I was lying in bed this morning, vaguely thinking of getting up (but dissuaded because I knew I was out of coffee), and I started thinking about the impending new decade. This is what I thought:
Ten years ago, my son was pubertal, just at the age I was when I had my first bout of severe depression and showing signs of the same himself. Since I and my mood disorder turned out just fine for some definition of "fine", I never expected he would end up disabled with schizoaffective disorder.
Ten years ago, Whatever He Was to Me and I had just officially broken up. I never expected that we would then continue to spend the next five and a half years still seeing each other, nor that it would take even longer than that for me to finally completely get over him.
Ten years ago, both my parents were still alive and healthy. Well, we'll just assume my mother was healthy, since she refused to ever go to a doctor until she had, y'know, cancer that had already probably metastasized. I never expected she would pre-decease my dad (being considerably younger) or by so many years.
Ten years ago, I was writing a lot and getting fiction published and really involved in a community of other writers. I never expected in 2010 I would be writing nothing other than a blog.
Ten years ago, I was into my [x] year of working the 7:30-4 M-F, go to bed and get up and do it all again grind. I never expected (but I dreamed!) that I would be able to support myself working fewer and more flexible hours, nor could I have predicted the path through which that came about.
The lesson to be learned here is, I guess, that life will take us where it will. Plans and goals and dreams are well and good, but despite them, we might end up somewhere totally different. And that "totally different" might be Just Fine. I don't know where or how I'll be in another ten years (except closer to death, ha!) but things will happen as they happen, and I'ma take my happiness as it comes and live in the moment.
Happy New Year.
xoxo
Thursday, December 31, 2009
Wednesday, December 30, 2009
i might need to give in
So, if you're keeping track you'll remember I stopped reading the Globe in protest when they like tripled the price. Meanwhile I also let my subscription to EW lapse. You know what that means, doncha? It means I have absolutely no freakin idea what movies are out, what they're about, or what's supposedly good, other than what gets talked about *a lot*, like Avatar or Precious.
Well, I was at M2's house yesterday afternoon to give her a massage, which basically we chatted through. (I will self-promote here and say M2 told me it was the best massage I'd *ever* given her to date. I was a little skeptical, considering we did talk all the way through, but who am I to argue with the client? Want one of my new business cards? Ha!) One of the things we were talking about were what movies she and Mr M2 had seen since we last spoke and which ones she thought I would like--she and I and our friend G having much the same tastes in such things. And I hadn't heard of any of them, basically. She was like, "OMG, what happened to my movie buddy?!??" But, really, I never saw that many movies--well, okay, I do rent a fair number--I just used to read *all* the reviews, so I used to be able to discuss them intelligently.
I might need to capitulate and resubscribe to EW, because now I feel left out of the cultural zeitgest, and I seriously won't bother to seek that stuff out online. The Globe, however, is never ever getting my business again. I mean it.
xoxo
Well, I was at M2's house yesterday afternoon to give her a massage, which basically we chatted through. (I will self-promote here and say M2 told me it was the best massage I'd *ever* given her to date. I was a little skeptical, considering we did talk all the way through, but who am I to argue with the client? Want one of my new business cards? Ha!) One of the things we were talking about were what movies she and Mr M2 had seen since we last spoke and which ones she thought I would like--she and I and our friend G having much the same tastes in such things. And I hadn't heard of any of them, basically. She was like, "OMG, what happened to my movie buddy?!??" But, really, I never saw that many movies--well, okay, I do rent a fair number--I just used to read *all* the reviews, so I used to be able to discuss them intelligently.
I might need to capitulate and resubscribe to EW, because now I feel left out of the cultural zeitgest, and I seriously won't bother to seek that stuff out online. The Globe, however, is never ever getting my business again. I mean it.
xoxo
Tuesday, December 29, 2009
monday's hoarders
I'm just gonna keep recapping this show till you all beg for mercy.
Two chicks yesterday, both with kids at risk for, or already, being removed. One a thin blond woman with a good dye job, hip glasses, and a pretty and cosmetically-enhanced face. One an extremely morbidly obese woman with stringy unwashed hair, dirty feet, and what could most charitably be described as a potato face.
Woman #2 seemed kind of sweet and really dim, like verging-on-mentally-retarded dim, really kind of hurt and perplexed that you can't keep 25 animals who poop all over the friggin' floor in a house with your four children and not expect the authorities to remove all of the above.
Woman #1 was batshit crazy. BATSHIT CRAZY. Now, I am acquainted with someone whom I am absolutely sure (due to my crackerjack box psychiatry degree, yo!) has undiagnosed (or maybe diagnosed, I haven't seen the medical records [ha!]) borderline personality disorder, and woman #1, with her completely self-centered manipulative dishonest histrionics, reminded me of no one so much. Can I say it again? Batshit crazy, and in a completely unpleasant way.
So, let's recap: one very unattractive woman with what seemed like a pleasant enough personality, in over her head probably due to diminished mental capacity, and one conventionally attractive woman with a horrible, hysterical, controlling personality. And goddamn if I wasn't tempted to give unpleasant batshit crazy chick the benefit of the doubt *because she had cute glasses and nice hair*. It didn't last, of course, because you didn't need more than five minutes of listening to her to realize she was completely toxic, especially to her poor children. But how sick is that, that I was originally more disposed to "liking" her because she was attractive and well-groomed and disposed to "disliking" the physically unattractive and unkempt woman? Pretty damn sick.
Eh. The loving-kindness shit will help with that too, if I ever "get" it. Batshit crazy, potato-faced, good hygiene, bad hygiene, rude people on the prison bus, my awesome blog readers, myself...we'll all be the same to me. That's the theory!
xoxo
Two chicks yesterday, both with kids at risk for, or already, being removed. One a thin blond woman with a good dye job, hip glasses, and a pretty and cosmetically-enhanced face. One an extremely morbidly obese woman with stringy unwashed hair, dirty feet, and what could most charitably be described as a potato face.
Woman #2 seemed kind of sweet and really dim, like verging-on-mentally-retarded dim, really kind of hurt and perplexed that you can't keep 25 animals who poop all over the friggin' floor in a house with your four children and not expect the authorities to remove all of the above.
Woman #1 was batshit crazy. BATSHIT CRAZY. Now, I am acquainted with someone whom I am absolutely sure (due to my crackerjack box psychiatry degree, yo!) has undiagnosed (or maybe diagnosed, I haven't seen the medical records [ha!]) borderline personality disorder, and woman #1, with her completely self-centered manipulative dishonest histrionics, reminded me of no one so much. Can I say it again? Batshit crazy, and in a completely unpleasant way.
So, let's recap: one very unattractive woman with what seemed like a pleasant enough personality, in over her head probably due to diminished mental capacity, and one conventionally attractive woman with a horrible, hysterical, controlling personality. And goddamn if I wasn't tempted to give unpleasant batshit crazy chick the benefit of the doubt *because she had cute glasses and nice hair*. It didn't last, of course, because you didn't need more than five minutes of listening to her to realize she was completely toxic, especially to her poor children. But how sick is that, that I was originally more disposed to "liking" her because she was attractive and well-groomed and disposed to "disliking" the physically unattractive and unkempt woman? Pretty damn sick.
Eh. The loving-kindness shit will help with that too, if I ever "get" it. Batshit crazy, potato-faced, good hygiene, bad hygiene, rude people on the prison bus, my awesome blog readers, myself...we'll all be the same to me. That's the theory!
xoxo
little addendum
A very interesting piece of news I found out last evening is that D and I are not the only ones who have not seen or heard from my ex in a dog's age. Neither has his entire family. Not his father, not his sister, not his uncle, not his niece or nephew. Not for Christmas, not for Thanksgiving, not for birthdays, not for any other major holiday, not randomly. If we didn't all follow his exploits in the local news, we really wouldn't know he was still alive, any of us. It sort of boggles the mind.
Part of it is that he apparently owes at least a couple people a lot of money that ain't looking like it's ever going to be repaid. But no one's saying, "you can't come to Christmas until you pay up, deadbeat." And it sure as hell isn't that he's embarrassed about it; he demonstrably has no shame. So it's something more than that. I can't even imagine what kind of pathology is going on with him that, living one town over, he could just suddenly decide his entire family, including his own kid, doesn't exist anymore. I couldn't even hazard a guess.
But I don't think all the crazee genes came from my side of the family, 'k? Just sayin'.
xoxo
Part of it is that he apparently owes at least a couple people a lot of money that ain't looking like it's ever going to be repaid. But no one's saying, "you can't come to Christmas until you pay up, deadbeat." And it sure as hell isn't that he's embarrassed about it; he demonstrably has no shame. So it's something more than that. I can't even imagine what kind of pathology is going on with him that, living one town over, he could just suddenly decide his entire family, including his own kid, doesn't exist anymore. I couldn't even hazard a guess.
But I don't think all the crazee genes came from my side of the family, 'k? Just sayin'.
xoxo
Monday, December 28, 2009
reached my quota, uh huh
Three more days in 2009, but I have reached my year's quota of rudeness. Everyone better behave themselves till Friday, is all I'm saying.
What happened today, Andrea? Oh, I was coming home on the bus, and three stops away from my stop, an older gentleman boards. He was about to sit next to me, but I told him I was getting off, so I'd let him have the inside seat. I slid out of the seat and took a step backward, so he could pass me. And just then the bus lurched. Encumbered by two semi-heavy bags and in the process of, y'know, stepping backwards, I lost my balance and fell--slightly--against the young woman sitting in the seat behind us.
"Oh, excuse me!" I say. She just stares at me, with blank loathing on her face. No "oh, that's okay," no "no problem!" Not even an "I'ma cut you, bitch." She just stared at me as if I hadn't apologized, and as if I had bumped into her on purpose. Who the fuck is that ignorant? Srsly. Not sure I've built up enough loving-kindness for this one.
But enough about that. On a more positive note, my ex-sister-in-law and niece and nephew came over for pizza and ice cream, and present-exchanging tonight. It was a good time. I did not give them a goat, nor did they give us any meat. D was really, really quiet, even with his cousins, but he was laughing at the stories, and when they left, he talked *to me* about some of the things we'd been talking about. It's really sad to see how uncomfortable he is in social situations now. But I think he still had some fun.
Oh, and apparently my niece is one flattened dead animal away from being on Hoarders! Okay, maybe two. But we're keeping an eye on her.
xoxo
What happened today, Andrea? Oh, I was coming home on the bus, and three stops away from my stop, an older gentleman boards. He was about to sit next to me, but I told him I was getting off, so I'd let him have the inside seat. I slid out of the seat and took a step backward, so he could pass me. And just then the bus lurched. Encumbered by two semi-heavy bags and in the process of, y'know, stepping backwards, I lost my balance and fell--slightly--against the young woman sitting in the seat behind us.
"Oh, excuse me!" I say. She just stares at me, with blank loathing on her face. No "oh, that's okay," no "no problem!" Not even an "I'ma cut you, bitch." She just stared at me as if I hadn't apologized, and as if I had bumped into her on purpose. Who the fuck is that ignorant? Srsly. Not sure I've built up enough loving-kindness for this one.
But enough about that. On a more positive note, my ex-sister-in-law and niece and nephew came over for pizza and ice cream, and present-exchanging tonight. It was a good time. I did not give them a goat, nor did they give us any meat. D was really, really quiet, even with his cousins, but he was laughing at the stories, and when they left, he talked *to me* about some of the things we'd been talking about. It's really sad to see how uncomfortable he is in social situations now. But I think he still had some fun.
Oh, and apparently my niece is one flattened dead animal away from being on Hoarders! Okay, maybe two. But we're keeping an eye on her.
xoxo
Saturday, December 26, 2009
one more thing
I read online that Joanna Lumley (i.e. Patsy Stone!) is a Buddhist, then I read she wasn't. She was born in Kashmir to (obviously) British parents, and is very involved in causes like Free Tibet, justice for the Gurkhas, and education in Burma. So she still has ties to that part of the world. It's not inconceivable that she has at least some interest in or knowledge of the dharma. I mean, it's not inconceivable as long as you stop thinking of her as Patsy Stone.
But it calls to mind a joke from the first season of Ab Fab. Eddy and Patsy are getting ready to leave Eddy's house, when Eddy pauses and goes back for a moment. She's got a Buddhist altar set up, and she stops to ring a bell and chant some brief phrase.
Patsy (skeptically): Are you still doing that?
Eddy: Yes, darling. Almost religiously!
Bwah. But wouldn't it be even funnier if Joanna Lumley was in actuality a Buddhist and you knew that? A meta (not metta) joke. As it were.
xoxo
But it calls to mind a joke from the first season of Ab Fab. Eddy and Patsy are getting ready to leave Eddy's house, when Eddy pauses and goes back for a moment. She's got a Buddhist altar set up, and she stops to ring a bell and chant some brief phrase.
Patsy (skeptically): Are you still doing that?
Eddy: Yes, darling. Almost religiously!
Bwah. But wouldn't it be even funnier if Joanna Lumley was in actuality a Buddhist and you knew that? A meta (not metta) joke. As it were.
xoxo
metta
This is the metta meditation for developing loving-kindness.
Stage I: you send loving-kindness to yourself. "May I be well. May I be happy. May I be free from suffering."
Stage II: you send loving-kindness to a friend you love. "May she be well. May she be happy. May she be free from suffering."
Stage III: you send loving-kindness to someone you have no real positive or negative emotions toward--the mailman, the person you see on the elevator every day but don't really know, your barista. Like that.
Stage IV: you send loving-kindness to someone you are in conflict with, someone you don't like, an enemy.
Stage V: you send loving-kindness to all beings everywhere.
Stages II through V are progressively more difficult. That's why they are ordered that way, duh. But Stage I can be the hardest. Only it comes first because the core belief is you can't truly have loving-kindness and compassion for anyone until you can grant it to yourself. Your wish for happiness and peace for yourself needs to be equal to your wish for happiness and peace for all others for this to really work. Not less than, not more than. Equal.
Isn't that beautiful? And so opposed to what we're taught in our society, where either self-sacrifice or selfishness are the cardinal virtues?
Okay, I'm going to shut up about metaphysics now! Should I tag these so you can all skip them?
xoxo
Stage I: you send loving-kindness to yourself. "May I be well. May I be happy. May I be free from suffering."
Stage II: you send loving-kindness to a friend you love. "May she be well. May she be happy. May she be free from suffering."
Stage III: you send loving-kindness to someone you have no real positive or negative emotions toward--the mailman, the person you see on the elevator every day but don't really know, your barista. Like that.
Stage IV: you send loving-kindness to someone you are in conflict with, someone you don't like, an enemy.
Stage V: you send loving-kindness to all beings everywhere.
Stages II through V are progressively more difficult. That's why they are ordered that way, duh. But Stage I can be the hardest. Only it comes first because the core belief is you can't truly have loving-kindness and compassion for anyone until you can grant it to yourself. Your wish for happiness and peace for yourself needs to be equal to your wish for happiness and peace for all others for this to really work. Not less than, not more than. Equal.
Isn't that beautiful? And so opposed to what we're taught in our society, where either self-sacrifice or selfishness are the cardinal virtues?
Okay, I'm going to shut up about metaphysics now! Should I tag these so you can all skip them?
xoxo
Friday, December 25, 2009
Christmas in progress
Feliz Navidad, chicas y chicos.
Here's the good news: everyone got through dinner without obstructing on the pork roast. Bad news: I thought the roast was a little over done. I think I need a new meat thermometer. Good news: the guys aren't very discriminating, so they thought it was fine. Bad news: The kid's table manners have declined. Like, I swear, he used to know the napkin goes on your lap. As for the old man's, he can't see his food, so he's not averse to picking it up with his fingers. Oy. But all in all, after Thanksgiving, any holiday meal that does not involve anyone hacking it back up in the bathroom we'll call a success.
Last night, for Christmas Eve, I made "Belgian" waffles. Because, historically, I like to make something different for Christmas Eve, something we don't eat every day, but nothing elaborate. Belgian is in quotation marks 'cause I don't actually have a Belgian wafflemaker. I wasn't exactly sure I had a regular wafflemaker, honestly, but I remembered making gingerbread waffles a couple years ago, so there had to be one. In any case, they were Belgian waffles because I put strawberries and whipped cream on them. Ha! My dad says, and this is a verbatim quote, "What is this? IHOP?" N E Way, I thought they weren't quite crisp enough. Maybe I need a new wafflemaker for my biennial waffle forays as well as a meat thermometer. (It couldn't have been operator error.) Again, the guys thought they were fine.
Present-opening was pretty anticlimactic since everyone knew everything they were getting, aside for the guys' stocking stuffers and my dad's bed-in-a-bag. I kind of hate that. There's really no fun in it. Evil Kitty, however, liked both her new toys and the fact that the living room is as of right now full of boxes. So *someone* thought the gift exchange was fun. Also? My dad spelled my name wrong on the envelope he gave me. That was pretty entertaining, I must admit.
The extra special bonus present I gave my dad was letting him wash the dinner dishes. I rinsed the hell out of them and soaked them first. We'll see how that worked out.
So that's my status update. Choke-free, IHOP-full, surprise-less. That's how we roll. I bet you're jellus!
xoxo
Here's the good news: everyone got through dinner without obstructing on the pork roast. Bad news: I thought the roast was a little over done. I think I need a new meat thermometer. Good news: the guys aren't very discriminating, so they thought it was fine. Bad news: The kid's table manners have declined. Like, I swear, he used to know the napkin goes on your lap. As for the old man's, he can't see his food, so he's not averse to picking it up with his fingers. Oy. But all in all, after Thanksgiving, any holiday meal that does not involve anyone hacking it back up in the bathroom we'll call a success.
