happy summer, kids

Was it or was it not an especially lovely long weekend, weatherwise? I worked Saturday, but the Benevolent L and I managed to get away for a little mini (very mini) vacay and I promised to mention to you, my blog readers, that she forced me to go to the country, even though she knows it traumatizes me. Ahem. Actually, though, we didn't so much go to the country, as drive through a buttload of it. As a matter of fact, we stayed in Brattleboro. And since Brattleboro is one of those hippy dippy crunchy boho towns that I both love so much and love to make fun of, all was well.

Plus Ubaldo 10, baby. The rest of my baseball players were sucking while I left them unattended, but Ubaldo 10!

Hope you all enjoyed yourselves too.

xoxo

it's a fine vintage

I'm going to talk about clothes and some of the memories attached there to, so you all might wanna check out, especially the guys. I don't mind babbling to myself on this one. But before you go? Can I just say that I got an email today for a film about fascia with live narration/commentary by Tom Myers. Two hours long. $50. Are you kidding me? The day I pay $50 to listen to a two hour lecture (even by the god of fascia) that doesn't even provide CEUs is the day I have more money to waste than I have now, that's for sure.

So what else was I doing this morning besides sputtering over Tom Myers gouging the massage therapists of the world? Spending hours looking at 70s era vintage clothing on Etsy. (It's dead at work; only Led Zep Girl, my boss, and I are even here and I am just biding time before I can leave to go get my nails done.) This whole enterprise brought up a lot of thoughts. First of all, there are apparently a fair number of people like me who are fans of the vintage Gunne Sax dresses, because people who have them to sell make it abundantly clear in the listing, so you'll look. And people with knockoffs say "Gunne Sax style" which, pshaw.

Secondly, I was thinking about how incredibly well-made those dresses are. The fabric and stitching and workmanship in the one I have is fabulous, which is why it can be worn 32 years after it was first sold. I'm thinking that 30 years from now, there's not going to be any 00s vintage, except maybe wedding gowns and the like, 'cause all this fucking cheap Chinese-made crap we have now, even at expensive price points, is gonna fall apart by then.

Thirdly, I was thinking that I really wish I had saved all my clothes from the 80s, because I could have sold it now, no question about it. I had two pairs of skinny jeans, sorta acid-washed but not *so* extreme, with zippers in the ankles, from winter 1987 that I can guarantee I could get about $50 for now if only I hadn't gotten rid of them. Also, shoes. I had shoes people would pay good money for now. I guess those people on Hoarders know something after all.

Fourth. All the listings of size seven Gunne Sax dresses on Etsy are very clear that these are tiny little dresses equivalent to about a modern size 2. I wore a size seven in 1978 and I was convinced I was too fat. Oh, yeah.

Finally, all those Gunne Sax dresses remind me of the time in the summer after 8th grade when my two best girlfriends and I took the T into downtown Boston for the first time without our parents to go shopping at Jordan Marsh and Filenes. We didn't *tell* our parents until after the fact, of course, because it's easier to do it and then get in big trouble than to ask permission and be denied. I remember seeing the displays of all those dark cotton floral day dresses, racks and racks, and thinking they were the most beautiful garments ever. And in my rich and full fantasy life, in which I was going to grow up, move to NYC, and write for Glamour magazine, I would wear one of those beautiful dresses to work every single day. Real life adulthood has been a comedown, lemme tell you.

xoxo

but it's not all rainbows and kitten orgasms

While, yes, I was awash in positive vibes today, I also had an experience this afternoon which bears talking about, and which reminded me that I've had a few experiences this week that screamed OMG! this culture is full of poisonous messages! So let's examine them in reverse chronological order, shall we?

This afternoon I had a little six year old patient. She was an adorable little girl--I mean TV-commercial level adorable, and the fact that she was missing her two front teeth only added to it. She happened to be Dominican. Her slightly older brother was with her, and he was a complete chatterbox, watching everything I was doing and peppering me with questions and commentary until his father forcibly removed him to the waiting room saying, "Will you let her work?!" (He really wasn't bothering me, honestly.) But in the course of his chatter, he told me he wanted to have blond hair, and his little sister said she did too. The little girl's hair was long, very very loosely curly, and absolutely gorgeous. "Why do you want it blond?" I asked her. "It's better!" she said. "No!" I said, "Your hair is beautiful!" Her brother picked up a strand of her hair and demurred. "Her hair is wrinkly!" I told them, again, no, that her hair was wavy and that it was so, so pretty, but I don't think I sold it. But how sad is that? At their tender ages they already had soaked up some kind of message that one kind of hair was the best, and furthermore, that kind of hair--blond and straight--is one that no one of their ethnicity was gonna come by naturally. Now, I know little kids get all kinds of strange ideas that hopefully they grow out of. At her age, as we've already established, I thought my name should be Isobel Rose and that if my mother wasn't so mean, she'd let me wear my orange and purple paisley dress every day, and I grew out of that. Though, frankly, if I had an orange and purple paisley dress now, I'd rock the hell out of it. But, yeah, sad anyway. This absolutely beautiful little six year old has already internalized that there's something about her appearance that's "wrong."

Next. The other day on the bus there was a woman with a toddler in a stroller, and the baby kept throwing its bottle onto the floor. The mother's reaction was, and I quote, "You better stop that! You're fucking embarrassing me!" I would have pointed out that, no, she was embarrassing herself by swearing at a baby, but honestly? She looked like she would probably cut a bitch. Y'all seen Precious? Um, yeah. I guess we can all just hope that life follows fiction and that that baby will miraculously grow up able to actually love someone.

And earlier in the week. I was behind an older teenage girl in the pharmacy line at CVS the other night. Her boyfriend was waiting with barely disguised--or maybe undisguised--impatience to the side in the "waiting" chairs. As I walked up, she was saying, "WHAT did you just call me?" Apparently he was disagreeing with a cell phone conversation that she'd just had with her mother. Luckily, I missed what it was that he did call her. For the next five minutes I watched as she tried to get him to pay attention to her, almost desperately, as he texted away and answered her in monosyllables and just wouldn't engage. At one point she said, "What is your problem?!? You act like you don't care what I'm saying!" I wanted to shake her by the shoulders and say, "Jesus Christ on a cracker, sweetheart, he doesn't! What the fuck are you doing tap dancing for this idiot's attention? He isn't worth it. You don't sound like you're exactly the next coming of Einstein, but you're seventeen and you're fairly pretty and your body's probably never gonna look this good again, so at this point you could at least get a guy who *pretends* like he gives a fuck. Drop this loser!" I DON'T KNOW WHAT WE DO TO GIRLS, BUT WE DO SOMETHING. Sigh.

Oh, well. I just heard on ESPN that Ubaldo still lives with his mother. I suppose that means he doesn't need me to be his surrogate mom, make him a nice steak and some brownies, and tell him he's a good boy and I'm proud of him, but it makes me love him all the more.

xoxo

(mostly) everything's right in the world

Here's my evidence.

Ubaldo *9*, baby. 9-1. It's not even June. Think of the possibilities. He could conceivably win 25 games. I know he probably won't, but it's in the realm of the possible. Oh, my favorite Dominican.

You know who else won yesterday? That would be me. We kicked ass at trivia. Now I know every time I brag about that, we then are thoroughly humiliated the next week, but I thought you should all know anyway. And in further bragging, I wore my vintage dress out last night, which you may or may not remember the story of, and it fits so nice now and I looked so cute. If I do say so. Leading to further proof that, yes, this peeing on an effin stick thing is working.

