Or, how to win in life through immaturity!
Do you all remember my story about the one doctor (LK) I work with who was extorting free massage out of me, five or ten minutes at a time, every time she threw her shoulder out again? And how I would always do it because I felt guilty saying no to someone in pain, but I was getting more and more resentful every time it happened? (Oh, sure, you do so remember; I know you're all taking notes when you read the blog. )
So, last week. Our office manager SH, she of the Led Zep fan fic, also has chronic neck/shoulder issues. Her trap was out of whack, and she wanted to schedule some work with me. We decided to do it the next day at lunch and I said I'd bring my chair in. "If LK knows you have your chair with you, she'll probably be interested," she said. I kind of rolled my eyes and said, "I doubt it. She's only interested in what she can get for free...but I didn't say that."
Cut to today. LK runs into me in the hall, tells me she heard I've been "fixing" SH, and says she's in horrible pain again, and can she hire me to fix her, too? So, after work, I gave her twenty minute chair massage, with the trigger point work that works so well for her, and charged her $25. She a.) raved about how much better she felt, b.) said it was worth far more than $25, and c.) actually tipped me, too. I am absolutely sure SH must have told her what I said (they're tight).
Apparently my problem is solved. Not through my acting like an actual mature adult person, but y'know, that's okay by me. Who says passive aggressive snottiness has to be wrong?
xoxo
Monday, July 7, 2008
Sunday, July 6, 2008
a few weekend notes
1.) My Home Depot, as opposed to the vastly inferior other Home Depot I went to last weekend, had big gallon-sized containers of wallpaper paste. On the big container, as opposed to the little tub, it very clearly said: do not dilute. Oh, Home Depot #2686, I will never cheat on you again.
2.) My Home Depot, however, it must be said, sells the crappiest, crappiest latex gloves ever. Why someone who works in a major medical center has to buy disposable gloves to wallpaper is, I grant you, a good question, but in my defense, I was in a hurry to get out of there and begin my long weekend. I could not concentrate on stealing necessary remodeling supplies. In any case, I put my fingers through so many of these Home Depot gloves this weekend--and I have no nails--that I can only pray the latex company doesn't also make condoms, because that's an STD and unwanted pregnancy epidemic in the making right there.
3.) Despite my threat to listen to nothing but Nirvana all weekend in an emo depressathon, what I did listen to was the contents of my iPod, in alphabetical order. So, Andrea, you ask, what's the best music to paste hundreds of scraps of paper to your bedroom walls to? Well, punk seemed to work well, so thanks, Burma, and thanks, Clash. But then, NIN worked well, too, so a certain level of aggression (?) seems to be ideal. Blowing a hole in that theory is that, rap? Not so much.
I have so much more to say about metaphors and stupid people, the Red Sox, paint color choices, the fact that my dvd player totally crapped out, and probably other topics, but I need some sleep. Alas.
xoxo
2.) My Home Depot, however, it must be said, sells the crappiest, crappiest latex gloves ever. Why someone who works in a major medical center has to buy disposable gloves to wallpaper is, I grant you, a good question, but in my defense, I was in a hurry to get out of there and begin my long weekend. I could not concentrate on stealing necessary remodeling supplies. In any case, I put my fingers through so many of these Home Depot gloves this weekend--and I have no nails--that I can only pray the latex company doesn't also make condoms, because that's an STD and unwanted pregnancy epidemic in the making right there.
3.) Despite my threat to listen to nothing but Nirvana all weekend in an emo depressathon, what I did listen to was the contents of my iPod, in alphabetical order. So, Andrea, you ask, what's the best music to paste hundreds of scraps of paper to your bedroom walls to? Well, punk seemed to work well, so thanks, Burma, and thanks, Clash. But then, NIN worked well, too, so a certain level of aggression (?) seems to be ideal. Blowing a hole in that theory is that, rap? Not so much.