Last night, for Christmas Eve, I made "Belgian" waffles. Because, historically, I like to make something different for Christmas Eve, something we don't eat every day, but nothing elaborate. Belgian is in quotation marks 'cause I don't actually have a Belgian wafflemaker. I wasn't exactly sure I had a regular wafflemaker, honestly, but I remembered making gingerbread waffles a couple years ago, so there had to be one. In any case, they were Belgian waffles because I put strawberries and whipped cream on them. Ha! My dad says, and this is a verbatim quote, "What is this? IHOP?" N E Way, I thought they weren't quite crisp enough. Maybe I need a new wafflemaker for my biennial waffle forays as well as a meat thermometer. (It couldn't have been operator error.) Again, the guys thought they were fine.
Present-opening was pretty anticlimactic since everyone knew everything they were getting, aside for the guys' stocking stuffers and my dad's bed-in-a-bag. I kind of hate that. There's really no fun in it. Evil Kitty, however, liked both her new toys and the fact that the living room is as of right now full of boxes. So *someone* thought the gift exchange was fun. Also? My dad spelled my name wrong on the envelope he gave me. That was pretty entertaining, I must admit.
The extra special bonus present I gave my dad was letting him wash the dinner dishes. I rinsed the hell out of them and soaked them first. We'll see how that worked out.
So that's my status update. Choke-free, IHOP-full, surprise-less. That's how we roll. I bet you're jellus!
xoxo
Thursday, December 24, 2009
are you ready?
Santa's coming tonight! And since I know all my blog readers have been good boys and girls this year (for some definition of "good"), I am sure you are going to get your heart's wish. Mercedes Benzes and room for a pony for all! Or, y'know, fewer obscure allusions and private in-jokes from the management. Something like that.
::sniff:: I love you guys.
xoxo
::sniff:: I love you guys.
xoxo
Tuesday, December 22, 2009
finding your people
Want to hear another boring story about my past? Hint: no is not an option. But first I have to tell you the background here.
In case you are keeping track, I did make it out of the house to party on Sunday. This was good for a number of reasons. Reason number one, of course, was that I was going to be really aggravated if I blew the whole weekend by stupidly believing the (non)AcuWeather forecast. But, also, it was good because I got to see Mr Indemnity before he left the state for the holidays. I wanted to give him his present before he went away, because I thought he might make use of it. Let's backtrack further and remind everyone that while Mr Indemnity does not celebrate Xmas per se, being a chosen person, he has absolutely no problem with Xmas gifts. (Other than a sheep for some poor family in Eritrea.) So he had something for me, too.
And let's backtrack even further. Probably before my birthday he asked me if I wanted the new Nirvana "Live at Reading" cd/dvd. I said, eh, probably not, because I already have like three versions of every Nirvana song ever recorded and I'm really not *that much* of a completest. So he bought it for me anyway. Heh. It was recorded in August of 1992, which led to some discussion of when Kurt died. And to my absolute shame, not to mention astonishment, I couldn't remember if it was April 1993 or 94 (till I looked it up!) Which led to thinking back about that time. Hence our boring story.
When Mr Cobain offed himself in April of (ahem) 1994, I happened to own, and love, this flannel overshirt (with a hood!) and that whole April and May, I think I wore it as a jacket every single day after work and on the weekends. And whenever anyone mentioned it, I would in my smartass manner say it was my Kurt Cobain Memorial Flannel and I was mourning the death of grunge. Next to nobody got it or got me in those days. As I have mentioned, I was pretty depressed at that time, functional but teetering on the edge (later to be pushed over by the massive trauma I suffered in January '95). A big part of it was that I felt so isolated. I was the single mom of a second-grader and I just knew I didn't fit in with the other mommies. I didn't even try. I was still in touch with some of my high school/college friends but none of them had kids and none of them were interested in the things I was becoming interested in. Work friends were work friends, with the limitations thereof. I felt like I had tried to go in the conventional direction--marriage, a kid, a career--but I couldn't really "make it" and fit in as a conventional person, because I was too much of a freak inside. I had regrets about my life path, and was basically having a midlife crisis in my early 30s.
A couple things happened. I started going to writing group. Here were a bunch of people of different ages and sexual orientations and socioeconomic backgrounds, and they liked me. They believed in me. I didn't, especially as we all bonded, have to pretend to be anyone I was not. Oh, and then, almost concurrently, I found the internet. I don't have to tell any of you that the internet is how freaks find other freaks just like them, do I? It was...such a revelation. And I met, through the wonder of internet freaks meeting other internet freaks, Mr Whatever He Was to Me.
I know that, in my FAQ, I said he's not part of the Adventures, or at least not *these* adventures, but I'ma make an exception and talk about him. When we met, I was 33 and he had just turned 40. He was an engineer with an MBA and a really, really good job, the most conventional-looking, Dockers-wearing, golf-playing, whitebread suburban type guy you could even imagine. Look away if you're delicate, but he even was known to vote Republican. But he listened to the same music I did, liked extreme sports and really skeery roller coasters, and best of all, he was a sick freak just like me. Looking back, it's so easy to see why I fell head over heels over him, and couldn't let go until long after I really should have. Here was someone who looked and seemed and was living a life even more conventional than me, and he was just like me in all those ways other people couldn't understand. OMG. For someone who had spent so long feeling so isolated, it was like heroin.
The lesson to be learned in this, of course, is that probably somewhere in those other mommies at my kid's school that I didn't even try to make friends with because I "knew" they wouldn't like me or get me, there were maybe one or two that would have, because they were freaks inside too. But how would you know that without the internet??!?!???!!! Ha!
Okay, I don't know. That was pointless. And now I gotta do some work, and that's all I have to say about that.
xoxo
In case you are keeping track, I did make it out of the house to party on Sunday. This was good for a number of reasons. Reason number one, of course, was that I was going to be really aggravated if I blew the whole weekend by stupidly believing the (non)AcuWeather forecast. But, also, it was good because I got to see Mr Indemnity before he left the state for the holidays. I wanted to give him his present before he went away, because I thought he might make use of it. Let's backtrack further and remind everyone that while Mr Indemnity does not celebrate Xmas per se, being a chosen person, he has absolutely no problem with Xmas gifts. (Other than a sheep for some poor family in Eritrea.) So he had something for me, too.
And let's backtrack even further. Probably before my birthday he asked me if I wanted the new Nirvana "Live at Reading" cd/dvd. I said, eh, probably not, because I already have like three versions of every Nirvana song ever recorded and I'm really not *that much* of a completest. So he bought it for me anyway. Heh. It was recorded in August of 1992, which led to some discussion of when Kurt died. And to my absolute shame, not to mention astonishment, I couldn't remember if it was April 1993 or 94 (till I looked it up!) Which led to thinking back about that time. Hence our boring story.
When Mr Cobain offed himself in April of (ahem) 1994, I happened to own, and love, this flannel overshirt (with a hood!) and that whole April and May, I think I wore it as a jacket every single day after work and on the weekends. And whenever anyone mentioned it, I would in my smartass manner say it was my Kurt Cobain Memorial Flannel and I was mourning the death of grunge. Next to nobody got it or got me in those days. As I have mentioned, I was pretty depressed at that time, functional but teetering on the edge (later to be pushed over by the massive trauma I suffered in January '95). A big part of it was that I felt so isolated. I was the single mom of a second-grader and I just knew I didn't fit in with the other mommies. I didn't even try. I was still in touch with some of my high school/college friends but none of them had kids and none of them were interested in the things I was becoming interested in. Work friends were work friends, with the limitations thereof. I felt like I had tried to go in the conventional direction--marriage, a kid, a career--but I couldn't really "make it" and fit in as a conventional person, because I was too much of a freak inside. I had regrets about my life path, and was basically having a midlife crisis in my early 30s.
A couple things happened. I started going to writing group. Here were a bunch of people of different ages and sexual orientations and socioeconomic backgrounds, and they liked me. They believed in me. I didn't, especially as we all bonded, have to pretend to be anyone I was not. Oh, and then, almost concurrently, I found the internet. I don't have to tell any of you that the internet is how freaks find other freaks just like them, do I? It was...such a revelation. And I met, through the wonder of internet freaks meeting other internet freaks, Mr Whatever He Was to Me.
I know that, in my FAQ, I said he's not part of the Adventures, or at least not *these* adventures, but I'ma make an exception and talk about him. When we met, I was 33 and he had just turned 40. He was an engineer with an MBA and a really, really good job, the most conventional-looking, Dockers-wearing, golf-playing, whitebread suburban type guy you could even imagine. Look away if you're delicate, but he even was known to vote Republican. But he listened to the same music I did, liked extreme sports and really skeery roller coasters, and best of all, he was a sick freak just like me. Looking back, it's so easy to see why I fell head over heels over him, and couldn't let go until long after I really should have. Here was someone who looked and seemed and was living a life even more conventional than me, and he was just like me in all those ways other people couldn't understand. OMG. For someone who had spent so long feeling so isolated, it was like heroin.
The lesson to be learned in this, of course, is that probably somewhere in those other mommies at my kid's school that I didn't even try to make friends with because I "knew" they wouldn't like me or get me, there were maybe one or two that would have, because they were freaks inside too. But how would you know that without the internet??!?!???!!! Ha!
Okay, I don't know. That was pointless. And now I gotta do some work, and that's all I have to say about that.
xoxo
Saturday, December 19, 2009
very cool!
For the bodyworkers, yoga practitioners, and athletes in the crowd, check out this slide show:
http://www.paulgrilley.com/component/option,com_phocagallery/Itemid,30/id,2/view,category/
I would love to see my own pelvis. I think my acetabulum on one side might be at a different angle than the one on the other, because my outward rotation is very different between the two sides.
For instance, when I do this:
huge difference with the underneath leg, left versus right.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm reading about yoga, not doing it. I'ma go change out of my jeans and get to it any minute now. However, I will note that it is now 9:30 pm and not one freaking snowflake yet, which means I sure as hell could have gone out tonight and been home before it got bad. Grr.
xoxo
http://www.paulgrilley.com/component/option,com_phocagallery/Itemid,30/id,2/view,category/
I would love to see my own pelvis. I think my acetabulum on one side might be at a different angle than the one on the other, because my outward rotation is very different between the two sides.
For instance, when I do this:
huge difference with the underneath leg, left versus right.
Yeah, yeah, I know. I'm reading about yoga, not doing it. I'ma go change out of my jeans and get to it any minute now. However, I will note that it is now 9:30 pm and not one freaking snowflake yet, which means I sure as hell could have gone out tonight and been home before it got bad. Grr.
xoxo
grief, ur doin it rong
Before I begin, can I just say, Mother Nature is doin it rong too, because I had to cancel my plans for tonight due to impending blizzard conditions and I didn't even make the plans I was planning on making for tomorrow because I thought travel might be bad. However, if it stops snowing early enough tomorrow and I can get dug out, I might therefore be able to switch tonight's plans to tomorrow afternoon/evening, other plans not having been made. Got that? But, nevertheless, f u, atmospheric conditions. I got places to go and people to see and presents to exchange. Also? It snowed the Sunday before Xmas last year too. I remember it distinctly.
Now, on to other business! I've been reading a lot lately about people criticizing how *other people* grieve or express their grief or deal with their feelings around grief, to which I say, WTF? That's a little (ha!) presumptuous. Two particularly egregious examples were criticisms in spades about mothers grieving their dead children.
One of them you may have heard about. There's a woman who is apparently a well-known blogger and twitterer. Her husband is deployed and that's her target audience: women like her with kids whose husbands are in the military and overseas. She's built up a following. Well, recently her two year old drowned in their pool. She tweeted just before it happened (raising criticism, of course, that "if she didn't spend so much time online" her kid would be alive, which is ridic; the time it took her to type two sentences about the weather is less time than it would take her to go pee or make a sandwich, but I suppose moms of toddlers aren't allowed to do those things either unless the kid is in restraints). But the criticism is even more virulent that she tweeted from her cell at the hospital, asking for prayers, and then after she was informed he was dead, letting the people who were praying/sending good thoughts know. Apparently, reaching out through the internet for support in the midst of a horrible tragedy is at best evidence of mental disturbance and at worst, evil. I'm not sure what people thought she *should* be doing when trapped in one of those horrible ER or ICU waiting areas they stick you in when your loved one is trying to be resuscitated or otherwise worked on. Your options are wait and cry or cry and wait. Basically, that's all you can do. That she was able to also use that time to reach out to thousands of people and say, basically, something awful has happened, please think of us, would be to me a good thing. But then, y'all know I use my blog to shout out to the universe when I am scared or sad or anxious or in any other way in need of support and positive energy. I suppose that makes me mentally disturbed (shut up) and evil (shut up) too.
The other case was the woman on Hoarders whose clutter got way out of hand after her otherwise normal and healthy baby was stillborn because the cord wrapped around his neck. Even the most callous and critical of internet posters have to pretend to be sympathetic about a stillborn infant before they then, y'know, viciously excoriate the mother for her selfishness in wallowing in grief when she had two living children to take care of and the inexcusable sin of still being depressed three years after the fact. See, if something like that happened to *them*, they'd get immediate psychological help, which *would* help (perfectly!), and in 4 to 6 months, they'd be all over it like it never even happened. Or, they'd be nobly grief stricken but they'd still go through life perfectly, not letting it affect them or anyone else in any way. STFU.
That different humans process death and grief in different ways seems beyond the ken of these people. Let's take me, for example. When my grandmother, whom I was very close to, died, I grieved in what's probably the "socially accepted" way. I cried at the wake and funeral. I missed her terribly. I had vivid dreams about her for months afterwards. Eventually those dreams stopped, the missing her became less acute, I "got over it." When my mother died, it was different. I was numb. I didn't cry at the wake or funeral. In fact, one of my cousins whom I had been very close to as a young woman, kept me laughing through most of the wake. I think we probably got the side-eye from a few people for being inappropriate, but it was what I needed then. And then the rest of that summer I was still numb and, I dunno, acting out. Going out a lot, uncharacteristic casual sex, that sort of thing. It wasn't until September, near her birthday that I finally cried for my mom. I was in a store, I saw a cookbook by a TV chef that she always watched, it occurred to me she would have liked that for her birthday, I broke out crying in the store over the fact that I'd never buy her a birthday gift again. Numbness thawed. Began to process my grief. Eventually got past it.
Two different griefs, two different grieving processes. Both what I needed at whatever particular moment. Is it bad that one of them did not follow the prescribed social script? I don't think so. And a hearty f u to anyone who gave me the side-eye for laughing at the wake. Another hearty f u to self-righteous people who dare to criticize how anyone else handles their personal tragedies.
That's all I've got to say about that!
xoxo
Now, on to other business! I've been reading a lot lately about people criticizing how *other people* grieve or express their grief or deal with their feelings around grief, to which I say, WTF? That's a little (ha!) presumptuous. Two particularly egregious examples were criticisms in spades about mothers grieving their dead children.
One of them you may have heard about. There's a woman who is apparently a well-known blogger and twitterer. Her husband is deployed and that's her target audience: women like her with kids whose husbands are in the military and overseas. She's built up a following. Well, recently her two year old drowned in their pool. She tweeted just before it happened (raising criticism, of course, that "if she didn't spend so much time online" her kid would be alive, which is ridic; the time it took her to type two sentences about the weather is less time than it would take her to go pee or make a sandwich, but I suppose moms of toddlers aren't allowed to do those things either unless the kid is in restraints). But the criticism is even more virulent that she tweeted from her cell at the hospital, asking for prayers, and then after she was informed he was dead, letting the people who were praying/sending good thoughts know. Apparently, reaching out through the internet for support in the midst of a horrible tragedy is at best evidence of mental disturbance and at worst, evil. I'm not sure what people thought she *should* be doing when trapped in one of those horrible ER or ICU waiting areas they stick you in when your loved one is trying to be resuscitated or otherwise worked on. Your options are wait and cry or cry and wait. Basically, that's all you can do. That she was able to also use that time to reach out to thousands of people and say, basically, something awful has happened, please think of us, would be to me a good thing. But then, y'all know I use my blog to shout out to the universe when I am scared or sad or anxious or in any other way in need of support and positive energy. I suppose that makes me mentally disturbed (shut up) and evil (shut up) too.
The other case was the woman on Hoarders whose clutter got way out of hand after her otherwise normal and healthy baby was stillborn because the cord wrapped around his neck. Even the most callous and critical of internet posters have to pretend to be sympathetic about a stillborn infant before they then, y'know, viciously excoriate the mother for her selfishness in wallowing in grief when she had two living children to take care of and the inexcusable sin of still being depressed three years after the fact. See, if something like that happened to *them*, they'd get immediate psychological help, which *would* help (perfectly!), and in 4 to 6 months, they'd be all over it like it never even happened. Or, they'd be nobly grief stricken but they'd still go through life perfectly, not letting it affect them or anyone else in any way. STFU.
