convergence of topics

I lied about being done with blogging for the month, but the convergence of topics was too good to pass up. Plus, I'm obviously not going to do anything useful today, so I figure I should just run with it. I did pull all the blue tape off before I went to work, though. That's useful. Anyway.

Mr Indemnity told me in email that he went to see The Bad Lieutenant this weekend and Fairuza Balk, who has a small part in it, reminded him greatly of me. I didn't know who she is. So I said, hey, let me google her and see if Mr Indemnity is on crack.

Sorry that picture is so small. The larger size pic was on a slideshow on askmen.com and I couldn't save it. But you get the idea. Cover her mouth up in that picture and, yeah, there's some resemblance. She, I, and Renee Zinswanger all do the squinchy-eyed thing when we smile. Also, she's 5'3 with big boobs, so appropriately Andrea-sized. I'm willing to concede Mr Indemnity wasn't completely on drugs when he saw that movie.

So I imdb'd her, and found out she's been in a lot of movies and TV shows I've seen and liked, but apparently not big roles, since she's totally below my radar. But also? A very young Fairuza Balk was a ZZ Top video vampire vixen! I mean, what are the odds?

See for yourself! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSHhAkVreiw

xoxo

monday morning

1.) I haven't taken the blue tape off yet, but I'm working up to it. As soon as the coffee kicks in, promise.

2.) This is an interesting article, if you haven't seen it. Discuss!http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/magazine/29sex-t.html?pagewanted=1

3.) I came downstairs this morning and D's asleep on the sofa and the TV's on VH1Classic. (That's my disclaimer, i.e. it's not *my* fault, don't mock.) Anyway. What should they be playing? OMG, an 80s ZZ Top video. I am overcome with nostalgia, as those videos were a big part of those years I spent too much time lying on my sofa watching MTV even though it was my future ex-husband who was the stoner, not me. (I just have that longstanding attraction to, y'know, sloth. And parentheses.) "Gimme All Your Lovin'." I will, at the risk of starting another Billy Joel-like debacle, say "good song!" And better video. Do you remember it? Here, refresh your memory. Ah, back when music videos were videos http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IP9l-GZ2DY with storylines and everything. (Get offa my lawn. And out of my parentheses. Damn kids.) How can you not love when they throw the grease monkey outta the car, and his boots after him? And he's smiling? And the 80s video vixens. Not that that didn't add to my fucked up relationship with my body back in the day, because I was not 6 foot tall with thin thighs and was never gonna be. But, oh, I could do the rest and I did: the heavy makeup, the teased hair, the spike-heeled pumps, the big plastic earrings, the red-n-black New Wave-y color-schemed clothes. (I'll also point out, just to add more parentheses, that you can go into H&M or Forever 21 at your local mall today and pretty much buy exactly what those women are wearing. Those horrible dropped shoulder batwing sleeves are back.) I think I'll watch that youtube a few more times before I pull off tape.

4.) Then later they showed "Lithium" and my gut reaction was, VH1Classic? Really? But, my god, that was almost twenty years ago, so yeah. amazing. I am fucking old.

5.) Done blogging for the month! I'ma shut up now!

xoxo

oh, look

It's kitschmas time again!





This is just a preliminary dry run. My little trees need some fluffing and straightening and the runner will change if I can find one more suitable.

xoxo

today's dilemma

I had half a gallon of paint left from when I painted the living room/dining room. I decided to use it to paint my "foyer" the same color. I figured it was a small enough space that the half gallon would do it. Then I procrastinated on this little project for a few months while I did other things, productive and non-productive, detailed in this very blog.

Well, I got the urge to finally do this, and do it before Christmas. I figured yesterday would be the big day. But I had to work, and I ended up being at work longer than I planned. Still, I was home by mid-afternoon. Unfortunately it's the end of November. D'oh. This meant by the time I was done dusting and vacuuming the walls, washing the walls, wiping the walls, then letting them dry, it was dark. Painting after dark is not the best idea in the entire world. Nevertheless, I persevered.

I am not totally sure I didn't miss some spots. And I am slightly afraid to go check too closely, because I ran out of paint after one coat. I have the good new Behr paint that has the primer built in so theoretically one coat *might* be okay. But I did two when I did the lr/dr. Part of the reason I ran out of paint sooner than I thought I would is that I originally wasn't planning on doing so many walls. (The layout is weird with how the "foyer" connects with the coat closet area connects with the hallway. Finding the logical stopping point wasn't immediately apparent.)

Anyway. Here's the two schools of thought. 1.) There is next to no natural light in that foyer anyway and no one's gonna stand in there too long examining the walls. So even if it's not anywhere close to perfect and could really use another coat, I could easily say fuck it. It looks fine from where I'm sitting on the loveseat in the adjoining lr...without my glasses on. In any case it looks much better than the dirty off-white it was previously. And I could always give it another coat sometime after the holidays. It's a friggin' foyer, it's not like I had to move out a lot of furniture to paint. 2.) While the furniture *is* moved out and the mirror is off the wall and the ladder is in the hall and the woodwork is all taped up, I should just bite the bullet, buy another gallon of paint and do the second coat some time this week. Because if you're gonna do it, you might as well do it right the first time.

I need to make a decision about this before I do go pull off the blue tape. But I don't think that's going to be till tonight or tomorrow anyway.

xoxo

other people's holiday traditions

You guys know my hallowed holiday tradition: bitching and whining. In the spirit of that, can I just mention that I have been getting a crapload of blog spam the last week or two and while I do not *want* to proceed to enabling comment approval, I also hate manually deleting it after it's posted. It leaves that "this post has been removed by a blog administrator" or however they phrase it in the comments, and I hate that because it makes my blog look messy. No, shut up, you're a freak. Ahem.

