normally when i get sick, i only manage to take myself out of the game for a few days or weeks. this time, and with this cold, i'm taking hostages.
goddess girl liz laughed when i told her a coworker told me that i infected her with my cold, only i had only spoken to her over the phone since i came down with the plague.
"car, there's no possible way you could have infected her over the phone," she tells me, being all practical, and future-nursing student-like. "maybe you saw her before you were symptomatic or you both ran into whoever made you sick."
"yeah, i guess that's possible. we have been in constant contact since "project rock-and-a-hard-place" began," i offer. "but she managed to get the oozy eye, too. so far, i've been the only person to get that part," i continued, referring to the swollen, bloodshot eye-gunk oozing that made me look and feel particularly attractive last week. like quasimodo with a smoker's cough. only i don't smoke anymore.
liz was a little more receptive to the possibility of my new germ warfare when her throat became increasingly sore after our conversation. "i'm laying in bed and can't sleep because my throat is so red hot and sore, i think, 'i'm gonna kill her if i get sick'," she recounted the next day.
take that telemarketers, you may be next. think i won't?
* * *
the only reason i can attribute to feeling better at all this week has to be because i managed to share the love, err, sickness with others. i thoroughly take stock in the idea that until my germies, like elvis, have left my building can i ever hope to recover.
normally, this plays out like this: i get death-bed sick -- cough, congestion, fever, strep throat, bronchitis, hanta virus. mam, with whom i share everything, maybe gets a slight cough. NOTE: this scenario also plays out in the reverse - mam gets the sniffles, i get pneumonia.
last sunday, when the one-two-punch of fever and sinus headache knocked my ass back in bed, i figured i was in trouble when mam rolled over and told me he wasn't feel any better. "shit," i muttered in between fever chills and chattering teeth, "i'm screwed." if neither one of us was in a position to accept the new germs and we just kept passing them back and forth, then those sumbitches are going to grow fruitful and multiply, and quite possibly kill me as they got stronger.
besides, if both partners are sick, who is going to take care of the other?
as a take-charge, forward adult, it would probably surprise most people that i am a complete puss when i get sick. it's as if i'm a toddler again, throwing irrational tantrums, prone to crying because my head or throat hurts, or bitching because i can't breathe. my legs cease working, too, and i cry out for someone to bring me more juice or more tissues. i throw one mean pity party, i tell ya.
but with mam nosing in on my turf, who was taking care of who? surely, mr. hacking-cough is no match for a 160 degree fever, right? (even in sickness i'm one competitive bitch.) somehow i managed to win our little tete a tete, probably when my core body temperature reached near nuclear levels did he concede my victory and got out of bed to get me juice. hah! he probably feared singed flesh if he stayed under the covers with me any longer.
(this is also precisely why we are NOT fit to be parents, either. my dogs can be trained to bring my slippers, aspirin and i'm sure it wouldn't be too difficult to teach them to open the fridge and help themselves to a meal.)
mam was really sick, though -- sick enough to take three sick days in a row -- something that has not happened ever in the 16 years that i've known him. in fact, after last week, he probably now has somewhere in the range of 4 months worth of days still accumulated from his years of good health.
on day three of my plague, when i could no longer stand the razor blades i surely swallowed ripping my throat to shreds anymore, and called the doctor, mam decided to tag along. actually, he rode my coattails to an appointment. with all my medical melodrama, i was coded as a "priority patient" at some point which simply means this chick is so fucked up, you better see her sooner, rather than later or else the medical mystery only gets more complicated. i don't think in the last decade, i had to wait longer than a day to get an appointment. it's like being a rock star and getting into an exclusive club only nowhere near as fun.
"how do you know all these people?" mam barks, as we signed in at the doctor's office, "they all know you by name, for crying out loud."
"i have people, man," i croak, because my throat really balks at the feeling of air rushing over it to form syllables and words, "you don't come to the office weekly for tests without knowing the staff. remember, you got this appointment today because of me."
after some excellent deductive reasoning ("some tenderness in your neck and throat, i see," after i moan and wince as he examines it), the doc concludes we have the average, run-of-the-mill virus, wrecking havoc on our area, and not some form of "hoof and mouth" disease i thought my brother back with him from scotland.
"your throat does look a little red, though, so i'm going to test for strep just in case. we can get the results in about 5 minutes and if you do have it, we'll get you started for treatment," he tells me as i begin to pout at just having an "ordinary" virus. doesn't he know me by now? "ordinary" has never been an adjective used to describe my medical history.
oddity, i'd accept. ordinary, not so much. after gagging me with a tree branch wrapped in cotton to get a culture, mam and i head out to wait the results in the lobby. the very germ-y lobby where i try to never touch anything, except when i'm sick and really trying to share the love, err, germs with others.
but this time, i was so tired and yucky feeling, i couldn't even take pleasure in someone picking up a magazine i touched and getting this plague. so when results came back negative (something very loudly announced to the rest of the waiting room i might add. goddess knows what they others waiting with me thought i didn't have -- the hiv? pregnant?)
on the drive home, mam tried to brighten my spirits on not having strep and coming home with loads of pills to knock this out of my system. "think of it this way, hon, at least you can take advantage of the weight loss benefits not eating solid food affords for a longer period," he tells me, hacking once for good measure because he walked out of there without any drugs either.
oh, i'm sick alright.
Showing posts with label i feel a sin coming on. Show all posts
Showing posts with label i feel a sin coming on. Show all posts
Monday, May 12, 2008
Tuesday, May 06, 2008
starting small, very small
i could apologize to any readers i've thoroughly miffed by not posting for the last, oh say, 4 months. but i won't. part of being unabashedly bitchy is never having to say you're sorry. there are simply times when being bitchy is the only way to fly.
(although i will apologize to any readers not in the inner circle who may have been concerned that my absence meant i was in jail for actually holding the pillow over my mother's head during her long, long, looonngg stay at casa michalski over the holidays.)
now, where was i? ahem, yes, being bitchy. my birthright. but even i can keep my forked tongue in my cheek from time to time. take for instance the night at dinner, when after my mother picked up my pepper shaker with hands as slick as professional wrestler's chest, only to watch it shatter into a million little pieces as ceramic shaker met ceramic tile floor. sneezing and choking, we picked up the shards as pepper dust filled our lungs. finally sitting back down to eat, she leans over to ask me if i have any more pepper.
ahem.
or the night she wore a path into my hardwood floors, pacing circles in the loop between my living room, dining room and kitchen in her nightgown as i washed dishes at the sink, waiting to talk with me. i quickly grabbed my glass of wine from dinner, topped it off and headed upstairs to the "no-mom" zone of the second floor where our master suite is.
speaking of, final cork count for the forty two days of her stay? 14, including wine served at the holiday dinner at my house, otherwise i would be averaging a bottle every three days and my liver is just not that far gone. yet.
but i don't apologize for any of those behaviors. i'm bitchy and i'm baaaaaccck. did you miss me?
(although i will apologize to any readers not in the inner circle who may have been concerned that my absence meant i was in jail for actually holding the pillow over my mother's head during her long, long, looonngg stay at casa michalski over the holidays.)
now, where was i? ahem, yes, being bitchy. my birthright. but even i can keep my forked tongue in my cheek from time to time. take for instance the night at dinner, when after my mother picked up my pepper shaker with hands as slick as professional wrestler's chest, only to watch it shatter into a million little pieces as ceramic shaker met ceramic tile floor. sneezing and choking, we picked up the shards as pepper dust filled our lungs. finally sitting back down to eat, she leans over to ask me if i have any more pepper.
ahem.
or the night she wore a path into my hardwood floors, pacing circles in the loop between my living room, dining room and kitchen in her nightgown as i washed dishes at the sink, waiting to talk with me. i quickly grabbed my glass of wine from dinner, topped it off and headed upstairs to the "no-mom" zone of the second floor where our master suite is.
speaking of, final cork count for the forty two days of her stay? 14, including wine served at the holiday dinner at my house, otherwise i would be averaging a bottle every three days and my liver is just not that far gone. yet.
but i don't apologize for any of those behaviors. i'm bitchy and i'm baaaaaccck. did you miss me?
Monday, July 30, 2007
it takes two
most folks in healthy relationships share some common traits; if they did not, most folks would never hook up in the first place. but it's in the differences where most folks find the interesting parts.
take mam and i for example: he is cool and level-headed in stressful situations. i, on the other hand, have some genetic code triggered that results in piggish, extreme and often violent behavior.
like this afternoon, when i have sat home and plotted my revenge. seems we had the pleasure of being visited by the hit-and-run fairy last night in our own driveway. when we questioned our neighbors this morning about it, considering they share the friggin driveway with us, they may have heard something. or maybe even remember hitting our car since they were the only other flippin' vehicles in it last night.
the old poor thing with a million scratches already and a permanent stale odor of impending death did not deserve an asshat backing into it and tearing its poor mirror from the car. nor did it deserve the long metal on metal scratch that tore through the length of its passenger door. while mam's old car was being ravaged in the dark, we sat watching television and when we heard the crunch and tires squeal, we honestly thought nothing of it.
despite giving it a valiant effort, our neighbors decided they weren't going to pursue this whole marriage thing after all. i mean, he only sent her to the hospital once in recent months, and her alcoholic binges have been somewhat under control lately. but anyway, since they put their house on the market, they've been throwing out junk at all hours of the night with loud thunks and crashes as they decide their flea market finds aren't worth paying to move.