That different humans process death and grief in different ways seems beyond the ken of these people. Let's take me, for example. When my grandmother, whom I was very close to, died, I grieved in what's probably the "socially accepted" way. I cried at the wake and funeral. I missed her terribly. I had vivid dreams about her for months afterwards. Eventually those dreams stopped, the missing her became less acute, I "got over it." When my mother died, it was different. I was numb. I didn't cry at the wake or funeral. In fact, one of my cousins whom I had been very close to as a young woman, kept me laughing through most of the wake. I think we probably got the side-eye from a few people for being inappropriate, but it was what I needed then. And then the rest of that summer I was still numb and, I dunno, acting out. Going out a lot, uncharacteristic casual sex, that sort of thing. It wasn't until September, near her birthday that I finally cried for my mom. I was in a store, I saw a cookbook by a TV chef that she always watched, it occurred to me she would have liked that for her birthday, I broke out crying in the store over the fact that I'd never buy her a birthday gift again. Numbness thawed. Began to process my grief. Eventually got past it.
Two different griefs, two different grieving processes. Both what I needed at whatever particular moment. Is it bad that one of them did not follow the prescribed social script? I don't think so. And a hearty f u to anyone who gave me the side-eye for laughing at the wake. Another hearty f u to self-righteous people who dare to criticize how anyone else handles their personal tragedies.
That's all I've got to say about that!
xoxo
Friday, December 18, 2009
props where due
Last mention of the old man's medical condition unless and until he obstructs again. Promise. I know the entertainment value of this is limited and it's only of interest to me. (Wait. Is that one of those disclaimers? Damn.)
So, since we've been mildly slagging on surgeons in here, I figure I should praise when applicable. The NP, Julie, (forever to be remembered as the woman who went to Shaws in her surgical scrubs for meat tenderizer) called me yesterday to check on how my dad was doing. Of course I was with a patient myself when she called and by the time I got to return her message, she'd left for the day. Um, because they start real early, remember? So I had the semi-brilliant idea to look her up on Partners email and contact her that way. (And props to her for leaving her last name on the message, 'cause I had no clue.) She wrote me back and told me basically what Dr D had said, that he was happy with how the procedure had gone and hadn't found anything unexpected. Told me that dad could "slowly" return to normal eating. And said we should follow up with them "as necessary"--just call if any problems reoccur.
Are you kidding me? I almost let out a "woo hoo!" at my computer. No post-op appointment? I was totally envisioning having to waste half a morning taking my dad for that, sitting in the waiting room interminably, then in the room interminably, all for a two minute "how are things going? okay, fine" conversation and a stethoscope on the chest. Which was not totally filling me with joy, considering it's the holidays, my kid has two appointments next week I have to attend (though I'm thinking of rescheduling one), I still haven't rescheduled my own appointment that I cancelled when my dad was in the ER, etc.
Apparently, you make enough money stretching esophaguses that you don't have to make people come in for unnecessary followups to make a buck. I contrast this with, for instance, eye guy, who I swear will keep thinking up ways to get me in there for more groundless tests and whose office is just *chock full* of signs telling you you'll be charged $75 for a missed appointment and informing you you absolutely will not be seen if you owe them any money, as well as brochures for elective plastic surgery he'd love to do on you. I mean, he's not even subtle about being in it for the new beach house, not because he cares whether the populace of the North Shore can see or not. So I was wondering whether Dr D is in fact an employee of the hospital (like my docs are) at least in the satellite clinic (because he's an MGH doc slumming it here) and thus has *no* financial stake in how many appointments you have or what procedures and tests he does. (I think I just came out in favor of socialized medicine there, huh? And don't worry, my parenthesesectomy is coming right up.)
Anyway, I'm happy with them. If you need a thoracic surgeon, you just let me know and I'll give you their number.
xoxo
So, since we've been mildly slagging on surgeons in here, I figure I should praise when applicable. The NP, Julie, (forever to be remembered as the woman who went to Shaws in her surgical scrubs for meat tenderizer) called me yesterday to check on how my dad was doing. Of course I was with a patient myself when she called and by the time I got to return her message, she'd left for the day. Um, because they start real early, remember? So I had the semi-brilliant idea to look her up on Partners email and contact her that way. (And props to her for leaving her last name on the message, 'cause I had no clue.) She wrote me back and told me basically what Dr D had said, that he was happy with how the procedure had gone and hadn't found anything unexpected. Told me that dad could "slowly" return to normal eating. And said we should follow up with them "as necessary"--just call if any problems reoccur.
Are you kidding me? I almost let out a "woo hoo!" at my computer. No post-op appointment? I was totally envisioning having to waste half a morning taking my dad for that, sitting in the waiting room interminably, then in the room interminably, all for a two minute "how are things going? okay, fine" conversation and a stethoscope on the chest. Which was not totally filling me with joy, considering it's the holidays, my kid has two appointments next week I have to attend (though I'm thinking of rescheduling one), I still haven't rescheduled my own appointment that I cancelled when my dad was in the ER, etc.
Apparently, you make enough money stretching esophaguses that you don't have to make people come in for unnecessary followups to make a buck. I contrast this with, for instance, eye guy, who I swear will keep thinking up ways to get me in there for more groundless tests and whose office is just *chock full* of signs telling you you'll be charged $75 for a missed appointment and informing you you absolutely will not be seen if you owe them any money, as well as brochures for elective plastic surgery he'd love to do on you. I mean, he's not even subtle about being in it for the new beach house, not because he cares whether the populace of the North Shore can see or not. So I was wondering whether Dr D is in fact an employee of the hospital (like my docs are) at least in the satellite clinic (because he's an MGH doc slumming it here) and thus has *no* financial stake in how many appointments you have or what procedures and tests he does. (I think I just came out in favor of socialized medicine there, huh? And don't worry, my parenthesesectomy is coming right up.)
Anyway, I'm happy with them. If you need a thoracic surgeon, you just let me know and I'll give you their number.
xoxo
Wednesday, December 16, 2009
updates and new content
Promises, promises.
1.) The old man is fine. "Starving" and unhappy yogurt does not count as a liquid but fine.
2.) The Boston guy on Hoarders lives in a building called The Piano Factory which is approximately around where Mass Ave and Tremont St intersect. So I shoulda gone with South End. Boo!
3.) The Situation and Snookie from Jersey Shore were on Conan last night. I recommend you watch a clip online. Now that's entertainment. If I weren't lazy, I'd provide you with a link, but I was up at 4:45 today and therefore am good for basically nothing. Which is why I'm blogging even more, yo.
4.) New content: did you see the thing on the news about the little second grader in Taunton who was sent home from school and ordered to get psychological help for drawing a picture of what was either him or Jesus on a cross? This was linked to on jezebel, with readers invited to comment on what kind of disturbing pictures *they* drew as children. Honestly, I don't think I ever produced anything that alarmed anyone, which is seriously surprising, considering that I *loved* to draw and was a really, really weird and imaginative little kid. I did write a short story in high school creative writing about a young couple who are expecting a baby until the woman miscarries after her husband beats her. It ends with them putting the now unnecessary crib in the basement. This caused my teacher to thank me for making him seriously depressed for the rest of the day, but because it was 1978/79, no one forced me to see any social workers. Ha!
That's all I've got to say about that! But I'm not promising not to post any more today. I.am.bored. and trapped in this house and not really intent on, ohhhhh, I dunno, wrapping presents.
xoxo
1.) The old man is fine. "Starving" and unhappy yogurt does not count as a liquid but fine.
2.) The Boston guy on Hoarders lives in a building called The Piano Factory which is approximately around where Mass Ave and Tremont St intersect. So I shoulda gone with South End. Boo!
3.) The Situation and Snookie from Jersey Shore were on Conan last night. I recommend you watch a clip online. Now that's entertainment. If I weren't lazy, I'd provide you with a link, but I was up at 4:45 today and therefore am good for basically nothing. Which is why I'm blogging even more, yo.
4.) New content: did you see the thing on the news about the little second grader in Taunton who was sent home from school and ordered to get psychological help for drawing a picture of what was either him or Jesus on a cross? This was linked to on jezebel, with readers invited to comment on what kind of disturbing pictures *they* drew as children. Honestly, I don't think I ever produced anything that alarmed anyone, which is seriously surprising, considering that I *loved* to draw and was a really, really weird and imaginative little kid. I did write a short story in high school creative writing about a young couple who are expecting a baby until the woman miscarries after her husband beats her. It ends with them putting the now unnecessary crib in the basement. This caused my teacher to thank me for making him seriously depressed for the rest of the day, but because it was 1978/79, no one forced me to see any social workers. Ha!
That's all I've got to say about that! But I'm not promising not to post any more today. I.am.bored. and trapped in this house and not really intent on, ohhhhh, I dunno, wrapping presents.
xoxo
all esophagus all the time
My dad is over in day surg now. His case was scheduled at 8, which means we had to be there by 6:30. Are you serious? No one should ever have to be anywhere *by* 6:30 am, and I say that as someone who's in work at 7 one or two days a week. So, anyway, naturally this meant that at 5:35, my dad's going, "It's almost six. Aren't you dressed yet? We need to leave soon." After cheerfully ::ahem:: pointing out that 5:35 is not almost 6, and that we were not leaving the house until after 6, I told him that in any case we did not want to get there *too* early, because they wouldn't even be open yet.
Well, apparently I would be wrong there. When we got off the elevator at 6:20, there were probably fifteen people, of whom probably ten were patients, already checked in and sitting in that waiting room. I'm thinking some of them must have been told to be there by 6 or 6:15. That's really barbaric. And one of the reasons why, even though I love watching surgery and even though there are jobs that people who have job skills related to mine do solely in the OR and those jobs are extremely interesting and even though, back years and years and years ago when I did occasionally have to do some things in the OR, I found surgeons to fall into two camps: uptight bastards who made everyone who worked with them miserable *or* wacky goofballs who cranked up the tunes as soon as the patient was out and joked their way through their cases (which is why I'm still suspicious about how I came out of anesthesia wearing those paper bikinis) and made your work day an absolute blast, I never considered a position like that. Be at work before 6? No thank you. People who are actually morning people need careers too.
Plus, when you have to wear one of those surgical caps all day, it makes your hair look like crap.
That was a joke. N E Way. My dad also made me dial my uncle's number for him last night. He wanted to talk to him just in case he died today. 1.) Do you see what I put up with? and 2.) Do you see how I got to be the way I am? (Also, isn't it weird how you still use "dial" in that context, even though there haven't been dial phones for like 25 years? What do young people say? I wouldn't say "call" because that implies I spoke to my uncle. I dunno. Linguistic confusion here.)
Okay, I think that's all I've got to say about that, but maybe there'll be an update later if there is breaking news.
xoxo
Well, apparently I would be wrong there. When we got off the elevator at 6:20, there were probably fifteen people, of whom probably ten were patients, already checked in and sitting in that waiting room. I'm thinking some of them must have been told to be there by 6 or 6:15. That's really barbaric. And one of the reasons why, even though I love watching surgery and even though there are jobs that people who have job skills related to mine do solely in the OR and those jobs are extremely interesting and even though, back years and years and years ago when I did occasionally have to do some things in the OR, I found surgeons to fall into two camps: uptight bastards who made everyone who worked with them miserable *or* wacky goofballs who cranked up the tunes as soon as the patient was out and joked their way through their cases (which is why I'm still suspicious about how I came out of anesthesia wearing those paper bikinis) and made your work day an absolute blast, I never considered a position like that. Be at work before 6? No thank you. People who are actually morning people need careers too.
Plus, when you have to wear one of those surgical caps all day, it makes your hair look like crap.
That was a joke. N E Way. My dad also made me dial my uncle's number for him last night. He wanted to talk to him just in case he died today. 1.) Do you see what I put up with? and 2.) Do you see how I got to be the way I am? (Also, isn't it weird how you still use "dial" in that context, even though there haven't been dial phones for like 25 years? What do young people say? I wouldn't say "call" because that implies I spoke to my uncle. I dunno. Linguistic confusion here.)
Okay, I think that's all I've got to say about that, but maybe there'll be an update later if there is breaking news.
xoxo
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
celebrity boob watch
Rihanna is topless on the cover of the January GQ. Go look at it and then tell me those aren't perfect breasts. Good god.
That's all I've got to say about that. Ha!
xoxo
That's all I've got to say about that. Ha!
xoxo
last night
I had a lot of errands last night after work, some of which I did on the way home and some of which I went back out for. So after I was done with all that--oh, and being aggravated by the Surgicenter--I really had no energy to do a goddamn thing in my house. This is unfortunate, since I have not wrapped any presents yet. I keep looking at them and thinking about it, but that's as far as it goes. I did, however, stay up to watch Hoarders.
But before we get to that, let's explore why I was pissed at the day surg people, shall we? As I knew from when I had my own surgery in September, they do a phone screen two days before your procedure. But a few days before *that* they call you and tell you they're going to do the phone screen. Anyway, the nice secretary at the surgeon's office who has been going strictly through me (since talking to my dad on the phone involves, y'know, shouting) told me she would have the phone screen people also call me, on Monday. We even got a paper in the mail stating just that. Well, the end of last week, the hospital called my dad while I was at work and told him about the phone screen. "Can you talk to my daughter?" he asked. No, they told him, they were not allowed to do that. When he told me that, I was like, that's not what Kathy told me, but nevertheless he insisted they were adamant. So I was expecting him to get the call yesterday, not me.
So naturally, they did call me. And my cell was in my purse in the "back room", not with me in my office. Because I wasn't expecting an important call. By the time I realized I had voicemail, I had already left work and was in the midst of one of my errands. The voicemail said I could call them back until 5. The woman leaving the voicemail also helpfully slurred the phone number. I tried to call back--from a public place--and apparently had misheard the extension. So they transferred me. To another wrong number who transferred me to someone else. In pediatrics, because they thought it was my child I was doing the screen for. Arghhh. It was now 4:32. The pedi surgicenter woman transferred me to the right number, but warned me beforehand that the secretary down there was already gone and no one was gonna answer. Even though they specifically had told me I could call until 5pm. This is, I will mention, the fucking hospital at which I myself work. It reinforces my belief that I am one of the few people in this organization who knows what the hell they are doing and actually does it.
(Anyway, I called them first thing this morning from work. Since I stupidly left my phone home in the charger, it's a damn good thing I remembered what the correct extension was. Oh, Andrea.)
So, really, all I wanted last night was a glass of wine, some olives, and my Hoarders. And there were no human feces this week. Just a couple of people with waaayyyy too much stuff. One of them was a black gay man from Boston who was of the artistic persuasion and loved to dumpster dive. Apparently he knew where all the good dumpsters were, because his apartment was jam-packed with absolutely beautiful things. I mean, this guy was a collector of stuff that was actually collectible. But he was being threatened with losing his government housing subsidy because his apartment was a fire hazard. Also, because there was suspicion amongst the neighbors that his dumpster diving had introduced roaches into the building.
And, oh, they mentioned those neighbors paid $3000 a month for their places. It was kind of unclear if this was one of those mixed-income buildings, or since the guy mentioned he had lived there 30 years, whether he lived there before it was gentrified and was still there under some kind of loophole. It was a beautiful apartment and the outside of the building was spiffy. I was trying to figure out where it was--it didn't look familiar, but it had to be the South End or maybe the Fens. Actually, probably the Fens, the more I think about it. Anyway, I liked the local color and the gentleman was a hoot. But the feces and flattened dead cat episodes are more interesting. I think they should have entertained me more since I had such a hard day!
That's all I have to say about that. (I think that's gonna be my new sign off. Maybe, y'know, for the new decade.)
xoxo
But before we get to that, let's explore why I was pissed at the day surg people, shall we? As I knew from when I had my own surgery in September, they do a phone screen two days before your procedure. But a few days before *that* they call you and tell you they're going to do the phone screen. Anyway, the nice secretary at the surgeon's office who has been going strictly through me (since talking to my dad on the phone involves, y'know, shouting) told me she would have the phone screen people also call me, on Monday. We even got a paper in the mail stating just that. Well, the end of last week, the hospital called my dad while I was at work and told him about the phone screen. "Can you talk to my daughter?" he asked. No, they told him, they were not allowed to do that. When he told me that, I was like, that's not what Kathy told me, but nevertheless he insisted they were adamant. So I was expecting him to get the call yesterday, not me.
So naturally, they did call me. And my cell was in my purse in the "back room", not with me in my office. Because I wasn't expecting an important call. By the time I realized I had voicemail, I had already left work and was in the midst of one of my errands. The voicemail said I could call them back until 5. The woman leaving the voicemail also helpfully slurred the phone number. I tried to call back--from a public place--and apparently had misheard the extension. So they transferred me. To another wrong number who transferred me to someone else. In pediatrics, because they thought it was my child I was doing the screen for. Arghhh. It was now 4:32. The pedi surgicenter woman transferred me to the right number, but warned me beforehand that the secretary down there was already gone and no one was gonna answer. Even though they specifically had told me I could call until 5pm. This is, I will mention, the fucking hospital at which I myself work. It reinforces my belief that I am one of the few people in this organization who knows what the hell they are doing and actually does it.
(Anyway, I called them first thing this morning from work. Since I stupidly left my phone home in the charger, it's a damn good thing I remembered what the correct extension was. Oh, Andrea.)
So, really, all I wanted last night was a glass of wine, some olives, and my Hoarders. And there were no human feces this week. Just a couple of people with waaayyyy too much stuff. One of them was a black gay man from Boston who was of the artistic persuasion and loved to dumpster dive. Apparently he knew where all the good dumpsters were, because his apartment was jam-packed with absolutely beautiful things. I mean, this guy was a collector of stuff that was actually collectible. But he was being threatened with losing his government housing subsidy because his apartment was a fire hazard. Also, because there was suspicion amongst the neighbors that his dumpster diving had introduced roaches into the building.
