadvertently offending and how many impressionable teenagers am I leading astray with my content anyway?
xoxo
Monday, July 7, 2008
adventures in passive-aggression
Or, how to win in life through immaturity!
Do you all remember my story about the one doctor (LK) I work with who was extorting free massage out of me, five or ten minutes at a time, every time she threw her shoulder out again? And how I would always do it because I felt guilty saying no to someone in pain, but I was getting more and more resentful every time it happened? (Oh, sure, you do so remember; I know you're all taking notes when you read the blog. )
So, last week. Our office manager SH, she of the Led Zep fan fic, also has chronic neck/shoulder issues. Her trap was out of whack, and she wanted to schedule some work with me. We decided to do it the next day at lunch and I said I'd bring my chair in. "If LK knows you have your chair with you, she'll probably be interested," she said. I kind of rolled my eyes and said, "I doubt it. She's only interested in what she can get for free...but I didn't say that."
Cut to today. LK runs into me in the hall, tells me she heard I've been "fixing" SH, and says she's in horrible pain again, and can she hire me to fix her, too? So, after work, I gave her twenty minute chair massage, with the trigger point work that works so well for her, and charged her $25. She a.) raved about how much better she felt, b.) said it was worth far more than $25, and c.) actually tipped me, too. I am absolutely sure SH must have told her what I said (they're tight).
Apparently my problem is solved. Not through my acting like an actual mature adult person, but y'know, that's okay by me. Who says passive aggressive snottiness has to be wrong?
xoxo
Do you all remember my story about the one doctor (LK) I work with who was extorting free massage out of me, five or ten minutes at a time, every time she threw her shoulder out again? And how I would always do it because I felt guilty saying no to someone in pain, but I was getting more and more resentful every time it happened? (Oh, sure, you do so remember; I know you're all taking notes when you read the blog. )
So, last week. Our office manager SH, she of the Led Zep fan fic, also has chronic neck/shoulder issues. Her trap was out of whack, and she wanted to schedule some work with me. We decided to do it the next day at lunch and I said I'd bring my chair in. "If LK knows you have your chair with you, she'll probably be interested," she said. I kind of rolled my eyes and said, "I doubt it. She's only interested in what she can get for free...but I didn't say that."
Cut to today. LK runs into me in the hall, tells me she heard I've been "fixing" SH, and says she's in horrible pain again, and can she hire me to fix her, too? So, after work, I gave her twenty minute chair massage, with the trigger point work that works so well for her, and charged her $25. She a.) raved about how much better she felt, b.) said it was worth far more than $25, and c.) actually tipped me, too. I am absolutely sure SH must have told her what I said (they're tight).
Apparently my problem is solved. Not through my acting like an actual mature adult person, but y'know, that's okay by me. Who says passive aggressive snottiness has to be wrong?
xoxo
Sunday, July 6, 2008
a few weekend notes
1.) My Home Depot, as opposed to the vastly inferior other Home Depot I went to last weekend, had big gallon-sized containers of wallpaper paste. On the big container, as opposed to the little tub, it very clearly said: do not dilute. Oh, Home Depot #2686, I will never cheat on you again.
2.) My Home Depot, however, it must be said, sells the crappiest, crappiest latex gloves ever. Why someone who works in a major medical center has to buy disposable gloves to wallpaper is, I grant you, a good question, but in my defense, I was in a hurry to get out of there and begin my long weekend. I could not concentrate on stealing necessary remodeling supplies. In any case, I put my fingers through so many of these Home Depot gloves this weekend--and I have no nails--that I can only pray the latex company doesn't also make condoms, because that's an STD and unwanted pregnancy epidemic in the making right there.
3.) Despite my threat to listen to nothing but Nirvana all weekend in an emo depressathon, what I did listen to was the contents of my iPod, in alphabetical order. So, Andrea, you ask, what's the best music to paste hundreds of scraps of paper to your bedroom walls to? Well, punk seemed to work well, so thanks, Burma, and thanks, Clash. But then, NIN worked well, too, so a certain level of aggression (?) seems to be ideal. Blowing a hole in that theory is that, rap? Not so much.
