i know you all hate when i do this

Does that violate this blog's anti-disclaimer policy? Am I breaking my own damn rules here? But anyway. I've got to go off on another feminist/our-culture-is-so-fucked rant here. Feel free not to read it if my frothing at the mouth is boring.

So, yeah, after my little appointment with the gynecologist yesterday, besides consoling myself with food and shoes (Andrea! you feel the need to insert that in an anti-women-stereotyping post? Why, yes, yes I do. Just because I am a cliche, does not mean I cannot get excised about being reduced to one), I went home and looked up on the interwebz what they claim is wrong with me and how they are going to fix it. Yeah, I know, I'm not supposed to be doing that either. I didn't find what one might call a plethora of information. Maybe there *isn't* a plethora information. Maybe everything that needs to be said can in fact be said in two paragraphs.

But, just in my ongoing quest for knowledge, I thought I would go on Amazon just now and see if there were any books that seem pertinent. I go to the "women's health section". The top result (of over 26,000) is a little tome called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! Oh, yes. Do you like the ordering there? Being "hot" is obviously more important than being healthy. Duh. (Do we even need to go into the conflation of "hot" with skinny? Probably not.)

But obviously, the most important "health" concern we chicks have is being skinny. I mean, looking hot. In fact 5 of the top 12 results are diet books. (Another four are about child-raising, which I kinda think is more about the child's health than the mother's, but wtf do I know?) There are two about pregnancy (fair enough!) and one about mental health (also fair enough, though nothing about a quick perusal of it suggests it's aimed solely at women). There's actually nothing on the first two pages that has anything to do with gynecology other than pregnancy or fertility. Now, this is sorted by bestselling, so obviously, it's the female American reading public that is at least partially at fault. I'll give you that. Apparently we are not interested in what's going on inside our own bodies. We'd rather read wacky diet books that promise to make us "hot" so we can, I dunno, snag a man, who will then, I dunno, knock us up with children who will then, I dunno, prove to be impossible to discipline or get to sleep.

Apparently.

Okay. I'm done now. But just the existence of a book called Master Your Metabolism: The 3 Diet Secrets to Naturally Balancing Your Hormones for a Hot and Healthy Body! makes me want to throw things.

xoxo

more unrelated matters

1.) When I worked for the Evil Massage Place a couple summers ago, one of their offices was located right in Central Square Cambridge. And so, when I was scheduled there, I usually would go down to the small Whole Foods on Prospect Street to buy my lunch. I liked the Greek yogurt and the Honest Tea Moroccan Mint iced tea and some of the things on the prepared food bar, like the turkey salad with grapes and walnuts in it. Yum. And for lunch, that was reasonable. I didn't pay any more for it than I pay for that crap I eat in the hospital cafeteria. But looking around, it was obvious why it's called Whole Paycheck. And that's a small Whole Foods, and old, and I wasn't that impressed. However, this spring, I had occasion, for cake-buying reasons, to go to the *other* Whole Foods in Central Square, which is actually just sorta down the street from my friend M2's house, so why I never knew it was there, I dunno, but suffice it to say, it impressed me considerably more. Nice looking supermarket.

Meanwhile, for several years, there's been this big giant Whole Foods in Swampscott. I had never set foot in it, being loyal to the Trader Joe's down the street for all my non-Stop & Shop, non-Shaws food shopping needs. Well, that Trader Joe's is now gone. And a few weeks ago when I was visiting my new gynecologist to have my cervix yanked upon (look it up) I wandered into that Whole Foods, it being right next door, to buy the Benevolent L a gift card for her birthday. But I was time pressured, so I didn't look around. But my impression was that it was like Central Square Whole Foods #2.

Skip ahead to today. Another visit to the gynecologist. And Marcy had recommended to me this herbal stuff yesterday: Floradix, in the red box. She wrote it down for me. "They have it at Whole Foods." You see where this is going, right? I go in there, not even taking a cart, because I'm just going to buy my Floradix ($25, by the way--I think Heidi picks the herbs by hand in the Alps when she isn't harvesting arnica blossoms) but I am distracted by an absolutely beautiful display of $1.99/pound cherries. So I grab a basket. I buy cherries and Floradix and I say to myself, Andrea, you need fresh mozzarella because you have a metric crapload of basil and that means Caprese!salad! So I go to the cheese department. And am distracted by the antipasto bar with the Greek olives and the marinated artichoke hearts and, oh, c'mon, I just had a procedure involving a giant wand being stuck up my hooha and balloons being inflated places I ain't never had a balloon before and *don't you think I deserve some antipasto?!???* Also, a five fuckin' dollar tub of coconut macaroons.

So, uh, forty dollars later, I have a very small bag. But I think I have found grocery store nirvana. I could have strolled around there for two hours and spent three hundred bucks easy. Holy crap. Best Whole Foods evah.

2.) To cheer myself up, I also bought shoes. You'd think a person who was just bitching about supporting her roofer's children and aged parents might not buy a pair of blingy gold sandals but you'd be wrong.