Various friends and acquaintances are having important and exciting things happening in their lives tomorrow, like birthing babies and playing gigs and so on and so forth, and I am full of vicarious pleasure at their getting what they really want.

And there's no work on Monday.

And I started the day out just right today.

The only*** chink in this sea of positivity? As you may have remembered, I have That Asshole Lackey on my fantasy team and I sat him last night (after *not* sitting him against Philly because D convinced me I should give him a shot) and the fucker suddenly remembered how to pitch. Or the (they'll always be Devil) Rays forgot how to hit. Whatever. Oh well.

xoxo

***Second chink? The cat killed another chipmunk (but thankfully did not dismember or eat it) yesterday morning. Apparently she knows where the nest is this year and will keep bringing us one every few days till the genocide is complete. This is not good news if you are a chipmunk. Also, they're pretty damn cute. But circle o' life and all that bullshit.

my fabulous business idea

When I was walking into work yesterday, my boss was at his computer. "Andrea! C'mere!" He was trying to find contact info for a another doctor whose last name he had absolutely no idea to spell, and he thought maybe I knew. Well, no, I did not, *but* I showed him how to look it up on the Board of Registration website even if you don't know the spelling. He was wicked impressed.

So I told him my brilliant idea from the other day. Mr Indemnity had been having trouble looking up something on his iPhone--it wasn't behaving--and said something facetious about whether celebs had flunkies to do that kind of thing for them. And I said "That's it! That's what I should be doing for a living. I should be some rich person's personal Google-er." I think both my boss and Mr Indemnity thought it was an amusing idea, but seriously. I am so good at it. Someone should be paying me. (Okay, okay, I realize that what I really should have been was a research librarian, but Google-er to the stars would be much more glamorous. C'mon now.)

Then later, when I was leaving, my boss was again at his computer having trouble. He asked me if I used Skype. No, sorry, can't help you with that. He asked me what good I was. I told him that a.) I'd solved his problem once already that day and that was his quota and b.)sorry, but I didn't know anyone in any foreign countries I needed to talk to. "No," he said, "you can use Skype locally. Then you can see the person you are talking to." I told him I didn't see any benefit in that, and it would seriously cut down on the number of phone conversations I could have in my underwear. So, like, even if I didn't solve his Skype problem, I did make him laugh. I am worth every penny they pay me, yo.

But I still think I could make a fortune being the Google-er in someone's posse. (There is a precedent. I hear that some celebs who tweet, don't actually tweet themselves, they have their assistants do it. I could do that too!)

xoxo

a few notes

1.) One great thing about fantasy baseball is that it allows me new targets for my seething hatred and thus I don't have to get so upset about social issues, the media, and politics. Seattle Mariners bullpen? Eat shit and die.

2.) I came home from yoga yesterday morning and my dad says to me, "So what's this yoga supposed to be doing for you anyway?" I said, "It's making me strong and flexible." "Why do you want to be strong and flexible?" Oh, Jesus wept. Do you people see what I put up with? Um, because it's preferable to being weak and inflexible? What I said was, "So when I'm 84, I don't walk like this!" ::demonstrate bent-over shuffling walk:: "I don't walk like that!" Which is true, he really doesn't. It was a kinda mean thing to say. However, my other snarky reply was, "So there are more sexual positions I can get into," and at least I didn't go there.

3.) Here's a link to an article about the health, not weight, benefits of intermittent fasting. I have no idea whether the science in the referenced studies holds up, because, like I said, for every study that says one thing about nutrition and weight loss, there's another one contradicting it. But I think it's interesting. I'm on day 6 and doing great. Yesterday, not only did I do my 75 minutes of yoga, I went on a two hour hike later in the day, and I didn't see any negative impact on my energy or endurance. Felt really good, actually.

4.) Mr Indemnity claims he is not going to let me copy his new Exile on Main Street reissue because I will just listen to it on my iPod compressed. I am not totally sure he is joking. I will therefore remind you, and him, about what hipster puppies would say about this:


"barney is more concerned with “dynamic range compression” and “the loudness wars” than the fact that he has shitty taste in music"

5.) And just because I didn't realize I had this downloaded onto my work computer and it is the cuteness, and this is a full-service blog, I give you again:



Happy Monday, bitches!

xoxo

killer

Yesterday evening Evil Kitty was being...annoying. Basically, she was walking all over the house meowing as if she wanted/needed something, and nothing anyone did would satisfy. She had food on her dish. I changed her water so it was nice and fresh and cold. My dad tried to let her out the back and she wouldn't go. I tried to let her out the front and she wouldn't go. (Yes, sometimes she prefers one door over another. Yes, we are whipped.) I had just changed her box, so it was completely poop-free. D brushed her. I brushed her. She just would not settle down.

Finally, I went out on the back porch and she followed me out. I was looking down over the railing, perusing my yard to see if all the weeds I had spent hours last weekend pulling out of my patio bricks had grown back yet, and instead of running down into the yard, she was rubbing against my legs and head-butting me. I turned around, back towards the door, and said, y'know, "What the HELL do you want, cat? What is your problem?" And then I noticed. Immediately in front of the door we'd come out there was a tiny little chipmunk head, a tiny little chipmunk tail, and a bloody lump that was some kind of internal organ. (Let's just not speculate what happened to the rest of it, 'k?) I called D and my dad to come see, then I picked it all up with a paper towel and disposed of it. Evil Kitty went back in the house and settled down for the rest of the night.

Moral? Everyone wants their hard work to be appreciated!

xoxo

i peed on a stick

No, no, no, no. It was not a pregnancy test. No need to alert the National Inquirer, the New England Journal of Medicine, or the Pope. It was a Ketostix(tm). Ketostik? Don't know the singular. Anyway, I bought some because I am a geek and I wanted to see proof that I am in ketosis. That is, that I have used up all my glycogen stores and am now burning fat and nothing but fat. Both yesterday evening and this morning, my stix turned a nice light-to-medium purple, so I am!

As you know, if you have been following along, I love these "my body is a science experiment" deals. If I didn't know that I'm burning fat from the stix, the fact that my clothes are looser, the fact that the scale has moved downward, or the fact that all I *do* is pee, I think I would still know because my whole body feels warmer. It is the strangest thing. It's as if I can actually feel my metabolism ratcheting up. I don't know how else to describe it.

The other thing I have been doing, weight loss-wise, for the past few days is "IF" (intermittent fasting), in particular a variant called Fast-5. I had never actually heard of any of this until just this week, when I came upon it on the interwebz. Of course. Anyway, the mechanics of the Fast-5 are this: basically you do all your eating for the day in a five hour window of your choosing, then fast on just non- or low caloric beverages for 19 hours until your next window. When I read that, I was like Oh! That's sort of mostly what my body wants anyway. As any of you who know me in real life know, I very rarely eat breakfast other than coffee or tea with cream, and if I do eat food in the morning, I am just starving all day. And if I am very busy, or occupied with other things, I can easily go well into the afternoon without eating. But I like a nice hearty dinner, and I like to be able to snack in the evening and/or have a glass of wine as I'm relaxing and winding down, and I like to be able to have a drink or two in the evening if I go out.