No, really, I wanted to talk about other people's traditions. I was at M2's house the other day, and I was, yes, bitching about Thanksgiving (and sticky floors) in much the same manner I was complaining here. I'm a delightful person most of the time. Ahem again. So M2 said that if I wanted to skip Thanksgiving, I was welcome to go out for Thanksgiving Indian food with them. She and her husband and whichever of her kids are in town do it every year. Which makes some very good sense, considering M2 and Mr M2 are both vegetarians. Indian food is light years better than tofurkey. (I'm guessing, since I only eat tofu fake meat products with a gun pointed at my head.) While M2 knew very well I couldn't say "fuck Thanksgiving", it was still a nice gesture. It made me feel a little less like an unloved pariah. And who knows? Maybe some day I'll be able to take her up on it. Spending Thanksgiving at an Indian restaurant is a tradition I could get behind.

Another tradition amongst my friends that I absolutely love takes place at M1's house. (Those M's are some rebels, huh?) M1 keeps her (full size) Christmas tree, completely dressed and wrapped in plastic to keep off the dust, in storage and just brings it out every year. It's one of those things that makes it look like you've made an effort when you haven't done a goddamn thing. I can totally get behind that too. Because I am very lazy. Look it up.

In actual non-Andrea tradition, can I say that I am done with D's and my dad's presents, except for stocking stuffers, like shaving cream and shower gel and such that they get because I'd only have to buy it for them anyways, and some candy and little things. But they main shopping for them is done. And I mostly know what I'm getting everyone else. So I am way ahead. Suck it, Christmas.

Okay, I am leaving work now and going perhaps shopping. Because I thought I should join in the American holiday tradition of spending money on Black Friday. Hope you are doing the same. China needs your dollars.

xoxo

you would also think

...that someone who has made it to the ripe old age of 47 would be able to figure out how to put her new napkins through her new napkin rings without looking it up on the internet, but you would also be wrong. Shut up. I thought it had to be more complicated than that. Also, how did we ever live before google?

My table looked beautiful today. New napkins, new napkin rings, the new dishes (the ones I broke down and bought last summer), the old table runner. Candles burning on the wood stove. And no TV on while we were eating, just music. I told D "pretend we're civilized."

Do civilized people get drunk by themselves on Thanksgiving night? Probably not. That's okay, though, 'cause I'm just pretending.

xoxo

adam lambert

Have you been following this, or have you been too busy baking pies or attempting to drive to the airport or some such shit? If you have been following, I'm sure you can surmise that this has made me mad enough to spit. If you haven't, let me sum up for you.

Adam Lambert was first runner-up on American Idol last season and was notable for being the first Idol finalist to openly admit to being gay (rather than come out five years after being on the show.) Last Sunday Mr Lambert, who has his first CD out, performed live at the American Music Awards wherein he caused controversy by a.) kissing his (male) keyboard player onstage and b.) grabbing the head of one of his (male) backup dancers who was kneeling in front of him and pushing it in the general direction of his crotch. [Meanwhile, Janet Jackson grabbed the crotch of one of her (male) dancers onstage at the same event and no one blinked.]

Because of this controversy, Mr Lambert was disinvited from performing on Good Morning America. The Early Show stepped up and invited him to perform for them instead. However, when Mr Lambert again kissed his bandmate on their stage, they blurred it out. Yes, two guys kissing is so offensive that it needs to be censored completely. Meanwhile, as has been pointed out many times by better people than me, that fucking calculated publicity stunt of a kiss between fucking Madonna and fucking Britney has been shown over and over and over on network TV. Because two bleached blond chicks kissing each other is hawwwwt for network executives and their frat boy audience members, so that same-sex spit-swapping isn't indecent at all. The litmus test for whether something gets censored or not is whether it makes your typical het male uncomfortable. We're not protecting the "innocent children." We're protecting their scared-to-death-of-any-gay-impulses dads.

See? I'm getting all upset already. Ha!

Unlike an old friend of mine, a middle-aged long-married heterosexual female who *loved* guy-on-guy hardcore porn, I am not particularly interested in or excited by two guys doing each other. (But, then again, I'm not particularly interested in watching anyone do anyone. I'm apparently missing the voyeuristic gene.) But I will say this. I can't tell the story behind this on this blog, but the hottest pda I have ever seen was a kiss between two guys. The energy between them, the passion and the worship, was palpable from even twenty feet away and when they finally kissed...wow. It was the kind of thing that made me simultaneously want to look because it was so sexy and beautiful and want to look away because it was so intimate. (Not that they were paying attention to anyone besides each other.) That someone in this fucked-up society in which we live could find that gross while meanwhile approving of that fake-ass girl-on-girl titillation kissing of the Britney-Madonna variety makes me weep for our culture.

I despise Madonna. Have I mentioned that?

Anyway, Andrea says all expressions of true desire, passion, devotion, and lust are awesome. It's sex as a fake commodity selling whatever that's obscene. As is pandering to the patriarchy's fear of male homosexuality.

Happy Thanksgiving! Go eat that pie you baked.

xoxo

and in non-eye news

Someone who shall remain nameless was nagging me about doing something which will also remain nameless, but I think the conversation went something like this:

"Are you ever going to do x?"

"Yeahhhhhh..."

"Are you going to do it this decade?"

"Hahahaha. Yeahhhhhh..."

"Maybe that's not fair. There's only a few weeks left in the decade."

So, you know there's no way to motivate me more successfully than to set me a challenge. Especially with a suggestion that the challenge is probably impossible. As a result, it is done, finished, I have the fruits in my hand as we speak, and there's like, I dunno, five or six whole weeks left in this decade. (And I'm even happy with the fruits, so to speak, after having been mired in indecision about the myriad of choices available!)

Moral of story: it's really easy to manipulate me into doing what I should be doing, if only you push the correct buttons. I'm easy.

xoxo

my visual field test

I returned to eye guy today to do this. Have you ever had one? You look into this machine one eye at a time, stare at the bright yellow light in the middle, and press a clicker every time you see a light flash around it. It's sorta like Jeopardy, except for no Alex Trebek and no questions. Some of the lights that flash are big and bright and some are small and dim, and it's kinda hard, especially at first, to realize right away that one of the dim ones has flashed. There's a split second lag time before your brain says, wait! that was one, and then your reaction time is off.