3.) But, to draw attention away from my self-indulgence, let's talk baseball. Well, no, let's not talk about last night, since I don't think even E6 ever threw away two consecutive balls in the ninth inning and Nicky Green and I might have to retreat to a more formal and less affectionate relationship. Let's talk about Eck's evolution as a color man. He's growing on me. Mr Indemnity (who was emailing with me during that abortion of a game last night) expressed the same opinion. I was trying to figure out *why* exactly he's growing on me, and I have to say, I think it's because he's unfailingly generous to the players he's talking about. Not that he's an apologist or that he makes excuses for people, but he seems to have a generous spirit about him. Maybe he's a nice man. I dunno.

xoxo

three unrelated matters

1.) Longtime readers will be thrilled to know that today, for the first time, Marcy moxibustioned me. (She also dumped the whole bag of "moxa" on the floor when she was showing me what it looked like. Technical difficulties!) Ignited herbs on the insides of my knees did not, however, turn out to be the incredibly exciting and exotic process I had envisioned. The "plum blossom" needle/hammer was much funkier.

2.) Not only have I personally paid the roofer, the plumber (x2), and the vent guy in the past month, my neighbors just repaved their driveway and had new porch stairs built, the people around the corner/across the street are also having their porch rebuilt right now, and the people several houses down from them have been building a huge addition for a month and a half, requiring all kinds of carpenters and contractors and my roofer. In this crappy economy. My point being, any of your kids show an interest in going to the technical high school, you just go ahead and encourage it, so that in your old age they can send you on cruises to tropical places or at least put you in the good nursing home where the staff *won't* let you get bedsores.

3.) And now for something disturbing. Local news story today--don't know if it made the TV news or not, but I'm guessing "maybe" for the depravity factor--wherein two arrests were made in the recent savage beating of a homeless man. The alleged perps? Ages eleven and fourteen. Are you kidding me? Are you fucking kidding me? Eleven? There are no words.

xoxo

vote again

Assuming all these mirrors are all on sale, 1/3 to 1/2 off full price, which, if any, do we like? Picture them as perhaps to the left of the one that's to the left of the thermostat. Assume the one on the bottom could also be hung horizontally.

xoxo

martha

Hey, kids. I did something last night that I have never done before and, if we're being honest, I may well never do again. It was totally out of character. It was something I've always scoffed at the idea of other people doing. It was one of those things that make you go, in retrospect, what in god's name possessed me?

I ironed my sheets.

Okay, I didn't iron all my sheets. I'm not that far gone. I ironed my pillowcases, my shams, and the top part of my flat sheet. The fitted sheet was on its own. I also didn't wash, never mind iron, the duvet cover that goes with the shams, because it's a bitch to get back on the comforter. So DON'T JUDGE ME. It's just that those sheets--you remember my sheet-buying last summer, with the hugely discounted high thread count sheets that are so thick and get softer with every wash and feel so damn good--they *do* wrinkle. The online reviews said they wrinkle. Taking out of the dryer as soon as it buzzes does not keep them from wrinkling. And frankly, I'm not usually the kind of person who cares about her sheets wrinkling. You all know that. On a scale of one to ten, my housekeeping standards are at about a three. Okay, a two. But I was having a Martha Stewart moment.

I should have taken a picture of *that*.

xoxo

oh, finally there's (crappy) pictures

First of all, D said to me yesterday, "How're your plants doing?" (They're on the back top deck and we really don't go out there much for anything.) I was like, "I dunno. I didn't check them after all that rain Friday." Said rain having beat the hell out of some my flowers in front. "They're probably all dead!"

Well, not dead. Who said I couldn't grow herbs?



And here are some pictures of the color I painted my dining room and living room, but sadly, at least on my computer, this looks nothing like it actually looks for reals. This, however, is the picture I got for my birthday last year, which I don't think I ever showed you all. It's called "Lotus Pond" but I forget the name of the photographer, because I suck.



And here's a mirror I got on clearance at Pier 1 last year that I was going to originally use elsewhere. But after painting, I decided this wall needed *something* on it. Unfortunately now I kinda think the mirror just calls attention to the thermostat. It does, however, reflect the light from the window that faces it.



This view of the dining room, in the shadows, shows the real color the best, I think. It's really a creamy gold, not a beige.



And for old times' sake, here's a picture from 2004 that was on that memory card that turned up when D was doing all that shredding for me. I used to have this posted Elsewhere, and I think it's one of the first pictures of me that some of you all saw before you knew me in Real Life. Benevolent L took this set of pictures in Vermont and I always loved them.



xoxo

redux, or re-do

Now, to set the stage, this morning when I was getting ready for work I decided to wear my wide-legged white jeans for the first time this summer. Between the crappy, crappy weather we've had so far (white pants + rain = sad muddy hems, no matter how careful you be) and my war with my uterus (white pants + ...oh, never mind, you get the idea) the opportunity just hasn't presented itself. But today was that day. And on my way to work, I realized in my ensemble of white jeans, favorite black v-neck, and the gladiator sandals, I was duplicating an outfit I've worn for, lo, so many years. Ever since about 1987, every summer when it was even vaguely stylish, I've had some sort of black t-shirt, white pants, black sandal combo that I've thought looked fabulous. I have no idea *why* I think that particular combination looks fabulous, but apparently I do. There's photographic evidence!