I have so much more to say about metaphors and stupid people, the Red Sox, paint color choices, the fact that my dvd player totally crapped out, and probably other topics, but I need some sleep. Alas.
xoxo
Saturday, July 5, 2008
quick hit
...then it's wallpaper paste for me, mon.
There's this show on the Style network called "How Do I Look?" and it's basically one of those makeover shows where your, ahem, loved ones nominate you for public humiliation. And I guess, free clothes. I just caught the beginning of an episode where a 30-ish woman who dresses like a skate-punk by day and a goth chick by night was nominated by her friends because her look was not allowing her to "move on in life."
Fair enough, I guess. Unless you're Dita Von Teese, at some point you need to normalize the look a little to make a decent living. But, you know, the two friends who nominated this chick? Bleached blonds, flat-ironed within an inch of their lives, with horrific tans and (I'm only speculating, since there were no hand close-ups, but you *know* I'm right) ::shudder:: French manicures. And one of them was going on about how at one time the makeover-ee and she would not only buy the same shirt, but the same shirt in the same color, until she "went off track."
I had to change the channel. I'm sorry, but people who look like outtakes from Girls Gone Wild should not throw fashion stones at people who look like Gwen Stefani circa 1996 and accuse them of going off track. One look is not superior to the other, even if one is more socially acceptable than the other.
So step away from the tanning booth for a few weeks and then get back to me.
xoxo
There's this show on the Style network called "How Do I Look?" and it's basically one of those makeover shows where your, ahem, loved ones nominate you for public humiliation. And I guess, free clothes. I just caught the beginning of an episode where a 30-ish woman who dresses like a skate-punk by day and a goth chick by night was nominated by her friends because her look was not allowing her to "move on in life."
Fair enough, I guess. Unless you're Dita Von Teese, at some point you need to normalize the look a little to make a decent living. But, you know, the two friends who nominated this chick? Bleached blonds, flat-ironed within an inch of their lives, with horrific tans and (I'm only speculating, since there were no hand close-ups, but you *know* I'm right) ::shudder:: French manicures. And one of them was going on about how at one time the makeover-ee and she would not only buy the same shirt, but the same shirt in the same color, until she "went off track."
I had to change the channel. I'm sorry, but people who look like outtakes from Girls Gone Wild should not throw fashion stones at people who look like Gwen Stefani circa 1996 and accuse them of going off track. One look is not superior to the other, even if one is more socially acceptable than the other.
So step away from the tanning booth for a few weeks and then get back to me.
xoxo
Friday, July 4, 2008
don't believe it
There is no such thing as idiot-proof. I would swear floridly, but I already did that earlier. So insert your own obscenities into this story. (Or not, if you want to keep it G-rated.)
I had three different sets of instructions for this faux-finishing I was planning on doing. They varied in minor ways from one another, but most of the general principles were the same. Last night after work, I proceeded to scrub down my bedroom walls, since I hadn't gotten to that earlier in the week, moved some of the furniture out, vacuumed in there a little, and in general, got ready to work on the walls this weekend. Then I started ripping up and crinkling craft paper and sorting it into "ends" and "middles". I was crumpling until about 1 am and I don't thin I got through a half a roll of paper. My back and my hands were killing me. I took some Aleve and went to bed.
Since I was up so late, needless to say, I didn't get a super-early start this morning, and I had a few other things I had to do, but by this afternoon I was back to crumpling. By 3:30 or so, I felt ready to start pasting. I looked at my three sets of instructions. One of them, the first one I had run across on the internet, that gave me this idea to begin with, told me to thin out my paste with water, 1:6. Okay. I did. I started my mosaic-ing. I had about a quarter of a wall done when it became very clear to me that, um, the paper too wet and was not adhering. Apparently thinning out the paste was *not* the way to go. [insert the obscenities here] I ripped it all down, rewashed the wall, and went on a run to the evil WalMart for more wallpaper paste since I had wasted 2/3rds of mine. [insert more obscenities]
To cut to the chase, I then worked for about three straight hours and got a half (of the biggest) wall done. No way am I going to finish this by Sunday. And I am going to need even more paste. They don't sell it in big buckets in WalMart or Home Depot, and the little tubs go fast. [insert a few more obscenities, if you wish] The wall looks kind of nice, though, and interesting, even before being sealed. Pray the non-thinned paste holds and it doesn't all fall down tonight while I'm sleeping. Because you don't want to hear those obscenities. Trust me.