All my life I have listened to the "experts" tell me that you must eat breakfast, you should have several small meals a day, eating at night before bed is bad bad bad. But when I eat like that, I just want to eat more and more. The Fast-5 people will tell you that that is because when you're eating small amounts all day, you keep having insulin releases, your blood sugar is bouncing up and down, so you are hungry and often craving carbs. They would suggest that even a brief fast of nineteen hours is enough to kick you over into ketosis, get your body burning fat, keep your blood sugar much more stable, and confer a whole bunch of other benefits I won't go into. If I am reading them right, I also think they imply that you can go into ketosis doing this even eating a moderate amount of carbs. I do not know whether the science behind this is sound, since every single study you read about weight and nutrition contradicts some other one. But I do know it struck a chord for me, because I have always said I'm just not hungry until I eat for the first time in a day.

So I've been trying this since Wednesday and it's been pretty easy, especially since I read a whole bunch of people saying it's fine to use some cream in your coffee, that it doesn't disrupt the fast. The hardest part has been keeping my calories up. In the eating window I've given myself, 5-10pm, it's really hard for me to ingest more than 800-1000 calories, especially not eating crap. I might need to pick a couple days a week not to follow it, so I can calorie cycle.

Anyway, that's my new thing. That and peeing on a stick. You wish your life was as exciting as mine.

xoxo

invasive personal questions for the win

But before we get to that? Ubaldo8, baby.

Okay! To the point! This morning while I was waiting for the bus, an old man with an indeterminate European accent at the bus stop, whom I often see early in the a.m., told me that he sees *me* all the time too, and proceeded to ask me all about my personal business. Now, I wanted to tell him that if he noticed me on his bus frequently, he should make up a little story for himself about who I am, where I am going, and what I'm gonna do when I get there, much like I do to the Possibly Irish Dannys of the world. But good manners or, possibly, lack of balls kept me from saying that I would prefer not to discuss the details of my life with a complete stranger or, to put it more briefly, "none of your business."

It reminded me of how all the advice to the shy and the socially anxious says that if you need to make small talk with people you don't know, you ought to ask them questions about their lives, because "people love to talk about themselves." I always hear that and go, uh, no. There is nothing that will make me more uncomfortable than people I don't know asking me questions about my life. I do have the idea that part of that is just because my life is so screwed up. I suppose if I had a devoted husband, 2.2 beautiful children who were just about to graduate from Ivy League universities, a book deal, a Mercedes, and a law degree, I'd be just thrilled to spill that on anyone who wanted to speak to me, and lots of people who didn't. But, no, seriously, in general my policy is that if I want you to know anything at all about me, I'll tell you. Otherwise don't go invading my privacy. If you wanna make small talk, discuss the fucking weather or baseball. We can have a nice chat about Ubaldo.

I find this particularly hard now in relation to D, of course. For instance, in work, I have a lot of families that I have seen for many many years, and they know I have a kid, and through the years it's been "Oh, how old is your son now? What school is he at?" and so forth. Innocuous and polite. But now it's, "Oh, how old is your son? What's he doing now?" And while that is, on the face of it, also innocuous and polite, these are people who are not my close personal friends*** and I don't particularly feel like explaining to them that he's disabled, that he has a form of schizophrenia. I also don't want to lie. I usually say something about how he's had some serious health problems, but that he's doing better, and count on them being sensitive enough not to press for further details. But it makes me think, you know, that's a loaded question. For every stranger or distant acquaintance whom you ask how their young adult child is doing who's gonna proudly tell you he's graduating from MIT or she's in the Peace Corps in Rwanda saving the world, there's another whose kid is in rehab or prison or the psych hospital, and your innocuous and polite question is gonna twist the knife in their heart just a little bit. I dunno. I myself now stick to vague general inquiries like "How's the family?" which satisfy politeness, can be answered in detail if the person *wants* to spill and passed off with an "oh, pretty good," if they don't.

And I never ask strangers on public transportation to explain where they are going and why. The fake lives I make up for them are, I'm sure, more interesting than the real answers anyway.

xoxo

***There are a select few parents of patients whom I do feel bonded enough with to tell them real details about D, but they are very small in number.

continued

There were a few things I forgot to tell you all about my shopping trip yesterday. I don't know why I think anyone is interested, but nevertheless, too bad if you're not. First of all, remember when I said there is not a garment in the world that looks worse on me than one of those dropped-waist, blouson-y dresses or tops? I take it back and give you instead: the flutter sleeve. I keep trying on dresses and shirts with flutter sleeves, for reasons that are unclear to me--it's as if I think this time they're magically NOT going to make my arms look like slabs of ham, and every time it's "ewww!" Not flattering. I'm not sure who they are supposed to flatter: women with skinny arms? women with broad shoulders? women with small breasts? Or *maybe* they look like poop on everyone and are a sad joke pulled on us by the fashion industry! Couldn't tell ya.

I also have my issues with puffed sleeves, though I love them dearly. I tried on a very cute dress yesterday. It had puffed sleeves, a scoopneck, fitted waist and A-line skirt, and it actually fitted nicely except: BOOBS! I looked like nothing so much as buxom Greta the slutty bairmaid who will take you out behind the biergarten for the right price, which is not the look I am going for professionally. So did not buy.

The other sad realization I had yesterday when trying summer clothing on in many different scarily lit dressing rooms is that the pilaris keratosis on my upper arms is outta control and I should have been using my super-strong AHA body lotion on them all winter, rather than just ignoring skin that doesn't see the light of day October through May. Sigh.

But today I am wearing my new black pants and blazer. It came to me that in my skinny legged black pants, black jacket, and white T-shirt, I am looking a little New Wave, like channeling Ric Ocacek*** circa 1982. So I wore tan sandals and gold earrings to hopefully distract from that. Eh. Better Ric than slutty Greta!

xoxo

***I can't be arsed to google how he actually spells it right now. Gotta run!

what life do you think you're living...

and other fashion news!

So, there's an article on jezebel today, poking some gentle fun at some of your better known catalogues and what your life would be like if you were actually living in them. The reader comments follow up with their own suggestions, several of which made me actually LOL. One of the ones I appreciated the most was from poster "tiredfairy" who took on the Sundance catalogue. I quote:

Sundance: Life is full of hand beaten jewelry that is raw and beautiful...just like the rugged mountains. When you're not prospecting for gold, just for fun, you're weaving hemp and going horseback riding. Before heading down to a glamorous screening of 30s films, because we all know black and white was better. Your house is made out of knotted pine you cut down yourself, but you still have a private jet to take you wherever you want to go. Also, Robert Redford is your neighbor. He brings you soup. So you win.

Do you know *why* I loved this so much? Because Sundance is my very favoritest catalogue evah. I would wear just about every piece of clothing in it and all of the jewelry, and would be quite pleased to own about 75--okay, 100--% of the furniture. The description cracks me up, because it's spot-on, and because it's so far removed from my white trash, prison-bus-taking, urban eastern Massachusetts reality. It's not like I'm ever going to live in a 3 million dollar "cabin" in the foothills of the Rockies and, frankly, horseback riding traumatized me, but goddammit, I want those people's stuff! It's kinda hilarious.

But, back to my actual, not fantasy, life. I had a whole day today void of responsibilities. No places to go, no people to see. Last night I said to myself, "Andrea? Tomorrow you could stay home and clean the house like a nice responsible person. Or you could go to the mall, because you haven't gone to the mall and just shopped by yourself for many months." Guess what I picked? Shut up. I keep telling you I need clothes for work.