Also, relatedly, when I saw the Benevolent L last weekend, I was wearing the gladiator sandals and she said, "Oh, I like those. But those aren't new, are they?" I was like, well, I got them this spring. But what she meant was she remembered me having black gladiator sandals like ten years ago. Which I did. Which points out to me that I also buy those every time they come back into style. And white jeans. And leopard print cardigans. And silver flats. And peasanty shirts. And platform shoes. And sarong skirts. And footless tights.

I would like to claim that I buy these things because I know they suit me, but that is not the case. It's just that certain pieces of apparel are apparently irresistible to me. Design 'em and I'll buy 'em. Sucker born every minute. Like that.

xoxo

look away

...if you are easily offended.

Okay, everybody ready?

A couple weeks ago, Our Lil MILF--who, you'll remember, is Dominican--told us all this joke. It's actually her sister's joke.

Q: There's a black guy and a Spanish guy in a car. Who's driving?

A: The cop. Duh.

After we all stopped laughing in a omg-that's-horrible way, she said, "Yeah. I can tell that joke and it's funny. If you guys told that joke, it's racist."

But, honestly, my first reaction was that the joke wasn't actually making the point that the black guy and the Spanish guy deserved to be in the back of the cruiser, but rather that if someone's non-white, they're more likely to be arrested. That, you know, the joke is less racist than it is social commentary.

My experience with the local police has been unfailingly positive. (If you've already heard these stories, you can look away too.) When D was 17 or so, he was picked up by the police walking home when he was very intoxicated. That he was only taken to the police station then driven home, no charges filed, was due to a number of things. He's a polite young man anyway and smart enough, even when drunk, to realize that you err on the side of "yes, officer," and "no, officer," and no belligerence. That he was lucky enough not to have any illegal substances on him. And that he was white and lived in a comparatively "nice" neighborhood for our community and even in his oversized t-shirt and baggy pants, pinged the cops as middle class. The cop who brought him home, white and in his twenties or early thirties, was all, he seems like a nice kid and we've all experimented blah blah blah. Do I think an intoxicated Dominican kid who lived a mile from me, dressed exactly like my son, might possibly have pinged that cop differently? Oh, yes I do. I'm not saying he would have; I'm saying I'm well aware of the possibility.

My only other recent-ish experiences with the local cops have involved them arriving with the paramedics when I had to call 911, once when D had OD'd and was alcohol-poisoned, and then a couple years later, before his last (and we hope final) hospitalization, when he was accutely psychotic and hallucinating and delusional and panicked and I had to get him into the hospital somehow. In both cases the cops, as well as the paramedics, were unfailingly kind and sensitive and professional and helpful and, yes, I'm well aware that's how emergency services *ought* to be, but I'm also aware enough of other people's stories to know it's not always so. Do I think some of that is luck of the draw? Absolutely. Do I think part of it is, again, that we're white and middle class and have a comparatively nice address? Well, it doesn't hurt.

On this mental illness board I used to frequent, mostly populated by parents of psychiatrically ill adolescent and adult children, there was this woman from upstate NY, whose son, exactly the age of D and exactly with the same diagnosis, was in prison facing charges of aggravated assault and destruction of property for assaulting someone and ripping out a drinking fountain *while he was a patient on a locked psychiatric ward*. That's right, he was being held criminally responsible for actions that were committed when he was committed, when he had already been determined to be a danger to himself and others and unable to act rationally or make decisions for himself. Not only was this my own personal worst nightmare, the injustice and unfairness and, indeed, the total lack of sense of it stunned me. It didn't seem possible.

Except it eventually came out as the story went on over the weeks of this woman posting about it, that her son was biracial and looked black. He was a big, strong, dark-skinned young man, and not always pleasant and quiet, and so, when he ripped a drinking fountain out of a wall and threw it (while he was in a mental hospital) obviously he was a criminal, not a very sick boy. Ohhhh.

That's all I've got to say about that.

xoxo

right now

I mean, right now, on VH1Classic, they are showing a (I think) 1999 "Storytellers" with David fucking Bowie. Ladies (and gentlemen-appreciative gentlemen), 1999-era David Bowie is fine. He's also funny, self-deprecating, and extremely charming. I'm trying to stop salivating, but it ain't working. So I thought I would share.

This has been your public service announcement.

xoxo

more people watching

So, just a few minutes ago, I was in line at the 7-11, and directly in front of me was a short little skinny woman, bleached hair showing copious amounts of dark and gray roots (not that I'm throwing stones--god knows, *I* know how hard it is to keep up), and judging solely by her crow's feet, around my age, give or take. I watched with a mixture of fascination and horror, bordering on awe, as she proceeded to order a chili cheese dog from behind the counter. Now, I know someone must do, but I personally have never seen anyone buy a 7-11 hot dog. I was so nonplussed by this I swear I had to bite my tongue to keep from saying, "Wow. You really like to live on the edge."

She was also asking for something else from behind the counter, something I could not quite make out beyond "nope, the ones on the right...yeah, those ones..." The clerk put the other item down next to her chili dog as she paid.

Oh, rolling papers. Ohhhhhh.