I have so much more to say about metaphors and stupid people, the Red Sox, paint color choices, the fact that my dvd player totally crapped out, and probably other topics, but I need some sleep. Alas.
xoxo
2.) My Home Depot, however, it must be said, sells the crappiest, crappiest latex gloves ever. Why someone who works in a major medical center has to buy disposable gloves to wallpaper is, I grant you, a good question, but in my defense, I was in a hurry to get out of there and begin my long weekend. I could not concentrate on stealing necessary remodeling supplies. In any case, I put my fingers through so many of these Home Depot gloves this weekend--and I have no nails--that I can only pray the latex company doesn't also make condoms, because that's an STD and unwanted pregnancy epidemic in the making right there.
3.) Despite my threat to listen to nothing but Nirvana all weekend in an emo depressathon, what I did listen to was the contents of my iPod, in alphabetical order. So, Andrea, you ask, what's the best music to paste hundreds of scraps of paper to your bedroom walls to? Well, punk seemed to work well, so thanks, Burma, and thanks, Clash. But then, NIN worked well, too, so a certain level of aggression (?) seems to be ideal. Blowing a hole in that theory is that, rap? Not so much.
I have so much more to say about metaphors and stupid people, the Red Sox, paint color choices, the fact that my dvd player totally crapped out, and probably other topics, but I need some sleep. Alas.
xoxo
Saturday, July 5, 2008
quick hit
...then it's wallpaper paste for me, mon.
There's this show on the Style network called "How Do I Look?" and it's basically one of those makeover shows where your, ahem, loved ones nominate you for public humiliation. And I guess, free clothes. I just caught the beginning of an episode where a 30-ish woman who dresses like a skate-punk by day and a goth chick by night was nominated by her friends because her look was not allowing her to "move on in life."
Fair enough, I guess. Unless you're Dita Von Teese, at some point you need to normalize the look a little to make a decent living. But, you know, the two friends who nominated this chick? Bleached blonds, flat-ironed within an inch of their lives, with horrific tans and (I'm only speculating, since there were no hand close-ups, but you *know* I'm right) ::shudder:: French manicures. And one of them was going on about how at one time the makeover-ee and she would not only buy the same shirt, but the same shirt in the same color, until she "went off track."
I had to change the channel. I'm sorry, but people who look like outtakes from Girls Gone Wild should not throw fashion stones at people who look like Gwen Stefani circa 1996 and accuse them of going off track. One look is not superior to the other, even if one is more socially acceptable than the other.
So step away from the tanning booth for a few weeks and then get back to me.
xoxo
There's this show on the Style network called "How Do I Look?" and it's basically one of those makeover shows where your, ahem, loved ones nominate you for public humiliation. And I guess, free clothes. I just caught the beginning of an episode where a 30-ish woman who dresses like a skate-punk by day and a goth chick by night was nominated by her friends because her look was not allowing her to "move on in life."
Fair enough, I guess. Unless you're Dita Von Teese, at some point you need to normalize the look a little to make a decent living. But, you know, the two friends who nominated this chick? Bleached blonds, flat-ironed within an inch of their lives, with horrific tans and (I'm only speculating, since there were no hand close-ups, but you *know* I'm right) ::shudder:: French manicures. And one of them was going on about how at one time the makeover-ee and she would not only buy the same shirt, but the same shirt in the same color, until she "went off track."
I had to change the channel. I'm sorry, but people who look like outtakes from Girls Gone Wild should not throw fashion stones at people who look like Gwen Stefani circa 1996 and accuse them of going off track. One look is not superior to the other, even if one is more socially acceptable than the other.
So step away from the tanning booth for a few weeks and then get back to me.
xoxo
Friday, July 4, 2008
don't believe it
There is no such thing as idiot-proof. I would swear floridly, but I already did that earlier. So insert your own obscenities into this story. (Or not, if you want to keep it G-rated.)
I had three different sets of instructions for this faux-finishing I was planning on doing. They varied in minor ways from one another, but most of the general principles were the same. Last night after work, I proceeded to scrub down my bedroom walls, since I hadn't gotten to that earlier in the week, moved some of the furniture out, vacuumed in there a little, and in general, got ready to work on the walls this weekend. Then I started ripping up and crinkling craft paper and sorting it into "ends" and "middles". I was crumpling until about 1 am and I don't thin I got through a half a roll of paper. My back and my hands were killing me. I took some Aleve and went to bed.