Anyway, my first try at this I was kinda cheating--not on purpose, I swear--moving my eye too much. So then eye guy patched the eye I wasn't using and it was much easier for me not to move my eye. However, I still did better with the second eye he tested than the first. Which gave him opposite results than what he was expecting, because the second eye is the one with the thinner optic nerve. So he's sure it's just artifact, and I just needed time to get habituated to the test. He said he's 99.9% sure my eyes are fine. But why don't I just come back in 4-6 weeks and we'll try that first eye again? (I wonder how much he charges Tufts for this thing.)

So I made the appointment, but I'm not sure I'll keep it. Do I want to pay my $15 co-pay for the .1% chance that the eye that looks fine really has a problem? Perhaps not. I'm sure eye guy has a sailboat, vacation house, or mistress he needs to pay for, but I'm not sure I'm willing to help out. I did however take a brochure about blepharoplasty (that's an eyelid tuck, yo) 'cause these bags under my eyes ain't gonna fix themselves.

xoxo

more things you see on public transportation

So. There was this young woman sitting in front of me on the bus this afternoon with her boyfriend/husband. Note: I say possible husband because these aren't teenagers we're talking about. I'd say they were in their mid to late twenties. The woman was very nicely groomed and dressed, if a bit hipsterish. But art gallery hipster, rather than rock band or tattoo artist hipster, if you perceive the difference. She had short hair in a kind of pixie-ish cut, but she was wearing a winter coat and a scarf so--how should I put this?--the lower part of her head/neck/face was obscured from my vantage point. Until she at one point turned completely sideways to speak to her male companion.

Dear sweet Mary, holy mother of god. You know how some people into body mods stretch their piercings, going up gauge by gauge by gauge until they can put those plug thingies into their earlobes? Well, this chick must have done that. Except today? Today she wasn't wearing jewelry. She had a hole in her earlobe I could have stuck my pinky into up to the first knuckle. Readers, you know I am not squeamish. Neither am I opposed to tattoos or piercings or, fer crissakes, scarification--do what you do--but when I saw that ear, my stomach turned.

Why? Why would anyone do that? I don't mean "why would you stretch a piercing?" Honestly, I understand that body-as-a-science-project impulse, that curiosity about, "hey, I wonder how big I could get these if I really worked at it." I have my own body-as-a-science-project impulses, if not directed in that particular direction. But why would you groom yourself perfectly, hair done, makeup tastefully applied, dressed in stylish and not inexpensive clothes, and go out with ears that look like they have been attacked with a hole puncher? Do you not perceive that huge missing piece of tissue in your lobe is going to ick people out? Or is that the point? I do not get it.

Also, get offa my lawn.

xoxo

you would think

...that someone who went to two grocery stores yesterday would have everything they need for
Thanksgiving. But you would be wrong. (Can I bitch about the holidays again, or is it too soon after the last bitchfest?)

And last night I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, like a little Polish washerwoman, even though I just did that eight days ago. Why? I'll tell you why. Because someone spilled something sticky in front of the sink, did not clean it up properly (if they attempted to clean it at all), and then they or someone else tracked it through the kitchen. Naturally all the menfolk deny any knowledge of any of this occurring***. Okay. But if I come home tonight and there are any sticky spots in there at all, someone will die.

That's the problem with all this cleaning business (um, other than the *other* problem where cleaning leads you to getting caustic chemicals in your eye, and other safety hazards that just aren't a concern when you sit on your sofa in a state of sloth): it's always immediately dirty again. It is a thankless and ceaseless task. Now, things like laundry and dishes, okay. You wear clothes, they get dirty, you need to clean them. You cook and eat, the pots and dishes are dirty, you need to clean them. There's some payoff there. But actual cleaning? You vacuum and you dust and you turn around and it needs to be done again, even in rooms you hardly use. There's no payoff. It's enough to turn a person into one of those *real* old skool Polish ladies who kept their furniture covered in plastic and only let you sit on it grudgingly.

I hate all this marginally less since I'm on the Mrs Meyer's bandwagon, because at least my cleaning stuff smells nice, doesn't give me a headache, and might possibly not be made in China. The Dyson helps too. But only marginally. Even with cool cleaning products and tools, it all still sucks.

The End.

xoxo

***But I'm betting on Mr D after watching him feed Evil Kitty the other day. He spills some of the "juice" from the catfood can onto the counter when he's putting it on her plate. So he takes a paper towel and wipes at it. Not a damp paper towel, mind you. Just a paper towel. All this does is smear it around. Then he cheerfully deposits the paper towel in the trash and goes about his business. It's like, dude, I know you made a half-assed attempt to clean up after yourself, but you might not as well have bothered. I'm sure that sticky mess on my floor was similar. Despite denials.

mining drywall for fun and profit

Mr Indemnity sent me a link this afternoon to a NYT article about how Chinese drywall in new construction is making homeowners sick and their appliances and electrical systems fail, because he knows how I like to get wound up about cheap Chinese crap and how it's ruining our economy and probably killing us all. Thanks, Mr Indemnity!

But one sentence stood out. I quote: "The Commission recently sent investigators to China to meet with manufacturers and visit mines that produce the drywall, and China has sent experts to visit affected homes in the United States." Excuse me? Drywall mines? What the hell *is* drywall? I didn't think it was a substance found in, y'know, nature. Do you think Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, and the rest were down the shaft excavating drywall with their pickaxes? Did Loretta Lynn write any songs called "Drywall Miner's Daughter"? And I don't know the entire periodic table, but I'm fairly sure drywall isn't on it.