And, oh, they mentioned those neighbors paid $3000 a month for their places. It was kind of unclear if this was one of those mixed-income buildings, or since the guy mentioned he had lived there 30 years, whether he lived there before it was gentrified and was still there under some kind of loophole. It was a beautiful apartment and the outside of the building was spiffy. I was trying to figure out where it was--it didn't look familiar, but it had to be the South End or maybe the Fens. Actually, probably the Fens, the more I think about it. Anyway, I liked the local color and the gentleman was a hoot. But the feces and flattened dead cat episodes are more interesting. I think they should have entertained me more since I had such a hard day!
That's all I have to say about that. (I think that's gonna be my new sign off. Maybe, y'know, for the new decade.)
xoxo
Monday, December 14, 2009
a little more seriously
As if eye fungus wasn't serious, god.
I've suddenly got that punched-in-the-stomach feeling of unhappiness again today, which had gone on its merry way since Thanksgiving--even when applicable. I can only surmise it's the advent of Christmas in a few short days. (No pun intended, Catholics.) And I thought I was doing so well with all my decorating, keeping a positive spin on things. That's the thing, I guess. Even with a positive spin on things, they can sneak up on you and punch you in your gut. I'm not extremely pleased with D right now for a variety of reasons, and my dad's procedure to fix that wayward esophagus is this Wednesday, over which I am feeling this formless dread. I've got no reason to think it will be anything less than routine, and lord knows, the whining quotient in my house will go down when he's no longer limited to a diet of yogurt, soup, and scrambled eggs. But still. And then there's the usual bullshit about how everything would be great! if only it were all completely different. Which I'm sure the Buddhism will cure me of in ten or twenty years, just in time for me to die.
So since I can't get rid of that immediately if not sooner, I thought I'd list some things that I should be happy about right now. Positive fuckin' spin.
1.) I'm wearing a skirt today that I haven't been able to wear for a while. Through the miracle of control top tights, I'm sure, but even so. I used to wear this skirt a lot when I weighed like 15 pounds less than I do right now. Having it on today should make me pleased. (We'll just ignore the pathology of having one's mood elevated or lowered by what clothes are zipping on any particular day, 'k? Work with me here.)
2.) I did yoga last night for the first time in ::mumble:: and to my surprise, even though I couldn't get all the way into the poses like I could when I used to do them daily or almost daily, I still did much better than I could do when I first started. My hips are still more open than I thought. Yay for nice stretchy fascia.
3.) That's all I got.
xoxo
I've suddenly got that punched-in-the-stomach feeling of unhappiness again today, which had gone on its merry way since Thanksgiving--even when applicable. I can only surmise it's the advent of Christmas in a few short days. (No pun intended, Catholics.) And I thought I was doing so well with all my decorating, keeping a positive spin on things. That's the thing, I guess. Even with a positive spin on things, they can sneak up on you and punch you in your gut. I'm not extremely pleased with D right now for a variety of reasons, and my dad's procedure to fix that wayward esophagus is this Wednesday, over which I am feeling this formless dread. I've got no reason to think it will be anything less than routine, and lord knows, the whining quotient in my house will go down when he's no longer limited to a diet of yogurt, soup, and scrambled eggs. But still. And then there's the usual bullshit about how everything would be great! if only it were all completely different. Which I'm sure the Buddhism will cure me of in ten or twenty years, just in time for me to die.
So since I can't get rid of that immediately if not sooner, I thought I'd list some things that I should be happy about right now. Positive fuckin' spin.
1.) I'm wearing a skirt today that I haven't been able to wear for a while. Through the miracle of control top tights, I'm sure, but even so. I used to wear this skirt a lot when I weighed like 15 pounds less than I do right now. Having it on today should make me pleased. (We'll just ignore the pathology of having one's mood elevated or lowered by what clothes are zipping on any particular day, 'k? Work with me here.)
2.) I did yoga last night for the first time in ::mumble:: and to my surprise, even though I couldn't get all the way into the poses like I could when I used to do them daily or almost daily, I still did much better than I could do when I first started. My hips are still more open than I thought. Yay for nice stretchy fascia.
3.) That's all I got.
xoxo
and another thing!
My boss has been having horrible dry eye problems too. In fact, the other day he had to send Led Zep girl out to the CVS for eye drops for him, because he wasn't sure he could see to examine patients. Coincidence? Or eye fungus in the air of that overheated, windowless basement dungeon they make us work in?????
You be the judge. Then call OSHA for me.
Thanks!
xoxo
You be the judge. Then call OSHA for me.
Thanks!
xoxo
Sunday, December 13, 2009
oh, andrea
You're such a hippie.
Those are my new Xmas wall words. In my foy-yay. That I painted. Um, the foyer, remember? Not the words. Those are vinyl. And, yes, my camera still sucks.
xoxo
Those are my new Xmas wall words. In my foy-yay. That I painted. Um, the foyer, remember? Not the words. Those are vinyl. And, yes, my camera still sucks.
xoxo
Saturday, December 12, 2009
obligatory monthy random post
1.) A 13 month old baby grabbed my boob today. I was determined to ignore it and pretend it didn't happen, but his mother started cracking up and then his father wanted to know what was so funny and there went taking the high road and acting professionally. Sigh.
2.) More about happiness. I was thinking about the whole material-things-don't-bring-happiness thing, and I found where the disconnect is for me. The material things I long to afford aren't based on status or (I don't think) mindless consumption. Mostly the things I want are things I want because they're pretty. Aesthetically pleasing. And when I am surrounded with beautiful things, it does improve my mood. The rooms in my house that I've mostly managed to do over so far, within the limited scope of my budget and my home improvement skills, make me happy to be in them, because I've made them as pretty as I can. I don't think the Buddhists have anything against aesthetics--certainly they have some beautiful temples and artwork--so I'm wondering how this fits in.
3.) I've been sleeping crappy lately, mostly because it's so cold in my bedroom when I go to bed that I'm buried under a pile of covers with my little ceramic heater on, and then I wake up at some point really hot, tossing off blankets, peeling off clothes and throwing them across the room in the general vicinity of the hamper, and shutting off the heater. Then it takes me awhile to fall back to sleep. Then I wake up before morning freezing again. Moral? Winter sux.
4.) Since I said in my customer service survey that I would be "very likely" to recommend them to my friends, lemme step up and pimp moo.com. http://us.moo.com/en/ I recently got my new business cards and my Xmas postcards from them and I could not be happier with the quality or service. (And if you haven't gotten an Xmas postcard from me, and you'd like one, email me your postal address!)
xoxo
2.) More about happiness. I was thinking about the whole material-things-don't-bring-happiness thing, and I found where the disconnect is for me. The material things I long to afford aren't based on status or (I don't think) mindless consumption. Mostly the things I want are things I want because they're pretty. Aesthetically pleasing. And when I am surrounded with beautiful things, it does improve my mood. The rooms in my house that I've mostly managed to do over so far, within the limited scope of my budget and my home improvement skills, make me happy to be in them, because I've made them as pretty as I can. I don't think the Buddhists have anything against aesthetics--certainly they have some beautiful temples and artwork--so I'm wondering how this fits in.
3.) I've been sleeping crappy lately, mostly because it's so cold in my bedroom when I go to bed that I'm buried under a pile of covers with my little ceramic heater on, and then I wake up at some point really hot, tossing off blankets, peeling off clothes and throwing them across the room in the general vicinity of the hamper, and shutting off the heater. Then it takes me awhile to fall back to sleep. Then I wake up before morning freezing again. Moral? Winter sux.
4.) Since I said in my customer service survey that I would be "very likely" to recommend them to my friends, lemme step up and pimp moo.com. http://us.moo.com/en/ I recently got my new business cards and my Xmas postcards from them and I could not be happier with the quality or service. (And if you haven't gotten an Xmas postcard from me, and you'd like one, email me your postal address!)
xoxo
Friday, December 11, 2009
putting the buddhism into practice
In just the beginnings of my reading, I've come across a principle that is so simple and so profound that I know if only I could adhere to it, my whole life would be different. Paraphrasing (hopefully accurately): The key to happiness is wanting what you have and not wanting what you don't have.
It's true. A good 95% of my unhappiness in life (as opposed to my bouts of depression which are due to my defective brain) is due to my perceiving that other people have things that I don't, and wanting those things, and feeling resentful about it. You know, stuff like a partner who loves me, a healthy child, future grandbabies, the ability to have all the nice things I would like without going into crushing debt, and (especially at this time of year) a big happy family. Obviously, all those things are pretty much out of my control or downright impossible. So wanting them is just forcing myself into misery.
If I could just be joyous with the good parts of my life that exist (which I am) without craving other things that probably or definitely aren't in the cards, all my unhappiness would fall away. If I could do the Buddhist thing and just learn to be in the moment, I'd hardly be malevolent anymore. (And then what would I blog about?!??)
Really, I think they're on to something.
xoxo
It's true. A good 95% of my unhappiness in life (as opposed to my bouts of depression which are due to my defective brain) is due to my perceiving that other people have things that I don't, and wanting those things, and feeling resentful about it. You know, stuff like a partner who loves me, a healthy child, future grandbabies, the ability to have all the nice things I would like without going into crushing debt, and (especially at this time of year) a big happy family. Obviously, all those things are pretty much out of my control or downright impossible. So wanting them is just forcing myself into misery.
If I could just be joyous with the good parts of my life that exist (which I am) without craving other things that probably or definitely aren't in the cards, all my unhappiness would fall away. If I could do the Buddhist thing and just learn to be in the moment, I'd hardly be malevolent anymore. (And then what would I blog about?!??)
Really, I think they're on to something.
xoxo
Thursday, December 10, 2009
not getting any smarter
In the interest of fair reporting, I must confess that Mr Barma and I went to trivia again last night and we didn't do so well. Mr Barma tells me, however, if only we would have gotten the two bonus questions at the end for a total of fifteen points, we would've won. The topic was "2007." We did not, either of us, know what Paris Hilton went to jail for (I thought it was drunk driving, but in fact it was driving with a suspended license) or what won Best Picture that year (The Departed; I though it was Crash, but that was the year before.) We in fact have never answered an Academy Award question right, which is why I'ma study up on that prior to trivia league resuming in January. I did know, however, what year Elvis died and I correctly identified a picture of Travis Barker, solely because I had a vague recollection of what his neck tattoo looks like. I'm not so good on faces, but I remember people's tats.
We're still trying to recruit someone in their twenties or early thirties to our team, but Mr Barma's neighbors are proving unreliable. Boo!
But on a happier note, do you know what I had to drink during bar trivia? *Harpoon* cider, a product whose existence I was hereforeto unaware of. It's tangy! It's got sort of a green/sour apple taste to it, which is yummy and refreshing. And different. I give it two thumbs up. You should try some if you come across it.
Okay, I think that's all I've got to say about that. Namaste.
xoxo
We're still trying to recruit someone in their twenties or early thirties to our team, but Mr Barma's neighbors are proving unreliable. Boo!
But on a happier note, do you know what I had to drink during bar trivia? *Harpoon* cider, a product whose existence I was hereforeto unaware of. It's tangy! It's got sort of a green/sour apple taste to it, which is yummy and refreshing. And different. I give it two thumbs up. You should try some if you come across it.
Okay, I think that's all I've got to say about that. Namaste.
xoxo
Tuesday, December 8, 2009
insight through poop
That's my best blog title ever right there. Draws you right in, doesn't it?
So! D and I were watching Hoarders again last night. That's my Monday night at 10pm appointment viewing it seems. I can't help it. It's fascinating.***
And one of the cases was a 66 or 68 year old woman, retired tech writer (so obviously at one point fairly bright and well-educated), who almost smothered to death in her own trash when she fell out of the chair she had tied herself into to sleep, because there was literally no clear area in her house where she could even lie down. She had been without running water for two years which means she couldn't use her toilet which means she had just been wearing adult diapers. And then leaving the used ones on the floor. Her house was filled with feces. Human feces. She almost lost both her legs when she was admitted to the hospital because she had infected leg sores. From living in feces.
She had a daughter who lived across the country from her and apparently did not know anything about her mother's living conditions (though she knew she was a hoarder and always had been) until she was hospitalized. And her daughter was tearfully asking her *why* she hadn't told her she had no running water for two years or that things had gotten that bad, why she hadn't asked for help. The woman said, "Oh, you had your own life to lead. I didn't want to be a bother."
Now, obviously, the woman is deeply mentally ill. She was living in *feces*. But I heard her say that and I thought, yeah. I can relate. I've told you all the story about how when D had the really good therapist for the year after he was in the hospital, this therapist, who had probably had a total of 15 minutes worth of conversation with me, most of which was twenty seconds at a time of "Oh, hi. How are you?", said one day, "Andrea, you don't like to ask people for help, do you?" And how I opened my mouth to deny it, and started laughing, because, god, he nailed me. He was good.
I won't ever ask anyone for help, at least not anyone who isn't being actually paid to help me. Not ever. No matter how much I could use the help, no matter how close a friend. I can't ever "be a bother." I can (usually) gracefully accept help if it is offered, but if it isn't offered, I won't ask. It's a combination of feeling like I am a failure if I can't handle every single thing on my own and the conviction that no one would really care enough to want to help me, so if I were to ask and they accepted, it would be grudgingly. I would be putting them out, and god knows I don't want to put anyone out.
So I'm watching this woman on Hoarders and I think, yeah. What will I do when I'm old and alone, as I will be, and my pipes break and I can't afford to fix them? Would I end up just using diapers because I couldn't bother anyone to help me? (I kind of see myself as being willing to actually throw them in the garbage, not live amongst them, but hey, who knows how crazy I'll be by then?) It's sorta like when I watched Grey Gardens and was freaking out about me and D ending up living with feral cats and raccoons in the living room, except, because I am not crazed with anxiety at the moment, the Hoarders thang didn't make me freak. It's more like bemusement--you think *no one* could end up like that, but then you realize people who have no help and can't reach out for help, when they're not healthy enough mentally or physically to help themselves...who knows in what situation they could end up?
That's my poop insight. I don't know the answer to it. (But I'm thinking it involves very attentive and caring step-grandchildren. Find me some, stat!)
xoxo
***So, they introduce one of the psychologists on the show as "an expert in hoarding and anxiety disorders" and D says, after a minute, "How would you pick that?" I misunderstood and thought he was asking why someone's anxiety disorder would manifest as hoarding. But, no. He wanted to know why or how someone would pick that as a specialty if they were a psychologist. I said I didn't know, but maybe they just thought it was the most fascinating subject ever. And then I had to add "...like me!" Ha!
So! D and I were watching Hoarders again last night. That's my Monday night at 10pm appointment viewing it seems. I can't help it. It's fascinating.***
And one of the cases was a 66 or 68 year old woman, retired tech writer (so obviously at one point fairly bright and well-educated), who almost smothered to death in her own trash when she fell out of the chair she had tied herself into to sleep, because there was literally no clear area in her house where she could even lie down. She had been without running water for two years which means she couldn't use her toilet which means she had just been wearing adult diapers. And then leaving the used ones on the floor. Her house was filled with feces. Human feces. She almost lost both her legs when she was admitted to the hospital because she had infected leg sores. From living in feces.
She had a daughter who lived across the country from her and apparently did not know anything about her mother's living conditions (though she knew she was a hoarder and always had been) until she was hospitalized. And her daughter was tearfully asking her *why* she hadn't told her she had no running water for two years or that things had gotten that bad, why she hadn't asked for help. The woman said, "Oh, you had your own life to lead. I didn't want to be a bother."
Now, obviously, the woman is deeply mentally ill. She was living in *feces*. But I heard her say that and I thought, yeah. I can relate. I've told you all the story about how when D had the really good therapist for the year after he was in the hospital, this therapist, who had probably had a total of 15 minutes worth of conversation with me, most of which was twenty seconds at a time of "Oh, hi. How are you?", said one day, "Andrea, you don't like to ask people for help, do you?" And how I opened my mouth to deny it, and started laughing, because, god, he nailed me. He was good.
I won't ever ask anyone for help, at least not anyone who isn't being actually paid to help me. Not ever. No matter how much I could use the help, no matter how close a friend. I can't ever "be a bother." I can (usually) gracefully accept help if it is offered, but if it isn't offered, I won't ask. It's a combination of feeling like I am a failure if I can't handle every single thing on my own and the conviction that no one would really care enough to want to help me, so if I were to ask and they accepted, it would be grudgingly. I would be putting them out, and god knows I don't want to put anyone out.
So I'm watching this woman on Hoarders and I think, yeah. What will I do when I'm old and alone, as I will be, and my pipes break and I can't afford to fix them? Would I end up just using diapers because I couldn't bother anyone to help me? (I kind of see myself as being willing to actually throw them in the garbage, not live amongst them, but hey, who knows how crazy I'll be by then?) It's sorta like when I watched Grey Gardens and was freaking out about me and D ending up living with feral cats and raccoons in the living room, except, because I am not crazed with anxiety at the moment, the Hoarders thang didn't make me freak. It's more like bemusement--you think *no one* could end up like that, but then you realize people who have no help and can't reach out for help, when they're not healthy enough mentally or physically to help themselves...who knows in what situation they could end up?
That's my poop insight. I don't know the answer to it. (But I'm thinking it involves very attentive and caring step-grandchildren. Find me some, stat!)
xoxo
***So, they introduce one of the psychologists on the show as "an expert in hoarding and anxiety disorders" and D says, after a minute, "How would you pick that?" I misunderstood and thought he was asking why someone's anxiety disorder would manifest as hoarding. But, no. He wanted to know why or how someone would pick that as a specialty if they were a psychologist. I said I didn't know, but maybe they just thought it was the most fascinating subject ever. And then I had to add "...like me!" Ha!