First of all, because I fit into a pair of jeans I could not wear 2 weeks ago, I was in a positive mood to begin with. (If that is not proof to you all that this low carb bullshit works--10 days of it and there's already a difference in how my clothes fit--I dunno what is. Plus I'm down two more pounds since the weekend.) But positive mood or not, there are days I go shopping and I can't even find anything I want to try on, never mind buy. Today was not such a day. I spent lots o' money, but since I haven't basically spent any money in the last month, that's okay. And I actually got clothes I can wear to my job! Shock!

I bought:



these pants. Keep in mind, they go all the way down to the ankle on me, because, y'know, I'm short.



and these. Likewise, not so cropped.



and this dress.



and these shoes (but I don't have them yet...they're shipping them to me because they were out of my size.)



and this cute little blazer, but in black. It was half off!



and, finally, this shirt, but in off-white, not white-white. And NO I can't wear that to work, because it's pretty see through, but it's so frigging pretty and you know how much I love that hippie dippy boho crap and it was 40% off. That's my story and I'm sticking to it.

I hope you enjoyed this virtual shopping trip and appreciate how long it took me to find everything I bought online for your viewing pleasure. Because I love you guys.

xoxo

more battle of the sexes

(Not really.)

My boss's wife just had some major orthopedic surgery last week and, having not bounced back quite as quickly as predicted, had to spend a few days in the rehab hospital. But she's probably going to be discharged today. We were discussing this yesterday and he was, frankly, a little freaked out. "I'm going to have to nurse her."

"You're a medical professional. I'm sure you can handle it."

"I don't do nursing."

"You'll need to be the nurse, the PT..."

"...the driver, the grocery shopper, the housekeeper... I have a dilemma. I'm trying to figure out whether to go buy some new shirts or learn how to iron."

It's a good thing, boys and girls, that I wasn't drinking anything, because I did a spit-take. "Seriously? SERIOUSLY? You don't know how to iron a shirt??"

"Uh, no--"

"You can take them to the laundry, you know."

"Yeah. I have a bunch of them that are washed but that she didn't iron, though. (Ed note: God. You'd think the woman would've ironed before her major knee surgery.) They'd probably just iron them for me, right?"

"I would think."

"I dunno. I could probably figure it out. There are a bunch of buttons. And something to do with steam. But it's probably not that hard."

"No, it really isn't."

"I wouldn't want to get too good at it though. I'd have to leave a few scorch marks--"

"Yeah, yeah. If you prove yourself competent, you'll have to do it all the time. Typical male thinking."

"I think I'll just go buy some shirts."

"You kill me."

The funniest part of this whole conversation, kids? I had to bite my tongue to stop from suggesting that *I'd* iron his shirts if he brought them into work. You know how I feel about doing laundry. It's embarrassing, but there you go.

xoxo

feel free to skip this post

I need to write this out to organize my thoughts, because I realize the crazee is lurking. As you know, I am on a diet. This diet was precipitated by a huge wave of body loathing, triggered by catching a really bad angle of my stomach in the mirror. As you probably also know, I have a long history of borderline eating disordered behavior, borderline body dysmorphism, and just a general unhealthy relationship with how I look and what I eat. A couple years ago, I sorta made the decision to never diet again, accept that I am an old woman now and that my body isn't going to look good no matter what, and just stop obsessing about it and let my body do what it wants. No more depriving myself. No more crazy eating regimens.

Well, I've had some limited success with that, but every time I've lost a few pounds without trying during that period (because I'm crazed with anxiety so much that I can't eat, mainly) I'd be so happy about it. And when I started eating normally again and the few pounds came back, I'd be sad. No matter what I tell myself intellectually, that I'm middle-aged and I'm going to have a middle-aged woman's body, I don't want my setpoint to be 10 or 15 pounds higher than it was when I was twenty. Whine, whine. And all it takes is a small comment from someone or a bad clothes-trying-on experience or a bad angle in the mirror to trigger that disgust with myself. I know this is sick and unhealthy, but rationality doesn't enter into it.

So now I'm back to dieting because I can't be at peace with my stomach looking like it does. I was talking to M1 yesterday--and let me say, her relationship with her weight and her body is as screwed up as mine, and in the years I've known her, she has tried every single weight loss scheme known to man short of liposuction or weight loss surgery (which she isn't overweight enough to need)--and she asked how the low carb is going for me this time and if I'd lost any weight. I told her I wasn't exactly sure because I hadn't weighed myself to start, but when I weighed myself over the weekend, the number on the scale was a pleasant surprise, but disconcerting in that I usually look better at this weight than I do now. My fear is that I'll lose five or ten pounds and it won't come off my belly and the sides of my waist. That even at the weight I want to be, I'm not going to have the nice curviness I had 5 or 6 years ago at that weight.

As part of my getting borderline obsessed again about losing weight, I've been reading various weight-loss and low-carb support forums online the last few days. Those are *somewhat* reassuring in the "well, at least I'm not as fucked in the head as most of these people" kinda way. But one topic I read this morning was about choosing your goal weight, and it was really interesting to me. People saying that they want to weigh what they weighed twenty years ago in high school or college, other people saying they knew that was unrealistic, and others saying they'd know when they got to it. I started thinking about the two times in my life that I got down to my lowest adult weight which is 112/113.

The first time was in 1989. I had lost all my baby weight in early 1987 and was at what my "normal" weight for that time in my life was, somewhere between 116-120. But I decided I wanted to be thinner than that. So, in keeping with the prevailing wisdom of the times, I went really low-fat; I was also going to the gym *a lot* then. When I got down to 112/113 then, I was fairly muscular and for the only time in my life, I lost my breasts. I think I had some bras that were 34Bs, and even S, who I was already broken up with by then, frowned at me and asked, "What happened to your boobs?" one day. I'm imagining my body fat percentage was pretty low then, comparatively speaking. I have pictures of me taken in New Orleans that year, at probably my lowest weight, and while my thighs were still curvy, I was tiny.

The second time I got down to that weight was in 2003, immediately after my mom's death. I had low carbed myself down to 118ish in the preceding year, and then the stress of my mom's illness knocked off another five pounds. I wasn't working out then at all. I was also 14 years older than the last time I weighed that. This time, my boobs did not go away. I was wearing a 32D bra, but you could see every vertebra in my back and count my ribs. My thighs were still curvy with a layer of fat and my naturally big quads. I was aware of feeling just a tiny bit too thin, for me. The total lack of padding in my back made, for example, sitting in a hard-backed seat uncomfortable. But I bought a lot of clothes that summer because everything I tried on looked awesome. Ha! I'm sure my body fat percentage was higher then than in 1989, but really in a good, hour-glassy way.

The point of all this is not that I think I am ever going to be 113 again, nor do I want to be. I don't think it's realistic to get there at this point, and definitely not realistic to stay there. Plus, I'm old. I need some fat in my face to plump up the wrinkles, yo. No, the point is, reflecting on how different my body looked at the same weight in 1989 and 2003, I am even more afraid that when (not "if", motherfuckers) I get down to 120-125ish now, I won't lose the belly fat. What if I lose a cup size and my belly stays the same? That would look worse. What if I do have to get to "no facial fat" before my love handles go away? That might possibly look worse.