There's an explanation for everything in this world.

xoxo

and a question, furniture-related

Here is what is called the "Bedford Project Table Set" from Pottery Barn. It costs $1100, basically, plus $120 shipping.



And here is what is called the "Adams Craft Table" from Target online. It costs, with the 15% off right now, something like $530, and also, with the furniture sale, shipping is free.


The Target option, at least from the pictures, is a very close knockoff. I have been looking at both these items for months and months. I would like *one* of them to use as a table/island in my kitchen. The shelves/cubbies on the ends for storage of the mail that always ends up all over my kitchen table, for the cookbooks that I use frequently and thus are always out on my counters taking up space, and for various small kitchen items, is irresistible. I don't see why, even though Target and Pottery Barn insist this is a home office item, I could not use it in the kitchen. It'll even fit my space. I've measured.

Now the no-brainer is, Andrea, buy the one that's less than half the price of the other. And I would do that. Except that, reading all the customer reviews on the Target website, for every three or four people who are thrilled with their purchase and think it's a fabulous deal, there's one person who got a craft table that was cracked and damaged in shipping, or that was a real bitch to assemble or even impossible to assemble properly. Do I assume that if I take a chance on the cheap knockoff I will be part of the 80% who are completely satisfied or that I will be part of the 20% whose furniture is fucked? Or do I just keep waiting futilely for the expensive one to be marked down, like I have since like last December, until neither place carries this anymore and I live without it, like I've lived without it up until now?

Oh, yeah, first world problems again.

xoxo

otoh!

Who the hell can be rageful on a day when E6 is no more? I just literally squeed at the sports news and how often does *that* happen?

xoxo

personalizing the rage

The spring of my sophomore year in high school I was just starting to come out of my first episode of clinical depression. I had basically spent the previous several months behind the closed door of my bedroom, listening to music, crying, and playing with my cat. I went whole days where I didn't speak to anyone, not unless I really had to. But that spring came along and the blackness was just starting to lift and I was developing a new friendship with a girl who was in one of my classes. And then one day my new friend invited me along on a Saturday outing.

This boy she had a crush on, who did not go to our school, was going to NH with a friend of his and his friend's dad, and he had invited her along. She wanted to go, but she did not want to be the only girl. Now, again, I had maybe gone to one or two school dances that fall and/or early winter, but other than that, I had been completely not socializing at all. But I was feeling different. I was okay with meeting some new people. I wanted to go. I said sure.

I can't even remember what the purpose of this trip across the border was. I have some idea that the crush's friend's dad was opening a cottage for the year, and that maybe the guys fished a bit in a lake. What I do remember is that the dad gave us all beer. Now, of course, I see how deeply inappropriate a guy in his 30s or 40s giving beer to 15 year olds was, even by 1978 standards, but at the time, I was not complaining. Eventually we drove back to MA, and went to the guy's house. For those of you who know north of Boston: they lived on North Shore Road in Revere, in one of those incredibly tiny houses that were apparently summer cottages themselves at one time, but which were by then lived in year round. I remember it being kind of dark, and kind of dirty. We had maybe another beer. My friend made out with her crush, and I made out with the kid whose house it was. I was not attracted to him at all, per se, but I was slightly drunk and I liked to kiss boys. Eventually my friend and I went home, and to my knowledge, neither of us ever saw either of those guys again. I still from time to time look for the house on North Shore Road when I pass, trying to remember exactly which one it was.

Skip ahead another four months or so, an eternity in 10th grade terms. It's the end of the summer and I am by then dating and oh so deeply in love and lust with my future ex-husband. I had spent that summer working as a nursing assistant in a decrepit nursing home. On the afternoon in question, I was scheduled for dinner/bedtime shift, 4 to 8 pm. I had spent the morning and early afternoon at S's house, but then it was time for me to go to work. His car was not running, so I was waiting at the bus stop down the street from his house, only vaguely aware of what time it would arrive. Time passed, it was looking like I was going to be late for work, and then it started to thunderstorm. Warm but hard rain. I was wearing my white nylon uniform. You can just imagine. (But don't imagine too hard. I was 15, you bunch of pervs.) An "old" guy--I'm sure a good five or ten years younger than I am now--driving a chip delivery truck stopped and asked if I needed a ride. I was soaked. I was afraid of being late. I said sure.

He asked me a bunch of probably creepy personal questions, but he delivered me to my place of employment, and he didn't touch me.

So. There's just two examples off the top of my head where my own lack of judgment as a not-yet-so-worldly teenager could well have led to my being raped and it's only dumb luck, looking back, that I was not. But I am so sure, so sure, that if I had been, the circumstances (OMG, she was *drinking* with a couple boys and an older man she didn't really know! OMG, she got into a stranger's vehicle and she told him all about herself!) would have made people like that POS DA referenced in the previous post consider that I was, y'know, asking for it.