Monday, December 7, 2009
a day at the beach
I was gonna tell you about how I had a long walk this morning but managed not to slip and fall on any of the ice that was everywhere, and about how my new down coat--did I tell you I bought one?--kept me nice and warm even though I have buyer's remorse and kind of hate it. However! Fuck the winter report. Let's have a nice summer post.
What brings this up, Andrea? Okay. I was thinking about Mr Indemnity's blog comment to my previous post, which I had time to read but not reply to, and what I would have said. I *would* have said, dude, you have no idea how close you came last Christmas to buying a poor family a sheep when I was looking for a sheep-related gift for you. But I successfully deduced that Mr Indemnity would have been sad not to get some stuff, because he likes stuff. But then I couldn't remember what I did get him for Christmas last year. I was thinking it was travel scrabble, but no, that was the year before.
And then the thoughts of travel scrabble made me think of the reasons that was an appropriate gift, and I decided I wanted to share with you all how Mr Indemnity and I go to the beach. Because it's pretty funny. There's a ritual involved. First of all, Mr Indemnity' Significant-ish Other does not like the beach, so he always has to procure other friends to go with him. Since I, even though I am the whitest white girl in North America and have effectively no melanin at all, love the beach, I can usually be convinced to go if I am free without much, if any, cajoling. And here the ritual comes in.
First of all, we only ever go to one of two beaches: Devereaux or Cranes. If we are going to Devereaux, we first stop at the Shaws in Salem; if Cranes, the Shaws in Beverly. There we procure food. This food usually includes (but is not limited to) the following: grapes--preferably green, a bag of baby carrots, humus, mini muffins from the bakery, and chips (always Lays in the yellow bag, even though Mr Indemnity says those are boring; I tell him you do not mess with perfection and if he wants to buy gourmet jalapeno barbecue sour cream kettle chips, he is welcome to, but I'm getting the Lays). Basically, we buy snacks for four hours at the beach like we were going on a three day road trip.
When we get to the beach, we spend 20 minutes applying sunscreen. SPF 8 for Mr Indemnity, SPF 1003 for me. Then we spend an additional 5 minutes of Mr Indemnity mocking my SPF and me telling him his spray-on sunscreen is stoopid. Then we break out the snacks. We need to sit there long enough for me to get really, really, really hot, because that is the only way I will go in the water. If we are at Cranes, we then (after I'm sufficiently warmed up, so to speak) take the long, long, long walk down to the end of the beach where the sandbar is, because as I have mentioned to you all, the water is ten degrees warmer there. This enables me to go in chest high and perform any nefarious deeds I need to. If we are at Devereaux, the water is always cold and I am in and out quick-like without reaching waist-high. This is no problem, because they have convenient bathrooms there.
After we get out of the water, we adjourn to our beach chairs again for more snacks and travel scrabble! I always have to keep score, for what reason I don't know. But I then always get cranky because Mr Indemnity and I have the same first initial. It's a damn good thing we have different last initials, because I would not be able to fit our whole names on the teeny tiny place they give me on the travel scrabble scorecard. Also, I always win. Mostly because I will not let Mr Indemnity cheat, like he does when he plays on (the evil) Facebook with his other friends.
After many hours, it is evening and time to go home. At least, I want to go home and shower the sand off. Mr Indemnity's always like, "Want to go get dinner?" To which I reply, "What is wrong with you? We've been eating all afternoon." So then he tries to entice me to go for a beer or ice cream. But not both together. Because--and if any of Mr Indemnity's other friends are reading this, they will back me up--once he is out for the day, he is out for the day and the evening. He's never, "Oh, look at the time, I gotta go." No, he's all "Oh, that was fun. Let's do something else!" All my friends have their own little endearing quirks, and that is Mr Indemnity's.
So usually I get talked into beer or ice cream. Because, c'mon, it's beer. Or ice cream.
And that is your beach story. No down coats required.
xoxo
What brings this up, Andrea? Okay. I was thinking about Mr Indemnity's blog comment to my previous post, which I had time to read but not reply to, and what I would have said. I *would* have said, dude, you have no idea how close you came last Christmas to buying a poor family a sheep when I was looking for a sheep-related gift for you. But I successfully deduced that Mr Indemnity would have been sad not to get some stuff, because he likes stuff. But then I couldn't remember what I did get him for Christmas last year. I was thinking it was travel scrabble, but no, that was the year before.
And then the thoughts of travel scrabble made me think of the reasons that was an appropriate gift, and I decided I wanted to share with you all how Mr Indemnity and I go to the beach. Because it's pretty funny. There's a ritual involved. First of all, Mr Indemnity' Significant-ish Other does not like the beach, so he always has to procure other friends to go with him. Since I, even though I am the whitest white girl in North America and have effectively no melanin at all, love the beach, I can usually be convinced to go if I am free without much, if any, cajoling. And here the ritual comes in.
First of all, we only ever go to one of two beaches: Devereaux or Cranes. If we are going to Devereaux, we first stop at the Shaws in Salem; if Cranes, the Shaws in Beverly. There we procure food. This food usually includes (but is not limited to) the following: grapes--preferably green, a bag of baby carrots, humus, mini muffins from the bakery, and chips (always Lays in the yellow bag, even though Mr Indemnity says those are boring; I tell him you do not mess with perfection and if he wants to buy gourmet jalapeno barbecue sour cream kettle chips, he is welcome to, but I'm getting the Lays). Basically, we buy snacks for four hours at the beach like we were going on a three day road trip.
When we get to the beach, we spend 20 minutes applying sunscreen. SPF 8 for Mr Indemnity, SPF 1003 for me. Then we spend an additional 5 minutes of Mr Indemnity mocking my SPF and me telling him his spray-on sunscreen is stoopid. Then we break out the snacks. We need to sit there long enough for me to get really, really, really hot, because that is the only way I will go in the water. If we are at Cranes, we then (after I'm sufficiently warmed up, so to speak) take the long, long, long walk down to the end of the beach where the sandbar is, because as I have mentioned to you all, the water is ten degrees warmer there. This enables me to go in chest high and perform any nefarious deeds I need to. If we are at Devereaux, the water is always cold and I am in and out quick-like without reaching waist-high. This is no problem, because they have convenient bathrooms there.
After we get out of the water, we adjourn to our beach chairs again for more snacks and travel scrabble! I always have to keep score, for what reason I don't know. But I then always get cranky because Mr Indemnity and I have the same first initial. It's a damn good thing we have different last initials, because I would not be able to fit our whole names on the teeny tiny place they give me on the travel scrabble scorecard. Also, I always win. Mostly because I will not let Mr Indemnity cheat, like he does when he plays on (the evil) Facebook with his other friends.
After many hours, it is evening and time to go home. At least, I want to go home and shower the sand off. Mr Indemnity's always like, "Want to go get dinner?" To which I reply, "What is wrong with you? We've been eating all afternoon." So then he tries to entice me to go for a beer or ice cream. But not both together. Because--and if any of Mr Indemnity's other friends are reading this, they will back me up--once he is out for the day, he is out for the day and the evening. He's never, "Oh, look at the time, I gotta go." No, he's all "Oh, that was fun. Let's do something else!" All my friends have their own little endearing quirks, and that is Mr Indemnity's.
So usually I get talked into beer or ice cream. Because, c'mon, it's beer. Or ice cream.
And that is your beach story. No down coats required.
xoxo
Sunday, December 6, 2009
xmas gifting odds and ends
1.) I am almost completely done. I need to buy M1 a bottle of prosecco or cava (shh, don't tell!), but I will probably do that when I go see Marcy this week, because there's a nice wine store near her office. Why/how am I almost done? Because I have done almost all of it online. I started out buying the things online that I could get free shipping on, but this morning I caved and bought a couple things that I had to pay exorbitant shipping for (you realize that I consider *any* shipping charge exorbitant, right?)
One of the things is something I know I could find at a particular store locally--I've seen it there, but didn't buy--but when I went to another branch of the same store, they were out. I was planning to go back to the original store today, but you know what? They could be out by now too. I'd have to call and see and have them put it aside for me if they do have it and then bank on the probably college-aged employee having actually done so. Plus, it'd take me a good couple hours. My time is worth $4.50 an hour, right? So I sucked it up and paid the $9 shipping, even though it physically hurt. Almost. Anyway, now I can do the stuff in the house I was planning to do last night before I got sucked into the inescapable vortex of my sofa and guidos.
The second thing I paid for shipping for was just pure laziness, though. I coulda got that in person without much trouble. But I'm okay with that.
2.) What do you guys think of the concept of giving someone a charitable donation for a gift? You may remember my ex-sister-in-law sent me and D that incredibly awesome Omaha steak gift package from her and the kids (and I guess her husband, but he's kinda inconsequential) last year. I was really surprised because we have not seen them for awhile--the kids are away at school, living their lives, and when they are home, they're busy, so it's understandable--though we email occasionally or send cards, etc. And I'm kinda of the opinion that now the kids are all grown up, we could cut out the gifting altogether. But it was a really generous thing to do and we did enjoy it.
So I'm thinking I should send her family something from us this year. But what? Then I was thinking maybe I could do one of those charitable donation things, like Oxfam America, where you can buy a poor family in Africa a goat for $50 or something. They're pretty Catholic, mostly (as far as I can tell) in the "good" way; my niece, especially, seems to be one of those earnest volunteer-to-help-the-downtrodden and save-the-world kind of young person. (Of course if she also pickets abortion clinics, I'm probably better off not knowing about it.) And when I did the walk for hunger, my s-i-l gave me a really generous donation.
But would it be like, okay, we gave you *meat* and you gave us this crappy charitable donation? Do people hate when other people do that? Maybe I should just send the kids a check. Sigh.
xoxo
One of the things is something I know I could find at a particular store locally--I've seen it there, but didn't buy--but when I went to another branch of the same store, they were out. I was planning to go back to the original store today, but you know what? They could be out by now too. I'd have to call and see and have them put it aside for me if they do have it and then bank on the probably college-aged employee having actually done so. Plus, it'd take me a good couple hours. My time is worth $4.50 an hour, right? So I sucked it up and paid the $9 shipping, even though it physically hurt. Almost. Anyway, now I can do the stuff in the house I was planning to do last night before I got sucked into the inescapable vortex of my sofa and guidos.
The second thing I paid for shipping for was just pure laziness, though. I coulda got that in person without much trouble. But I'm okay with that.
2.) What do you guys think of the concept of giving someone a charitable donation for a gift? You may remember my ex-sister-in-law sent me and D that incredibly awesome Omaha steak gift package from her and the kids (and I guess her husband, but he's kinda inconsequential) last year. I was really surprised because we have not seen them for awhile--the kids are away at school, living their lives, and when they are home, they're busy, so it's understandable--though we email occasionally or send cards, etc. And I'm kinda of the opinion that now the kids are all grown up, we could cut out the gifting altogether. But it was a really generous thing to do and we did enjoy it.
So I'm thinking I should send her family something from us this year. But what? Then I was thinking maybe I could do one of those charitable donation things, like Oxfam America, where you can buy a poor family in Africa a goat for $50 or something. They're pretty Catholic, mostly (as far as I can tell) in the "good" way; my niece, especially, seems to be one of those earnest volunteer-to-help-the-downtrodden and save-the-world kind of young person. (Of course if she also pickets abortion clinics, I'm probably better off not knowing about it.) And when I did the walk for hunger, my s-i-l gave me a really generous donation.
But would it be like, okay, we gave you *meat* and you gave us this crappy charitable donation? Do people hate when other people do that? Maybe I should just send the kids a check. Sigh.
xoxo
Saturday, December 5, 2009
natural disasters
i.e. more proof the baby Jesus hates me.
I had big plans about what kind of productive things I was going to do when I got home from work tonight. They were, however, forestalled when I realized MTV was repeating the two hour premiere of Jersey Shore from 6-8pm. All week I had been reading all over the interwebz that was the best trash TV ever. Basically, The Real World...but with guidos!
Now, c'mon. Did I not grow up down the road from Reveah? Did I not go dancing at The Palace and drinking at Jacob's Ladder? Was not the second guy I ever had sex with named Aldo? I *know* these people and their potential for hilarity. I had to watch at least once, to see what their children were up to.
I was not disappointed.
Random housemates hooking up for the first time:
Guidette: Your penis is pierced.
Guido (low voice): Nobody knows.
Guidette: I do now.
Millions of television viewers: So do we!
But then it started snowing too hard and I lost my satellite signal. Son of a bitch. I can't justify rotting my brain with watching this a second time.
xoxo
I had big plans about what kind of productive things I was going to do when I got home from work tonight. They were, however, forestalled when I realized MTV was repeating the two hour premiere of Jersey Shore from 6-8pm. All week I had been reading all over the interwebz that was the best trash TV ever. Basically, The Real World...but with guidos!
Now, c'mon. Did I not grow up down the road from Reveah? Did I not go dancing at The Palace and drinking at Jacob's Ladder? Was not the second guy I ever had sex with named Aldo? I *know* these people and their potential for hilarity. I had to watch at least once, to see what their children were up to.
I was not disappointed.
Random housemates hooking up for the first time:
Guidette: Your penis is pierced.
Guido (low voice): Nobody knows.
Guidette: I do now.
Millions of television viewers: So do we!
But then it started snowing too hard and I lost my satellite signal. Son of a bitch. I can't justify rotting my brain with watching this a second time.
xoxo
more video vixen news
I just found out yesterday that one of the three video vixens in the Gimme All Your Lovin'/Sharp Dressed Man/Legs trilogy is Jeana, one of the original cast members of "Real Housewives of the OC." Can you stand it?
I have never watched even one episode of that version of the show, but from what I understand, after her stint as a Playboy Playmate and beguiler of men in rock videos, she went on to marry a baseball player, become a very successful (until the market tanked) realtor in SoCal, have three children--the oldest of which was proven (if only by unflattering editing) to be a complete douchebag on national TV, and, oh yeah, get a little chunky in her middle age (as do most of us!)
I think I need to leave this topic alone now before I discover Michelle Obama or Martha Stewart was in a ZZ Top video. Because apparently everyone has been.
xoxo
I have never watched even one episode of that version of the show, but from what I understand, after her stint as a Playboy Playmate and beguiler of men in rock videos, she went on to marry a baseball player, become a very successful (until the market tanked) realtor in SoCal, have three children--the oldest of which was proven (if only by unflattering editing) to be a complete douchebag on national TV, and, oh yeah, get a little chunky in her middle age (as do most of us!)
I think I need to leave this topic alone now before I discover Michelle Obama or Martha Stewart was in a ZZ Top video. Because apparently everyone has been.
xoxo
Friday, December 4, 2009
july 5, 1998
I hesitated writing this post because every time I tell a story that is in any way poignant or expressing regrets, I get concerned emails saying, "Andrea, are you okay? Are you depressed?" In advance: Peeps, I am not depressed, but thank you for your concern.
Okay. This memory was occasioned by this week's sojourn to the emergency department, as you could probably figure out by your own selves. But it never hurts to be obvious. C'mon now.
On the Sunday of Fourth of July weekend when D was 12, he went with his father to a cookout at his other grandfather's house. Whatever He Was to Me and I were due to leave on vacation the next day. (It was a long distance relationship. He at the time lived in Syracuse and I, of course, lived in Boston. We were meeting up in Albany and then adjourning to the Adirondacks to go hiking. I was really looking forward to it.) So the evening of July 5, I was just putzing around, doing some last minute packing. The phone rang.
It was my ex. He and D were in the ER, and while D was okay, I should get there immediately. And bring the insurance card. What had happened was this: one of my ex's drunken moron friends, who was also at this barbecue, decided to set off some fireworks beneath the deck in order to scare the people who were sitting on it. Um, yeah, hilarious prank. By someone in their fucking thirties, no less. Well. The explosion actually blew a chunk of wood out of the deck, which flew through the air in a projectile-like fashion towards the lawn where the kids were running around. My son ended up with the chunk of wood lodged in his ear.
They got it out and fixed him up in the ER and said it looked like everything was going to be okay. However, they wanted him to see the ENT that week just to make sure there wasn't going to be permanent damage or hearing loss. "I'm going to be out of town," I said. "I'm supposed to be leaving for NY in the morning."
"Well, I can't take him," my ex said. "I have to work." As if if I *weren't* going on vacation, I wouldn't also have "had to work."
"You want me to cancel my trip so you don't have to leave work for an hour?"
"Sorry, I can't do it."
At some point later while we were still in the emergency department but S was out of the room, D turned to me and said, "Mom? I'm sorry you're missing your vacation because of me."
Imagine my heart shattering into a million pieces. "Oh, sweetheart, no. You're way, way more important than my vacation. I was just upset at your dad because it's his fault you got hurt and he's not taking any responsibility for it."
But, you know. Part of the reason my heart broke was because it was true. I *had* had a brief spasm of resentment and, apparently, it showed. And a "good mother" wouldn't have even thought about taking off to cavort in the woods with her paramour when her twelve year old just had an injury. <--It's hard to even type that. And, yes, I do know that I was not the *worse* parent in this little story. I just wasn't a very good one.
I think I did better with dad this week. Live and learn. Still die stupid.
xoxo
Okay. This memory was occasioned by this week's sojourn to the emergency department, as you could probably figure out by your own selves. But it never hurts to be obvious. C'mon now.