I call shenanigans on this one.

xoxo

Addendum: Mr Indemnity just emailed me that drywall is primarily gypsum, therefore the mines referenced are gypsum mines. To which I say, sloppy fucking writing NYT.

d update

We met the new nurse practitioner who's taking over his care today. Despite my reservations about this, she proved to be really nice and apparently really on the ball. The questions she asked him were actually pertinent as if ::gasp:: she'd looked at his chart before he came into the room.

And D was having a very good day. He's usually pretty anxious when he has to go to the clinic and thus quiet and shut down. Today he was fine. He answered all of her questions in an articulate and well-considered manner, presenting himself as the intelligent and thoughtful person that I know. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, this is going well. One thing she did mention was that they have blood drawing there on Tuesday mornings, and if he wanted, instead of going to the hospital lab, he could have his lab work there and see her immediately after on the same day. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, yeah, that's what this kid needs...fewer occasions to leave the house. But he wasn't going for it anyway. He likes his routine the way it is.

I could say more, but I think I'll leave it. Just a wee update.

xoxo

merry whatever

Yeah. It's getting to be that time of year. If you've been following along, you know how I feel about the quote unquote holiday season, New Year's Eve being a particular fucking favorite. But Thanksgiving and Christmas don't exactly fill me with "joy" either. I might not even pull out the fabled white Xmas tree this year. I don't particularly see the point of all that effort, but I dunno. I'll probably cave to the pressure.

The one thing that I do somewhat enjoy about the whole shebang is the gift-giving, especially since I no longer have any obligation gifts I have to give. I don't know about anybody else, but buying for people I don't like always filled me with incredible angst. I would worry about them disliking their gifts when, seriously? why should I really give a shit? It's bizarre. But that's neither here nor there, because that bullshit is done. Now all my prezzies go to people I am totally fond of and want to shower with nice things.

So I've started kind of thinking about it, gathering ideas. I had what I think is a fabulous inspiration for one friend that I'll probably go with. But my other ideas? I'm kinda sad and wishing for a sudden cash windfall, because there are a couple things that I would love to get for a couple people, things I know they would really, really like, but which I just cannot afford. D told me what he wants, and I do feel I can afford that, especially since he really asks for so little all year. But I wish I could give everyone what I want to give them. (See above: fond, showering.)

I know. It's the thought that counts, blah blah. But giving someone a picture of what you wished you could get them and saying, "See? I thought you'd have liked that. I'm right, huh?" just doesn't cut it.

Maybe I'll hit the lottery. Sigh.

xoxo

praise jesus, i can see

The Benevolent L and her handsome sidekick S took me out for lunch/dinner (is that dunch or linner? it's never quite caught on like brunch did) in the North End today for my bday. But while I was waiting to meet up with them, I went to Starbucks. Well, they have like five different new, or old, holiday drinks on the menu. I was in line, squinting, when I realized, oh, yeah! I've got my new glasses in my purse.

So I put them on and was able to order myself an eggnog latte. (Good, but maybe too much milk in it for me, 'cause I've got a little tummyache now. Which cannot be from the huge portion of eggplant and the three desserts I ate later.) I'm like, oh, so this is how other people see. Huh.

Let me digress and tell you why I never got in the habit of wearing my old glasses consistently. I'm not sure of the technical reason for this--maybe because I have an astigmatism?--but wearing my glasses sort of makes me feel like it's forcing my eyes to focus together in way they don't naturally and it fucks with my depth perception. Which, frankly, isn't my strong suit anyway. So walking, and especially using the stairs, in my glasses always felt like more of an adventure than it should be. And I can't give a massage in glasses. Believe me, I tried. Once. So pretty much I kept the glasses for when I really needed them and only seated activities at that.

But noticing the ease with which I could now peruse coffee options, I made an executive decision to practice walking in my glasses and get used to the damn things. According to eye guy, I'm probably not too many years away from bifocals which, again, eff you, eye guy. So yeah. I better get used to this. I took my latte and walked out intrepidly to the front stairs of Quincy Market. Wherein I came upon this guy: http://jasonescape.com (I always stop for straightjackets and rope, yo.) And, eventually, after Jason had escaped from his predicament successfully and my coffee was gone, L and S called me to tell me they were across the street. So I actually crossed a roadway--in Boston!--wearing my glasses.

Okay, I took them off in the restaurant. But still. I'ma call this a success.

xoxo

placing a monetary value

Some of you probably remember my story about how, when I got my big raise a couple years ago (as a bribe to take back more hours), the figure that I named was agreed to so quickly and without argument from administration that I was like, damn, I shoulda asked for more. But it never occurred to me to do that. I named what I thought was "fair", what I thought my skill set was worth to them. It didn't occur to me until after that I should have asked for more than I thought I should get and let myself be bargained down. And on realising that, it occurred to me that most *men* would know that.

I'm reminded of this by an internet--I won't even say "acquaintance" because we've never corresponded--person who agreed to watch someone else's toddler fulltime in her home for $75 a week. What? As a point of reference, I was paying my mom $100 a week to watch D as a baby. And she was my mom. And this was over twenty years ago. I can't imagine anyone paying less than $175-200 a week for private fulltime babysitting in 2009, no matter where in this country they live. But this woman who agreed on the ridiculously low figure doesn't value her own time and own skills enough to ask for what she *should* get, nevermind above and beyond with room for haggling.

I see this in (female) massage therapists who set their own fees, too. Some may be undercharging because they honestly think that's all the market will bear, but a lot just undervalue themselves and their work. They think, oh, my overhead is low, so I should charge less than so and so down the street, even when their work is comparable to, or superior to, so and so. They look for reasons to discount their services, like, oh, this client really needs the work and maybe can't afford it, so I'll give him a deal. There's this great reluctance to say, yeah, I'm worth x, if x is more than a bare minimum.