Seriously, the rage, I can't even tell you.

xoxo

again, i hate everyone

Presented for your edification:

http://tinyurl.com/kvc2mz

How many layers of wrong do we have here? That there should be photographic evidence of a rape and the DA still refuses to pursue the case? That the DA then shows the evidence to people who have no right to look at it, because...why exactly?...he decides to purposely humiliate a 17 year old who has already been assaulted? That his "punishment" for this was being suspended for, OMG, a whole six months? And then, that in reporting this heinous bit of news, the perp is described as "having sex" with the victim while she pleads with him to stop? (Hint: if the person you are having sex with is pleading for you to NOT DO THAT, you aren't having sex, you're raping someone. Really, journalists, use the right terminology.)

In comments I read on this elsewhere, someone made the remark that there are, apparently, men who don't really get that rape is a crime, or that if they acknowledge that it is, classify it as somewhere near jaywalking in the hierarchy of seriousness. Um, yeah. That can be the only explanation for this shit.

xoxo

the odds and ends

Watch and marvel as I tie together a stream of seemingly unrelated matters, mixing metaphors all the way:

1.) Mr Indemnity was in Tennessee last weekend celebrating his birthday with his girlfriend who has been working down there for several weeks (all together now: Happy Birthday, Mr Indemnity!!!!) and one of the fun activities they partook in was a tour of the Jack Daniels distillery. Mr Indemnity informs me that while the tour was very interesting and the distillery itself was actually beautiful, the whole experience was missing one crucial ingredient. Because it is located in a dry county, the distillery cannot give its tour-takers any free samples. Now, I myself am more of an Irish whiskey girl, and then usually only in Irish coffee, but were I to visit the place they make the Jack Daniels, I believe I would feel cheated and, indeed, teased to have to leave without a wee taste. So, boo.

2.) But speaking of the Irish and alcohol, Mr Barma and I were having a disagreement on alternate Red Sox jerseys and memorabilia. He is against the green Red Sox shirts. I am for them, if only on an aesthetic level: as you know, green is one of my favorite colors, particularly as it pertains to clothing and accessories. Then he said he was uncertain about the pink Red Sox shirts/caps. I looked at him as if he had suddenly grown another head somewhere in the middle of his chest and informed him that those were an abomination, and worn only by girls who know nothing and care nothing about baseball, yet accompany their boyfriends to the games anyway, and you know how I feel about women like that. (Not that I think everyone has to appreciate spectator sports, nevermind the exact same ones that I do, but the kind of woman who would think a pink Red Sox shirt is "cute" is the kind of woman I would happily spill my beer in the lap of, even if it were a waste of a perfectly mediocre beer. Just sayin'.) Mr Barma then said that green Red Sox shirts were worn only by drunken Irish guys who would rather be at a Celtics game. I had, sadly, no comeback for that. I still like the green shirts purely for their looks.

3.) This particular conversation occurred last night as Mr Barma and I were walking back to his house from the Spinnahs game, where we saw Jed Lowrie play. We must point out that Mr Lowrie is hitting about .200, against minor league pitching. This bodes well, one would think, for Nicky Green keeping his employment and since I have become quite fond of Mr Green (that's why he lets me call him Nicky, hahaha) I can't say I am very disappointed. Though I was always partial to Mr Lowrie and his ability to actually field his position as well.

4.) What else did you do when you were visiting Mr Barma, Andrea? Glad you asked! Mr Barma arranged for me to meet the fabled Alicia and get my Carla Bruni haircut. I think it came out very nice.

5.) Because I had my new haircut and my tragic tragic dry ends are somewhat at bay, I wore my hair down, not in a ponytail/half-ponytail, to work today for the first time in months. Let me say this: I also did my color last weekend, and I went a shade darker. No one noticed. Today, with my hair down, at least four people stopped me as soon as they saw me and said, "Oooo, your hair is darker! I like it!" Apparently when my hair is in a ponytail, it is totally beneath the radar.

I had one more thing, but since I can't smoothly segue into it and it isn't important, I believe it can wait for another day.

xoxo

to my shame

Ha! I am enjoying True Blood far, far more than I should comfortably admit in public.

"Sookie is mine."

Okay, then. Um, yeah. I have a whole nother DVD waiting for me.

If you'll excuse me...

xoxo

first world problems

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got it covered

One of the most enraging injustices of this fucked up health insurance system we have here in the good ol' USA is that there are (plenty of) prescription drug plans that do not cover birth control pills or other forms of prescription contraception while *of course!* cheerfully paying for Viagra, Cialis, and other dick-hardening drugs. Now, I'm as fond of an erect penis as the next girl (shut up), but failure to get it up, or get it up as often or as reliably as one might wish, is hardly the public health crisis that unwanted pregnancy is. Add to this the fact that--from what I've heard--primary care physicians are all too happy to prescribe Cialis and the like as basically recreational drugs: mention in passing that things might not be as worry-free in that area as they once were, and the prescription pad is out before the words are hardly past the lips and, oh no, no need to investigate whether it's a physical or psychological problem or really in fact a problem at all by any objective standard. You menfolk apparently have some kind of constitutional right to the same erections at 50 that you had at 25, and the health insurance industry will back you up on that. Meanwhile, ain't no one taking microgestin or depoprovera recreationally, and off the top of my head, I'm just guessing that most young women have less disposable income than most middle-aged men to pay for noncovered prescription drugs.