"are you calling me a liar?" the white trash momma screamed at mam from her front porch. "all i want to do is get the bottom of why my car's mirror has been sheared off and there's a huge scratch down the side of my car when you have some surprisingly similar scratches on the back of your truck," mam replied, quite calmly.
i had been tied to a piece of furniture while this was happening to prevent me from going outside and going all ghetto, and thus breaking down these peace accords. in my head rolled images of taking a louisville slugger to her windshield a la the american idol country chick who inspired my fantasies at the moment. since they are trying to sell their house because neither one can afford it alone, i plotted ways to drive them into bankruptcy. i could stand in my front lawn in nasty short shorts and bra top, my white flabby flesh reflecting the sun's rays so brightly that folks wandering into the see the property would be blinded instantly upon entering the driveway.
the driveway! yes, this afternoon i began thinking of how to best sever their access to the driveway at all. if those redneck-tonka truck driving idiots can't figure out how to park in a driveway, then i'd line the driveway with alligators who'd chew at their asses if they tried to even enter it. besides, all i need is for the *official* survey results to tell me what we already know -- the length of the driveway is on my property. only the paved section by their garage is theirs. and no, i do not need to grant them access to it via my portion of it. (that's why i need the alligators.)
"hon, all i want is for them to accept financial responsibility for their actions," mam explained to me in the car. "all i want," i tell him, "is blood if they choose not to. i mean, c'mon, we're going to be out the deductible regardless. i am just willing to recoup my losses with bloodshed, that's all i'm saying."
"at least call the cops on 'em," i continue. "hit-and-runs carry more weight in the justice system." and if they did hit our aging car, that's exactly what had happened.
when mam came back from trying to rationally talk with them, i could tell by his face things hadn't gone well. "fcuk them," he said. "fcuk those white trash rednecks. i'm calling the cops now. and the insurance company. let them sick their lawyers on them. i'm done."
"there, there, honey," i cooed as he untied me, "just remember a firebomb works much quicker."
take mam and i for example: he is cool and level-headed in stressful situations. i, on the other hand, have some genetic code triggered that results in piggish, extreme and often violent behavior.
like this afternoon, when i have sat home and plotted my revenge. seems we had the pleasure of being visited by the hit-and-run fairy last night in our own driveway. when we questioned our neighbors this morning about it, considering they share the friggin driveway with us, they may have heard something. or maybe even remember hitting our car since they were the only other flippin' vehicles in it last night.
the old poor thing with a million scratches already and a permanent stale odor of impending death did not deserve an asshat backing into it and tearing its poor mirror from the car. nor did it deserve the long metal on metal scratch that tore through the length of its passenger door. while mam's old car was being ravaged in the dark, we sat watching television and when we heard the crunch and tires squeal, we honestly thought nothing of it.
despite giving it a valiant effort, our neighbors decided they weren't going to pursue this whole marriage thing after all. i mean, he only sent her to the hospital once in recent months, and her alcoholic binges have been somewhat under control lately. but anyway, since they put their house on the market, they've been throwing out junk at all hours of the night with loud thunks and crashes as they decide their flea market finds aren't worth paying to move.
"are you calling me a liar?" the white trash momma screamed at mam from her front porch. "all i want to do is get the bottom of why my car's mirror has been sheared off and there's a huge scratch down the side of my car when you have some surprisingly similar scratches on the back of your truck," mam replied, quite calmly.
i had been tied to a piece of furniture while this was happening to prevent me from going outside and going all ghetto, and thus breaking down these peace accords. in my head rolled images of taking a louisville slugger to her windshield a la the american idol country chick who inspired my fantasies at the moment. since they are trying to sell their house because neither one can afford it alone, i plotted ways to drive them into bankruptcy. i could stand in my front lawn in nasty short shorts and bra top, my white flabby flesh reflecting the sun's rays so brightly that folks wandering into the see the property would be blinded instantly upon entering the driveway.
the driveway! yes, this afternoon i began thinking of how to best sever their access to the driveway at all. if those redneck-tonka truck driving idiots can't figure out how to park in a driveway, then i'd line the driveway with alligators who'd chew at their asses if they tried to even enter it. besides, all i need is for the *official* survey results to tell me what we already know -- the length of the driveway is on my property. only the paved section by their garage is theirs. and no, i do not need to grant them access to it via my portion of it. (that's why i need the alligators.)
"hon, all i want is for them to accept financial responsibility for their actions," mam explained to me in the car. "all i want," i tell him, "is blood if they choose not to. i mean, c'mon, we're going to be out the deductible regardless. i am just willing to recoup my losses with bloodshed, that's all i'm saying."
"at least call the cops on 'em," i continue. "hit-and-runs carry more weight in the justice system." and if they did hit our aging car, that's exactly what had happened.
when mam came back from trying to rationally talk with them, i could tell by his face things hadn't gone well. "fcuk them," he said. "fcuk those white trash rednecks. i'm calling the cops now. and the insurance company. let them sick their lawyers on them. i'm done."
"there, there, honey," i cooed as he untied me, "just remember a firebomb works much quicker."
Friday, July 20, 2007
costco goodness and other random thoughts
at least this year i am ahead of the game and may actually have purchased my husband's birthday present BEFORE his birthday actually gets here. go me!
before you think i'm some wicked wife, to my defense, i was hospitalized last year for the week before his birthday and by the time they released me, i really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.
this year will be different although i am determined to buy mam's birthday present at costco again. instead of ordering online a really cool hammock like last year that got to see more of the united states than i could ever dream on its delivery to casa mc-clotsky before it managed to get lost in transit, i plan to purchase his gift in the store.
just as soon as the item comes back in stock.
see i could tell you what the item is, but then i'd have to kill you. after i finally tracked down a live, honest-to-goodness costco employee that wasn't either carding at the door like a bouncer or stuck behind a huge line as a cashier (try it, i bet you go as crazy as i did trying to find one) and drug him back to the display, he merely shrugged his shoulders and told me i was outta luck.
"sorry, lady. we don't have anymore in stock of those. i could sell you the display but if you want a box, you'll have to wait until tomorrow." as i contemplate the number of scratches on the display and whether it would bug the shit out of me over time because i didn't want to wait until morning, he added, "or i can just write you a raincheck."
nope. a raincheck just will not cut it this year. last year's blood clot gave me a reprieve on punctuality, i have no such excuse this year. (nor do i want one, fcuk you very much.)
"how many are you expecting in?" i ask, trying to gage if i need to make the return trip on saturday or if it can wait until sunday while i mentally rearrange my schedule in my head.
when he says "24", i begin to relax. i have plenty of time until he continues, "but you're the 20th person to ask me that today." damn.
knowing that they open the store at ten, i'm afraid i'll be camping out tomorrow morning, like it's tickets for some sort of super-fantastic-rock-legend-straight-out-of-hell-one-night-only concert. normally, i'm too lazy to be that cheap but it's a whole lotta smackers i'd save by getting at the warehouse of holiness, costco.
seriously, i'll be at the store at 9:30 to stake my claim on one of the 24 "things" due in stock tonight. if you catch the news tomorrow night and see a story about a suburban-assault-vehicle running through a crowd in a parking lot, you can safely bet i was gonna be number 25 in line.
and a random thought for a day...
what marketing genius decided to come out with strawberry-flavored blunts?
i couldn't believe my eyes at wawa while i waited for helga (my nickname for the old, gruff lady who works behind the counter) to take her good old time ringing up the people in from of me.
the pink carton stared out at me while all i could think about was how did this affect the marijuana most people use the friggin' blunts for in the first place? is the strawberry-flavor in the cigar wrapper or in the tobacco?
are the gangs hip to the new pink packaging? it doesn't exactly scream tough urban thug if some g-boy were to pull out a pink box before rolling a fattie joint.
is this the new gay version of blunts? something to entice the gangstas on the down-lo? a new replacement for the ol' friend of dorothy to signal that someone was homosexual?
as i got back into my car and drove away, i shook my head and thought what's next -- blueberry?
before you think i'm some wicked wife, to my defense, i was hospitalized last year for the week before his birthday and by the time they released me, i really wasn't in the mood to go shopping.
this year will be different although i am determined to buy mam's birthday present at costco again. instead of ordering online a really cool hammock like last year that got to see more of the united states than i could ever dream on its delivery to casa mc-clotsky before it managed to get lost in transit, i plan to purchase his gift in the store.
just as soon as the item comes back in stock.
see i could tell you what the item is, but then i'd have to kill you. after i finally tracked down a live, honest-to-goodness costco employee that wasn't either carding at the door like a bouncer or stuck behind a huge line as a cashier (try it, i bet you go as crazy as i did trying to find one) and drug him back to the display, he merely shrugged his shoulders and told me i was outta luck.
"sorry, lady. we don't have anymore in stock of those. i could sell you the display but if you want a box, you'll have to wait until tomorrow." as i contemplate the number of scratches on the display and whether it would bug the shit out of me over time because i didn't want to wait until morning, he added, "or i can just write you a raincheck."
nope. a raincheck just will not cut it this year. last year's blood clot gave me a reprieve on punctuality, i have no such excuse this year. (nor do i want one, fcuk you very much.)
"how many are you expecting in?" i ask, trying to gage if i need to make the return trip on saturday or if it can wait until sunday while i mentally rearrange my schedule in my head.
when he says "24", i begin to relax. i have plenty of time until he continues, "but you're the 20th person to ask me that today." damn.
knowing that they open the store at ten, i'm afraid i'll be camping out tomorrow morning, like it's tickets for some sort of super-fantastic-rock-legend-straight-out-of-hell-one-night-only concert. normally, i'm too lazy to be that cheap but it's a whole lotta smackers i'd save by getting at the warehouse of holiness, costco.
seriously, i'll be at the store at 9:30 to stake my claim on one of the 24 "things" due in stock tonight. if you catch the news tomorrow night and see a story about a suburban-assault-vehicle running through a crowd in a parking lot, you can safely bet i was gonna be number 25 in line.
and a random thought for a day...
what marketing genius decided to come out with strawberry-flavored blunts?
i couldn't believe my eyes at wawa while i waited for helga (my nickname for the old, gruff lady who works behind the counter) to take her good old time ringing up the people in from of me.
the pink carton stared out at me while all i could think about was how did this affect the marijuana most people use the friggin' blunts for in the first place? is the strawberry-flavor in the cigar wrapper or in the tobacco?
are the gangs hip to the new pink packaging? it doesn't exactly scream tough urban thug if some g-boy were to pull out a pink box before rolling a fattie joint.
is this the new gay version of blunts? something to entice the gangstas on the down-lo? a new replacement for the ol' friend of dorothy to signal that someone was homosexual?
as i got back into my car and drove away, i shook my head and thought what's next -- blueberry?