It's like, it took me till the age of 42 to accept and love my bulgy Polish catcher's thighs. Is it going to take me to age 70 to accept middle-aged woman's stomach? Will I finally be at peace with my body by the time I die? I don't want to be that woman in the magazine that I wrote about, having plastic surgery at age 78 or whatever. My whole brain being fucked up about this (though not as bad as some of those people who count their carb grams down to the percentage point, thankyouverymuch) disgusts me as much as my belly flab does, but I don't know how to fix it. Telling myself I'm not going to care anymore didn't fix it. Positive reinforcement from other people doesn't fix it. Antidepressants haven't fixed it. I mean, I am better about this than I was 25 years ago, but like I said, I don't want another 25 years to go by before it ceases to exist at all. It's very discouraging in a lot of ways.

I told you not to read this.

xoxo

this amused me way too much

Apparently, I am an oversexed, cranky heretic who nevertheless tries to be a good person. But we knew that!

The Dante's Inferno Test has banished you to the Sixth Level of Hell - The City of Dis!
Here is how you matched up against all the levels:

Level	Score
Purgatory (Repenting Believers)	Very Low
Level 1 - Limbo (Virtuous Non-Believers)	Very High
Level 2 (Lustful)	High
Level 3 (Gluttonous)	Low
Level 4 (Prodigal and Avaricious)	Very Low
Level 5 (Wrathful and Gloomy)	High
Level 6 - The City of Dis (Heretics)	Very High
Level 7 (Violent)	Moderate
Level 8- the Malebolge (Fraudulent, Malicious, Panderers)	Low
Level 9 - Cocytus (Treacherous)	Low

Take the Dante's Inferno Hell Test

What circle of hell do you belong in?

and speaking of civility

So, I told you I'm reading Julie and Julia. I looked at the reviews on amazon now that I am halfway through, and they are almost equally divided between people who love the book and people who hate the book and the author. These people hate the book and author because she uses too much profanity (oops, there goes *my* book deal), because she makes fun of Republicans, and because, well, they think she sounds like a not-very-nice person even when she's the one doing the writing about herself. They think she is whiny. They think she is mean.

Oh, god. Again, there goes my book deal, 'cause I think what these readers are processing as "whiny" is very similar to my own writing style. She'll rant about how annoying something or someone is and her subsequent urges to punch them in the head, but in a humorous way, and in a way that suggests she knows she is complaining, knows that this problem *isn't* the most horrible thing that ever happened to anyone, has some self-awareness. It's just a description of her own crankiness, played for laughs. If the reading public considers that whining, well, they better not drop by this blog. Just sayin'.

On the other hand? I can see "mean." She really is not very nice to her long-suffering husband in the book, but her portrayal of marriage is unfortunately one I see every freaking day in real life. People *are* mean as shit to their spouses. People speak to their husbands and wives in ways they would never speak to a friend or a stranger. People belittle their spouses to, and in front of, other people constantly. The lack of basic respect many married people treat each other with is stunning. (If you are me, and have tried hard for the past fifteen years to not be that person.) So while I'm reading her book and noticing she is kinda mean to her husband in it, it doesn't strike me as terribly out of the ordinary.

But then, while I am on amazon, I decide to see what else she's written. The second book is also autobiographical. It's all about how she cheats on her husband. Oh. I guess there was trouble in paradise after all!

xoxo

why i love my job, reason twelvety-hundred and six

I had this little three year old patient this morning. Her mom was young-ish, mid-twenties probably, very nice, and obviously smart. The little girl was wound up like a cheap watch (to use a cliche that makes no sense anymore since no one winds their watch even if they wear one) out in the waiting room. "Mommy! Look at this! Mommy! What's that? Mommymommymommy!" But she was apparently very shy with strangers and she would not say one word to me. Clammed up totally. Well, it took forEVER to test her. I had to try every trick in my considerable book to get her to do what I needed her to do, but eventually we had success. I was pleased, mom was pleased.

When they were getting to leave, I got her some Barbie stickers for being a good girl, because I'm about nothing but enforcing sex role stereotypes, don't you know. In keeping with her determination to not speak one word directly to me, she would not say "thank you" even after her mother attempted to get her to about five times. No offense taken. I was an extremely shy child myself. Her mom thanked me profusely and off they went.

Because I had just spent twice as long on that as I had expected to, I was now running very late for lunch. And, in case you weren't aware, I'm on a diet and I need my meager sad little meals at their proper time, thankyouverymuch. So I cleaned up as quickly as I could and ran over to the cafeteria. After procuring my sad little scoop of chicken salad*** on a plate with some pathetic tomatoes and pickle slices, no bread, I returned to my office to see a big piece of paper on my stretcher. A note.

Andrea,
We came back so [child's name] could properly thank you. Thank you again for your patience & time.
--[mom and child]

Is that the fucking sweetest thing ever? Just when you start to think everyone in the world is a self-centered, obtuse, rude, entitled asshole with no sense of graciousness, you find proof that not only do considerate and polite people still exist, some of them are trying their hardest to teach these qualities to their children. It warms a person's cold, black, cranky heart, it does. I'm saving the note.

xoxo

***Yes, yes, I know, no one is forcing me to be on a diet so I should stop whining about it. But I hate this. I like food. You know that motto "nothing tastes as good as thin feels"? It's a fucking lie.

que pasa, bitches?

Some day soon I will write a post of substance, a post of coherence, a post with a point that actually makes a point. Today, however, is not that day. Today you get, yet again, the random spewings of my brain. Though fear not! There will be no more links to vaguely upsetting pictures of anyone's senator. (You must admit, when you inflict that upon your reading public, there's nowhere to go but up. There's a plan in everything I do.)

First of all I want to tell you one more time how much I love google. Not an hour ago, Led Zep Girl and Townie Girl were having a discussion of MTV back in the day, and while Led Zep Girl could name most of the original VJs, she was stuck on one. "Tall goofy guy with spiky hair..." TG had no idea, and I'll be damned if I did either when they pulled me into this. But I googled and in ten seconds or less my amazing google-fu presented: Alan Hunter. Ten years ago this would have been one of those questions where your brain hurt and the answer popped randomly into your head at 3 am and you'd have to resist from calling the person you'd been debating it with and waking them up.

Second of all, I'd like to tell you the good, the bad, and the torture-Andrea points of trivia last night. I was a good little low carb girl and decided that I would allow myself one, and just one, beer. So I sipped my delicious IPA with very tiny little girly sips (and immense self-discipline) all night and made it last. On the bad side of the equation, the answer to the halftime question was the Red Hot Chili Peppers, and I did *not* get it on the first clue because I didn't know what their original band name was. (Anthony, I'm sorry, baby. I will study the facts of your life with more diligence and not get distracted by how much I would like to lick every one of your tattoos. Pinky swear.) Torture Andrea? The host played "No More No More" by Aerosmith and so I was moved to lip synch it, as you do, to Mr Barma, who then asked with amusement if I were wasted on the quarter of an IPA that I had consumed up until that point. I said NO, I just liked that album--Toys in the Attic, you philistines--and did he know how many times I listened to it in high school? To which he replied, "How many times on your back?" Oh, everyone is a comedian. You write one little tiny post about what music you used to have sex to as a teenager and you never hear the end of it. God.

Thirdly, I am finally reading "Julie and Julia" because I plan on renting the DVD of the movie and I always like to read the book first, so the movie will suck in comparison. I kid, I kid. But actually, I am on that kick again of reading people's humorous autobiographical opuses that started out as blogs and turned into a book deal, 'cause Jesus Christ, man, doesn't the whole world need to know what music I fucked to in high school in print? Keep hope alive n' all.