xoxo
I had three different sets of instructions for this faux-finishing I was planning on doing. They varied in minor ways from one another, but most of the general principles were the same. Last night after work, I proceeded to scrub down my bedroom walls, since I hadn't gotten to that earlier in the week, moved some of the furniture out, vacuumed in there a little, and in general, got ready to work on the walls this weekend. Then I started ripping up and crinkling craft paper and sorting it into "ends" and "middles". I was crumpling until about 1 am and I don't thin I got through a half a roll of paper. My back and my hands were killing me. I took some Aleve and went to bed.
Since I was up so late, needless to say, I didn't get a super-early start this morning, and I had a few other things I had to do, but by this afternoon I was back to crumpling. By 3:30 or so, I felt ready to start pasting. I looked at my three sets of instructions. One of them, the first one I had run across on the internet, that gave me this idea to begin with, told me to thin out my paste with water, 1:6. Okay. I did. I started my mosaic-ing. I had about a quarter of a wall done when it became very clear to me that, um, the paper too wet and was not adhering. Apparently thinning out the paste was *not* the way to go. [insert the obscenities here] I ripped it all down, rewashed the wall, and went on a run to the evil WalMart for more wallpaper paste since I had wasted 2/3rds of mine. [insert more obscenities]
To cut to the chase, I then worked for about three straight hours and got a half (of the biggest) wall done. No way am I going to finish this by Sunday. And I am going to need even more paste. They don't sell it in big buckets in WalMart or Home Depot, and the little tubs go fast. [insert a few more obscenities, if you wish] The wall looks kind of nice, though, and interesting, even before being sealed. Pray the non-thinned paste holds and it doesn't all fall down tonight while I'm sleeping. Because you don't want to hear those obscenities. Trust me.
xoxo
Thursday, July 3, 2008
and this month's emotion is...
So, this morning, while I was bathing and putting on makeup and drying my hair and flat-ironing my hair and getting dressed, I had this whole internal conversation about what I would tell someone about why another person feels a certain way and/or what I would write if I were to generalize this away from my friends' particular situations and blog about it. (Why, yes, I do do this kind of thing all the time. Shut up.) And, to my astonishment, I found myself getting a little choked up and even teary-eyed, as this internal script/essay-writing apparently brought some emotions to the fore.
You know what this means, doncha, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls? It means no amusingly cranky rants are to be forthcoming, because *this* month's PMS emotion is apparently...emo! So, y'know, just expect me to spend the next 3 or 4 days working on my house, playing lots of Nirvana, and musing about how when I am a bitter, bitter old woman, unwanted and unloved, the 53 cats that I will have by that time will eat my remains before the EMTs ever find me, and how my Red Sox are going right down the freakin toilet.
(I would love to be part of a medical study about what slight hormone fluctuations cause one month's PMS emotion to be unreasonable irritation and another's to be sadness. So if you ever see that poster on the T, could you please let me know? Cheers, thanks a lot!)
xoxo
You know what this means, doncha, ladies and gentlemen, boys and girls? It means no amusingly cranky rants are to be forthcoming, because *this* month's PMS emotion is apparently...emo! So, y'know, just expect me to spend the next 3 or 4 days working on my house, playing lots of Nirvana, and musing about how when I am a bitter, bitter old woman, unwanted and unloved, the 53 cats that I will have by that time will eat my remains before the EMTs ever find me, and how my Red Sox are going right down the freakin toilet.