Wednesday, April 25, 2007
killing season
the killing season is upon us. while work may be driving me crazy, it's not coworkers that i keep in my sights.
nope, it's time to play in the garden.
now that mam and i have stopped building that ark in our garage to ride out the recent rain (read: super storms that so muddied our yard i wasn't sure if i had dogs or pot-bellied pigs).
and now that the rain is gone, i can see clearly that my garden is gone, too.
all the fcuking money, time and effort i put out last year, hasn't come back. oh, two bleeding hearts did come back this year but they look like someone just stuck two stalks of celery into the mud. (there are no flowers on the celery stalks.) the creeping purple phlox which did survive last winter and are now becoming little mounds of dreadlocks with green highlights woven in.
mam tried to comfort me that mother nature isn't ready make her big showy display yet. it's too early in the season. when i pointed out our neighbors have azaleas in full bloom and ours still are a russian winter, he told me our time to bloom will come soon, too.
last weekend, i created a reason to go to lowe's, just in part i think so i could walk the outdoor flower-y section. (note: lowe's does not carry laundry detergent in its aisles.) i gingerly touched each green stem. i pulled back the label to read -- actually read the friggin' label -- to see if it would be a good fit in our patches of super-sunny and super-shady, desert dry, mudpit.
but it's no use. i put it in my earth and watch my garden not grow. i covet my neighbor's green thumb. each weekend he's out plucking out weeds more frequently than some people tweeze their eyebrows. when he's not playing the drums, he's out there digging a hole and planting a new tree or bush.
and i'm jealous.
any five-year-old with a beach bucket and a shovel can dig a hole in the sand and plant daddy's car keys hoping to grow a new car. however, i stand lesser chances of getting a mercedes to grow in my front yard than the kid does.
but still a girl can dream. and in the meantime, i will plot and scheme, dig and dream my way to a less ghetto fabulous landscape. and manage to wipe out an entire colony of plants while i do it.
nope, it's time to play in the garden.
now that mam and i have stopped building that ark in our garage to ride out the recent rain (read: super storms that so muddied our yard i wasn't sure if i had dogs or pot-bellied pigs).
and now that the rain is gone, i can see clearly that my garden is gone, too.
all the fcuking money, time and effort i put out last year, hasn't come back. oh, two bleeding hearts did come back this year but they look like someone just stuck two stalks of celery into the mud. (there are no flowers on the celery stalks.) the creeping purple phlox which did survive last winter and are now becoming little mounds of dreadlocks with green highlights woven in.
mam tried to comfort me that mother nature isn't ready make her big showy display yet. it's too early in the season. when i pointed out our neighbors have azaleas in full bloom and ours still are a russian winter, he told me our time to bloom will come soon, too.
last weekend, i created a reason to go to lowe's, just in part i think so i could walk the outdoor flower-y section. (note: lowe's does not carry laundry detergent in its aisles.) i gingerly touched each green stem. i pulled back the label to read -- actually read the friggin' label -- to see if it would be a good fit in our patches of super-sunny and super-shady, desert dry, mudpit.
but it's no use. i put it in my earth and watch my garden not grow. i covet my neighbor's green thumb. each weekend he's out plucking out weeds more frequently than some people tweeze their eyebrows. when he's not playing the drums, he's out there digging a hole and planting a new tree or bush.
and i'm jealous.
any five-year-old with a beach bucket and a shovel can dig a hole in the sand and plant daddy's car keys hoping to grow a new car. however, i stand lesser chances of getting a mercedes to grow in my front yard than the kid does.
but still a girl can dream. and in the meantime, i will plot and scheme, dig and dream my way to a less ghetto fabulous landscape. and manage to wipe out an entire colony of plants while i do it.
Monday, April 23, 2007
bright lights, big ass
very psyched to hear jen lancaster read from her new book (see title of this post) coming out in exactly 8 days. very sad to hear she's ditching philly for nyc right after her reading so no time to take her out to vintage for a glass of wine. nyc is the "marsha, marsha, marsha" to philly's middle-sister jan self-esteem. way to pick at that scab, jen.
here's the details straight from jennyslvania:
"June 6 – Reading/signing at the Walnut Street Barnes & Noble in Philadelphia at 7:30 PM. Going straight to NY afterwards, so no drinks and I'm sorry."
still trying to talk alicia and alaina into sporting pink and green outfits or pearls that day. damn! i think i finally found a use for those mint green pearls i regifted at renee's holiday party.
anyone else want to join us (alicia and alaina and i) for wine before the reading? who are we kidding, like we need an excuse to drink?
here's the details straight from jennyslvania:
"June 6 – Reading/signing at the Walnut Street Barnes & Noble in Philadelphia at 7:30 PM. Going straight to NY afterwards, so no drinks and I'm sorry."
still trying to talk alicia and alaina into sporting pink and green outfits or pearls that day. damn! i think i finally found a use for those mint green pearls i regifted at renee's holiday party.
anyone else want to join us (alicia and alaina and i) for wine before the reading? who are we kidding, like we need an excuse to drink?
Friday, April 06, 2007
closer i am to fine
i'm trying to tell you something about my life
what a difference seven days makes.
in seven days -- one short week -- i presented to a board of directors with only two hours notice, i received a great response from a literary agent that i contacted, i have been pulled in opposite directions on two major projects at work, and i introduced myself to our ceo after a few hours of drinking with coworkers.
wrap my fear around me like a blanket
i hate public speaking. there is something very naked about standing in front of a room and speaking to them as an expert. i'm not an expert in anything except maybe being bitchy. who the fcuk am i to pretend otherwise? why should these people listen to the words that fall from my lips?
the truth is, i'm not that bad at it. the surge of adrenaline that pumps through your veins seconds before you get up there is as strong as any drug i've ever experienced. actors and actresses know what i am talking about, the moment when the curtain pulls back or the camera pans in your direction and exposes you. for a split second, you consider bolting in the opposite direction. but instead, you puff your chest with one soulfully deep breath before you smile and step forward. i stepped forward in that meeting.
i spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
when i started my graduate degree program, i'm not sure i went in fully aware of where i was heading. on the surface, i looked for an easy masters degree in a program that i could at least justify as being related to my job in order to get my company to pay for it. and oh yeah, the program and school needed to not require gre or gmat scores. (i'm a smart cookie but i quickly crumble when it comes to standardized tests.)
now, two years later and halfway to completion, i know what i want out of this but am not sure i need to finish my degree to get there. if i can get attention from a publisher and agent without having my masters, do i really need it? or have i sucked the marrow from the bone already? my remaining classes are of the fluffy variety.
one of my core beliefs is there is a reason for everything and something to be learned from each experience. what i have yet to learn is how to determine when it's time to move on.
i stop by the bar at three a.m.
okay, it was more like four p.m. but i was definitely seeking solace in a bottle and a friend. in our office we work like dogs sometimes, but we absolutely take every chance we can to run wild from time to time. so with a few shots already in our system and the jukebox rotating between johnny cash and the killers, i look around at the great people i call my coworkers.
"they're good people" i hear someone say to another. and it's true. everyone gets along with each other, our wacked sense of humor feeds each other making what could be difficult days into something memorable for completely different reasons.
there is more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line
which leads me to back to exactly where i started and the reason for starting multiplicity in the first place. with so many dueling and competing energies in me, how do you give priority to one without sacrificing the other?
of course, if the ceo decides to strike up a conversation with me after another whiskey-soaked afternoon, the line to the unemployment office may not be so crooked.
less i seek more source for some definitive
i know any chance of getting my writing established is a long way off despite the positive news i've gotten recently, i know one day i'll be forced to choose.
until that day comes, as i look around at the faces of my friends and coworkers all belting out the words the lyrics of the indigo girls that inspired us in our college days, i know i will be closer to fine.
what a difference seven days makes.
in seven days -- one short week -- i presented to a board of directors with only two hours notice, i received a great response from a literary agent that i contacted, i have been pulled in opposite directions on two major projects at work, and i introduced myself to our ceo after a few hours of drinking with coworkers.
wrap my fear around me like a blanket
i hate public speaking. there is something very naked about standing in front of a room and speaking to them as an expert. i'm not an expert in anything except maybe being bitchy. who the fcuk am i to pretend otherwise? why should these people listen to the words that fall from my lips?
the truth is, i'm not that bad at it. the surge of adrenaline that pumps through your veins seconds before you get up there is as strong as any drug i've ever experienced. actors and actresses know what i am talking about, the moment when the curtain pulls back or the camera pans in your direction and exposes you. for a split second, you consider bolting in the opposite direction. but instead, you puff your chest with one soulfully deep breath before you smile and step forward. i stepped forward in that meeting.
i spent four years prostrate to the higher mind
when i started my graduate degree program, i'm not sure i went in fully aware of where i was heading. on the surface, i looked for an easy masters degree in a program that i could at least justify as being related to my job in order to get my company to pay for it. and oh yeah, the program and school needed to not require gre or gmat scores. (i'm a smart cookie but i quickly crumble when it comes to standardized tests.)
now, two years later and halfway to completion, i know what i want out of this but am not sure i need to finish my degree to get there. if i can get attention from a publisher and agent without having my masters, do i really need it? or have i sucked the marrow from the bone already? my remaining classes are of the fluffy variety.
one of my core beliefs is there is a reason for everything and something to be learned from each experience. what i have yet to learn is how to determine when it's time to move on.
i stop by the bar at three a.m.
okay, it was more like four p.m. but i was definitely seeking solace in a bottle and a friend. in our office we work like dogs sometimes, but we absolutely take every chance we can to run wild from time to time. so with a few shots already in our system and the jukebox rotating between johnny cash and the killers, i look around at the great people i call my coworkers.