And last, what do we think of these sandals and similar styles? I find the whole ankle-cuff thing very fresh and kinda intriguing, but I fear I am too old and/or too short for that crap and that while Our Lil MILF could get away with such things, I would look ridic. (Plus I have to admit I don't need any more flat sandals. I'm supposed to be looking for shoes for work. This is the kind of thing that leads me to buy yet another pair of jeans when I go out looking for work clothes. Sigh. I want a lifestyle in which I can wear jeans and funky sandals every day. Like blogger-turned-highly-paid-author! That'd work.)

xoxo

things i need to tell you, for some definition of "need"

Do you guys know who fuckin' (cheater cheater) A-Rod is dating now? Cameron Diaz. I've never like her, so I don't even have to suck down some haterade! But, y'know, another blond? Way to be predictable. Is it a fetish or something? Wouldn't you want to bang a brunette or redhead once in awhile, just for variety's sake? I don't understand. Explain to me.

The is-Elena-Kagan-a-lesbian-or-not bullshit is irritating me no end. I don't see unmarried, short hair, and played softball as irrefutable evidence, dudes. Nor do I see "dated guys in college" as an irrefutable defense. But since I don't think it's anyone's damn business either way, STFU, news media and pundits. Shut up shut up shut up.

Speaking of politics (ha!), and defying my oh god who cares stance, I must admit I clicked on this. And was disturbed. He's fucking creepy, and I can't tell if it's because all guys looked creepy in the 80s or because he has the eerie Ken doll resemblance. I mean, don't you look at those photos and picture a smooth and featureless groin and knees that don't bend? Just me? Okay.

xoxo

babies, the movie

I've tried twice in the past 24 hours to write a review of this and given up. I have no idea how to say some of what I want to say without sounding like a douchebag who buys into the whole "noble savages" shit that pissed me off so much in Avatar or who is romanticizing abject poverty. Be that as it may, I am now going to persevere. And if you're reading this, I did!

In case you've been under a rock or something, let me tell you the premise of the movie. It's a documentary about the first year of life of four different infants, one American, one Japanese, one Namibian, and one Mongolian. There is no plot, no narration, no subtitling of the non-English dialogue. It's just babies. To like this film you need to a.) love babies and b.) find the cross-cultural stuff fascinating. In other words, you gotta be me, basically.

The American parents were from San Francisco and named their child "Hattie." That's all we need to say about that, right? You get the picture immediately. The Japanese couple seemed young, urban, and hip. The mom (and all her girlfriends) looked effortlessly chic and stylish in every frame; the dad spent an entire cell phone call shaking a rattle in front of the baby faithfully and ceaselessly to keep her amused without actually ever paying attention to her, which was pretty funny. The Mongolian family lived in this incredible yurt. From the outside, it looked like a tent. Um, with a big-ass satellite dish. Inside, it was beautiful, with all these gorgeous woven carpets and pretty furniture, most of which looked like it wouldn't fit in there when you saw the place from the outside. Not to mention Legos, cell phones, and two liter bottles of Coke. But they've been a nomadic people for a millennium or so, right? I guess you get damn good at tents. The father seemed to be off away working most of the time, so the mom was working awfully hard, taking care of cattle and goats and an infant and a toddler who tormented the younger brother with great delight at every opportunity.

But the Namibians? The father--in fact, all the adult males--seemed to be off too, herding or whatever it is they do. Meanwhile, the women seemed to be living this pretty chill lifestyle. Maybe it was just the editing, but we only saw one scene of the mom grinding grain. The rest of the time they were hanging out outside, chatting and laughing with their friends, sharing food amongst each other, keeping an eye on the kids (who were also keeping an eye on each other), nursing the babies including (I think, it was hard to tell) each other's. I don't mean to minimize that these people had *nothing* materially; certainly no satellite dishes and cell phones there. But everyone looked well-nourished. Everyone looked relaxed and happy and like they had each other's back. The Namibian baby was the smiliest little kid you ever saw. It really makes you think something is missing in modern industrial Western life. These women were not working 8 and 10 hours a day. They were not commuting. They were not spending hours a day cleaning house or fucking mowing their lawns. They were not being neurotic about OMG, is it alright to feed the baby now? OMG, the baby just put a handful of dirt in her mouth. OMG, the baby's french-kissing the dog (she did, it was hilarious). I'm sure they must worry and stress about something, because that's human nature, but there just did not seem to be the constant level of tension that most of us go through our privileged little lives with. Again, it might just be the editing, but these women were not yelling at their kids or seeming overwhelmed by them. (The diaper-less baby poops on your leg? You wipe it off. No harm, no foul.)

Part of it is probably the sense of community and that it seems like there's always someone there to help you out or be helped. But part of it has to be the lack of material stuff. The vast majority of our worries in this consumer society are driven by needing stuff, needing enough money to pay for our stuff, envy over other people's stuff or shame at not having the proper stuff, having worry and angst implanted in our brains by the media so we can be sold more stuff. It's so clear when you look at it, but so hard to do anything about. I mean, I am a hopeless case, too imprinted by now. If I lived in a tent, I'd want the satellite dish and the Legos. You?

xoxo

disgruntlement parade

Shall we discuss all the people, places, and things that are making me muy triste, and why?

My baseball players. Adam Jones is being taken out of the lead-off spot for Baltimore, 'cause he's not being, shall we say, very effective. Candidates for his replacement at the top of the order include--wait for it...wait for it--one Julio Lugo. Dude. If Julie is getting your job, you know your lack of hitting is making Andrea muy triste.

My body. Really, I am feeling super ugly even though I finally washed my hair. (Ha!) My dad told me the other day that I am a nice-looking woman and he's not just saying that because I'm his daughter, but we do not accept visual compliments from people who are on the borderline of legally blind. In an attempt to make myself feel better, and/or punish myself, I am as of today cutting out the carbs, which is the only way I can lose weight other than starvation (and you know how unhappy I was with the starvation when I tried it a few weeks ago). I had for lunch today what I had every day for two and a half years at one point: two cafeteria cheeseburgers with the buns thrown away. Yum. This also means no beer and no onion rings, both of which are tragic in their own right when absent. Wish me luck.

My ability to get my act together. I've been doing shit like missing buses and not getting things done even though I actually have time to do them and back-sliding on keeping the house really clean and not meditating and not exercising consistently and not forcing my dad to do stuff he should be doing because nagging and arguing with him is too exhausting and and and. I'm just tired and in one of those funks I get into where I just want someone to take care of me for a change. Wish me luck with that too. Ha!

The fact that it's all of a sudden so freaking cold. I was becoming spoiled with actually having spring this year. I know, this is Boston, WTF was I thinking?

The new shoes I am wearing that a.) look way too glittery in certain lights rather than just metallic, which is what I thought they were and b.) are giving me blisters on my Achilles tendon even though I have tights on (see above). My other flats are on their very last legs and I really thought these would work as a replacement, but no. Not for work anyway.

I think that's all I have to complain about. I will, however, add, not as a complaint but as an observation, that last Saturday when the postal service had their food drive, we were the only people on this street that put anything out. Cheap bastards.

xoxo

in honor of mother's day...

I just downloaded Van Halen I (which is just "Van Halen" actually) from iTunes. I figure if I hadn't spent so much time making out and, eventually, fucking to this album on the 8-track of my future ex-husband's Dodge Duster in 1978***, we would never have fallen in love and eventually procreated. I could have ended up childless! It all makes perfect sense, especially when you're drinking Gnarly Head Old Vine Zin, which, while not from Paso Robles, is my go-to cheap wine. I cannot drink too much cheap wine, however, since I need to stay up for SNL tonight. (Jay-Z and Betty White! Holla!)