(I would love to be part of a medical study about what slight hormone fluctuations cause one month's PMS emotion to be unreasonable irritation and another's to be sadness. So if you ever see that poster on the T, could you please let me know? Cheers, thanks a lot!)
xoxo
do over
Did you ever have a nightmare, a nightmare in which the really bad thing hasn't happened yet, but the impending doom is hanging over you? And you wake up, heart pounding, flooded with adrenaline, and all you want to do is go back to sleep, because now that you know it was only a nightmare, you're sure you can lucid dream it into a happy ending?
Just me, then.
xoxo
Just me, then.
xoxo
Tuesday, July 1, 2008
oh, it's a privilege to have privilege
You all know my deal with stoopid, spoiled Americans. Despite any problems I may have in my life or any problems we have in this country, I can honestly say that I try hard to remember every single day of my life that simply by luck of being born in Massachusetts in 1962 I have never had to worry about war on my doorstep, genocide, starvation, enslavement, dying from a curable disease through lack of healthcare, forced marriage, or being beaten or raped without legal recourse. In other words, I've got it better than 98% of the people who live or have ever lived on planet Earth. I can be well-fed, safe, and self-determining while whining about the post office and pulling spurious statistics out my butt.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? I want to talk about how people on teh internet (and apparently in the kind of ultra-liberal academic venues I do not frequent) use the word "privilege" as a sort of a weapon of mass destruction in argument. If you identify as part of any kind of non-dominant group (i.e. if you are nonwhite, female, queer, fat, whatever) all you have to do is tell the other person that they are speaking from white/male/het/thin/whatever "privilege" and they are then a.) automatically wrong and b.) offensive for even having an opinion. It's the ultimate rhetorical scam. The fact that the people wielding this weapon are apt to, y'know, be PhD candidates with degrees from Princeton or the like makes it doubly amusing and/or like I'd like to feed them a huge helping of STFU (depending on where in the PMS cycle I am personally). I mean, yes, I realize your life would have been easier if you were a white straight guy with abs of steel. But the fact you've got an Ivy League degree and the time to think about this? Take my first paragraph and up that spurious statistic to 98.5%, 'k? Thx.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? Let me be clear: above and beyond the stoopid spoiled American thing, I am well aware of the ways in which I have privilege and the ways I do not, and I've talked about some of this in here before. I'm white (and so is my son, and yeah, I know for a fact that's made at least some small difference in how he's been treated psychiatrically). I'm quote unquote average in my sexuality (as far as anyone I'm not fucking needs to know, that is). I'm, with copious amounts of cosmetic and grooming help, at least somewhat conventionally attractive (and while I somewhat resent having to make the effort, as is well-chronicled here, I don't resent it enough to not want the advantages it brings). I'm not so old that I've hit that "invisible middle-aged woman" thing yet. I'm not disabled in any visible way (the crazee is invisible to almost everyone because I work hard to keep it so). On the other hand, I am female which means I deal with minor annoyances like catcalling and major issues like the fact that I'll never make a real lot of money because both my lines of work are in female-dominated professions and that means no big bucks. And then there's the one that's actually been painful to me at times in my life, class. That I've had to learn to tone down my accent and speak in a way that isn't normal for me in certain situations simply to convince ignorant people that I am in fact intelligent, capable, and not totally lacking in sophistication? I don't think that's cool.
However. Here's the thing that I seriously don't get about this concept of privilege: why am I supposed to feel bad about the privilege that I have? I think it's horrifying that people are starving in Zimbabwe; I don't feel guilty that I am not. I think it's a travesty that a young black man in American with severe mental illness is more likely to end up in prison than a mental hospital; I don't feel guilty that my severely mentally ill white son got compassionate and at least somewhat competent care. Conversely, while I may think it sucks that there are some of my little patients whom I would tell, in front of their parents, "I know it's wicked hahd, but you're doin great!" while there are others to whom I would feel compelled to phrase that really differently, I don't see that as...I dunno...anything but unfair, and I guess I just don't expect life to be fair.