"they're good people" i hear someone say to another. and it's true. everyone gets along with each other, our wacked sense of humor feeds each other making what could be difficult days into something memorable for completely different reasons.
there is more than one answer to these questions pointing me in a crooked line
which leads me to back to exactly where i started and the reason for starting multiplicity in the first place. with so many dueling and competing energies in me, how do you give priority to one without sacrificing the other?
of course, if the ceo decides to strike up a conversation with me after another whiskey-soaked afternoon, the line to the unemployment office may not be so crooked.
less i seek more source for some definitive
i know any chance of getting my writing established is a long way off despite the positive news i've gotten recently, i know one day i'll be forced to choose.
until that day comes, as i look around at the faces of my friends and coworkers all belting out the words the lyrics of the indigo girls that inspired us in our college days, i know i will be closer to fine.
Friday, March 30, 2007
love thy neighbor
they say you gotta love thy neighbors, but sometimes, what i really want to do is beat them and bury them in my backyard.
if it didn't keep on happening, i would think maybe i'm being overly sensitive. sort of like the old poker adage: if you when look around the table and can't pick out the sucker, then the sucker is probably you.
well, in this case, i can identify the sucker, and it ain't me. but i think i am the asshole-attracting magnet.
right now, as i write this, my neighbor is playing the drums. loudly. even with the windows shut, it's a pounding thump-thump-thump like a broken metronome. if my neighbor played the drums with any skill, it wouldn't be half as bad. when i lived in my condo before we moved here, we had a neighbor across the hall that knew the opening chords to smoke on the water.
but that's all he knew. day and night, it's all we would hear: dduuuhhnnn, dduuhhnnnn, dduuhhhnnnn, dun, dun, dun, ddduuuhhhnnnnn. thankfully though, it was loudest before we ventured into our front door, and once shut, it was barely imperceptible until you opened the front door and waited for someone to scream "play free bird."
but my neighbor is either still learning how to play or he is calling the spirits of hades to rise up against me. it's not like we live that closely to one another. my house is not attached to his and furthermore his house is easily the width of a south philadelphia street from my house. although we do share a driveway, the driveway is wide enough to fit four car widths.
the driveway! that reminds me, two summers ago, he bought his children little crotch rockets motor bikes. (this is not to be confused with pocket rockets. that's just creepy.) because his spermatazoa are now about 10 years old, they can't exactly go far on their suuuu-zoo-keys. instead, all summer long, they would ride these gas guzzling bikes up and down the shared driveway. they could accelerate just enough in either direction to drive me crazy.
then one day, the bikes were gone. i danced a little happy dance. only to stop when it was replaced by a hot tub and a boat.
now, let's set the record straight -- these folks are not the rockefellers. they are industrious trash pickers. resourceful, even. but still trash pickers.
the boat was bought for a song from another neighbor who, if i ever track down exactly who it sold it to him, will be getting a flaming bag of poo left on the doorstep from me because i have a rusty, stinky barge-like thing taking up space in my driveway. (yes, it's mine. all mine.)
the hot tub is the scariest of all. situated against the back of their house, and steeped in darkness away from the stream of lights shone from either of our garages, the hot tub provides them with entertainment at all hours of the night.
i'll let the dogs out for a final pee and hear giggling in the dark. the dogs go wild looking for the source of the laughter. i'm just horrified once my brain wraps itself around where its coming from. one night as i was coming home late, i parked the car when i heard someone else coming, too. ewwwww.
so i guess for now, i should be relieved it's only the sound of drums being played. when the weather warms up in the next few weeks, my neighbors will be finding other ways to drive me crazy.
if it didn't keep on happening, i would think maybe i'm being overly sensitive. sort of like the old poker adage: if you when look around the table and can't pick out the sucker, then the sucker is probably you.
well, in this case, i can identify the sucker, and it ain't me. but i think i am the asshole-attracting magnet.
right now, as i write this, my neighbor is playing the drums. loudly. even with the windows shut, it's a pounding thump-thump-thump like a broken metronome. if my neighbor played the drums with any skill, it wouldn't be half as bad. when i lived in my condo before we moved here, we had a neighbor across the hall that knew the opening chords to smoke on the water.
but that's all he knew. day and night, it's all we would hear: dduuuhhnnn, dduuhhnnnn, dduuhhhnnnn, dun, dun, dun, ddduuuhhhnnnnn. thankfully though, it was loudest before we ventured into our front door, and once shut, it was barely imperceptible until you opened the front door and waited for someone to scream "play free bird."
but my neighbor is either still learning how to play or he is calling the spirits of hades to rise up against me. it's not like we live that closely to one another. my house is not attached to his and furthermore his house is easily the width of a south philadelphia street from my house. although we do share a driveway, the driveway is wide enough to fit four car widths.
the driveway! that reminds me, two summers ago, he bought his children little crotch rockets motor bikes. (this is not to be confused with pocket rockets. that's just creepy.) because his spermatazoa are now about 10 years old, they can't exactly go far on their suuuu-zoo-keys. instead, all summer long, they would ride these gas guzzling bikes up and down the shared driveway. they could accelerate just enough in either direction to drive me crazy.
then one day, the bikes were gone. i danced a little happy dance. only to stop when it was replaced by a hot tub and a boat.
now, let's set the record straight -- these folks are not the rockefellers. they are industrious trash pickers. resourceful, even. but still trash pickers.
the boat was bought for a song from another neighbor who, if i ever track down exactly who it sold it to him, will be getting a flaming bag of poo left on the doorstep from me because i have a rusty, stinky barge-like thing taking up space in my driveway. (yes, it's mine. all mine.)
the hot tub is the scariest of all. situated against the back of their house, and steeped in darkness away from the stream of lights shone from either of our garages, the hot tub provides them with entertainment at all hours of the night.
i'll let the dogs out for a final pee and hear giggling in the dark. the dogs go wild looking for the source of the laughter. i'm just horrified once my brain wraps itself around where its coming from. one night as i was coming home late, i parked the car when i heard someone else coming, too. ewwwww.
so i guess for now, i should be relieved it's only the sound of drums being played. when the weather warms up in the next few weeks, my neighbors will be finding other ways to drive me crazy.
Wednesday, February 28, 2007
wardrobe malfunction
what kind of girl am i you ask? obviously, it's what's on everyone's mind these days. but since you asked, i'll tell you.
i am the type of girl who wears black panties under tan pants. unintentionally, of course, not that it matters one bit now.
mornings are hazardous to my health and career. bumbling around the house, trying to feed the dogs with one eye open, not getting locked outside if the door closes behind me when i bring them in. getting dressed in the morning should not pose such hazardous results.
but it does.
getting dressed in the morning is like playing a slot machine in my closet -- pull back the arm to see if i win big. clean clothes, in sizes that fit, without any wardrobe malfunctions or oddly-paired combinations. we have a winner.
this morning, i pulled back the arm and waited:
ding, bar.
ding, bar again.
ding, lemon. so sorry, thanks for playing.
i didn't realize my losing bet (or is it that i am a loser?) until i got to work. yes, i am that girl the others talk about. and by this time, i can't insert another quarter hoping for a better outcome. the wrinkled black pants look pretty good right about now. i just need to face it -- i'm screwed. and i look slutty, ta boot.
my buddy alicia, the only one who i can call in such a situation, recommended a drastic course of action. "you gotta go commando. you have no other choice."
but i do another option. i can walk proudly and ignore the stares that follow me as i walk away. or run. quickly. to the victoria's secret on walnut street as soon as it opens.
i am the type of girl who wears black panties under tan pants. unintentionally, of course, not that it matters one bit now.
mornings are hazardous to my health and career. bumbling around the house, trying to feed the dogs with one eye open, not getting locked outside if the door closes behind me when i bring them in. getting dressed in the morning should not pose such hazardous results.
but it does.
getting dressed in the morning is like playing a slot machine in my closet -- pull back the arm to see if i win big. clean clothes, in sizes that fit, without any wardrobe malfunctions or oddly-paired combinations. we have a winner.
this morning, i pulled back the arm and waited:
ding, bar.
ding, bar again.
ding, lemon. so sorry, thanks for playing.
i didn't realize my losing bet (or is it that i am a loser?) until i got to work. yes, i am that girl the others talk about. and by this time, i can't insert another quarter hoping for a better outcome. the wrinkled black pants look pretty good right about now. i just need to face it -- i'm screwed. and i look slutty, ta boot.
my buddy alicia, the only one who i can call in such a situation, recommended a drastic course of action. "you gotta go commando. you have no other choice."
but i do another option. i can walk proudly and ignore the stares that follow me as i walk away. or run. quickly. to the victoria's secret on walnut street as soon as it opens.
Thursday, February 22, 2007
like this, like that
like this, like that, like this, an' huh...
for the last two days, i have walked around obsessed with snoop dogg lyrics tattooed on my brain. not that it's a bad thing necessarily, but the urge to whip out the next line in some of snoop's better songs is just too great.
la de da da da...
muthafcukin' snoop dee-oh-double gee.
these words will get me fired if uttered from my lips while talking with a client, or talking to any another person in my office for that matter, regardless, of how loudly the bass may be thumping in my head. i work in a professional, uber conservative setting -- dropping lines about bitches and hos will not win me any props wit' ma niggas in the office.
which is partially why it's been so much fun.
c'mon think about the irony for a second -- thirty-year-old white, suburban professional woman rapping about tappin' dat ass, hos up and jeans down -- while driving around in her big honkin' suburban-assault-vehicle (sav for those in the know) while carrying a coach, head and shoulders bopping like a gansta.
think about this.
i'm sure snoop dee-oh-double gee was not expecting see-a-are-l-double e-n when he crooned some of these songs. these songs take me back to growing up in the 'hood, with a heart and soul bursting with a brash, a fcuk you attitude that doesn't give a shit about what you think, only about breaking out of where i was and breaking down others perceptions. like that, like this.
just chill.