I am inordinately fond of this album, needless to say. Doesn't everyone have music they associate with falling in love for the first time? And, I'm sorry, even without all the fond memories of the summer of '78, it kicks ass. I, right now, am listening to "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love"--which is my favorite track--for the fifth time in a row. A few years ago, my good friend Mr Indemnity and I were in a Newbury Comics poking around and they had this album playing and I hadn't heard it in *so* long and I was basically head-banging and dancing in the aisles. Mr Indemnity was vaguely embarrassed****, especially since he's a big music snob and poo-poos anything that can be classified as "classic rock." But I maintain, and will till I die, that the inability to enjoy Van Halen I is a sad defect in anyone's character! (And, c'mon, if you can't give Eddie props for his amazing guitar chops, you gotta respect that he was banging Valerie for all those years! She is, and always has been, hot.)

Occasionally at trivia, the host, who is also the DJ, will play some Van Halen. Invariably (because there is *no* joke I cannot run into the ground) I will turn to Mr Barma all fake wide-eyed and say deadpan, "If you could play some Van Halen on your guitar, I would probably sleep with you!" Then I crack and start laughing, because, c'mon, I keep telling you people--it's bar trivia. Beer is involved. Mr Barma will demure that there's "play" and then there's "play like Eddie." Well, that's the quality difference between sleeping with *me* and sleeping with Valerie. No brainer!

Okay, that's all I have to say about this album right now. I should check how my baseball players are doing. Happy Mother's Day! Watch my girl Betty and my boy Jay-Z!

xoxo

***It occurs to me that some of my blog readers were not even friggin' fetuses in 1978. (Hi, J & J!) Is it disturbing to anyone else that I'm this old? No? Just me, then.

****Okay, yes, I will admit that my dancing anywhere can be construed as embarrassing. That doesn't excuse Mr Indemnity's failure to appreciate "Ain't Talkin' 'Bout Love." God.

important non-tragic public blog announcement

So, this morning, after I said what a crappy crappy day I was having so far, Mr Barma gave me a stellar fantasy baseball tip about whom I should pick up on waivers, even though he could well have grabbed the guy himself. I said, "Paco!"--I call Mr Barma "Paco" even though that's not his name, do not ask me to explain this--"Why are you being so nice to me?" And Mr Barma opined that while I am remembering how very, very good to me he is being, I ought to tell you, my readers, that sleeping with the commissioner, keeping him supplied with arnica, and doing my level best to keep his fascia in serviceable shape even though he gets less than one fifth the number of massages that douche Lance Armstrong does does in fact come with benefits. Because I think I may have been asking about the quid pro quo of that in here earlier. Ahem.

Consider yourselves told. (And thanks for Starlin Castro, Paco! You're the best!)

xoxo

tragic

I don't want to suggest this day has started out wrong, but I'll just lay out the facts for you.

• I woke up this morning to get ready for work and we were having a huge thunderstorm. Pouring rain, loud thunder, and when I went to make coffee, dramatic lightning right outside my kitchen window. I made the executive decision that immersing myself in water probably was not the smart move and so I should skip bathing or showering. So I just brushed my teeth and washed my face and sponge-bathed the crucial other areas and called it a day. Not ideal, right?, but serviceable. Except. I had my hair colored on Wednesday afternoon, and as the ladiez probably know but the gentlemens might not, one is supposed to hold off washing one's hair for 36 or 48 hours afterwards so the color sets and lasts better. I usually don't make it past a day and a half because I can't stand my hair feeling dirty, but I was really good this time. I didn't wash it Thursday. I didn't wash it Friday. And I couldn't wash it this morning. Ew. Yes, boys and girls, I am officially gross.
• Also, remember how earlier in the week I mentioned that women are usually pretty brand- and product-loyal to their menstruation supplies? Well. Thursday after work and Friday after work I had things to do (see: lawn mowing and pedicure getting) and I just did not get to the CVS. I am out of my regular supplies and using free samples that came in the mail which I have stashed for emergencies and I am not happy. There's a reason I buy what I usually buy and not this crap. However, I can blame no one for my laziness but myself. I could have made myself detour to the store even though I was tired. FAIL.
• Felix Hernandez.

But at least I got to annoy you people with bullet points, so everything has its upside.

xoxo

friday randomosity, pm version

Shut up. At least these posts aren't bullet-pointed or numbered. It *could* get worse.

Right now I am drinking a Sobe lifewater called "cherimoya punch". Doubleyoo Tee Eff. Question: what is a cherimoya? Answer: hell if you or I know, 'cause I'm sure they just made it up. I wish *I* had a job at a beverage company making up weird flavors and naming them as if they were something actually found in nature. What does one have to study in college to get a gig like that? This water also bills itself as "lean machine" with no explanation of how it supposedly is making me less fat even as we speak. Maybe if I drink enough of it, I can wear a tankini without making people vomit!

Later today I am getting a pedicure. Aren't you excited for me? Of course you are. I have no idea what color I want my nails to be. So if you have any brilliant suggestions about that, you probably should comment soon. Otherwise I will be left to my own devices and do you really want that to happen? I'm a woman that buys cherimoya punch, for fuck's sake.

Have you noticed it's *not* PMS week this week?

Smooches!

xoxo

friday randomosity

I forgot to mention that after the other night, That Asshole Lackey has been upgraded to That Bastard Lackey. He'll get on my good side yet. You watch. "Stop talking about baseball, Andrea." Okay!

I just started watching the second season of Californication from Netflix, and in the first episode, David Duchovny is getting a vasectomy. His urologist's assistant comes on to him in the hallway afterwards and tells him he has a nice-looking cock. Well, of course in my rich and full fantasy life, he DOES, because--as we've recently gone over--he's one of my celebrity make-believe boyfriends. Be that as it may, I found my suspension of disbelief sorely tested. I'd say that even in Los Angeles, medical care cannot be *that* unprofessional, but then I did see in the news that one of the big university hospitals out there is in big trouble because the staff were giving each other French manicures and eyebrow waxes in the NICU. If my sick little baby's neonatalogist had enough fingernail to *get* a French manicure, I'm pretty sure I'd demand a new doctor. I don't even want to think about what I'd do if I found out she got it on top of a transport incubator while she was on duty. So, yeah, I guess I should be more charitable about TV writing that suggests urologist's nurses size up (see what I did there?) the patients' equipment and ask out the ones that measure up. (See what I--oh, never mind.)

In other news, I cut my "lawn" for the second time this year last night. Every time I do it, I ponder how I could get rid of it completely. Who invented the concept of a lawn? Someone with servants, I'll bet! There's a house on Mr Indemnity's street whose whole front yard is covered in, instead of grass, a huge patch of lily of the valley. I'm sure it looks like hell 50 weeks out of the year, but right now it looks and smells incredible. I picked some the other night whilst Mr Indemnity pretended not to know me and I accused him of being chicken-shit. (Yeah, yeah, I know, it's much easier to commit garden larceny when it's not *your* neighbors.) But seriously. They have a whole front yard full. I admire their nonconformity even as I steal a few flowers.