I wonder if it's a generational thing, and the women a generation behind me are over this. But women my age, by and large, aren't. I see it over and over again, that reluctance to assign a monetary value to their time and knowledge. To say, yeah, I'm good, and you oughta be paying for that excellence. It may have something to do with the fact that so many women still spend so much time doing "free" work at home. I dunno. I'm just pondering.

xoxo

registering complaints

1.) I was kinda thinking this morning, in mentally rehashing my week, that I have been condescended to more in the last three months than at any time since probably 1989. I'm angry about that. I mean, you people know why this is one of the buttons that is easily pushable in me, my having detailed it ad nauseum. However, just because I'm aware it's one of my buttons doesn't make me deal with it any better. I feel waves of rage if I consider it too much.

2.) Someone at work today told me that I've been looking skinny, which is further proof that I look good in my pants. Ha! Except I'm not wearing pants today. And I wasn't wearing pants on the day that she referenced as having noticed my putative weight loss. I was wearing a skirt and a particular green and white shirt. Why are you complaining about a compliment, Andrea? I'm not! What I'm complaining about is that the reason my co-worker thought I looked thin in that shirt has nothing to do with me; it has to do with the shirt, which is ridiculously flattering to my body type. And, specifically, the reason I'm complaining is that when I wore that shirt the other day, I noticed it has some small holes in it around the bottom and can't really be worn to work anymore. The black shirt I had that was just like it that also was ridiculously flattering and that I wore more often (since black is a more unobtrusive color than green-n-white) already gave up the ghost a month or two ago. So! My complaint is that this super thin cotton they are making t-shirty shirts out of these days, while draping beautifully, doesn't last, even when you wash and dry on gentle. I think you should be able to get more than a year and a half's wear out of a forty dollar shirt. Especially one that makes you look fabulous.

3.) It's fucking 85 degrees in our offices today, even with the back door propped open, and even with my cardigan off, I am dying. I can take no more garments off and remain decent. I mean, I could take my tights off, because I'm wearing boots, but I don't have underwear on (is that TMI?) and not having tights OR underwear on at work seems indecent.

That's all.

xoxo

it's not hypochondria...parte the second

I know you people want nothing better than to hear all about my health problems, real and imaginary. It's even more exciting than when I tell you what I cleaned that day or what I might possibly buy, right? So consider this your update.

But first, an announcement. You know how I said I was winning the War Against My Uterus? Well, apparently it has recruited reinforcements from neighboring organs. My gyn's office called me bright and early this morning to tell me one of my recent non-uterine tests came back slightly abnormal. You know what this means, don't you? It means I have to go back and be traumatized by that mean Russian nurse again. It's official. I now hate *all* my lady parts.

But that's neither here nor there and has nothing to do with today's doctor appointment. Today I visited the opthamologist. Yes, the part of my body that I have been freaking out about is my eyes. As you'll remember if you've been reading along, I had an eye injury on September first and things have not been right most of the time since then. But now I'm 95% better. However, the eye guy said the symptoms that I had been having were consistent with irritation to the cornea *and* were probably exacerbated by my probable keratoconjunctivitis sicca. Um, that's dry eye syndrome. Which women often get "as they approach 50." (Oh, eff you, eye guy.) But, see???? It's a real medical condition with an impressive Latin name. Just because it didn't turn out to be eye fungus, ahem, doesn't mean there wasn't something wrong with me.

And while I didn't much like eye guy, I do have to go back to him again next week for one other test. It seems I have thin optic nerves. This is probably congenital (which would be the only kind of congenital thinness I have, thankyouverymuch) since my eye pressure was fine, but it could be a symptom of glaucoma. Since he's never looked at my optic nerves before and has nothing to compare them to, I have to do this one other quick test to make sure. Oh, and I'm getting new glasses which cost more than a down jacket. (My options for this winter are apparently poor, cold, or blind. I guess I'ma go with poor.)

In summary...I used way too many parentheses in this post. It probably has something to do with dry eye. Or malfunctioning lady parts. Or approaching fifty. Pick one.

xoxo

bah!

I just got an unexpected bill for $160 (totally due to my own error/stupidity) and, in keeping with my new keep-the-mail-under-control policy, wrote the check and popped it in the out mail. There goes the birthday money that I was gonna use for my fabu down coat. Boo.

Also? I was just walking down the street from the 7-11 and an old guy slowed down and asked me if I needed a ride. And by old, I mean over seventy. Then he apparently pulled over up the street and was just sitting there in the car, like waiting for me to walk by. It creeped me out. Not that I don't think that I could take down a 75 year old prospective rapist, but this was a first.

To cheer myself up, I give you this, which hopefully will work:

it's not hypochondria if you're really sick

So, one of the things I haven't touched upon in here, or touched upon only obliquely, is that during my recent bout of extreme anxiety and moderate depression, I had a concurrent health concern. And when I say "concern", yes, I was very concerned about it. I was especially concerned because three different doctors on four different occasions at my PCP's office blew me off and told me nothing was wrong with me. One of them quite condescendingly in a "you're just hysterical, Andrea" kind of way. Well, I'll give her that. I was hysterical at the time. This does not belie that I was having physical symptoms.

Now, chickens, we all do know that one of the things my anxiety settles upon when I am not doing well is my body and my health. And we all know that I am very prone to googling my symptoms and catastrophizing. WebMD is not my friend and I know that. (Mr Barma thinks this is hilarious. When I was in the midst of ranting to him about how no one was taking my symptoms seriously and positing my theories of what obscure problems I probably had/have, he sent me a link to an episode of The Big Bang Theory that deals with Sheldon's hypochondria. Which is totally unfair as I have *never* demanded a full body MRI. Yet. Anyway, I like to think that Mr Barma finds this hilarious in a cute-n-charming way, and you all do too, but I guess the jury is still out.)

Nevertheless, even when the doctor who thought I was hysterical prescribed benzos for me to calm me right the fuck down, my symptoms remained. As I said to my own doctor, "Just because I'm crazy, and I am, doesn't mean there's not something physically wrong with me." That got him to prescribe something for my problem, as, frankly, a pat on the head. Probably because he was just throwing antibiotics at me without trying to actually figure out what was wrong, they didn't work, and my symptoms remained. So finally at my last visit, he agreed to refer me to a specialist. Make me someone else's problem, as it were.