On the Sunday of Fourth of July weekend when D was 12, he went with his father to a cookout at his other grandfather's house. Whatever He Was to Me and I were due to leave on vacation the next day. (It was a long distance relationship. He at the time lived in Syracuse and I, of course, lived in Boston. We were meeting up in Albany and then adjourning to the Adirondacks to go hiking. I was really looking forward to it.) So the evening of July 5, I was just putzing around, doing some last minute packing. The phone rang.
It was my ex. He and D were in the ER, and while D was okay, I should get there immediately. And bring the insurance card. What had happened was this: one of my ex's drunken moron friends, who was also at this barbecue, decided to set off some fireworks beneath the deck in order to scare the people who were sitting on it. Um, yeah, hilarious prank. By someone in their fucking thirties, no less. Well. The explosion actually blew a chunk of wood out of the deck, which flew through the air in a projectile-like fashion towards the lawn where the kids were running around. My son ended up with the chunk of wood lodged in his ear.
They got it out and fixed him up in the ER and said it looked like everything was going to be okay. However, they wanted him to see the ENT that week just to make sure there wasn't going to be permanent damage or hearing loss. "I'm going to be out of town," I said. "I'm supposed to be leaving for NY in the morning."
"Well, I can't take him," my ex said. "I have to work." As if if I *weren't* going on vacation, I wouldn't also have "had to work."
"You want me to cancel my trip so you don't have to leave work for an hour?"
"Sorry, I can't do it."
At some point later while we were still in the emergency department but S was out of the room, D turned to me and said, "Mom? I'm sorry you're missing your vacation because of me."
Imagine my heart shattering into a million pieces. "Oh, sweetheart, no. You're way, way more important than my vacation. I was just upset at your dad because it's his fault you got hurt and he's not taking any responsibility for it."
But, you know. Part of the reason my heart broke was because it was true. I *had* had a brief spasm of resentment and, apparently, it showed. And a "good mother" wouldn't have even thought about taking off to cavort in the woods with her paramour when her twelve year old just had an injury. <--It's hard to even type that. And, yes, I do know that I was not the *worse* parent in this little story. I just wasn't a very good one.
I think I did better with dad this week. Live and learn. Still die stupid.
xoxo
Thursday, December 3, 2009
lessons, kids, lessons
Yesterday was a sucky and emotionally exhausting day, but let me share with you what I learned.
1.) If you are an old man in the ER with a "bolus" of chicken stuck half way down your esophagus because you've got a narrowing there that on rare occasions acts up, and that bolus has been there for over 18 hours, is preventing you from even drinking water, and you have not responded to the IV medication that is supposed to relax your esophageal muscles, the thoracic surgeon on call will tell the ER staff to give you meat tenderizer mixed in warm water that will plow through that bolus like Draino unclogging your bathroom sink, in a last ditch effort to avoid scoping you. Furthermore, the nurse practitioner from the surgeon's office will go to the Shaws supermarket up the street in her scrubs to buy the meat tenderizer herself and deliver it to the ER, because they in the thoracic surgery world are deeply suspicious of the watered down version of the active ingredient in meat tenderizer that the hospital pharmacy actually stocks.
2.) If you are in the ER midday on a Wednesday, you will be surrounded by people in their mid-forties through early sixties. They are not the patients. They are the children of the people in their late seventies through early nineties who *are* the patients. They will be alternately crying, trying to explain to their demented mother that no, she cannot just go home with her broken hip, or feeding their fathers meat tenderizer.
3.) Just wearing your beautiful new underwear beneath your jeans does not guarantee that you will actually get any sex on your day off from work. Not when there's meat tenderizer involved in your day.
The End
xoxo
1.) If you are an old man in the ER with a "bolus" of chicken stuck half way down your esophagus because you've got a narrowing there that on rare occasions acts up, and that bolus has been there for over 18 hours, is preventing you from even drinking water, and you have not responded to the IV medication that is supposed to relax your esophageal muscles, the thoracic surgeon on call will tell the ER staff to give you meat tenderizer mixed in warm water that will plow through that bolus like Draino unclogging your bathroom sink, in a last ditch effort to avoid scoping you. Furthermore, the nurse practitioner from the surgeon's office will go to the Shaws supermarket up the street in her scrubs to buy the meat tenderizer herself and deliver it to the ER, because they in the thoracic surgery world are deeply suspicious of the watered down version of the active ingredient in meat tenderizer that the hospital pharmacy actually stocks.
2.) If you are in the ER midday on a Wednesday, you will be surrounded by people in their mid-forties through early sixties. They are not the patients. They are the children of the people in their late seventies through early nineties who *are* the patients. They will be alternately crying, trying to explain to their demented mother that no, she cannot just go home with her broken hip, or feeding their fathers meat tenderizer.
3.) Just wearing your beautiful new underwear beneath your jeans does not guarantee that you will actually get any sex on your day off from work. Not when there's meat tenderizer involved in your day.
The End
xoxo
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
my spiritual practice
As I have often told you people, only partially tongue-in-cheek, my basic motto in life is "love is free, love me, say HELL YES." But sometimes a person looks around and feels like just perhaps they should seek out a higher level of spiritual and philosophical advisor than, y'know, Flea.
As you also know, I am a heathen. I've firmly rejected my religion of birth, not that they want me either, and nothing has come along to take its place. I often feel like I am a distinctly non-spiritual person. That I don't have the ability to have what anyone would call "faith." I like the concrete and the logical. When I am confronted experientially with something that is beyond the concrete--for instance, what we in the bodywork world would call "energy" and what people in the religious world might call a "soul"--my immediate reaction is that there is a scientific explanation for it that we just don't understand yet. I have felt other people's energy when giving a massage and felt that energy shift, and I have been with my mother at the moment of her death and felt something there and then something gone, and I rationalize that as some kind of electrochemical field that we don't know how to measure yet but that people can perceive if they're feeling. Just because I can't believe in something that's woo-woo.
But, like I said, sometimes a person wishes they had some sort of more spiritual life. So I'm kinda looking into Buddhism. I always thought I could never be a Buddhist because I am too materialistic. I like my stuff. But I'm starting to realize just from my beginning explorations of this that I was mistaken. Buddhism doesn't necessarily mean renouncing all your worldly goods, rather renouncing your attachment to them, i.e. thinking that they are what will bring you happiness. I *think*--and I could well be wrong--but I think that what Buddhism teaches is that your satisfaction has to come not from your things and not from other people, but from within yourself. Since I've been trying to go in that direction anyway, mentally and psychologically, I can get behind that as a spiritual idea.
So periodically I go to the bookstore and look at the 500 different books on Buddhism they have and buy none, because I don't know where to start. There are probably as many schools of it as there are denominations of Christianity. The Dalai Lama has written a crapload of books for the lay person, so maybe that's a good place to start. But with which one? It's all very paralyzing.
And on the non-book-learning side, I actually have two friends (one closer and one not-so-close) who both do this Buddhist chanting that is from some obscure school of Buddhism I never heard of. The not-so-close friend is very into it; she holds the meetings or services or whatever they are called in her apartment sometimes. My closer friend, who goes to these chanting meetings, isn't so involved, but she likes it very much. She says of all the different forms of Buddhism she's been around, it's the most diverse. All the others have been composed solely of the kind of white, middle class, uber liberal hippie type people you would stereotype American Buddhists as being. And though my closer friend fits the stereotype, she enjoys having a wider experience. I mention all this because I was invited to go to one of the chantings, primarily because I was meeting up with this friend after it, and it was like, oh, if you want, you can come early and chant with us. I demurred only because this was earlier this fall when I was totally crazed and I didn't think I could settle my mind for it. I hope refusing once doesn't mean I'm never invited again, because I think I really would like to at least try it.
So that's my (so far) plan for becoming one with the universe. I'll report back if it happens. And I welcome any alternate suggestions for my spiritual growth. Not that I think *you* heathens will give me any. Peace!
xoxo
As you also know, I am a heathen. I've firmly rejected my religion of birth, not that they want me either, and nothing has come along to take its place. I often feel like I am a distinctly non-spiritual person. That I don't have the ability to have what anyone would call "faith." I like the concrete and the logical. When I am confronted experientially with something that is beyond the concrete--for instance, what we in the bodywork world would call "energy" and what people in the religious world might call a "soul"--my immediate reaction is that there is a scientific explanation for it that we just don't understand yet. I have felt other people's energy when giving a massage and felt that energy shift, and I have been with my mother at the moment of her death and felt something there and then something gone, and I rationalize that as some kind of electrochemical field that we don't know how to measure yet but that people can perceive if they're feeling. Just because I can't believe in something that's woo-woo.
But, like I said, sometimes a person wishes they had some sort of more spiritual life. So I'm kinda looking into Buddhism. I always thought I could never be a Buddhist because I am too materialistic. I like my stuff. But I'm starting to realize just from my beginning explorations of this that I was mistaken. Buddhism doesn't necessarily mean renouncing all your worldly goods, rather renouncing your attachment to them, i.e. thinking that they are what will bring you happiness. I *think*--and I could well be wrong--but I think that what Buddhism teaches is that your satisfaction has to come not from your things and not from other people, but from within yourself. Since I've been trying to go in that direction anyway, mentally and psychologically, I can get behind that as a spiritual idea.
So periodically I go to the bookstore and look at the 500 different books on Buddhism they have and buy none, because I don't know where to start. There are probably as many schools of it as there are denominations of Christianity. The Dalai Lama has written a crapload of books for the lay person, so maybe that's a good place to start. But with which one? It's all very paralyzing.
And on the non-book-learning side, I actually have two friends (one closer and one not-so-close) who both do this Buddhist chanting that is from some obscure school of Buddhism I never heard of. The not-so-close friend is very into it; she holds the meetings or services or whatever they are called in her apartment sometimes. My closer friend, who goes to these chanting meetings, isn't so involved, but she likes it very much. She says of all the different forms of Buddhism she's been around, it's the most diverse. All the others have been composed solely of the kind of white, middle class, uber liberal hippie type people you would stereotype American Buddhists as being. And though my closer friend fits the stereotype, she enjoys having a wider experience. I mention all this because I was invited to go to one of the chantings, primarily because I was meeting up with this friend after it, and it was like, oh, if you want, you can come early and chant with us. I demurred only because this was earlier this fall when I was totally crazed and I didn't think I could settle my mind for it. I hope refusing once doesn't mean I'm never invited again, because I think I really would like to at least try it.
So that's my (so far) plan for becoming one with the universe. I'll report back if it happens. And I welcome any alternate suggestions for my spiritual growth. Not that I think *you* heathens will give me any. Peace!
xoxo
Monday, November 30, 2009
convergence of topics
I lied about being done with blogging for the month, but the convergence of topics was too good to pass up. Plus, I'm obviously not going to do anything useful today, so I figure I should just run with it. I did pull all the blue tape off before I went to work, though. That's useful. Anyway.
Mr Indemnity told me in email that he went to see The Bad Lieutenant this weekend and Fairuza Balk, who has a small part in it, reminded him greatly of me. I didn't know who she is. So I said, hey, let me google her and see if Mr Indemnity is on crack.
Mr Indemnity told me in email that he went to see The Bad Lieutenant this weekend and Fairuza Balk, who has a small part in it, reminded him greatly of me. I didn't know who she is. So I said, hey, let me google her and see if Mr Indemnity is on crack.
Sorry that picture is so small. The larger size pic was on a slideshow on askmen.com and I couldn't save it. But you get the idea. Cover her mouth up in that picture and, yeah, there's some resemblance. She, I, and Renee Zinswanger all do the squinchy-eyed thing when we smile. Also, she's 5'3 with big boobs, so appropriately Andrea-sized. I'm willing to concede Mr Indemnity wasn't completely on drugs when he saw that movie.
So I imdb'd her, and found out she's been in a lot of movies and TV shows I've seen and liked, but apparently not big roles, since she's totally below my radar. But also? A very young Fairuza Balk was a ZZ Top video vampire vixen! I mean, what are the odds?
See for yourself! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=kSHhAkVreiw
xoxo
monday morning
1.) I haven't taken the blue tape off yet, but I'm working up to it. As soon as the coffee kicks in, promise.
2.) This is an interesting article, if you haven't seen it. Discuss!http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/magazine/29sex-t.html?pagewanted=1
3.) I came downstairs this morning and D's asleep on the sofa and the TV's on VH1Classic. (That's my disclaimer, i.e. it's not *my* fault, don't mock.) Anyway. What should they be playing? OMG, an 80s ZZ Top video. I am overcome with nostalgia, as those videos were a big part of those years I spent too much time lying on my sofa watching MTV even though it was my future ex-husband who was the stoner, not me. (I just have that longstanding attraction to, y'know, sloth. And parentheses.) "Gimme All Your Lovin'." I will, at the risk of starting another Billy Joel-like debacle, say "good song!" And better video. Do you remember it? Here, refresh your memory. Ah, back when music videos were videos http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IP9l-GZ2DY with storylines and everything. (Get offa my lawn. And out of my parentheses. Damn kids.) How can you not love when they throw the grease monkey outta the car, and his boots after him? And he's smiling? And the 80s video vixens. Not that that didn't add to my fucked up relationship with my body back in the day, because I was not 6 foot tall with thin thighs and was never gonna be. But, oh, I could do the rest and I did: the heavy makeup, the teased hair, the spike-heeled pumps, the big plastic earrings, the red-n-black New Wave-y color-schemed clothes. (I'll also point out, just to add more parentheses, that you can go into H&M or Forever 21 at your local mall today and pretty much buy exactly what those women are wearing. Those horrible dropped shoulder batwing sleeves are back.) I think I'll watch that youtube a few more times before I pull off tape.
4.) Then later they showed "Lithium" and my gut reaction was, VH1Classic? Really? But, my god, that was almost twenty years ago, so yeah. amazing. I am fucking old.
5.) Done blogging for the month! I'ma shut up now!
xoxo
2.) This is an interesting article, if you haven't seen it. Discuss!http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/29/magazine/29sex-t.html?pagewanted=1
3.) I came downstairs this morning and D's asleep on the sofa and the TV's on VH1Classic. (That's my disclaimer, i.e. it's not *my* fault, don't mock.) Anyway. What should they be playing? OMG, an 80s ZZ Top video. I am overcome with nostalgia, as those videos were a big part of those years I spent too much time lying on my sofa watching MTV even though it was my future ex-husband who was the stoner, not me. (I just have that longstanding attraction to, y'know, sloth. And parentheses.) "Gimme All Your Lovin'." I will, at the risk of starting another Billy Joel-like debacle, say "good song!" And better video. Do you remember it? Here, refresh your memory. Ah, back when music videos were videos http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=5IP9l-GZ2DY with storylines and everything. (Get offa my lawn. And out of my parentheses. Damn kids.) How can you not love when they throw the grease monkey outta the car, and his boots after him? And he's smiling? And the 80s video vixens. Not that that didn't add to my fucked up relationship with my body back in the day, because I was not 6 foot tall with thin thighs and was never gonna be. But, oh, I could do the rest and I did: the heavy makeup, the teased hair, the spike-heeled pumps, the big plastic earrings, the red-n-black New Wave-y color-schemed clothes. (I'll also point out, just to add more parentheses, that you can go into H&M or Forever 21 at your local mall today and pretty much buy exactly what those women are wearing. Those horrible dropped shoulder batwing sleeves are back.) I think I'll watch that youtube a few more times before I pull off tape.
4.) Then later they showed "Lithium" and my gut reaction was, VH1Classic? Really? But, my god, that was almost twenty years ago, so yeah. amazing. I am fucking old.
5.) Done blogging for the month! I'ma shut up now!
xoxo
Sunday, November 29, 2009
oh, look
It's kitschmas time again!
This is just a preliminary dry run. My little trees need some fluffing and straightening and the runner will change if I can find one more suitable.
xoxo
This is just a preliminary dry run. My little trees need some fluffing and straightening and the runner will change if I can find one more suitable.
xoxo
today's dilemma
I had half a gallon of paint left from when I painted the living room/dining room. I decided to use it to paint my "foyer" the same color. I figured it was a small enough space that the half gallon would do it. Then I procrastinated on this little project for a few months while I did other things, productive and non-productive, detailed in this very blog.
Well, I got the urge to finally do this, and do it before Christmas. I figured yesterday would be the big day. But I had to work, and I ended up being at work longer than I planned. Still, I was home by mid-afternoon. Unfortunately it's the end of November. D'oh. This meant by the time I was done dusting and vacuuming the walls, washing the walls, wiping the walls, then letting them dry, it was dark. Painting after dark is not the best idea in the entire world. Nevertheless, I persevered.
I am not totally sure I didn't miss some spots. And I am slightly afraid to go check too closely, because I ran out of paint after one coat. I have the good new Behr paint that has the primer built in so theoretically one coat *might* be okay. But I did two when I did the lr/dr. Part of the reason I ran out of paint sooner than I thought I would is that I originally wasn't planning on doing so many walls. (The layout is weird with how the "foyer" connects with the coat closet area connects with the hallway. Finding the logical stopping point wasn't immediately apparent.)