Unless, of course, we consider that the use of hormonal birth control allows young women to have recreational sex unpunished and *that's* why microgestin is a recreational drug. Gasp! Now we're getting somewhere, huh? Because in this culture, sex for women is bad, while sex for men is not only good, it's a constitutional fucking right. (Um, pun intended, I guess.) Which begs the question about who you all are supposed to be having sex *with*, since this culture kinda frowns on y'all having sex with each other, too.

But, no. The Cialis commercials full of Perky Old People (tm) show me that you're supposed to be having sex with your adoring age-appropriate spouses who walk through fields of daisies with you, their tastefully-slightly-graying heads full of lustful thoughts, just waiting for that magic pill to kick in. Nevermind that from what I hear from the long (or even not-so-long) married women of my acquaintance, most of them would be just as happy if you'd just flush the prescription and leave them alone to watch True Blood or Real Housewives of Whatever in peace 29 out of 30 nights. It ain't till the divorce kicks in that so does the libido.

So, Andrea! What brings this up? Oh, there's all blah blah blah on the news tonight about how the president's healthcare plan may be derailed if they allow coverage for abortions. Um. I think that's a legitimate medical procedure. I think in fact that it is, in most cases, what one would technically consider minor surgery. I don't think insurance companies get to disallow coverage of minor surgery because they disagree with the morality behind it. But, oh, yeah, I guess they *do* get to disallow a lot of things for barely veiled societal, rather than medical, reasons.

To sum up: I hate everyone.

xoxo

why the American economy sux

I went to Tarzhay today. Mostly I went because I needed switchplates and outlet plates for the two rooms I painted last week. They were made in China. I also bought my son a beard/eyebrow trimmer. Made in China. New earbuds because the Nike sports ones I bought, oh, three months ago broke already. New earbuds: made in China. (Old earbuds: I'm just guessing, but made in China.) Five pack of dishtowels, made in China. Dropcloths--I dunno. The packaging does not appear to tell me where they were made, but the company is in Indiana. Do we think that there's still a big ol' plastics factory in Indiana manufacturing dropcloths? Couldn't tell ya. And finally, because I have been influenced by those women I work with into starting to watch the orgy of sex, violence, cheesetastic romance, and bad fake Louisiana accents that is season 1 of "True Blood" on DVD, the first Sookie Stackhouse book. Written by an American and printed in the USA. So, um, yay, me?

It's the kind of thing that makes sticking to Andreanomics impossible, I'll tell you what.

I did, however, indulge in a pedicure Friday night to reward myself after unpleasant medical procedures and support the local economy. And I went to the bakery down the street today *and* I just ordered pizza. So I'm not totally off the wagon.

xoxo

chahm school

So, in order to get my cervix yanked on the other day, I had to cancel a couple appointments at work. Cancel them on short notice (i.e. the same day) because the gynecologist's office had moved my appointment up after my PCP flipped out and told me, no, you cannot wait till July 22 to be seen.

Now I don't ever say in here exactly what it is that I do for a living, besides massage, because my main career is so weirdly esoteric that a.) no one ever knows what it is [most people are convinced I'm a nurse even after being told multiple times that, no, I'm not] and b.) even though I am sure that there is enough info in this blog to enable a persistent enough stalker, I like to maintain plausible deniability about who I am. But let me say this. When people come to see me, they have undergone some test prep, if they've been following directions. Therefore, I try very hard never to cancel appointments the same day. Inconveniencing people is one thing; inconveniencing people who've done x, y and z and are cranky about it is another. So I accrue my good karma points by always going to work when I'm supposed to be there if I possibly can.

Getting the cervix-yanking took precedence though, and being unsure exactly what they were going to do at the GYN or how long it might take, I cancelled Thursday afternoon. I told our office manager that I would stay late today, Saturday, if the 2:30 appointment I was cancelling Thursday needed to get in ASAP, or if they complained. Well, yes, they were on my schedule today. And because I have had some people over the last twenty odd years who were absolute douchebags over having their tests rescheduled, I figured my chances were 50-50 that these people, who I did not know, would show up at my office with attitude. And I was prepared that, if they did, I was going to smile faux-sweetly and apologize for cancelling them so *I could have a biopsy*.

Surprise, surprise, they were totally sans attitude. The mom, however, made some reference to having originally been scheduled for the other day and, for whatever reason, probably because I was geared up to say it, it popped out of my mouth that, yeah, I had been having a biopsy, and I apologized (non-sarcastically) for the last minute cancel.

Well, testing went smoothly, much more smoothly than anyone could reasonably expect with a developmentally delayed two year old. At the end, we were congratulating each other over a collaborative job well done, and the mom was thanking me for my help, and so forth and so on, and she then said, "I hope everything goes well with your biopsy." Okay. This is a woman I had never met before in my life, whose small child has a possibly serious medical condition of her own which the parents are understandably worried about, who nonetheless not only thought to say that, but did say it. I just about melted. And I guarantee you: for as long as those parents and that child keep coming to our clinic, I will henceforth do anything they need or want, above and beyond. There will be no favor that will be too much for them to ask me. They've just accrued enough karma points to last till her 21st birthday and beyond.