Well, my appointment with the specialist is on Wednesday, approximately two weeks from the day I made the appointment. And as of this weekend, my symptoms are finally almost completely cleared up. I'm sure by Wednesday, I will be completely fine, after almost two months of this. And the specialist is gonna look at me and write in my chart "whacko." And send a report to my PCP saying so.

But, really, as god is my witness, read the title of this post. Son of a bitch.

xoxo

this has a point

Namely, down jackets.



This is the one I really, really love. You will note it is not 3/4 length. It is hip-length, like the one it would be replacing. I love the color. I love the faux fur collar that will make me feel glam in January despite myself. I love that the sleeves zip off, enabling it to become a vest. It costs $150.


This one is from LL Bean. Of the jackets on the LL Bean website, it is the cutest. Love the color. But it is also only hip length, and it has no fur collar, no hood, and no ability to shed its sleeves and do double duty. It costs $149.



And this one comes from Eddie Bauer. Of the 3/4ths length jackets I have seen of reasonable price, it is the most attractive. However, it isn't *that* attractive. The color red isn't as nice a color as the top jacket I showed you, but it's the best of the possible options, considering I'm not buying another off-white down jacket, having come to the conclusion that if I pass out face first in a snowbank, I wanna be seen. This one costs $179, IIRC.

That's the best I can do so far.

xoxo

time flies

I realized the other night that how old I thought I was turning on my birthday was not in fact how old I really am turning on my birthday. Oh, don't look at me that way. I realized this when I remembered that it was two years ago that I was absolutely freaking right the fuck out about turning 45. 45+2 =47. Then I did the math: 11/62 + 47=11/09. Yup, that works out.

I'm not blaming this on incipient early-onset Alzheimer's or a big frontal lobe tumor. And I'm not even blaming it on the fact that I never even think of how old I am anymore, probably in self-defense. I'm blaming it on the fact that now that I'm old, time goes by ridiculously fast. How's a person supposed to keep track of what year it is or how old they are? I had a patient yesterday who, when I saw the name on my schedule, made me think, "Hmm. Didn't I just see them? Why are they back so soon?" Then I looked at the date of the previous visit. February. Okay. Apparently 9 months is the new 5 weeks. <---(Sentence just for Uncle. You're welcome.)

There's really no point to this post. But we old people like to tell pointless meandering stories. True fact.

xoxo

my topic has been stolen

I was gonna tell you all about how Mr Barma and I kicked ass playing bar trivia last night, but he beat me to it by blogging first while I was busy ministering to the sick children. Okay, okay, we didn't actually win, but we came close. If only we had been able to recruit someone in their late twenties to our team, i.e. someone who had watched many many episodes of the Smurfs in their formative years, we coulda taken it all, baby.

So I'll just say that it was wicked fun and that, since one of our answers was Jackson, Mississippi, I've had that Johnny and June Carter Cash song "Jackson" stuck in my head all morning. Which is fine since, y'know, it's a good song and all.

In other news, in case you hadn't guessed by the fact that I've been posting about actual social occasions that I didn't have to be dragged to, I've been feeling much better. God bless the evil pharmaceutical industry. Better living through chemicals. I was gonna also brag about how good I look in my pants now, but since I've already bragged about how smaht I am in this post, I've reached my limit on self-promotion for the day.

Fuck it. I look good in my pants.

That is all.

xoxo

and mail updates!

Remember the Pennsylvania wedding I got the unvitation to? Got my thank you note for the big fat check I sent them today, along with a lovely note lamenting my absence (ahem), and some wedding pictures, which, okay, I am forced to admit was quite nice of them. Anyway, for someone from western Pennsylvania, the bride had a lovely and tasteful gown. (Says the woman who got married in sweatpants. Down the street from the nuclear reactor.) She also has a very mildly disturbing resemblance to the groom's twin sister, but that's the least of the possible roadblocks to that marriage's succeeding that I could list.

And now that I'm done snarking on relatives and relatives-in-law who've never done anything worse than suck grudging wedding gifts out of me, let's discuss what else came in the mail. My MA state licensure renewal that I was worried about. With 19 days to spare! Apparently I did the application right after all.

Carry on.

xoxo

invisible

Have you been following the Anthony Sowell thing? If so, did it cross your mind how a convicted sex offender could kill at least 11 women and keep the bodies in his house over a period of years without, y'know, anyone catching on? Did it cross your mind that, um, nobody was looking for those 11 women very hard?

But one blond middle-class American teenager goes missing on a class trip to the Caribbean and it's international news for months.

Go figure, huh?

xoxo

poe pour eeeeeee

Excuse me one minute while I make an authorial decision. Okay. Yeah. I think I'ma do this in the opposite order than originally planned. Work backwards, as it were. Okay. Here we go.

I went to the gynecologist again this morning and, again, my blood pressure was up, even though it was normal at my PCP's office five days ago. But you know what? For the second time in a row, the nurse was this very brusque older Russian lady who kind of barks at you, and I honestly think she freaks me right the fuck out. So my GYN was kind of frowning in concern that my blood pressure was up the last time and up again this time, and I was laughing and saying, "I swear, it was just fine at Dr B's on Thursday." She says, also laughing, "Are you trying to tell me something?" And I was this close --this close--to saying, "Oh, no, it's not you. It's your assistant. I think she's gonna send me to the gulag. Can't I have the nice little girl who looked like she should still be in high school that I used to get? I liked her." But, y'know, I figured that would be way politically incorrect. Or something.

In other gynecological news, my doctor complimented my bra. It makes me think that all the endless talk about boundaries they ceaselessly drummed into me in massage school was, um, overkill. When my gynecologist, moments away from putting her hand up my hooha, feels perfectly okay with telling me that my underwear is pretty, I probably don't have to actually worry about anything I would say to a client being inappropriate. (And, no, telling me my underwear is pretty is not always just one step away from getting your hand up my hooha. Shut up.)