Anyway. Here's the two schools of thought. 1.) There is next to no natural light in that foyer anyway and no one's gonna stand in there too long examining the walls. So even if it's not anywhere close to perfect and could really use another coat, I could easily say fuck it. It looks fine from where I'm sitting on the loveseat in the adjoining lr...without my glasses on. In any case it looks much better than the dirty off-white it was previously. And I could always give it another coat sometime after the holidays. It's a friggin' foyer, it's not like I had to move out a lot of furniture to paint. 2.) While the furniture *is* moved out and the mirror is off the wall and the ladder is in the hall and the woodwork is all taped up, I should just bite the bullet, buy another gallon of paint and do the second coat some time this week. Because if you're gonna do it, you might as well do it right the first time.
I need to make a decision about this before I do go pull off the blue tape. But I don't think that's going to be till tonight or tomorrow anyway.
xoxo
Well, I got the urge to finally do this, and do it before Christmas. I figured yesterday would be the big day. But I had to work, and I ended up being at work longer than I planned. Still, I was home by mid-afternoon. Unfortunately it's the end of November. D'oh. This meant by the time I was done dusting and vacuuming the walls, washing the walls, wiping the walls, then letting them dry, it was dark. Painting after dark is not the best idea in the entire world. Nevertheless, I persevered.
I am not totally sure I didn't miss some spots. And I am slightly afraid to go check too closely, because I ran out of paint after one coat. I have the good new Behr paint that has the primer built in so theoretically one coat *might* be okay. But I did two when I did the lr/dr. Part of the reason I ran out of paint sooner than I thought I would is that I originally wasn't planning on doing so many walls. (The layout is weird with how the "foyer" connects with the coat closet area connects with the hallway. Finding the logical stopping point wasn't immediately apparent.)
Anyway. Here's the two schools of thought. 1.) There is next to no natural light in that foyer anyway and no one's gonna stand in there too long examining the walls. So even if it's not anywhere close to perfect and could really use another coat, I could easily say fuck it. It looks fine from where I'm sitting on the loveseat in the adjoining lr...without my glasses on. In any case it looks much better than the dirty off-white it was previously. And I could always give it another coat sometime after the holidays. It's a friggin' foyer, it's not like I had to move out a lot of furniture to paint. 2.) While the furniture *is* moved out and the mirror is off the wall and the ladder is in the hall and the woodwork is all taped up, I should just bite the bullet, buy another gallon of paint and do the second coat some time this week. Because if you're gonna do it, you might as well do it right the first time.
I need to make a decision about this before I do go pull off the blue tape. But I don't think that's going to be till tonight or tomorrow anyway.
xoxo
Friday, November 27, 2009
other people's holiday traditions
You guys know my hallowed holiday tradition: bitching and whining. In the spirit of that, can I just mention that I have been getting a crapload of blog spam the last week or two and while I do not *want* to proceed to enabling comment approval, I also hate manually deleting it after it's posted. It leaves that "this post has been removed by a blog administrator" or however they phrase it in the comments, and I hate that because it makes my blog look messy. No, shut up, you're a freak. Ahem.
No, really, I wanted to talk about other people's traditions. I was at M2's house the other day, and I was, yes, bitching about Thanksgiving (and sticky floors) in much the same manner I was complaining here. I'm a delightful person most of the time. Ahem again. So M2 said that if I wanted to skip Thanksgiving, I was welcome to go out for Thanksgiving Indian food with them. She and her husband and whichever of her kids are in town do it every year. Which makes some very good sense, considering M2 and Mr M2 are both vegetarians. Indian food is light years better than tofurkey. (I'm guessing, since I only eat tofu fake meat products with a gun pointed at my head.) While M2 knew very well I couldn't say "fuck Thanksgiving", it was still a nice gesture. It made me feel a little less like an unloved pariah. And who knows? Maybe some day I'll be able to take her up on it. Spending Thanksgiving at an Indian restaurant is a tradition I could get behind.
Another tradition amongst my friends that I absolutely love takes place at M1's house. (Those M's are some rebels, huh?) M1 keeps her (full size) Christmas tree, completely dressed and wrapped in plastic to keep off the dust, in storage and just brings it out every year. It's one of those things that makes it look like you've made an effort when you haven't done a goddamn thing. I can totally get behind that too. Because I am very lazy. Look it up.
In actual non-Andrea tradition, can I say that I am done with D's and my dad's presents, except for stocking stuffers, like shaving cream and shower gel and such that they get because I'd only have to buy it for them anyways, and some candy and little things. But they main shopping for them is done. And I mostly know what I'm getting everyone else. So I am way ahead. Suck it, Christmas.
Okay, I am leaving work now and going perhaps shopping. Because I thought I should join in the American holiday tradition of spending money on Black Friday. Hope you are doing the same. China needs your dollars.
xoxo
No, really, I wanted to talk about other people's traditions. I was at M2's house the other day, and I was, yes, bitching about Thanksgiving (and sticky floors) in much the same manner I was complaining here. I'm a delightful person most of the time. Ahem again. So M2 said that if I wanted to skip Thanksgiving, I was welcome to go out for Thanksgiving Indian food with them. She and her husband and whichever of her kids are in town do it every year. Which makes some very good sense, considering M2 and Mr M2 are both vegetarians. Indian food is light years better than tofurkey. (I'm guessing, since I only eat tofu fake meat products with a gun pointed at my head.) While M2 knew very well I couldn't say "fuck Thanksgiving", it was still a nice gesture. It made me feel a little less like an unloved pariah. And who knows? Maybe some day I'll be able to take her up on it. Spending Thanksgiving at an Indian restaurant is a tradition I could get behind.
Another tradition amongst my friends that I absolutely love takes place at M1's house. (Those M's are some rebels, huh?) M1 keeps her (full size) Christmas tree, completely dressed and wrapped in plastic to keep off the dust, in storage and just brings it out every year. It's one of those things that makes it look like you've made an effort when you haven't done a goddamn thing. I can totally get behind that too. Because I am very lazy. Look it up.
In actual non-Andrea tradition, can I say that I am done with D's and my dad's presents, except for stocking stuffers, like shaving cream and shower gel and such that they get because I'd only have to buy it for them anyways, and some candy and little things. But they main shopping for them is done. And I mostly know what I'm getting everyone else. So I am way ahead. Suck it, Christmas.
Okay, I am leaving work now and going perhaps shopping. Because I thought I should join in the American holiday tradition of spending money on Black Friday. Hope you are doing the same. China needs your dollars.
xoxo
Thursday, November 26, 2009
you would also think
...that someone who has made it to the ripe old age of 47 would be able to figure out how to put her new napkins through her new napkin rings without looking it up on the internet, but you would also be wrong. Shut up. I thought it had to be more complicated than that. Also, how did we ever live before google?
My table looked beautiful today. New napkins, new napkin rings, the new dishes (the ones I broke down and bought last summer), the old table runner. Candles burning on the wood stove. And no TV on while we were eating, just music. I told D "pretend we're civilized."
Do civilized people get drunk by themselves on Thanksgiving night? Probably not. That's okay, though, 'cause I'm just pretending.
xoxo
My table looked beautiful today. New napkins, new napkin rings, the new dishes (the ones I broke down and bought last summer), the old table runner. Candles burning on the wood stove. And no TV on while we were eating, just music. I told D "pretend we're civilized."
Do civilized people get drunk by themselves on Thanksgiving night? Probably not. That's okay, though, 'cause I'm just pretending.
xoxo
adam lambert
Have you been following this, or have you been too busy baking pies or attempting to drive to the airport or some such shit? If you have been following, I'm sure you can surmise that this has made me mad enough to spit. If you haven't, let me sum up for you.
Adam Lambert was first runner-up on American Idol last season and was notable for being the first Idol finalist to openly admit to being gay (rather than come out five years after being on the show.) Last Sunday Mr Lambert, who has his first CD out, performed live at the American Music Awards wherein he caused controversy by a.) kissing his (male) keyboard player onstage and b.) grabbing the head of one of his (male) backup dancers who was kneeling in front of him and pushing it in the general direction of his crotch. [Meanwhile, Janet Jackson grabbed the crotch of one of her (male) dancers onstage at the same event and no one blinked.]
Because of this controversy, Mr Lambert was disinvited from performing on Good Morning America. The Early Show stepped up and invited him to perform for them instead. However, when Mr Lambert again kissed his bandmate on their stage, they blurred it out. Yes, two guys kissing is so offensive that it needs to be censored completely. Meanwhile, as has been pointed out many times by better people than me, that fucking calculated publicity stunt of a kiss between fucking Madonna and fucking Britney has been shown over and over and over on network TV. Because two bleached blond chicks kissing each other is hawwwwt for network executives and their frat boy audience members, so that same-sex spit-swapping isn't indecent at all. The litmus test for whether something gets censored or not is whether it makes your typical het male uncomfortable. We're not protecting the "innocent children." We're protecting their scared-to-death-of-any-gay-impulses dads.
See? I'm getting all upset already. Ha!
Unlike an old friend of mine, a middle-aged long-married heterosexual female who *loved* guy-on-guy hardcore porn, I am not particularly interested in or excited by two guys doing each other. (But, then again, I'm not particularly interested in watching anyone do anyone. I'm apparently missing the voyeuristic gene.) But I will say this. I can't tell the story behind this on this blog, but the hottest pda I have ever seen was a kiss between two guys. The energy between them, the passion and the worship, was palpable from even twenty feet away and when they finally kissed...wow. It was the kind of thing that made me simultaneously want to look because it was so sexy and beautiful and want to look away because it was so intimate. (Not that they were paying attention to anyone besides each other.) That someone in this fucked-up society in which we live could find that gross while meanwhile approving of that fake-ass girl-on-girl titillation kissing of the Britney-Madonna variety makes me weep for our culture.
I despise Madonna. Have I mentioned that?
Anyway, Andrea says all expressions of true desire, passion, devotion, and lust are awesome. It's sex as a fake commodity selling whatever that's obscene. As is pandering to the patriarchy's fear of male homosexuality.
Happy Thanksgiving! Go eat that pie you baked.
xoxo
Adam Lambert was first runner-up on American Idol last season and was notable for being the first Idol finalist to openly admit to being gay (rather than come out five years after being on the show.) Last Sunday Mr Lambert, who has his first CD out, performed live at the American Music Awards wherein he caused controversy by a.) kissing his (male) keyboard player onstage and b.) grabbing the head of one of his (male) backup dancers who was kneeling in front of him and pushing it in the general direction of his crotch. [Meanwhile, Janet Jackson grabbed the crotch of one of her (male) dancers onstage at the same event and no one blinked.]
Because of this controversy, Mr Lambert was disinvited from performing on Good Morning America. The Early Show stepped up and invited him to perform for them instead. However, when Mr Lambert again kissed his bandmate on their stage, they blurred it out. Yes, two guys kissing is so offensive that it needs to be censored completely. Meanwhile, as has been pointed out many times by better people than me, that fucking calculated publicity stunt of a kiss between fucking Madonna and fucking Britney has been shown over and over and over on network TV. Because two bleached blond chicks kissing each other is hawwwwt for network executives and their frat boy audience members, so that same-sex spit-swapping isn't indecent at all. The litmus test for whether something gets censored or not is whether it makes your typical het male uncomfortable. We're not protecting the "innocent children." We're protecting their scared-to-death-of-any-gay-impulses dads.
See? I'm getting all upset already. Ha!
Unlike an old friend of mine, a middle-aged long-married heterosexual female who *loved* guy-on-guy hardcore porn, I am not particularly interested in or excited by two guys doing each other. (But, then again, I'm not particularly interested in watching anyone do anyone. I'm apparently missing the voyeuristic gene.) But I will say this. I can't tell the story behind this on this blog, but the hottest pda I have ever seen was a kiss between two guys. The energy between them, the passion and the worship, was palpable from even twenty feet away and when they finally kissed...wow. It was the kind of thing that made me simultaneously want to look because it was so sexy and beautiful and want to look away because it was so intimate. (Not that they were paying attention to anyone besides each other.) That someone in this fucked-up society in which we live could find that gross while meanwhile approving of that fake-ass girl-on-girl titillation kissing of the Britney-Madonna variety makes me weep for our culture.
I despise Madonna. Have I mentioned that?
Anyway, Andrea says all expressions of true desire, passion, devotion, and lust are awesome. It's sex as a fake commodity selling whatever that's obscene. As is pandering to the patriarchy's fear of male homosexuality.
Happy Thanksgiving! Go eat that pie you baked.
xoxo
Wednesday, November 25, 2009
and in non-eye news
Someone who shall remain nameless was nagging me about doing something which will also remain nameless, but I think the conversation went something like this:
"Are you ever going to do x?"
"Yeahhhhhh..."
"Are you going to do it this decade?"
"Hahahaha. Yeahhhhhh..."
"Maybe that's not fair. There's only a few weeks left in the decade."
So, you know there's no way to motivate me more successfully than to set me a challenge. Especially with a suggestion that the challenge is probably impossible. As a result, it is done, finished, I have the fruits in my hand as we speak, and there's like, I dunno, five or six whole weeks left in this decade. (And I'm even happy with the fruits, so to speak, after having been mired in indecision about the myriad of choices available!)
Moral of story: it's really easy to manipulate me into doing what I should be doing, if only you push the correct buttons. I'm easy.
xoxo
"Are you ever going to do x?"
"Yeahhhhhh..."
"Are you going to do it this decade?"
"Hahahaha. Yeahhhhhh..."
"Maybe that's not fair. There's only a few weeks left in the decade."
So, you know there's no way to motivate me more successfully than to set me a challenge. Especially with a suggestion that the challenge is probably impossible. As a result, it is done, finished, I have the fruits in my hand as we speak, and there's like, I dunno, five or six whole weeks left in this decade. (And I'm even happy with the fruits, so to speak, after having been mired in indecision about the myriad of choices available!)
Moral of story: it's really easy to manipulate me into doing what I should be doing, if only you push the correct buttons. I'm easy.
xoxo
my visual field test
I returned to eye guy today to do this. Have you ever had one? You look into this machine one eye at a time, stare at the bright yellow light in the middle, and press a clicker every time you see a light flash around it. It's sorta like Jeopardy, except for no Alex Trebek and no questions. Some of the lights that flash are big and bright and some are small and dim, and it's kinda hard, especially at first, to realize right away that one of the dim ones has flashed. There's a split second lag time before your brain says, wait! that was one, and then your reaction time is off.
Anyway, my first try at this I was kinda cheating--not on purpose, I swear--moving my eye too much. So then eye guy patched the eye I wasn't using and it was much easier for me not to move my eye. However, I still did better with the second eye he tested than the first. Which gave him opposite results than what he was expecting, because the second eye is the one with the thinner optic nerve. So he's sure it's just artifact, and I just needed time to get habituated to the test. He said he's 99.9% sure my eyes are fine. But why don't I just come back in 4-6 weeks and we'll try that first eye again? (I wonder how much he charges Tufts for this thing.)
So I made the appointment, but I'm not sure I'll keep it. Do I want to pay my $15 co-pay for the .1% chance that the eye that looks fine really has a problem? Perhaps not. I'm sure eye guy has a sailboat, vacation house, or mistress he needs to pay for, but I'm not sure I'm willing to help out. I did however take a brochure about blepharoplasty (that's an eyelid tuck, yo) 'cause these bags under my eyes ain't gonna fix themselves.
xoxo
Anyway, my first try at this I was kinda cheating--not on purpose, I swear--moving my eye too much. So then eye guy patched the eye I wasn't using and it was much easier for me not to move my eye. However, I still did better with the second eye he tested than the first. Which gave him opposite results than what he was expecting, because the second eye is the one with the thinner optic nerve. So he's sure it's just artifact, and I just needed time to get habituated to the test. He said he's 99.9% sure my eyes are fine. But why don't I just come back in 4-6 weeks and we'll try that first eye again? (I wonder how much he charges Tufts for this thing.)
So I made the appointment, but I'm not sure I'll keep it. Do I want to pay my $15 co-pay for the .1% chance that the eye that looks fine really has a problem? Perhaps not. I'm sure eye guy has a sailboat, vacation house, or mistress he needs to pay for, but I'm not sure I'm willing to help out. I did however take a brochure about blepharoplasty (that's an eyelid tuck, yo) 'cause these bags under my eyes ain't gonna fix themselves.
xoxo
Tuesday, November 24, 2009
more things you see on public transportation
So. There was this young woman sitting in front of me on the bus this afternoon with her boyfriend/husband. Note: I say possible husband because these aren't teenagers we're talking about. I'd say they were in their mid to late twenties. The woman was very nicely groomed and dressed, if a bit hipsterish. But art gallery hipster, rather than rock band or tattoo artist hipster, if you perceive the difference. She had short hair in a kind of pixie-ish cut, but she was wearing a winter coat and a scarf so--how should I put this?--the lower part of her head/neck/face was obscured from my vantage point. Until she at one point turned completely sideways to speak to her male companion.
Dear sweet Mary, holy mother of god. You know how some people into body mods stretch their piercings, going up gauge by gauge by gauge until they can put those plug thingies into their earlobes? Well, this chick must have done that. Except today? Today she wasn't wearing jewelry. She had a hole in her earlobe I could have stuck my pinky into up to the first knuckle. Readers, you know I am not squeamish. Neither am I opposed to tattoos or piercings or, fer crissakes, scarification--do what you do--but when I saw that ear, my stomach turned.
Why? Why would anyone do that? I don't mean "why would you stretch a piercing?" Honestly, I understand that body-as-a-science-project impulse, that curiosity about, "hey, I wonder how big I could get these if I really worked at it." I have my own body-as-a-science-project impulses, if not directed in that particular direction. But why would you groom yourself perfectly, hair done, makeup tastefully applied, dressed in stylish and not inexpensive clothes, and go out with ears that look like they have been attacked with a hole puncher? Do you not perceive that huge missing piece of tissue in your lobe is going to ick people out? Or is that the point? I do not get it.