My point being? Just another reason I don't understand why people sign up so willingly for douchebag school. I know the saying is that nice guys finish last, but really, being decent and kind does get you somewhere in this world. Occasionally.

xoxo

douchebag school

So, I've read, in a couple places, some scathing commentary of an askmen.com article about how to "subtly" get your girlfriend to realize that she's gained weight (and of course that she's therefore less attractive). Most of it reads as a primer on how to passive-aggressively manipulate someone you purport to care about (um, at least to her) and the rest as out and out emotional abuse.

Now, my ex-husband was good at this. Not that I didn't already have bodily issues firmly implanted in my psyche before I met him, but he knew how to pluck at them in such a way as to optimally make me feel like shit when he wanted to. For example, when I was pregnant with D, I gained 30 pounds, a totally normal and healthy amount that my doctors were pleased about. This meant I came home from the hospital about 20pounds heavier than what I usually weighed in those days. My ex "jokingly" let me know that I had six months to get it off or he was gonna leave me. (Not that he himself wasn't probably 30 or 40 pounds overweight at the time, without gestating another person as an excuse. But that was okay, because guys are allowed to be "big.") Yeah, so obviously, he didn't need askmen.com to teach him to be a douchebag.

But poking around on that website, it's all like that. It's all--at least the relationship advice--a tutorial on how to treat women like shit, aimed at what I am sure is a young adult (male) audience. I don't know. Do any of them need douchebag lessons? Doesn't it come naturally to most of them? (Just like most magazines and websites aimed at young women are self-hatred lessons. Doesn't that come naturally to us?) Why is there a whole industry, a whole media, whose purpose it is to make people worse human beings? Does being nice to other people and having self-respect not sell product? Obviously not!

But why don't we reject it? Why, when I was a teenage girl, did I not read stuff about "the pencil test" or the "five pounds for every inch over five feet" and say, pfft? And why do even people my age--who you'd think would have figured out better for themselves by middle age at least--buy into what you see in the media: that relationships are about winning and losing and getting over on the other person? Why don't, or can't, we reject all the poisonous cultural messages? Why don't we want to? Why do we all sign up happily for douchebag school?

xoxo

be careful

...when you tell a friend in email "I swear to god, if she tells me ripping it all out is an option, I'll be like, 'sure! let's do it!'" because a few short hours later you may in fact be in stirrups while a very chic and pleasant gynecologist cheerfully informs you that she's going to have to grab ahold of your cervix and pull down on it.

Seriously, "rip it all out" was not meant to be taken literally, Universe.

xoxo

checking in

1.) Not having the best of all possible weeks, health-wise and stress-wise, which is my excuse for not taking and posting those pics I am sure you are all waiting breathlessly--breathlessly, I tell you!--for. I'll get around to it.

2.) Of course, you have to know that now that I'm back to the house renos, I'm also back to looking at Rate My Space and the HGTV message boards, which is an exercise in masochism. And also, self-control. Here's a real question, paraphrased: "Do you allow sweaty workout clothes in your hamper? The stench from my husband's almost knocks me out." Do you know how much restraint it takes for me not to answer, "Why, no, no, I do not! I expect my dirty laundry to smell of nothing but roses at all times!" But no one likes a wiseass.

3.) Omar from The Wire is in two new movies coming out this fall. If I ever went to the movies, I would probably go see them, 'cause that man is an actor, I'll tell you what. Always nice to see someone from that cast doing well. (Has anyone given Bodie a job yet? If not, someone get on it. Love me some Bodie. I'll start crying if I think too hard about his "death.")

4.) Related. As a writer (ha!), there is nothing as awesome to me as someone somewhere being so taken by one of your fictional characters that their "death" actually affects them.

5.) I would tell you about the vivid dream I had two nights ago, but honestly, I don't want to turn out to be One of Those People. Well, okay. It involved my uncle and aunt calling after midnight to see if my dad spoke French, which they were convinced he did, while meanwhile I was desperate to get them off the phone because my new roof was leaking. Because it was made of those plastic loops they used to make lawn chairs out of, and the rain could come right in.

xoxo

pic of the week

No, it's not of my dining room. Have some patience. God.

No, actually this is much, much better.




See? That's a close up picture of Rihanna stolen from one of my favorite websites, gofugyourself, wherein they are poking some gentle, horrified fun at her for going to a fourth of July party in public wearing sequined pasties under a blazer, very festive, but not actually a wise fashion choice. But I am forced to repost it because, seriously? Are those not the prettiest boobs you have ever seen? When I am all depressed and full of bodily hatred and pining away for the days I was twenty and had beautiful breasts that were where they're supposed to be, even sans bra? That's kinda what they looked like. Except not quite as good, and of course pasty white, so Ms Rihanna wins, no contest. Holy crap. Those are pretty.

And, why yes, I *am* writing another boob post at work. I'm easing back into the work week. God.

xoxo

apparently

...I went to bed last night with dried paint on the soles of my feet. Oh. Would this correlate in any way with the fact that I dreamt I bought a box of mail-order bees? And that the UPS guy who delivered them recommended that in five days I feed them a dead woodchuck?

The vivid dreaming's been off the hook, yo.