'til the next episode.
for the last two days, i have walked around obsessed with snoop dogg lyrics tattooed on my brain. not that it's a bad thing necessarily, but the urge to whip out the next line in some of snoop's better songs is just too great.
la de da da da...
muthafcukin' snoop dee-oh-double gee.
these words will get me fired if uttered from my lips while talking with a client, or talking to any another person in my office for that matter, regardless, of how loudly the bass may be thumping in my head. i work in a professional, uber conservative setting -- dropping lines about bitches and hos will not win me any props wit' ma niggas in the office.
which is partially why it's been so much fun.
c'mon think about the irony for a second -- thirty-year-old white, suburban professional woman rapping about tappin' dat ass, hos up and jeans down -- while driving around in her big honkin' suburban-assault-vehicle (sav for those in the know) while carrying a coach, head and shoulders bopping like a gansta.
think about this.
i'm sure snoop dee-oh-double gee was not expecting see-a-are-l-double e-n when he crooned some of these songs. these songs take me back to growing up in the 'hood, with a heart and soul bursting with a brash, a fcuk you attitude that doesn't give a shit about what you think, only about breaking out of where i was and breaking down others perceptions. like that, like this.
just chill.
'til the next episode.
Wednesday, January 24, 2007
them's fightin' words
celebrating the end of a stress-filled week with shots of crown royal with co-workers is probably not a good thing. i am fairly proud of myself though. after 3, possibly 4 shots of whiskey and at least as many hard cider drinks, i remained standing with any assistance from the wall or other objects. i managed to not get sick or start a fight. and that my friends is a beautiful thing.
they say everyone's true colors come out when they are inebriated. guards are let-down, internal walls and self-censoring mechanisms are broken, true intentions become self-evident. if this is true, then by my very nature, i won't go down without a fight.
some people get giggly and laugh a little too loud over stupid things. this is not me. i will laugh but more often, i will just spray whatever it is that i happen to be drinking -- red wine, white wine, hard cider -- when caught off-guard with something funny is said in my buzzed presence. last night, it was the announcement that "everyone knows butt babies don't live" in a conversation about sex that caused me to spray lisa down with a mouthful of cider. come to think of it, it was lisa's mention of vibrator-as-homing device at another restaurant that caused me to spit wine, not only over most to the guests seated at our table, but also at the table behind us. i have exceptional aim when i choose to, obviously.
my drinking downfall (besides the spitting) is that i get beer muscles from drinking too much wine. i get argumentative and ballsy. if threatened, my goddess, you better come strong or don't come at all. i have thrown trained punches at a friend's head, knowing i did not intend to hit it but still unnerving him by the swishy feeling of air at the nape of his neck as hit expected a blow to the back of the head.
seriously though, i have been in more fights when sober than drunk and far less in my late twenties than in my early twenties and teen-age years. still though every time, i go to a happy hour or other drinking occassion, i worry that the she-devil in me will awaken, and that she will uncork all of those things i keep hidden inside, exposing my secrets like opening pandora's box.
they say everyone's true colors come out when they are inebriated. guards are let-down, internal walls and self-censoring mechanisms are broken, true intentions become self-evident. if this is true, then by my very nature, i won't go down without a fight.
some people get giggly and laugh a little too loud over stupid things. this is not me. i will laugh but more often, i will just spray whatever it is that i happen to be drinking -- red wine, white wine, hard cider -- when caught off-guard with something funny is said in my buzzed presence. last night, it was the announcement that "everyone knows butt babies don't live" in a conversation about sex that caused me to spray lisa down with a mouthful of cider. come to think of it, it was lisa's mention of vibrator-as-homing device at another restaurant that caused me to spit wine, not only over most to the guests seated at our table, but also at the table behind us. i have exceptional aim when i choose to, obviously.
my drinking downfall (besides the spitting) is that i get beer muscles from drinking too much wine. i get argumentative and ballsy. if threatened, my goddess, you better come strong or don't come at all. i have thrown trained punches at a friend's head, knowing i did not intend to hit it but still unnerving him by the swishy feeling of air at the nape of his neck as hit expected a blow to the back of the head.
seriously though, i have been in more fights when sober than drunk and far less in my late twenties than in my early twenties and teen-age years. still though every time, i go to a happy hour or other drinking occassion, i worry that the she-devil in me will awaken, and that she will uncork all of those things i keep hidden inside, exposing my secrets like opening pandora's box.
Tuesday, January 23, 2007
capitalizing on a good book
imagine how this must sound in a staff meeting: “the lord is my product; there is nothing i shall want.” what is seemingly at odds here is the intersection of religion and commerce as it relates to the large number of and variations of bibles sold in the marketplace each year.
strangely enough, i stumbled across of all things – a bible store – recently when shopping at the outlets nearby. mam and i joked about its close proximity to the nine west store where we were heading.
“close enough,” he said, “that he expected its customers to be the husbands of the shoe-shopping wives next door praying to avoid bankruptcy.” (my brave, dear husband preferred to do battle against the evils of nine west directly – by pouting in the aisle, watching me hunt for and try on new boots.) so when cindy crosby’s article “not your mother’s bible” in the october 30, 2006 edition of publishers weekly came across my radar, well, i knew well enough to acknowledge divine inspiration when it presents itself.
in today’s marketplace, the same mentality that gives rise to many different pairs of brown boots available at nine west exists for bibles sales as well. while a relatively stable market exists for bible sales, selling the “good book” may be more difficult than one would think. as the article points out, in most cases, the very people who are buying bibles already own between three and 10 copies. (note to self: must remember this argument for next shoe-shopping excursion.) how can an industry expect sustainable margins from sales on a product that people already own? while content will be the same in most cases, the key differentials between bible a at home and bible b on the shelf will be two of the four p’s of marketing lingo – packaging and positioning.
but it’s not as simple as changing the color or heel height of its current product to focus consumer attention on the new product. as the ms. crosby notes in the article, there are pratfalls lurking in this market: “wrapping your arms around this market is like hugging an 800-pound gorilla – it’s huge, it’s intimidating, and it can turn on you.” publishers must handle with sensitivity any changes to what some consider “a life manual divinely inspired by god” to avoid alienating its core audience. when changes are made to the bible’s format, you will find changes to be lumped under one of four main categories: 1) readability, 2) portability, 3) usability, and 4) attractiveness.
by focusing on these areas, publishers have brought to market bibles with additional commentary for better understanding of the text, waterproof and pocket-sized versions as well as a host of other colors and cover styles. pink faux leather bible with matching prayer beads, anyone?
but as any good marketer realizes, even with a divine “product” and audience-approved packaging and positioning, price is still a factor. for publishers, this most often means outsourcing production to keep already slim margins from disappearing like meatless fridays after vatican ii. another oddity mentioned as specific to the bible industry in the article is the missionary angle of spreading the good news. one publisher mentioned donating nearly 26 million copies in 2004, a factor that surely impacts the bottom line. (what, you thought those bibles found in hotel nightstands just appeared there magically?)
but despite all of its possible pitfalls, publishers who heed the call to makeover the bible for consumer consumption have realized steady sales. while readership is generally nudging lower each year, the number of people professing to read the bible is growing with latest figures noting about 96% of evangelical christians admit to having read the bible in the last seven days. (what's scarier - the fact most people don't read daily newspapers anymore to keep abreast of current events or the fact that they read a book written 2000 years ago at least once a week?)
with a readership this large, capitalism is happily answering the call of christianity by offering a diverse product lineup designed to fit every shape and color. just like the two new pairs of brown boots i scored that fit over my fat calves. hallelujah!
strangely enough, i stumbled across of all things – a bible store – recently when shopping at the outlets nearby. mam and i joked about its close proximity to the nine west store where we were heading.
“close enough,” he said, “that he expected its customers to be the husbands of the shoe-shopping wives next door praying to avoid bankruptcy.” (my brave, dear husband preferred to do battle against the evils of nine west directly – by pouting in the aisle, watching me hunt for and try on new boots.) so when cindy crosby’s article “not your mother’s bible” in the october 30, 2006 edition of publishers weekly came across my radar, well, i knew well enough to acknowledge divine inspiration when it presents itself.
in today’s marketplace, the same mentality that gives rise to many different pairs of brown boots available at nine west exists for bibles sales as well. while a relatively stable market exists for bible sales, selling the “good book” may be more difficult than one would think. as the article points out, in most cases, the very people who are buying bibles already own between three and 10 copies. (note to self: must remember this argument for next shoe-shopping excursion.) how can an industry expect sustainable margins from sales on a product that people already own? while content will be the same in most cases, the key differentials between bible a at home and bible b on the shelf will be two of the four p’s of marketing lingo – packaging and positioning.
but it’s not as simple as changing the color or heel height of its current product to focus consumer attention on the new product. as the ms. crosby notes in the article, there are pratfalls lurking in this market: “wrapping your arms around this market is like hugging an 800-pound gorilla – it’s huge, it’s intimidating, and it can turn on you.” publishers must handle with sensitivity any changes to what some consider “a life manual divinely inspired by god” to avoid alienating its core audience. when changes are made to the bible’s format, you will find changes to be lumped under one of four main categories: 1) readability, 2) portability, 3) usability, and 4) attractiveness.
by focusing on these areas, publishers have brought to market bibles with additional commentary for better understanding of the text, waterproof and pocket-sized versions as well as a host of other colors and cover styles. pink faux leather bible with matching prayer beads, anyone?
but as any good marketer realizes, even with a divine “product” and audience-approved packaging and positioning, price is still a factor. for publishers, this most often means outsourcing production to keep already slim margins from disappearing like meatless fridays after vatican ii. another oddity mentioned as specific to the bible industry in the article is the missionary angle of spreading the good news. one publisher mentioned donating nearly 26 million copies in 2004, a factor that surely impacts the bottom line. (what, you thought those bibles found in hotel nightstands just appeared there magically?)
but despite all of its possible pitfalls, publishers who heed the call to makeover the bible for consumer consumption have realized steady sales. while readership is generally nudging lower each year, the number of people professing to read the bible is growing with latest figures noting about 96% of evangelical christians admit to having read the bible in the last seven days. (what's scarier - the fact most people don't read daily newspapers anymore to keep abreast of current events or the fact that they read a book written 2000 years ago at least once a week?)
with a readership this large, capitalism is happily answering the call of christianity by offering a diverse product lineup designed to fit every shape and color. just like the two new pairs of brown boots i scored that fit over my fat calves. hallelujah!