Also, get offa my lawn.
xoxo
Dear sweet Mary, holy mother of god. You know how some people into body mods stretch their piercings, going up gauge by gauge by gauge until they can put those plug thingies into their earlobes? Well, this chick must have done that. Except today? Today she wasn't wearing jewelry. She had a hole in her earlobe I could have stuck my pinky into up to the first knuckle. Readers, you know I am not squeamish. Neither am I opposed to tattoos or piercings or, fer crissakes, scarification--do what you do--but when I saw that ear, my stomach turned.
Why? Why would anyone do that? I don't mean "why would you stretch a piercing?" Honestly, I understand that body-as-a-science-project impulse, that curiosity about, "hey, I wonder how big I could get these if I really worked at it." I have my own body-as-a-science-project impulses, if not directed in that particular direction. But why would you groom yourself perfectly, hair done, makeup tastefully applied, dressed in stylish and not inexpensive clothes, and go out with ears that look like they have been attacked with a hole puncher? Do you not perceive that huge missing piece of tissue in your lobe is going to ick people out? Or is that the point? I do not get it.
Also, get offa my lawn.
xoxo
you would think
...that someone who went to two grocery stores yesterday would have everything they need for
Thanksgiving. But you would be wrong. (Can I bitch about the holidays again, or is it too soon after the last bitchfest?)
And last night I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, like a little Polish washerwoman, even though I just did that eight days ago. Why? I'll tell you why. Because someone spilled something sticky in front of the sink, did not clean it up properly (if they attempted to clean it at all), and then they or someone else tracked it through the kitchen. Naturally all the menfolk deny any knowledge of any of this occurring***. Okay. But if I come home tonight and there are any sticky spots in there at all, someone will die.
That's the problem with all this cleaning business (um, other than the *other* problem where cleaning leads you to getting caustic chemicals in your eye, and other safety hazards that just aren't a concern when you sit on your sofa in a state of sloth): it's always immediately dirty again. It is a thankless and ceaseless task. Now, things like laundry and dishes, okay. You wear clothes, they get dirty, you need to clean them. You cook and eat, the pots and dishes are dirty, you need to clean them. There's some payoff there. But actual cleaning? You vacuum and you dust and you turn around and it needs to be done again, even in rooms you hardly use. There's no payoff. It's enough to turn a person into one of those *real* old skool Polish ladies who kept their furniture covered in plastic and only let you sit on it grudgingly.
I hate all this marginally less since I'm on the Mrs Meyer's bandwagon, because at least my cleaning stuff smells nice, doesn't give me a headache, and might possibly not be made in China. The Dyson helps too. But only marginally. Even with cool cleaning products and tools, it all still sucks.
The End.
xoxo
***But I'm betting on Mr D after watching him feed Evil Kitty the other day. He spills some of the "juice" from the catfood can onto the counter when he's putting it on her plate. So he takes a paper towel and wipes at it. Not a damp paper towel, mind you. Just a paper towel. All this does is smear it around. Then he cheerfully deposits the paper towel in the trash and goes about his business. It's like, dude, I know you made a half-assed attempt to clean up after yourself, but you might not as well have bothered. I'm sure that sticky mess on my floor was similar. Despite denials.
Thanksgiving. But you would be wrong. (Can I bitch about the holidays again, or is it too soon after the last bitchfest?)
And last night I scrubbed the kitchen floor on my hands and knees, like a little Polish washerwoman, even though I just did that eight days ago. Why? I'll tell you why. Because someone spilled something sticky in front of the sink, did not clean it up properly (if they attempted to clean it at all), and then they or someone else tracked it through the kitchen. Naturally all the menfolk deny any knowledge of any of this occurring***. Okay. But if I come home tonight and there are any sticky spots in there at all, someone will die.
That's the problem with all this cleaning business (um, other than the *other* problem where cleaning leads you to getting caustic chemicals in your eye, and other safety hazards that just aren't a concern when you sit on your sofa in a state of sloth): it's always immediately dirty again. It is a thankless and ceaseless task. Now, things like laundry and dishes, okay. You wear clothes, they get dirty, you need to clean them. You cook and eat, the pots and dishes are dirty, you need to clean them. There's some payoff there. But actual cleaning? You vacuum and you dust and you turn around and it needs to be done again, even in rooms you hardly use. There's no payoff. It's enough to turn a person into one of those *real* old skool Polish ladies who kept their furniture covered in plastic and only let you sit on it grudgingly.
I hate all this marginally less since I'm on the Mrs Meyer's bandwagon, because at least my cleaning stuff smells nice, doesn't give me a headache, and might possibly not be made in China. The Dyson helps too. But only marginally. Even with cool cleaning products and tools, it all still sucks.
The End.
xoxo
***But I'm betting on Mr D after watching him feed Evil Kitty the other day. He spills some of the "juice" from the catfood can onto the counter when he's putting it on her plate. So he takes a paper towel and wipes at it. Not a damp paper towel, mind you. Just a paper towel. All this does is smear it around. Then he cheerfully deposits the paper towel in the trash and goes about his business. It's like, dude, I know you made a half-assed attempt to clean up after yourself, but you might not as well have bothered. I'm sure that sticky mess on my floor was similar. Despite denials.
Monday, November 23, 2009
mining drywall for fun and profit
Mr Indemnity sent me a link this afternoon to a NYT article about how Chinese drywall in new construction is making homeowners sick and their appliances and electrical systems fail, because he knows how I like to get wound up about cheap Chinese crap and how it's ruining our economy and probably killing us all. Thanks, Mr Indemnity!
But one sentence stood out. I quote: "The Commission recently sent investigators to China to meet with manufacturers and visit mines that produce the drywall, and China has sent experts to visit affected homes in the United States." Excuse me? Drywall mines? What the hell *is* drywall? I didn't think it was a substance found in, y'know, nature. Do you think Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, and the rest were down the shaft excavating drywall with their pickaxes? Did Loretta Lynn write any songs called "Drywall Miner's Daughter"? And I don't know the entire periodic table, but I'm fairly sure drywall isn't on it.
I call shenanigans on this one.
xoxo
Addendum: Mr Indemnity just emailed me that drywall is primarily gypsum, therefore the mines referenced are gypsum mines. To which I say, sloppy fucking writing NYT.
But one sentence stood out. I quote: "The Commission recently sent investigators to China to meet with manufacturers and visit mines that produce the drywall, and China has sent experts to visit affected homes in the United States." Excuse me? Drywall mines? What the hell *is* drywall? I didn't think it was a substance found in, y'know, nature. Do you think Sleepy, Dopey, Grumpy, and the rest were down the shaft excavating drywall with their pickaxes? Did Loretta Lynn write any songs called "Drywall Miner's Daughter"? And I don't know the entire periodic table, but I'm fairly sure drywall isn't on it.
I call shenanigans on this one.
xoxo
Addendum: Mr Indemnity just emailed me that drywall is primarily gypsum, therefore the mines referenced are gypsum mines. To which I say, sloppy fucking writing NYT.
d update
We met the new nurse practitioner who's taking over his care today. Despite my reservations about this, she proved to be really nice and apparently really on the ball. The questions she asked him were actually pertinent as if ::gasp:: she'd looked at his chart before he came into the room.
And D was having a very good day. He's usually pretty anxious when he has to go to the clinic and thus quiet and shut down. Today he was fine. He answered all of her questions in an articulate and well-considered manner, presenting himself as the intelligent and thoughtful person that I know. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, this is going well. One thing she did mention was that they have blood drawing there on Tuesday mornings, and if he wanted, instead of going to the hospital lab, he could have his lab work there and see her immediately after on the same day. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, yeah, that's what this kid needs...fewer occasions to leave the house. But he wasn't going for it anyway. He likes his routine the way it is.
I could say more, but I think I'll leave it. Just a wee update.
xoxo
And D was having a very good day. He's usually pretty anxious when he has to go to the clinic and thus quiet and shut down. Today he was fine. He answered all of her questions in an articulate and well-considered manner, presenting himself as the intelligent and thoughtful person that I know. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, this is going well. One thing she did mention was that they have blood drawing there on Tuesday mornings, and if he wanted, instead of going to the hospital lab, he could have his lab work there and see her immediately after on the same day. I'm sitting there thinking, oh, yeah, that's what this kid needs...fewer occasions to leave the house. But he wasn't going for it anyway. He likes his routine the way it is.
I could say more, but I think I'll leave it. Just a wee update.
xoxo
Sunday, November 22, 2009
merry whatever
Yeah. It's getting to be that time of year. If you've been following along, you know how I feel about the quote unquote holiday season, New Year's Eve being a particular fucking favorite. But Thanksgiving and Christmas don't exactly fill me with "joy" either. I might not even pull out the fabled white Xmas tree this year. I don't particularly see the point of all that effort, but I dunno. I'll probably cave to the pressure.
The one thing that I do somewhat enjoy about the whole shebang is the gift-giving, especially since I no longer have any obligation gifts I have to give. I don't know about anybody else, but buying for people I don't like always filled me with incredible angst. I would worry about them disliking their gifts when, seriously? why should I really give a shit? It's bizarre. But that's neither here nor there, because that bullshit is done. Now all my prezzies go to people I am totally fond of and want to shower with nice things.
So I've started kind of thinking about it, gathering ideas. I had what I think is a fabulous inspiration for one friend that I'll probably go with. But my other ideas? I'm kinda sad and wishing for a sudden cash windfall, because there are a couple things that I would love to get for a couple people, things I know they would really, really like, but which I just cannot afford. D told me what he wants, and I do feel I can afford that, especially since he really asks for so little all year. But I wish I could give everyone what I want to give them. (See above: fond, showering.)
I know. It's the thought that counts, blah blah. But giving someone a picture of what you wished you could get them and saying, "See? I thought you'd have liked that. I'm right, huh?" just doesn't cut it.
Maybe I'll hit the lottery. Sigh.
xoxo
The one thing that I do somewhat enjoy about the whole shebang is the gift-giving, especially since I no longer have any obligation gifts I have to give. I don't know about anybody else, but buying for people I don't like always filled me with incredible angst. I would worry about them disliking their gifts when, seriously? why should I really give a shit? It's bizarre. But that's neither here nor there, because that bullshit is done. Now all my prezzies go to people I am totally fond of and want to shower with nice things.
So I've started kind of thinking about it, gathering ideas. I had what I think is a fabulous inspiration for one friend that I'll probably go with. But my other ideas? I'm kinda sad and wishing for a sudden cash windfall, because there are a couple things that I would love to get for a couple people, things I know they would really, really like, but which I just cannot afford. D told me what he wants, and I do feel I can afford that, especially since he really asks for so little all year. But I wish I could give everyone what I want to give them. (See above: fond, showering.)
I know. It's the thought that counts, blah blah. But giving someone a picture of what you wished you could get them and saying, "See? I thought you'd have liked that. I'm right, huh?" just doesn't cut it.
Maybe I'll hit the lottery. Sigh.
xoxo
praise jesus, i can see
The Benevolent L and her handsome sidekick S took me out for lunch/dinner (is that dunch or linner? it's never quite caught on like brunch did) in the North End today for my bday. But while I was waiting to meet up with them, I went to Starbucks. Well, they have like five different new, or old, holiday drinks on the menu. I was in line, squinting, when I realized, oh, yeah! I've got my new glasses in my purse.
So I put them on and was able to order myself an eggnog latte. (Good, but maybe too much milk in it for me, 'cause I've got a little tummyache now. Which cannot be from the huge portion of eggplant and the three desserts I ate later.) I'm like, oh, so this is how other people see. Huh.
Let me digress and tell you why I never got in the habit of wearing my old glasses consistently. I'm not sure of the technical reason for this--maybe because I have an astigmatism?--but wearing my glasses sort of makes me feel like it's forcing my eyes to focus together in way they don't naturally and it fucks with my depth perception. Which, frankly, isn't my strong suit anyway. So walking, and especially using the stairs, in my glasses always felt like more of an adventure than it should be. And I can't give a massage in glasses. Believe me, I tried. Once. So pretty much I kept the glasses for when I really needed them and only seated activities at that.
But noticing the ease with which I could now peruse coffee options, I made an executive decision to practice walking in my glasses and get used to the damn things. According to eye guy, I'm probably not too many years away from bifocals which, again, eff you, eye guy. So yeah. I better get used to this. I took my latte and walked out intrepidly to the front stairs of Quincy Market. Wherein I came upon this guy: http://jasonescape.com (I always stop for straightjackets and rope, yo.) And, eventually, after Jason had escaped from his predicament successfully and my coffee was gone, L and S called me to tell me they were across the street. So I actually crossed a roadway--in Boston!--wearing my glasses.
Okay, I took them off in the restaurant. But still. I'ma call this a success.
xoxo
So I put them on and was able to order myself an eggnog latte. (Good, but maybe too much milk in it for me, 'cause I've got a little tummyache now. Which cannot be from the huge portion of eggplant and the three desserts I ate later.) I'm like, oh, so this is how other people see. Huh.
Let me digress and tell you why I never got in the habit of wearing my old glasses consistently. I'm not sure of the technical reason for this--maybe because I have an astigmatism?--but wearing my glasses sort of makes me feel like it's forcing my eyes to focus together in way they don't naturally and it fucks with my depth perception. Which, frankly, isn't my strong suit anyway. So walking, and especially using the stairs, in my glasses always felt like more of an adventure than it should be. And I can't give a massage in glasses. Believe me, I tried. Once. So pretty much I kept the glasses for when I really needed them and only seated activities at that.
But noticing the ease with which I could now peruse coffee options, I made an executive decision to practice walking in my glasses and get used to the damn things. According to eye guy, I'm probably not too many years away from bifocals which, again, eff you, eye guy. So yeah. I better get used to this. I took my latte and walked out intrepidly to the front stairs of Quincy Market. Wherein I came upon this guy: http://jasonescape.com (I always stop for straightjackets and rope, yo.) And, eventually, after Jason had escaped from his predicament successfully and my coffee was gone, L and S called me to tell me they were across the street. So I actually crossed a roadway--in Boston!--wearing my glasses.
Okay, I took them off in the restaurant. But still. I'ma call this a success.
xoxo
Saturday, November 21, 2009
placing a monetary value
Some of you probably remember my story about how, when I got my big raise a couple years ago (as a bribe to take back more hours), the figure that I named was agreed to so quickly and without argument from administration that I was like, damn, I shoulda asked for more. But it never occurred to me to do that. I named what I thought was "fair", what I thought my skill set was worth to them. It didn't occur to me until after that I should have asked for more than I thought I should get and let myself be bargained down. And on realising that, it occurred to me that most *men* would know that.
I'm reminded of this by an internet--I won't even say "acquaintance" because we've never corresponded--person who agreed to watch someone else's toddler fulltime in her home for $75 a week. What? As a point of reference, I was paying my mom $100 a week to watch D as a baby. And she was my mom. And this was over twenty years ago. I can't imagine anyone paying less than $175-200 a week for private fulltime babysitting in 2009, no matter where in this country they live. But this woman who agreed on the ridiculously low figure doesn't value her own time and own skills enough to ask for what she *should* get, nevermind above and beyond with room for haggling.
I see this in (female) massage therapists who set their own fees, too. Some may be undercharging because they honestly think that's all the market will bear, but a lot just undervalue themselves and their work. They think, oh, my overhead is low, so I should charge less than so and so down the street, even when their work is comparable to, or superior to, so and so. They look for reasons to discount their services, like, oh, this client really needs the work and maybe can't afford it, so I'll give him a deal. There's this great reluctance to say, yeah, I'm worth x, if x is more than a bare minimum.
I wonder if it's a generational thing, and the women a generation behind me are over this. But women my age, by and large, aren't. I see it over and over again, that reluctance to assign a monetary value to their time and knowledge. To say, yeah, I'm good, and you oughta be paying for that excellence. It may have something to do with the fact that so many women still spend so much time doing "free" work at home. I dunno. I'm just pondering.
xoxo
I'm reminded of this by an internet--I won't even say "acquaintance" because we've never corresponded--person who agreed to watch someone else's toddler fulltime in her home for $75 a week. What? As a point of reference, I was paying my mom $100 a week to watch D as a baby. And she was my mom. And this was over twenty years ago. I can't imagine anyone paying less than $175-200 a week for private fulltime babysitting in 2009, no matter where in this country they live. But this woman who agreed on the ridiculously low figure doesn't value her own time and own skills enough to ask for what she *should* get, nevermind above and beyond with room for haggling.
I see this in (female) massage therapists who set their own fees, too. Some may be undercharging because they honestly think that's all the market will bear, but a lot just undervalue themselves and their work. They think, oh, my overhead is low, so I should charge less than so and so down the street, even when their work is comparable to, or superior to, so and so. They look for reasons to discount their services, like, oh, this client really needs the work and maybe can't afford it, so I'll give him a deal. There's this great reluctance to say, yeah, I'm worth x, if x is more than a bare minimum.
I wonder if it's a generational thing, and the women a generation behind me are over this. But women my age, by and large, aren't. I see it over and over again, that reluctance to assign a monetary value to their time and knowledge. To say, yeah, I'm good, and you oughta be paying for that excellence. It may have something to do with the fact that so many women still spend so much time doing "free" work at home. I dunno. I'm just pondering.
xoxo
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