In other other news, the vivid dreaming is back. I had a dream the night before last that one of my teeth fell out, and I woke up feeling my tooth with my tongue to make sure it was there. I know that losing a tooth or teeth is one of those supposedly common dream motifs that's supposed to have some kind of symbolic meaning, but I couldn't be arsed to look it up. I'm just thinking that this dream would have made a lot more sense to have had last night when I fell asleep to Amy Winehouse on replay on the iPod. Just saying, that's all.

And in other, non-goofy news, it came to my conscious attention recently that someone to whom I am close cannot just let go and trust me in a certain situation, and this has been taking up far more real estate in my brain than it should. Not that I am in any way hurt or upset about it. More...perplexed. It makes me realize just how much of my self-image is tied up in being the Trustworthy One and having other people very easily recognize that. (Just for one example, you people have *no* idea the things people tell me--including, occasionally, a thing or two I wish I didn't know--because they rightly deduce, "Oh, Andrea can keep a confidence and she won't judge me.") So realizing that someone who has known me a long time, and not in a casual fashion, has some trust issues with me has been puzzling and interesting.

Of course, the fact that I've spent even a second being puzzled over it means I have been totally ignoring Andrea's Second Law of Survival: "People's shit is about them, not about you" and its corollary: "Your shit is about you, and not about them." But I guess I am learning what some of *my* shit is about. That's always a good thing.

In summary, herbal viagra, free viagra, viagra alternatives, cialis, viagra! You heard it here first.

xoxo

party aftermath

I don't know whether this is apparent or not, but some of my friends don't know I have a blog. Some know and don't read, like the Benevolent L, and some just don't know. Obviously, my work friends don't know, even the ones I am really, really fond of, like our lil MILF or my boss/mentor. Being as I am an old woman, I have learned from long experience that it's best to keep some distance and not let the people who you have to interact with professionally know all your business. That's why when these women I work with have, for example, a totally inappropriate conversation about how old they were when they learned how to masturbate, I stay in the next room, laugh absolutely silently, and keep my friggin mouth shut.

But then there are other friends who just don't know because, seriously? I am not sure they have any idea what a foul-mouthed, sexually warped, mentally ill, white trash specimen I am, and I've always sorta thought maybe I should maintain the illusion. Not that any of them are the type of person to judge, per se, 'cause you know I'm not friends with people like that, but y'know. Someone's gotta have a good opinion of me.

But I was at a get-together the other evening with a bunch of these people. My friend G, who is a really sweet and hysterically funny guy, as well as being a treasure trove of pop culture allusions was there. His latest obsession is with Grey Gardens, both the doc and the movie, and he kept me laughing all night by randomly quoting Little Edie's lines to me. (I really admire that skill in people--I cannot quote movie or TV lines at all, even of stuff I've seen a thousand times.) He also educated me on the existence of manhunt, which is apparently the largest gay pickup site on the web. I was like, why haven't I ever heard of that? I mean, I'm not a gay man, but it seems like the kind of thing I would know, doesn't it?

Anyway, I was talking to G, and I had my coat on to go already. (I was waiting for a couple other friends who had kindly offered to drop me at my door to get their stuff together to leave. I think they probably had second thoughts after they found out how hard it is to get back on the highway from my house, but it was a generous gesture.) Anyway, the topic of how the bus that goes by my house is the prison bus came up, and I didn't really have time to explain this to G. And since I had had, um, a little bit of prosecco and a lot of cheese, and my judgment was probably not at its peak, I said to G, "Oh, it's all on my blog. I have a blog. I'll send you a link."

And then, y'know, I realized that my last post on here was about my short term disability insurance. Which is probably a good way to entice someone to never ever read your blog again, right?

So I'm asking for help, guys. Everyone be really witty and entertaining in here this week, so I can send G a link in a few days, 'k? I'll do my best to overhear some inappropriate conversations, but I can't promise anything.

xoxo

std

No, no, no, no. Not what you get when you don't use condoms like the public health wonks tell you to. I'm talking short term disability insurance.

It's open enrollment time at work, and being as I'm enrolled in short term disability already, I got a separate notice that they're changing plans. My weekly cost will being increasing from $2.29 to $10.72. Over eight bucks a week? I guess there goes my awesome three percent salary increase. Ha!

I'm tempted to say screw the short term disability insurance, having never used it and having lots of ET banked, even with cash-in, plus saved sick time from years ago when they switched to ET that I have never been been able to use. (The rules are you have to use three consecutive days of ET before you can dip into those sick days, and I have never ever taken four sick days off in a row. I don't think I've ever taken two, actually.) I think I have over three months of full pay I could take--probably more since you keep accruing ET while using ET.

On the other hand, reading the literature they sent me, right now, being switched from one plan to the other, I will be protected from the new plan's "pre-existing conditions" limitation. If I don't elect it this year and I wanted to get it again in the future, I might not be covered for disabilities related to, say, the War with My Uterus, or the Crazee. And you never know when I might need a long stay in an institution, n'est pas?

So perhaps I ought to just suck it up and spend $557.44 for something I am probably never going to use.

Insurance is a fucking scam.

xoxo

the people have (kinda) spoken

Despite the fact I feel like poop today, I have to at some point put on clothes that aren't PJ pants and the shirt I wore yesterday and go buy the local paper. According to my dad (per TV news), the mayoral race in my city was decided by less than 100 votes, and the woman I dislike (from 30 years ago, ha!) won. Despite my voting against her! Recounts and so forth coming right up, I'm sure.

No news yet on how my most-excellent roofer did. Not to mention my ex-husband's bid for reelection in his town.

xoxo

Addendum: Both my ex and my roofer were indeed annointed by the people. And not only did I go out to get the paper, I did my hair and put on clothes that were not sweatpants to do so. I also went to the CVS, the bakery, and the liquor store. Thought you would want to know.

i've probably blogged this before

I am cursed with too much empathy. While empathy is a good thing, and there's a whole hell of a lot of people who could use to have a little more, an excess of it really is a curse. It's why I hurt so much when D hurts. Not to overuse the word literally, but I do literally feel his emotional pain. There's no detachment there, no ability to put up one of the walls I am so capable of building in other situations.