Monday, January 15, 2007
stupid people
after my "writing as therapy routine" in my last post, i forgot to add one additional insight gleaned from my doctor's appointment today.
stupid people really can elevate your blood pressure!
sitting in the waiting room waiting to see the doctor, i sat across from the only two people in the room not hacking and sneezing, a middle-aged couple. while trying to enjoy my house beautiful decorating magazine for a few minutes, i got sidetracked by the assinine conversation taking place across from me from the only non-sickies in the room. figures, at least the sick people are quiet if you discount the coughing.
no, these brainiacs enlightened me with their conversation about "how them doctors really do have a cure for cancer but there's too many people who would lose their jobs otherwise if the cure for cancer was made available -- because we all know there is ONLY one type of cancer out there for researchers to crack the code on -- like the oncology doctors, researchers and most of all, the drug companies. cancer has been around for ever, didn't you know? they should have the answer by now."
arrghhh, are you kidding me? conspiracy theorists listen up, let me introduce you to the inevitable fault most people share -- EGO. trust me, if some researcher caught wind of how to cure THE cancer, that doc's name would be PLASTERED on every surface possible. hell, it may be a requirement that in order to get the cure, you first had to tattoo the doc's name on a body part where THE cancer had taken hold.
then, as if my blood pressure wasn't already beginning to climb, they began their discussion of gardisil, Merck's human pampilloma virus (HPV) vaccine that offers protection against the virus that can later cause cervical cancer.
(before anyone thinks these people really are bright and educated, their conversations stemmed from the televisions in the doctor's office that play health-related programming.)
"they just know all those young girls -- and why do they have to be young girls -- will have problems later on trying to have children." again, the evil drug companies are trying to thin the herd by obviously sterilizing the youth of america. c'mon.
if that were true, i'd have a list of people to stick in the arm. while drug companies do have their faults, let's give them some credit as to whether or not they plan for world domination.
so thankfully before the brainiacs got too deep into their discussion of HPV (the guy actually said nothing more than what? during his female companion's rants), the nurse called me back to the office.
"let's take your blood pressure today." (yes, this is the same witch who made me get on the scale a week ago. and yes, she made me do it again today.) "wow", she remarked,"your blood pressure is high today, it's 136 over some number i never remember."
"it's probably because the people out there were killing me with their stupidity," i said. "can we check it again after a few minutes? i need to cool down from biting my tongue for so long. it's very traumatizing for me to keep quiet."
the nurse looked at me and nodded, "yes, it's probably best if you don't cause a riot in the waiting room." this kind of disturbed me thinking back because i'm not sure if she was kidding or if she really thought i could have browbeat that couple into submission.
after drawing my blood, she retook my blood pressure: 118 over that number that i never remember but is good.
"see," i told her, "stupid people are dangerous to your health."
stupid people really can elevate your blood pressure!
sitting in the waiting room waiting to see the doctor, i sat across from the only two people in the room not hacking and sneezing, a middle-aged couple. while trying to enjoy my house beautiful decorating magazine for a few minutes, i got sidetracked by the assinine conversation taking place across from me from the only non-sickies in the room. figures, at least the sick people are quiet if you discount the coughing.
no, these brainiacs enlightened me with their conversation about "how them doctors really do have a cure for cancer but there's too many people who would lose their jobs otherwise if the cure for cancer was made available -- because we all know there is ONLY one type of cancer out there for researchers to crack the code on -- like the oncology doctors, researchers and most of all, the drug companies. cancer has been around for ever, didn't you know? they should have the answer by now."
arrghhh, are you kidding me? conspiracy theorists listen up, let me introduce you to the inevitable fault most people share -- EGO. trust me, if some researcher caught wind of how to cure THE cancer, that doc's name would be PLASTERED on every surface possible. hell, it may be a requirement that in order to get the cure, you first had to tattoo the doc's name on a body part where THE cancer had taken hold.
then, as if my blood pressure wasn't already beginning to climb, they began their discussion of gardisil, Merck's human pampilloma virus (HPV) vaccine that offers protection against the virus that can later cause cervical cancer.
(before anyone thinks these people really are bright and educated, their conversations stemmed from the televisions in the doctor's office that play health-related programming.)
"they just know all those young girls -- and why do they have to be young girls -- will have problems later on trying to have children." again, the evil drug companies are trying to thin the herd by obviously sterilizing the youth of america. c'mon.
if that were true, i'd have a list of people to stick in the arm. while drug companies do have their faults, let's give them some credit as to whether or not they plan for world domination.
so thankfully before the brainiacs got too deep into their discussion of HPV (the guy actually said nothing more than what? during his female companion's rants), the nurse called me back to the office.
"let's take your blood pressure today." (yes, this is the same witch who made me get on the scale a week ago. and yes, she made me do it again today.) "wow", she remarked,"your blood pressure is high today, it's 136 over some number i never remember."
"it's probably because the people out there were killing me with their stupidity," i said. "can we check it again after a few minutes? i need to cool down from biting my tongue for so long. it's very traumatizing for me to keep quiet."
the nurse looked at me and nodded, "yes, it's probably best if you don't cause a riot in the waiting room." this kind of disturbed me thinking back because i'm not sure if she was kidding or if she really thought i could have browbeat that couple into submission.
after drawing my blood, she retook my blood pressure: 118 over that number that i never remember but is good.
"see," i told her, "stupid people are dangerous to your health."
Friday, December 29, 2006
hang the gnomie
sometimes i think i give the impression that i teeter on the edge of being a half-crazed, angry lunatic bitch in my posts. this is only half-true. i can manage to get my shit together some of the time. but to truly understand how i came to be this angry, you gotta understand the genetics and nurturing behind what has created me -- you need to meet my family.
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
there's no better time to realize how they fcuked you up than during the holidays.
this year, the running family joke includes theft, a pimp, gnomes, threats of bodily harm, and a che guevera-like call for revolution. no, i'm not making this shit up, unfortunately. we're talkin' about pimpy, the stolen lawn gnome.
pimpy lived a happy life on someone's lawn until a few summers ago when my cousin decided he would like living with her at her house better. yup, she stole him. (as teenagers on a dare are wont to do.) pimpy didn't complain and grew to like his new digs. he even looked forward to heading off to live with my cousin in her new college dorm room when the time came.
my uncle, on the other hand, had a different idea. he decided the pimpy would stay home with him and live out his days in the garden with the other garden gnomes my uncle started collecting on his own that no one seemed to notice. it was like he was building a little army of them out back. in some weird instance of foreshadowing, i now think that's exactly what he was doing.
a great battle did indeed take place when pimpy tried to leave for college. my cousin painted his fingernails, and then, pimpy himself pink in efforts to dissuade her father from dissimilating him with the other gnomes. pimpy stood in the bedroom window staring out from his prison, watching the other gnomes at play in the garden, now painted pink and long forgotten how a gnomie should live his life.
knowing that all of this strife was happening in my family as members took sides in whether or not pimpy should go away to college, what do i do?
that's right. i buy my uncle, the rabble-rousin', free pimpy-yelling bastard that he is ... a garden gnome, holding a cigar. my uncle's two greatest loves (besides my cousins) - cigars and now, garden gnomes combined in one present. this was a gift would surely top the 42" plasma tv santa brought him. fashizzle.
true, he did love his new gnome, this one named "ga-no-mee", very much. he carried him around like a baby for a while. eventually, though he put him outside to experience christmas with the other gnomes, around the miniature christmas tree, tastefully decorated with garland and bows that stood atop the patio furniture in the back yard. ringed with icicle lights and red fuzzy stockings that read freedom, pimpy lives and other inspiring messages of the season, the true christmas wonder lay in the fact that 20 garden gnomes were arranged looking at the tree. (again, i swear i'm not making this shit up. how could i?)
it was sad thing we did next. my uncle pissed us off at some point on christmas day. it may have been when he threw a roll of toilet paper into the gift bag holding my grandmother's christmas gift from my brother and myself.
or it could have been when he tried to fcuk up our secret pollyanna* we hold each year.
it could have been the combination of the two. but there were evil giggles from what happened next. we decided ganomee would suffer for my uncle's sins against us.
each of us played a role in it: one person swiped ganomee from the outside christmas gnome display, one person swiped the christmas lassos my aunt had hanging in the living room, while yet another person grabbed a camera. (the guilty shall all remain nameless.) we looped the lasso over poor ganomee's feet, pulling it tightly until he was secure and then secured the other end of the rope around the hitch on my uncle's SAV.
yup, we lynched a garden gnome. i'm sure they've seen stranger things than garden gnomes swinging from the back of a car in pennsyltucky.
the best part was the look of panic on his face - my uncle's, not ganomee, when he realized what happened. (ganomee's made of resin, remember? i'm not going to jail for abuse of plastic lawn ornament.)
he checked bags, he checked boxes of presents and handbags and purses but still couldn't find poor ganomee who lay curbside in the muck, still swinging by his feet from the hitch.
he panicked until he went to pull my mother's car closer to the house so she wouldn't get soaked in the damp, dreary rain that fell christmas day.
there in between the raindrops that glistened in the glow from the highbeams, he saw ganomee, just swinging in the rain.