Since I was up so late, needless to say, I didn't get a super-early start this morning, and I had a few other things I had to do, but by this afternoon I was back to crumpling. By 3:30 or so, I felt ready to start pasting. I looked at my three sets of instructions. One of them, the first one I had run across on the internet, that gave me this idea to begin with, told me to thin out my paste with water, 1:6. Okay. I did. I started my mosaic-ing. I had about a quarter of a wall done when it became very clear to me that, um, the paper too wet and was not adhering. Apparently thinning out the paste was *not* the way to go. [insert the obscenities here] I ripped it all down, rewashed the wall, and went on a run to the evil WalMart for more wallpaper paste since I had wasted 2/3rds of mine. [insert more obscenities]
To cut to the chase, I then worked for about three straight hours and got a half (of the biggest) wall done. No way am I going to finish this by Sunday. And I am going to need even more paste. They don't sell it in big buckets in WalMart or Home Depot, and the little tubs go fast. [insert a few more obscenities, if you wish] The wall looks kind of nice, though, and interesting, even before being sealed. Pray the non-thinned paste holds and it doesn't all fall down tonight while I'm sleeping. Because you don't want to hear those obscenities. Trust me.
xoxo
I had three different sets of instructions for this faux-finishing I was planning on doing. They varied in minor ways from one another, but most of the general principles were the same. Last night after work, I proceeded to scrub down my bedroom walls, since I hadn't gotten to that earlier in the week, moved some of the furniture out, vacuumed in there a little, and in general, got ready to work on the walls this weekend. Then I started ripping up and crinkling craft paper and sorting it into "ends" and "middles". I was crumpling until about 1 am and I don't thin I got through a half a roll of paper. My back and my hands were killing me. I took some Aleve and went to bed.
Since I was up so late, needless to say, I didn't get a super-early start this morning, and I had a few other things I had to do, but by this afternoon I was back to crumpling. By 3:30 or so, I felt ready to start pasting. I looked at my three sets of instructions. One of them, the first one I had run across on the internet, that gave me this idea to begin with, told me to thin out my paste with water, 1:6. Okay. I did. I started my mosaic-ing. I had about a quarter of a wall done when it became very clear to me that, um, the paper too wet and was not adhering. Apparently thinning out the paste was *not* the way to go. [insert the obscenities here] I ripped it all down, rewashed the wall, and went on a run to the evil WalMart for more wallpaper paste since I had wasted 2/3rds of mine. [insert more obscenities]
To cut to the chase, I then worked for about three straight hours and got a half (of the biggest) wall done. No way am I going to finish this by Sunday. And I am going to need even more paste. They don't sell it in big buckets in WalMart or Home Depot, and the little tubs go fast. [insert a few more obscenities, if you wish] The wall looks kind of nice, though, and interesting, even before being sealed. Pray the non-thinned paste holds and it doesn't all fall down tonight while I'm sleeping. Because you don't want to hear those obscenities. Trust me.
xoxo
Thursday, July 3, 2008
and this month's emotion is...
So, this morning, while I was bathing and putting on makeup and drying my hair and flat-ironing my hair and getting dressed, I had this whole internal conversation about what I would tell someone about why another person feels a certain way and/or what I would write if I were to generalize this away from my friends' particular situations and blog about it. (Why, yes, I do do this kind of thing all the time. Shut up.) And, to my astonishment, I found myself getting a little choked up and even teary-eyed, as this internal script/essay-writing apparently brought some emotions to the fore.
You know what this means, doncha, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls? It means no amusingly cranky rants are to be forthcoming, because *this* month's PMS emotion is apparently...emo! So, y'know, just expect me to spend the next 3 or 4 days working on my house, playing lots of Nirvana, and musing about how when I am a bitter, bitter old woman, unwanted and unloved, the 53 cats that I will have by that time will eat my remains before the EMTs ever find me, and how my Red Sox are going right down the freakin toilet.