Well, kids, yesterday I got the dining room half of the living room/dining room painted. I decided for my own mental sanity (shut up) that it made more sense to do two coats on half the space and then do the other half today, rather than one coat on everything each day. Especially since painting the dining room required taking everything out of the top of the china cabinet, because otherwise it was too heavy to move. So, basically yesterday every single surface in my kitchen was covered with glassware and dishes (which I [hand]washed before returning to the china cabinet, too, so yay!) My dad was disgruntled because there was nowhere to sit in the kitchen and about 12 inches of usable, uncovered countertop. I explained why all that crap was there. "Well, why did you need to paint *behind* the china cabinet? Who's gonna see it?" Once again, kids? THIS IS WHAT I PUT UP WITH.

Anyway, the dining room window faces east and I haven't put the curtain back up on it yet, so right now the room is flooding with light and the new wall color (clam chowder) which is a light creamy yellow/gold looks orange. It's very cool. That's one of the funnest, most interesting things about choosing paint colors, how different the same color looks in different rooms, at different times of day, under different weather conditions. I've had swatches up on different rooms in this house since, like, early March, and one of the colors that I'm pretty sure I'm going to use in one of the upstairs rooms actually looked optimal when it was snowing or there were snow clouds. It's still pretty in summer light, but that winter light made it absolutely gorgeous.

So! Did everyone who wasn't working their fingers to the bone have a fun holiday yesterday? Hope so! I would really like to go to the beach today instead of painting more, because I'm skeered this is our one nice weekend and then it will rain for another 40 days and 40 nights, but no. Gotta paint in here, so I can get this room put back together.

xoxo

nicky green

...makes me not cranky.

Really.

xoxo

attitude adjustment

I needz wun. Here's my deal.

As those of you who are keeping track know, I work every Friday and Saturday, usually all day. Well, as July 4th falls on Saturday this year, all departments in the hospital that are not 365 departments (and we are not) were off today. So I decide to take both today and tomorrow off so that I might have three days off in a row, which never happens and which, frankly, is about the closest I get to a vacation. I thought this was my perfect opportunity to start another home improvement project.

So you know my cell was ringing at 8:15 this morning. I wasn't asleep per se--more in that delightful state where you're dozing off and on, and every time you wake up you think, do I need to be anywhere? do I need to get up and pee? no! just another twenty minutes then... It is, of course, my on-call doc with the sad tale of woe and the guilt-inducing "well, if you can't come in, you can't come in, I suppose we can keep the kid in till Monday..." Well, no, it's not like I have any plans I can't break. (My plans, such as they were, were to go out, do a few errands my dad's been nagging me about, and then come home and start washing the walls in the dining room/living room so D and I can paint tonight or tomorrow.) So I agree to do it and give the on-call doc an estimate of when I'll roll in. He thanks me, apologizes, and lets me know the he too had other things he was planning on doing today that this is totally bollixing up. Well, yeah, the difference is you're on call and I'm not.

So while I drink two mugs of coffee, enough to get me awake enough to get going, and then shower and dress, I try to go all zen and remind myself once again that this is why I have job security and that that's a precious thing to have these days. But I'm still feeling resentful, mainly because I feel like my good nature and my disinclination to say no is being abused. And I hate feeling like that.

My mother, in case you don't remember, was totally unable to say no, much much worse than me, and she lived her life in martyrdom alternately gratified by being needed and being extremely resentful and angry about it. I don't ever want to be my mother, so I try hard to curb myself when I see myself slipping in that direction. It's why I put limits on D and *try* to put limits on my dad: I know they need me but I expect respect from them, a modicum of thanks for what I do, and I reserve the right to say no, not now, and to take the time I need for myself. Work is no different. So saying yes and then feeling pissy about it? Don't like it. Say no and don't feel guilty, or say yes and don't be fucking whiny and resentful about it.

I get to work and my emergency is a beautiful seven week old baby whose parents don't come down with it (thank you Jesus) and who I thus basically end up with in my arms for 40 straight minutes while I test to keep it settled. In case you haven't figured this out, holding a baby for forty minutes puts me in an awesome mood. I leave work in less than two hours and I'm feeling like, okay, you did the right thing and all is well.

Then I go to do my errands. There are more people in friggin Shaws than I can remember ever seeing when there are *not* meteorologists on the air whipping them into a frenzy about three inches of snow, and 70% of them are over 65, very slow, and blocking the aisles with their carts. I go from no-longer-cranky to homicidal. I get to the bank, where I want to just use the ATM to make my dad's deposit he's been nagging me about (he's probably lost five whole cents in interest, yo) because there is a line in there to rival Shaws. The ATM is out of order. I am not about to go to another bank because I've stupidly already gotten the groceries. I am hot because I'm overdressed, partly because of the usually-frigid A/C in work and partly because it was cloudy when I left the house and now the sun is out. The traffic is ridiculous. I finally get home and it's 1:30 and I haven't eaten all day and my dad has eaten the last roll I was saving for my sandwich.

I am back to being a raging bitch.

Right now I am digesting the grilled cheese and tomato I made instead, and wondering if I have a glass of wine if it will interfere with my will to move furniture and wash walls. I'm guessing yes.

That is all.

I will post pics if I ever get anything painted this weekend, so stay tuned.

xoxo