*secret pollyanna: our secret pollyanna is similar to how other's work a pollyanna except in our case, the name we pick is the person who wraps our present to give to us. he or she wraps the present we buy ourselves. don't laugh, it's great!
Wednesday, November 22, 2006
death of a pocket rocket
as women, there is usually some reluctance to talk openly about all aspects of our lives. nowhere is this more apparent than in our sex lives. i'll tell a perfect stranger on the elevator that my ass looks huge upon catching my reflection but won't share intimate details with the goddess girls.
so when i tell you i just had to throw away my third vibrator, i am not quite sure if i am ahead of the curve or not. just as i am equally sure that it is three more than most women have ever had.
i don't think i am some sort of amazon-sex goddess who rides her vibrators until the motor wears out, or whose vagina dentata tears the shit out of the plastic sheathing but i guess if you look at my track record it seems that way. and it's not like i am buying cracker jack versions to begin with that come with an expiration date like, good for 100 uses before self-destructing.
this one in particular has me very sad to see it disintegrate. the other ones were okay, but this is the first one whose heart -- the motor -- gave out. i tried rescuscitating it, replacing its batteries but nothing stopped its slow fade into the deep beyond. maybe the fact it glowed bright pink was too much for it. like a homing device, you were always sure where it rolled to on the bed in the dark.
another ex-vibrator bit the dust after putting holes in the molded plastic sheathing that would frighten me if i came across a real penis that veiny. what would start out as a little tiny hole in the plastic would soon enlarge and begin to take in all sorts of goo it wasn't meant to -- soap from cleaning it, lube, my goo. one day as i cleaned it, i noticed i could squirt out the trapped contents that now formed a bubble under its surface. i realized as that steady stream of possibly bateria-laden fluid released into the sink, i had lost another friend.
i caste out my first vibrator in favor of the holy one. why, oh why, did i get rid of you? it was a starter vibrator, like your first car, it may not have been pretty or had all the upgrades, but it managed to get you to your destination each time. steady and reliably, but not at all flashy or anything to write home about. damn! now i have none.
now, my nightstand sits empty. mam was surprised when i said "pinky" (okay if men nickname their penises, i can damn well nickname my vibrator) had gone to the great big sex shop in the sky.
"why would you do that," he said as if there was a slim chance he could run out to the garbage to retrieve it. "did you hear the sounds it was making the last time we used it?" i shot back. "i get a little worried putting anything near my vajayjay that sounds like a broken weed wacker." you could use all the plastic silicone in pamela anderson's breasts to protect me from that broken weed wacker and i'd still be afraid.
how depressing! everyone in my family is buzzing about gathering christmas lists of wants this year and all i want for christmas is a new vibrator that i can't ask santa for it.
oh well, it's not like i was a good girl this year anyway.
Monday, October 02, 2006
beauty in the breakdown
i knew it, i knew it, i knew it!
even though i knew before the end of the show we would get to see mcsteamy again, he still took my breath away when he stepped out from the bathroom with a very well-placed towel.
yum! once again, addison sheppard montgomery is a very lucky girl even as she has a drunken meltdown over the end of her marriage. she's almost as lucky as meredith who is once again doing the elevator thing with mcdreamy, but now she has mcvet throwing his hand in the ring for her affection.
so we now we see what happens when you are all dark and twisty -- you get the hottest mchunks out there, looking at you lustily while you get to leave your panties behind for someone's ex-wife to find.
i wanna be dark and twisty, too! even though my husband suggests i already am plenty dark and twisty, i am obviously not seeing any of the fringe benefits. for one, i now have a viewing partner since they moved the show slot to thursday. and one who will most certainly will lose his voicebox if he continues to offer commentary or suggest plausibility of a particular scene.
when grey was on sundays, it was just me and my bitches (sadie and chloe) who laughed, cried and screamed with the tv. now, my dic-husband (he's sooo not a "mc") watches with me and claims to understand what's going on but really with his questions, he's just jammering away at my last frayed nerves, edging dangerously close to losing that voicebox.
and poor izzie! looking frumpled and deflated, i love that katharine heigl is woman enough, no -- goddess enough -- to have her character go without makeup, looking like most women would, when her heart has been ripped out and put through a shredder. if i could have crawled into my tv to lay next to her on the bathroom floor to comfort her, i would have.
so there's definitely beauty in the breakdown, especially if mcsteamy comes to comfort you. and if not, then, maybe mcvet will bring you a sandwich.
photo credit: Vivian Zink/ABC file
even though i knew before the end of the show we would get to see mcsteamy again, he still took my breath away when he stepped out from the bathroom with a very well-placed towel.
yum! once again, addison sheppard montgomery is a very lucky girl even as she has a drunken meltdown over the end of her marriage. she's almost as lucky as meredith who is once again doing the elevator thing with mcdreamy, but now she has mcvet throwing his hand in the ring for her affection.
so we now we see what happens when you are all dark and twisty -- you get the hottest mchunks out there, looking at you lustily while you get to leave your panties behind for someone's ex-wife to find.
i wanna be dark and twisty, too! even though my husband suggests i already am plenty dark and twisty, i am obviously not seeing any of the fringe benefits. for one, i now have a viewing partner since they moved the show slot to thursday. and one who will most certainly will lose his voicebox if he continues to offer commentary or suggest plausibility of a particular scene.
when grey was on sundays, it was just me and my bitches (sadie and chloe) who laughed, cried and screamed with the tv. now, my dic-husband (he's sooo not a "mc") watches with me and claims to understand what's going on but really with his questions, he's just jammering away at my last frayed nerves, edging dangerously close to losing that voicebox.
and poor izzie! looking frumpled and deflated, i love that katharine heigl is woman enough, no -- goddess enough -- to have her character go without makeup, looking like most women would, when her heart has been ripped out and put through a shredder. if i could have crawled into my tv to lay next to her on the bathroom floor to comfort her, i would have.
so there's definitely beauty in the breakdown, especially if mcsteamy comes to comfort you. and if not, then, maybe mcvet will bring you a sandwich.
Friday, March 17, 2006
finally! porn for real women
wow! and just when we thought sunday nights with mcdreamy were really nice along comes this tasty morsel...
my bestest boyfriend flug sent me this link, i am in love. finally, a little something to make a real woman sweat. sorry, fellas, but this is what women really want. a guy built like matt damon on steriods and who cleans. purrrr, baby.
the cleaning hunk.
classic!
my bestest boyfriend flug sent me this link, i am in love. finally, a little something to make a real woman sweat. sorry, fellas, but this is what women really want. a guy built like matt damon on steriods and who cleans. purrrr, baby.
the cleaning hunk.
classic!
Sunday, February 26, 2006
x-rated living in a pg world
yesterday i attended a friend's bachelorette party.
in a skating rink. at 11:30 in the morning.
yup, i bitched mightily to other invitees. we were told a private room was rented at the facility for us. we knew the bride -- a teetotaller and activity junkie-- would never go to a club or a bar to celebrate. it was much easier to get her to think she was taking her soon-to-be nieces rollerskating for our ruse to be successful.
the bride is, by definition, the most free-spirited person i have ever met. maybe the roller skating idea wouldn't be that bad. because the bride is getting married on top of a mountain during a ski trip next week, a non-traditional bachelorette party for a non-traditional girl (oh, she is wearing a white ski jacket and pants for the occasion) would be just perfect. heck, the invite even said "gag gifts are welcome."
so friday night after work and dinner with the in-laws, i needed a drink. instead i went shopping for porn. normally i am okay with buying sex toys and the like but walking into adult world at 11:00pm at night that made me skittish.
the 11:00 o'clock hour in an all-night porn shop has got to be the loneliest hour. sure the parking lot was packed, but freakishly, there were no people inside the store. i was able to load up my basket with prerequisite penis sippy cup, flavored condoms and lube, vibrators, handcuffs and whips, (c'mon like you don't have one?) without prying eyes watching.
walking back to the car, my husband goes, "christ, how much stuff did you buy in there? i thought you got lost, you've been gone more than a half-hour."
"lost? is there some sort of blackhole in that place where people got stuck and can't get out?" i answered. it would make sense considering the empty store and packed parking lot. it should also be noted my husband stayed in the car during my shopping exploit.
i worked in a retail framing shop to put myself through school; i know there is no species on the planet as critical or judgemental as bored retail counter-dwellers. forget the supreme court justices -- put 7 retail counter-dwellers on the stand and see how quickly justice is served:
"i can't believe you are wearing those shoes with that outfit! you are sooo guilty."
"so you said you were where on the night of the crime? hmmm, yeah, there's no way that jacket could have been worn on that night. it was hot that evening and since i see no evidence of sweat stains or deoderant tracks on the evidence, i don't think you were really there. sorry, (in a sing-song voice) guilty!"
"uhm, can i help you with something? yeah, we don't decide those things, you'll need to check with the lower courts. case dismissed."
anyway, before the new court justices take over, i am not bringing anyone shopping with me for sex toys. counter-dwellers in such an establishment can probably say they have seen it all. what they don't admit is how they cackle after the customer leaves. i'd rather be seen as a desperate, sex-starved woman that have them start combining images of me and my shopping partner, whether or not it would be hot.
the next morning before the skating party, i artfully arrange the sex toys and paraphenalia in a basket as any martha wannabe would. after running out of ribbon to do a nice big bow on the gift basket, i decided deb and i would stop on the way there to pick some up.
one look at the basket, deb looks at me and says as we get into my car, "you're kidding, right? you're not going to wrap that thing?"
"what? i told you we needed to stop for ribbon on the way."
"no," she continues, "you can't walk into the skating rink with all THAT (shaking her wrist in the air) out in the open."