(I would love to be part of a medical study about what slight hormone fluctuations cause one month's PMS emotion to be unreasonable irritation and another's to be sadness. So if you ever see that poster on the T, could you please let me know? Cheers, thanks a lot!)
xoxo
You know what this means, doncha, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls? It means no amusingly cranky rants are to be forthcoming, because *this* month's PMS emotion is apparently...emo! So, y'know, just expect me to spend the next 3 or 4 days working on my house, playing lots of Nirvana, and musing about how when I am a bitter, bitter old woman, unwanted and unloved, the 53 cats that I will have by that time will eat my remains before the EMTs ever find me, and how my Red Sox are going right down the freakin toilet.
(I would love to be part of a medical study about what slight hormone fluctuations cause one month's PMS emotion to be unreasonable irritation and another's to be sadness. So if you ever see that poster on the T, could you please let me know? Cheers, thanks a lot!)
xoxo
do over
Did you ever have a nightmare, a nightmare in which the really bad thing hasn't happened yet, but the impending doom is hanging over you? And you wake up, heart pounding, flooded with adrenaline, and all you want to do is go back to sleep, because now that you know it was only a nightmare, you're sure you can lucid dream it into a happy ending?
Just me, then.
xoxo
Just me, then.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
oh, it's a privilege to have privilege
You all know my deal with stoopid, spoiled Americans. Despite any problems I may have in my life or any problems we have in this country, I can honestly say that I try hard to remember every single day of my life that simply by luck of being born in Massachusetts in 1962 I have never had to worry about war on my doorstep, genocide, starvation, enslavement, dying from a curable disease through lack of healthcare, forced marriage, or being beaten or raped without legal recourse. In other words, I've got it better than 98% of the people who live or have ever lived on planet Earth. I can be well-fed, safe, and self-determining while whining about the post office and pulling spurious statistics out my butt.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? I want to talk about how people on teh internet (and apparently in the kind of ultra-liberal academic venues I do not frequent) use the word "privilege" as a sort of a weapon of mass destruction in argument. If you identify as part of any kind of non-dominant group (i.e. if you are nonwhite, female, queer, fat, whatever) all you have to do is tell the other person that they are speaking from white/male/het/thin/whatever "privilege" and they are then a.) automatically wrong and b.) offensive for even having an opinion. It's the ultimate rhetorical scam. The fact that the people wielding this weapon are apt to, y'know, be PhD candidates with degrees from Princeton or the like makes it doubly amusing and/or like I'd like to feed them a huge helping of STFU (depending on where in the PMS cycle I am personally). I mean, yes, I realize your life would have been easier if you were a white straight guy with abs of steel. But the fact you've got an Ivy League degree and the time to think about this? Take my first paragraph and up that spurious statistic to 98.5%, 'k? Thx.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? Let me be clear: above and beyond the stoopid spoiled American thing, I am well aware of the ways in which I have privilege and the ways I do not, and I've talked about some of this in here before. I'm white (and so is my son, and yeah, I know for a fact that's made at least some small difference in how he's been treated psychiatrically). I'm quote unquote average in my sexuality (as far as anyone I'm not fucking needs to know, that is). I'm, with copious amounts of cosmetic and grooming help, at least somewhat conventionally attractive (and while I somewhat resent having to make the effort, as is well-chronicled here, I don't resent it enough to not want the advantages it brings). I'm not so old that I've hit that "invisible middle-aged woman" thing yet. I'm not disabled in any visible way (the crazee is invisible to almost everyone because I work hard to keep it so). On the other hand, I am female which means I deal with minor annoyances like catcalling and major issues like the fact that I'll never make a real lot of money because both my lines of work are in female-dominated professions and that means no big bucks. And then there's the one that's actually been painful to me at times in my life, class. That I've had to learn to tone down my accent and speak in a way that isn't normal for me in certain situations simply to convince ignorant people that I am in fact intelligent, capable, and not totally lacking in sophistication? I don't think that's cool.