I used to read some internet forums for parents and families of the mentally ill, back when things were worse. It helped to an extent. But ultimately I had to stop going to them. The level of anger many of these people had towards their sick relatives, even their own children, felt toxic to me. Now people who are floridly psychotic or manic or deeply depressed are often unpleasant and do unpleasant, destructive things, sure. But I would read the anger directed towards these sick people and their bad behaviors and think, "But don't you feel how terrified (or sad or confused or whatever) this poor sick person is? Don't you understand their pain?" Until it dawned on me that, no, most people really don't. Their ability to empathize in situations they themselves have not lived through is extremely limited. (I think I've just argued myself away from my thesis, because I'm not sure these people's toxic anger and lack of empathy is any less distressing to them than my empathic pain is to me. But there's gotta be a middle ground, right?)

The other destructive part of having too much empathy is that you (by which I mean me) tend to forgive people their shitty, shitty behavior far more than you probably should. You get angry, then you think about why they behaved shittily, and you understand their motivations and realize it's all about their own fucked up shit, and then you let it go. Which is probably okay if you are the Buddha or Jesus, but in real life, maybe people really deserve a smack upside their heads. How're they going to stop acting like assholes unless they're called out for it? That's been one of my new missions in life over the past few years, I guess...reaching the middle ground on that. Forgiving but not allowing the shitty behavior to be repeated, and disengaging when it's clear it will be. It's a work in progress.

What brings this all up, Andrea? Oh, been reading about the woman and her 2 year old being kicked off the Southwest flight for the baby being too loud, and responses to that, and responses to the responses. And it all recalled to me a conversation Mr Barma and I had a while ago, about screaming babies and toddlers in public places, especially places wherein they and you are trapped, like an airplane, and how we felt when confronted with such. Namely, not annoyed, but sympathetic for the crying child (who is obviously miserable) but especially for the parent(s). Because there is nothing in parenthood like having a baby or young child that you just cannot comfort in a situation where you *know* it's annoying other people and they are thinking bad thoughts about you and you feel desperate and helpless and embarrassed. My empathy for other parents in that situation? Oh, yeah.

But I guess some people don't realize that if such things as crying children are so distressing to them, they ought to invest in some noise-cancelling earphones and a couple Xanax before every flight and leave the judgmental stinkeye at home. Or develop empathy (more than they have now, less than I have.) Choices in life.

xoxo

consumer complaint #whatever

Okay, so, for my male readers who may not know this, there's this website that's really big right now called ruelala, which sells designer stuff super-discounted for very limited times only. Most of the "boutiques" are scheduled to last like a day or maybe two, but for a lot of them, the stuff sells out before then. And the other thing is, you need to get an invite to get an account there from someone who's already a member. Then the first time they buy something you get money credited to your account.

Anyway. I got my invite from filling out some kind of survey (I can't even remember what) and also a bonus $20 credit. Every weekday, at approximately 11 am, I get the ruelala email with the links to today's boutiques. Today's I open at approximately 11:25. They have Michael Kors outerwear, so I think, ooo, let's look at that. Because I need a down jacket. Ahem. And they have lovely 3/4 length jackets with real down and fake fur hood trim for $79 (and some with real fur hood trim for $119). And by 11:30 am, every one of these jackets in less than a size large or extra large is sold out. So my chance of getting a $240 down jacket for $59 + shipping (with my credit) is basically gone because I did not go to the website at the crack of 11 am. Bastards.

I think at this point the chances of my ever getting to spend that $20 credit is slim. The things that are really good deals sell out immediately. And the things that are not such good deals? Let me reference these fancy shmancy linens they had on there a few weeks ago. The discounted price for a set of sheets was like $800. That's not a typo. I didn't put in an extra zero. Those "bargains" are obviously aimed at a whole different demographic than the one I inhabit. Thousand dollar sheets? You have got to be shitting me.

I gotta make a decision before I leave work today whether I'm donating my old coat tomorrow or not, because I'll need to send it through the washing machine tonight if so. Life is hard. Ha!

xoxo

halloween wrapup and a bonus

So, since I was already dressed mostly in black for work yesterday and since I found my witch's hat in one of the closets when I was looking for where I hid the candy, I managed to put together a half-assed costume for the trick-or-treaters. It wasn't much of an effort but it was a token.

In keeping with my annual tradition of posting about the cutest toddler who came to my door, I shall tell you about the beautiful little girl in a stroller pushed by her dad, foofy dress and tiara, and clearly no conception of what the hell all this was about. "Oh, you *are* a beautiful princess," I said as I put the candy in her pumpkin and her dad grinned ear-to-ear. I predict difficulties in about fifteen years. Also at my door last night? Cougar L! Dressed as a banana and carrying her infant grandson. (I'm pretty sure she's a little younger than me. I was so jellus.) You will all be gratified to hear that she now has a job as a caseworker at the clinic where D gets his meds. Since she is like the best social worker of all time, this is as it should be.

When the trick-or-treaters had ceased, I took a glass of wine upstairs and attacked the late 2008/2009-to-date shoebox, and it has been emptied, filed chronologically, the trash trashed and the things that need to be shredded added to D's to-do pile. I'm kind of torn about how some things should be catagorized: things from Tufts Health Plan--in my "insurance" file or in the "Andrea's medical stuff" file? Etc. But, nevertheless, I was pleased. I almost took photos to post, but really, that joke has probably gone too far.

And, now, your bonus! Whether this is true or untrue, it is in any case absolutely hilarious. Enjoy!

http://www.nydailynews.com/gossip/2009/10/31/2009-10-31_arods_vanity_of_mythic_proportions__has_selfportrait_.html

xoxo