(Should I be expecting life to be fair? I kinda see that as a set up for disappointment.)
Anyway, I know that even questioning this line of thought leads to paragraph #2: you're wrong and furthermore, you're offensive. Ah, well.
We won't even go into the friend who told me this long story this weekend about being horrified when his first phone call to a woman he met on an online dating service revealed that she talks just like me, even though she's a doctor, even though it seems at least tangentially germane to this post. Ahem. I'll just let this outrageously offensive whole thing go, because really, life's not fair.
xoxo
Okay, do we have that out of the way? I want to talk about how people on teh internet (and apparently in the kind of ultra-liberal academic venues I do not frequent) use the word "privilege" as a sort of a weapon of mass destruction in argument. If you identify as part of any kind of non-dominant group (i.e. if you are nonwhite, female, queer, fat, whatever) all you have to do is tell the other person that they are speaking from white/male/het/thin/whatever "privilege" and they are then a.) automatically wrong and b.) offensive for even having an opinion. It's the ultimate rhetorical scam. The fact that the people wielding this weapon are apt to, y'know, be PhD candidates with degrees from Princeton or the like makes it doubly amusing and/or like I'd like to feed them a huge helping of STFU (depending on where in the PMS cycle I am personally). I mean, yes, I realize your life would have been easier if you were a white straight guy with abs of steel. But the fact you've got an Ivy League degree and the time to think about this? Take my first paragraph and up that spurious statistic to 98.5%, 'k? Thx.
Okay, do we have that out of the way? Let me be clear: above and beyond the stoopid spoiled American thing, I am well aware of the ways in which I have privilege and the ways I do not, and I've talked about some of this in here before. I'm white (and so is my son, and yeah, I know for a fact that's made at least some small difference in how he's been treated psychiatrically). I'm quote unquote average in my sexuality (as far as anyone I'm not fucking needs to know, that is). I'm, with copious amounts of cosmetic and grooming help, at least somewhat conventionally attractive (and while I somewhat resent having to make the effort, as is well-chronicled here, I don't resent it enough to not want the advantages it brings). I'm not so old that I've hit that "invisible middle-aged woman" thing yet. I'm not disabled in any visible way (the crazee is invisible to almost everyone because I work hard to keep it so). On the other hand, I am female which means I deal with minor annoyances like catcalling and major issues like the fact that I'll never make a real lot of money because both my lines of work are in female-dominated professions and that means no big bucks. And then there's the one that's actually been painful to me at times in my life, class. That I've had to learn to tone down my accent and speak in a way that isn't normal for me in certain situations simply to convince ignorant people that I am in fact intelligent, capable, and not totally lacking in sophistication? I don't think that's cool.
However. Here's the thing that I seriously don't get about this concept of privilege: why am I supposed to feel bad about the privilege that I have? I think it's horrifying that people are starving in Zimbabwe; I don't feel guilty that I am not. I think it's a travesty that a young black man in American with severe mental illness is more likely to end up in prison than a mental hospital; I don't feel guilty that my severely mentally ill white son got compassionate and at least somewhat competent care. Conversely, while I may think it sucks that there are some of my little patients whom I would tell, in front of their parents, "I know it's wicked hahd, but you're doin great!" while there are others to whom I would feel compelled to phrase that really differently, I don't see that as...I dunno...anything but unfair, and I guess I just don't expect life to be fair.
(Should I be expecting life to be fair? I kinda see that as a set up for disappointment.)
Anyway, I know that even questioning this line of thought leads to paragraph #2: you're wrong and furthermore, you're offensive. Ah, well.
We won't even go into the friend who told me this long story this weekend about being horrified when his first phone call to a woman he met on an online dating service revealed that she talks just like me, even though she's a doctor, even though it seems at least tangentially germane to this post. Ahem. I'll just let this outrageously offensive whole thing go, because really, life's not fair.
xoxo
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