However. Here's the thing that I seriously don't get about this concept of privilege: why am I supposed to feel bad about the privilege that I have? I think it's horrifying that people are starving in Zimbabwe; I don't feel guilty that I am not. I think it's a travesty that a young black man in American with severe mental illness is more likely to end up in prison than a mental hospital; I don't feel guilty that my severely mentally ill white son got compassionate and at least somewhat competent care. Conversely, while I may think it sucks that there are some of my little patients whom I would tell, in front of their parents, "I know it's wicked hahd, but you're doin great!" while there are others to whom I would feel compelled to phrase that really differently, I don't see that as...I dunno...anything but unfair, and I guess I just don't expect life to be fair.
(Should I be expecting life to be fair? I kinda see that as a set up for disappointment.)
Anyway, I know that even questioning this line of thought leads to paragraph #2: you're wrong and furthermore, you're offensive. Ah, well.
We won't even go into the friend who told me this long story this weekend about being horrified when his first phone call to a woman he met on an online dating service revealed that she talks just like me, even though she's a doctor, even though it seems at least tangentially germane to this post. Ahem. I'll just let this outrageously offensive whole thing go, because really, life's not fair.
xoxo
Okay, do we have that out of the way? I want to talk about how people on teh internet (and apparently in the kind of ultra-liberal academic venues I do not frequent) use the word "privilege" as a sort of a weapon of mass destruction in argument. If you identify as part of any kind of non-dominant group (i.e. if you are nonwhite, female, queer, fat, whatever) all you have to do is tell the other person that they are speaking from white/male/het/thin/whatever "privilege" and they are then a.) automatically wrong and b.) offensive for even having an opinion. It's the ultimate rhetorical scam. The fact that the people wielding this weapon are apt to, y'know, be PhD candidates with degrees from Princeton or the like makes it doubly amusing and/or like I'd like to feed them a huge helping of STFU (depending on where in the PMS cycle I am personally). I mean, yes, I realize your life would have been easier if you were a white straight guy with abs of steel. But the fact you've got an Ivy League degree and the time to think about this? Take my first paragraph and up that spurious statistic to 98.5%, 'k? Thx.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? Let me be clear: above and beyond the stoopid spoiled American thing, I am well aware of the ways in which I have privilege and the ways I do not, and I've talked about some of this in here before. I'm white (and so is my son, and yeah, I know for a fact that's made at least some small difference in how he's been treated psychiatrically). I'm quote unquote average in my sexuality (as far as anyone I'm not fucking needs to know, that is). I'm, with copious amounts of cosmetic and grooming help, at least somewhat conventionally attractive (and while I somewhat resent having to make the effort, as is well-chronicled here, I don't resent it enough to not want the advantages it brings). I'm not so old that I've hit that "invisible middle-aged woman" thing yet. I'm not disabled in any visible way (the crazee is invisible to almost everyone because I work hard to keep it so). On the other hand, I am female which means I deal with minor annoyances like catcalling and major issues like the fact that I'll never make a real lot of money because both my lines of work are in female-dominated professions and that means no big bucks. And then there's the one that's actually been painful to me at times in my life, class. That I've had to learn to tone down my accent and speak in a way that isn't normal for me in certain situations simply to convince ignorant people that I am in fact intelligent, capable, and not totally lacking in sophistication? I don't think that's cool.
However. Here's the thing that I seriously don't get about this concept of privilege: why am I supposed to feel bad about the privilege that I have? I think it's horrifying that people are starving in Zimbabwe; I don't feel guilty that I am not. I think it's a travesty that a young black man in American with severe mental illness is more likely to end up in prison than a mental hospital; I don't feel guilty that my severely mentally ill white son got compassionate and at least somewhat competent care. Conversely, while I may think it sucks that there are some of my little patients whom I would tell, in front of their parents, "I know it's wicked hahd, but you're doin great!" while there are others to whom I would feel compelled to phrase that really differently, I don't see that as...I dunno...anything but unfair, and I guess I just don't expect life to be fair.
(Should I be expecting life to be fair? I kinda see that as a set up for disappointment.)
Anyway, I know that even questioning this line of thought leads to paragraph #2: you're wrong and furthermore, you're offensive. Ah, well.
We won't even go into the friend who told me this long story this weekend about being horrified when his first phone call to a woman he met on an online dating service revealed that she talks just like me, even though she's a doctor, even though it seems at least tangentially germane to this post. Ahem. I'll just let this outrageously offensive whole thing go, because really, life's not fair.
xoxo
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