Okay. That'll do for now. Namaste, bitches.

xoxo

giving freud his props

I'll direct you to this essay, and the comments thereon. It's pretty funny in its own rights, but the plethora of "OMG, I thought I was the only one!"s in the comments section I find fascinating. There's this weird denial in our culture (most cultures?) that many little kids have sexual feelings well before puberty, and if it's acknowledged it makes some people wicked uncomfortable. (We've talked about IGS in here before, right?, and how some parents are relieved and happy at that diagnosis and how others freak the hell out. They'd almost rather hear that their kid is having seizures than that she's learned how to masturbate at age 2.)

It will surprise probably none of you that your humble correspondent was one of those little kids who had a strong drive way, way before she ever knew what sex was. Despite my policy of TMI all the time, I'm not gonna discuss everything, but I will discuss a couple of things. When my friend K and I were in, I think, third grade, we would play this game where we would take turns shutting each other in my bedroom closet and not letting the person in the closet out until they begged. I found this an extremely diverting, thrilling, and tingle-making way to pass the time, but OMG, did my mother freak out when she caught us doing it. I'm not exactly sure *how* she deduced there was some kind of twisted sexual element to this little game, but I'm sure she did, based on the threats of how much trouble we were going to be in if we ever did that again. Ha!

I'm sure I've also discussed in here how my mother used to have tons of ladies' magazines around the house and how she for whatever reason never minded if I read them. I learned the majority of the sexual education I *didn't* pick up on the street from them, because I sure as hell didn't get any at home or in school. I remember being about eleven or so and reading about orgasms and having the lightbulb go on over my head. Ohhhhh, so that's what that is! Who knew?!?

D was probably in third grade or so himself when I found him sitting on the floor of my bedroom absolutely pouring over a stack of my catalogs, the Victoria's Secret ones being prominent. "I just wanted to see what's in your magazines, mom," he said in an embarrassed voice. And the difference between 1970 and 1993 is that *I* said, "Sure, D, go ahead." If I knew how much boob pron and probably fake nude pictures of Alyssa Milano this was going to lead to being downloaded onto *my* computer six years later, I might well have reconsidered!

Okay, I think that's as much as I feel comfortable talking about in a public forum. But if you're my close personal friend and you want to know more fascinating stories about, say, my confirmation and the moment at which I knew I am indeed going to hell, or what happened in first grade that was a precursor for some of the best times I've had in my adult life, or what the precursor to *that* was, you just ask me some time. Meanwhile, you just read that article and reflect on whether you were a weird child or not.

xoxo

and a big giant FU

"I don't believe in tankinis or bikinis after you have reached a certain age and you have a muffin top or a Buddah belly or back fat," Krupp says, discussing how not to look fat in swimsuits. "You need to hide the fat, not let it all hang out there. A one-piece halter top is the way to go. For most women, it's the most flattering. I think the tankini is neither here nor there because your stomach is still going to pop out."

Don't tell me I need to hide my old woman fat, bitch. I'ma wear whatever I want to the beach and the easily offended can avert their delicate eyes. God.

xoxo

tuezday randomosity

Hey, kids. Ubaldo6. All I'm sayin'.

Now, on to other matters. Remember last summer when I had The Best Cheap Red Wine I Ever Tasted in My Life in the North End and research proved that it was from Paso Robles? And that I'd probably never find it again in Massachusetts? Well, I went into the nice wine store by Marcy's office today and they had a whole bunch of Paso Robles wines. (Well, three. That's a bunch, isn't it?) Anyway, I didn't find the super-delicious wine, but I bought a different one to try. And I thought you should know. Because my inability to find the liquors of my choice probably haunts y'all day and night. Admit it.

Also? Yesterday? I got home from work fairly late, so as soon as I came in I started cooking. And--I'm sure you remember *this* from last summer's blog entries too, because I know you all take notes--my stove has started doing that thing again where if I use too many burners at once or heat the oven too high, it shorts out and I need to go flip the breaker off and on, which I totally don't know if it's an electrical problem or a stove problem, because when my electrician was here it hadn't been doing it for months so I didn't ask him to look at it, and if it does turn out to be the stove, I'll be pissed because that stove is only like 6 years old and I still think of it as "my new stove", and holy shit is this a run-on sentence. Anyway, because of the annoying stove problem I was only cooking pasta on it and meanwhile steaming broccoli in the microwave. Plus I had shrimp defrosting under cold water in the sink. It was all much more complicated than it had to be. So, about to give my multi-tasking a big FAIL, I said to D, hey, wanna help me make dinner? To my shock and awe, he immediately said "sure!" He then peeled all the shrimp after I showed him how to do one. You gotta understand, since he's been sick he's been very, very reluctant to try to do new things. He's terribly concerned he'll make a mistake. I can't tell you how surprised I was that he jumped right in with something he'd never done before. It's one of those incremental progress things that sneak up on me, I guess.

Finally, you know how when you go out shopping with a mental picture of what it is you're hoping to find, you never see anything even close and you get frustrated and you buy nothing? Yeah.

No, this is finally. I don't have Napoli in my lineup tonight and he's killing Lester. Goddamn it.

xoxo

when you assume, you make...

Have you seen the newish Kotex campaign that makes fun of other tampon/maxipad ads? It's fairly brilliant in its cleverness, though I'm not sure it's going to win them any customers. Women are pretty product-loyal about that sorta thing. Nevertheless, my favorite commercial in the series is one in which the spokesmodel says something like, "I'm racially ambiguous so you can relate to me!" And it's true! She could be white or Latina or Asian or very light-skinned black or, most likely, a mix of some of the above and you can just see casting directors in 2010 America looking at her and thinking ka-ching! everywoman! I was reminded of this yesterday whilst waiting for the T.

There was a young woman standing in front and slightly to the side of me on the platform, so that I could only see her from the back. I guess I noticed her because she seemed like she was doing the quote unquote walk of shame*** She had on a very tiny black skirt that was sorta bedazzled with tiny studs and a shiny satiny jacket. Maybe there *are* places you'd be wearing that outfit to on a Sunday morning at 10:30, but both at the time and now, I can't conceive of where they'd be. My second assumption about this woman, as glimpsed from behind, is that she was Asian. She was probably five foot nothing and 85 pounds and you just don't see many adult women that size who aren't Asian. Also she had long hair that was dyed a caramel color but which was obviously originally black.

What was hilarious to me was that there was an old Chinese man standing behind and to the other side of her and he was giving her *such* the stink-eye. I am positive from his expression that he had made both of the same assumptions that I had and that he strongly objected. "No granddaughter of mine would be coming home on a Sunday morning dressed like that, and you're a disgrace to your people, you little hussy!" was written all over his face.

Well, two trains later the woman and I ended up sitting directly across from each other. (Apparently we were headed in the same direction!) And when I could actually see her face, I saw that not only was she definitely not Chinese, but she might not even have been Asian. She might possibly have been Hispanic. Or maybe not. Totally racially ambiguous. And all I could think was, dude! if only you had turned around on the Green Line platform, you could have saved that grumpy old man a whole lot of agita!

xoxo

***I hate that term, if only because a.) it is meant to humiliate women, solely and b.) getting laid is nothing to feel shame over and c.) there are plenty of reasons one might be coming home in yesterday's clothing that don't involve sex (maybe passing out drunk *is* something to be ashamed of, but let's not get all judgy about that either)

you missed it

I spent all morning writing this long-ass blog post on and off in between patients and somehow when I went to publish it, I was logged out of blogger and 3/4ths of it hadn't been saved. So I fucking deleted it all in a fit of pique. You will never know what brilliant things I had to say and that is your sad loss, my friends, your tragic tragic loss.

Boo hoo.

xoxo