"why not? it wasn't my silly idea to have it at a skating rink at 11:30 in the morning."
after more browbeating than i'd like to admit, we stopped at a grocery store to grab a gift bag to conceal my loaded weapons. deb rewrapped my tower of condoms and lube in the gift bag as i continued driving.
arriving a few minutes behind schedule, we hoped we wouldn't run into the bride on our way in. walking quickly through the front door, i was suddenly glad i had deb to be my voice of reason. one big whiff of stale, sweaty, kid-stink was enough to remind me that, yes, we were entering into their territory and not vice versa.
small ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones. kids were freakin' everywhere. deb is pushing me from behind, guiding me to the what appeared to be a doorway with tables set-up. aaaahhh! our private party room. sacred adult woman space.
'except the private party room had 5 other parties also booked for that day. birthday parties for hunter, timmy, susie, ashley and some other tweak turning 8 that day.
i was gonna need a flask. as the adult women huddled in the center of the room, we were very unsure of ourselves. (of course our table couldn't be hidden in a corner somewhere for the perverts to pull out sex toys and talk smack.) only the insane party organizer saw nothing wrong with this. we felt dirty. we wanted to drink.
we contemplated who among us would leave to pick up a bottle to put in a gift bag to sneak in for us. hell, we all walked through the front doors carrying enough battery-powered toys to power the lights and sound in this joint in a gift bag.
hell, some of what we carried in could even be used as light wands in a pinch.
i'd like to say we had a good time, eating cake, skating in circles and giggling again. the bride arrived stunned and speechless over what we were able to pull off for her. she opened presents *carefully* as the gifter would announce whether she could take it out for all to see or if the bag or box got passed around for private viewing.
for the bachelorette party's most unlikely location, the party organizer did manage to replicate one portion of the evening all of us girls had hoped we would avoid by going skating -- the "groping factor."
unsteady little kids in skates see nothing wrong with grabbing whatever body part is closest in order to steady themselves and keep from falling. our asses got grabbed as much as if we were at a club on delaware avenue.
somethings are simply unavoidable.
in a skating rink. at 11:30 in the morning.
yup, i bitched mightily to other invitees. we were told a private room was rented at the facility for us. we knew the bride -- a teetotaller and activity junkie-- would never go to a club or a bar to celebrate. it was much easier to get her to think she was taking her soon-to-be nieces rollerskating for our ruse to be successful.
the bride is, by definition, the most free-spirited person i have ever met. maybe the roller skating idea wouldn't be that bad. because the bride is getting married on top of a mountain during a ski trip next week, a non-traditional bachelorette party for a non-traditional girl (oh, she is wearing a white ski jacket and pants for the occasion) would be just perfect. heck, the invite even said "gag gifts are welcome."
so friday night after work and dinner with the in-laws, i needed a drink. instead i went shopping for porn. normally i am okay with buying sex toys and the like but walking into adult world at 11:00pm at night that made me skittish.
the 11:00 o'clock hour in an all-night porn shop has got to be the loneliest hour. sure the parking lot was packed, but freakishly, there were no people inside the store. i was able to load up my basket with prerequisite penis sippy cup, flavored condoms and lube, vibrators, handcuffs and whips, (c'mon like you don't have one?) without prying eyes watching.
walking back to the car, my husband goes, "christ, how much stuff did you buy in there? i thought you got lost, you've been gone more than a half-hour."
"lost? is there some sort of blackhole in that place where people got stuck and can't get out?" i answered. it would make sense considering the empty store and packed parking lot. it should also be noted my husband stayed in the car during my shopping exploit.
i worked in a retail framing shop to put myself through school; i know there is no species on the planet as critical or judgemental as bored retail counter-dwellers. forget the supreme court justices -- put 7 retail counter-dwellers on the stand and see how quickly justice is served:
"i can't believe you are wearing those shoes with that outfit! you are sooo guilty."
"so you said you were where on the night of the crime? hmmm, yeah, there's no way that jacket could have been worn on that night. it was hot that evening and since i see no evidence of sweat stains or deoderant tracks on the evidence, i don't think you were really there. sorry, (in a sing-song voice) guilty!"
"uhm, can i help you with something? yeah, we don't decide those things, you'll need to check with the lower courts. case dismissed."
anyway, before the new court justices take over, i am not bringing anyone shopping with me for sex toys. counter-dwellers in such an establishment can probably say they have seen it all. what they don't admit is how they cackle after the customer leaves. i'd rather be seen as a desperate, sex-starved woman that have them start combining images of me and my shopping partner, whether or not it would be hot.
the next morning before the skating party, i artfully arrange the sex toys and paraphenalia in a basket as any martha wannabe would. after running out of ribbon to do a nice big bow on the gift basket, i decided deb and i would stop on the way there to pick some up.
one look at the basket, deb looks at me and says as we get into my car, "you're kidding, right? you're not going to wrap that thing?"
"what? i told you we needed to stop for ribbon on the way."
"no," she continues, "you can't walk into the skating rink with all THAT (shaking her wrist in the air) out in the open."
"why not? it wasn't my silly idea to have it at a skating rink at 11:30 in the morning."
after more browbeating than i'd like to admit, we stopped at a grocery store to grab a gift bag to conceal my loaded weapons. deb rewrapped my tower of condoms and lube in the gift bag as i continued driving.
arriving a few minutes behind schedule, we hoped we wouldn't run into the bride on our way in. walking quickly through the front door, i was suddenly glad i had deb to be my voice of reason. one big whiff of stale, sweaty, kid-stink was enough to remind me that, yes, we were entering into their territory and not vice versa.
small ones, tall ones, skinny ones, fat ones. kids were freakin' everywhere. deb is pushing me from behind, guiding me to the what appeared to be a doorway with tables set-up. aaaahhh! our private party room. sacred adult woman space.
'except the private party room had 5 other parties also booked for that day. birthday parties for hunter, timmy, susie, ashley and some other tweak turning 8 that day.
i was gonna need a flask. as the adult women huddled in the center of the room, we were very unsure of ourselves. (of course our table couldn't be hidden in a corner somewhere for the perverts to pull out sex toys and talk smack.) only the insane party organizer saw nothing wrong with this. we felt dirty. we wanted to drink.
we contemplated who among us would leave to pick up a bottle to put in a gift bag to sneak in for us. hell, we all walked through the front doors carrying enough battery-powered toys to power the lights and sound in this joint in a gift bag.
hell, some of what we carried in could even be used as light wands in a pinch.
i'd like to say we had a good time, eating cake, skating in circles and giggling again. the bride arrived stunned and speechless over what we were able to pull off for her. she opened presents *carefully* as the gifter would announce whether she could take it out for all to see or if the bag or box got passed around for private viewing.
for the bachelorette party's most unlikely location, the party organizer did manage to replicate one portion of the evening all of us girls had hoped we would avoid by going skating -- the "groping factor."
unsteady little kids in skates see nothing wrong with grabbing whatever body part is closest in order to steady themselves and keep from falling. our asses got grabbed as much as if we were at a club on delaware avenue.
somethings are simply unavoidable.
Monday, February 20, 2006
from mcdreamy to mcsteamy...
oh god, i love watching grey's anatomy. it's so good that i forgo watching desperate housewives just so that i get that free one-hour to indulge in mere and the gang at seattle grace. it's like er without the grunginess. and coffee-house cool music. and with hotter people.
which leads me to mcdreamy versus mcsteamy, the newest character added to the cast in last night's episode. yummy! as if i wasn't enjoying the new found hunkiness of "mcdreamy" (who could stand to gain a few pounds), the writers bring in his nemesis, nicknamed by the girls on the show "mcsteamy". argghh. i am having sex on a regular basis and he made me all warm inside. mmmmm.
mcsteamy was brought on to provide some tension (he brought tension alright) as the lover who slept with addison, mcdreamy's wife, which led mcdreamy to bolt for seattle and hook up with poor-underfed intern meredith. (if only they would eat, they would be the perfect couple!)
"so we're the dirty mistresses," mere says to mcsteamy after he tells her he has heard of her as the lusty intern back in ny. now before you think bodice-ripping soft-core porn, grey's anatomy is chock-full of one-liners and omg-did-she-just-say-that moments. medical drama is thrown in simply to justify all the brainiacs being overstressed, thus requiring a prescribed treatment of sex which leads to overdose and being oversexed.
let me now say, not that i mind one bit. not one single solitary "mc" moment. uh-uh. i thought i was melting when they had a close-up of mcsteamy and mcdreamy in one camera pan. mmmm, makes me want to visit the golden arches.
from mcdreamy to mcsteamy, thank goddess for sweeps month!
which leads me to mcdreamy versus mcsteamy, the newest character added to the cast in last night's episode. yummy! as if i wasn't enjoying the new found hunkiness of "mcdreamy" (who could stand to gain a few pounds), the writers bring in his nemesis, nicknamed by the girls on the show "mcsteamy". argghh. i am having sex on a regular basis and he made me all warm inside. mmmmm.
mcsteamy was brought on to provide some tension (he brought tension alright) as the lover who slept with addison, mcdreamy's wife, which led mcdreamy to bolt for seattle and hook up with poor-underfed intern meredith. (if only they would eat, they would be the perfect couple!)
"so we're the dirty mistresses," mere says to mcsteamy after he tells her he has heard of her as the lusty intern back in ny. now before you think bodice-ripping soft-core porn, grey's anatomy is chock-full of one-liners and omg-did-she-just-say-that moments. medical drama is thrown in simply to justify all the brainiacs being overstressed, thus requiring a prescribed treatment of sex which leads to overdose and being oversexed.
let me now say, not that i mind one bit. not one single solitary "mc" moment. uh-uh. i thought i was melting when they had a close-up of mcsteamy and mcdreamy in one camera pan. mmmm, makes me want to visit the golden arches.
from mcdreamy to mcsteamy, thank goddess for sweeps month!
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