with all apologies to billy idol, it really was a white-trash wedding.
how do i know it was a white-trash wedding? for starters, the happy couple included their love child in ceremony as the older child from a first marriage go-round pushed the love child down the aisle in his stroller.
the junior bridesmaid, who couldn't be more than 10 years old, had bleached blonde hair and thick 1-inch roots. my amazement subsided after another guest pointed out who the poor child's mother was ... the maid-of-honor with the tattoos who prefers an all-over, bottle blond two shades lighter than what she used on her daughter.
the best man needed to be reminded to put his tux jacket on repeatedly through out the day. ditto for the rental shoes of another usher.
the wine was served from a carafe and not a bottle, a sure sign that it originated from a box. and judging from the taste, a very likely conclusion. but since my taste in beer runs a bit deeper than bottled miller lite, i decided to stick to the wine-in-a-box instead.
(yes, i wholeheartedly admit to being a beer-snob. i just believe that as soon as a person can afford a better beer than "beast ice" or pabst blue ribbon that you should refrain from drinking them. ordering one after a certain age doesn't imply "young, broke and cool", it only screams "aging-wannabe-hipster".)
hmmm, what else?
oh, yes! the cake. the cake had more plastic than actual food in its presentation. i'm still not sure what those black dots were supposed to be on the many plastic pillars that separated the thin layers of cake. honestly, i don't think i want to know, either.
but those dots may have been the only black things at this wedding. we had the worst dj. this dj was so bad, even the bridal party wasn't out there dancing. as any bridesmaid knows, it is an unspoken part of the assignment is to get out there on the dance floor. your presence out there encourages other guests to shake their booty. but not at this party. those girls weren't having it as they sucked down their miller lite in a bottle.
but who could blame them? when the dj's music selections are country, country and more fcuking country, it's hard to get your groove thing on. seated at my table for the entire night, i did meet a new bitching partner, who at one point exclaimed, "i have fiddy-cent on my ipod in the car, please let me get it for the dj!" alas, there was to be no black music at this shin-dig. no rump-shakin', either.
only boot-skootin' boogie and the old macarena. for crissakes, who still plays the old macarena? dear goddess, make it stop.
sorry, it gets worse. did i forget to mention i was seated next to my nemesis, my mother-in-law for most of the night? who didn't say one friggin' word to me? my sister-in-law happens to be on her current shit-list and she gets more interaction than i did, but then again, the conversations between them were directed towards my one-month-old niece.
the only time she stopped sitting next to me sullenly was to play chaperone to my niece as she was handed off from one-baby-hungry woman to the next. literally, the sight of my niece created a frenzy among the women of childbearing years. you could expect less activity after dropping chum in shark-filled waters.
let's summarize: no dancing, no good music, no good alcohol and high-levels of estrogen circling the room. what a waste of a great dress! i wore a fantastic chocolate brown silk halter dress and feeling very marilyn-monroe-ish in it with my plumped out curves. but the piece de resistance? brand new, steve madden FMS (fcuk-me-shoes) in matching brown silk with a very high heel.
well, at least the shoes didn't go to waste.
Sunday, September 24, 2006
Saturday, September 23, 2006
this much i know is true
this much i know is true -- i will never win the daughter-in-law of the year award.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
in all reality, i just pray we don't wind up in a pay-per-view cage-match wrestling over the "bitch of the year" award that my husband swears we will wind up doing one day.
my mother-in-law and i exist on different planets orbiting in different solar systems. at times, in dealing with her i wonder if i smack myself on the head hard enough with a heavy object, i may kill enough brain cells to understand what she is thinking.
i can't even say there's a catalyst that ignites my vehement towards her. it's like a little earthquake that rumbles when i think, speak or see her.
what frustrates me to no end is her laissez-faire attitude towards every aspect of her life -- from caring for her basic needs to planning the rest of her days. it's more so than simply putting your head in the sand.
she sticks her head in the sand so deeply it comes a china man's ass.
to this day and as she no doubt has these same plans to live out the rest of her life, she expects people to take care of her. to drive her to go grocery shopping or to the bank or to the doctor. to remind her to make the doctor's appointment for her. to take care of her house and its maintence like unpaid serfs on her dirt-filled suburban hamlet becuase she doesn't see the hazards in the layers of dirt or newspaper-filled maze she created in her home. to be available to her beck-and-call. to basically, have every thought for her. it's like having paris hilton as your mother-in-law but poor and dowdy paris hilton. and lemme tell you, that's so not hot.
to a girl who prides her self in being completely self-sufficient of any man and loves her independence, this smells like a set-up on a tv sitcom.
[voiceover]: on today's "we're a family" show, we'll watch as two completely different human beings attempt to make nice and "become a family." viewers please take note -- we offer our sincerest apologies to anyone affected by last week's episode when we attempted to "make a family" with the zebra and the lion.
the main lessons i've learned to apply to my life are simply these three:
1) learn to take care of yourself,
2) trust the gnawing feelin' in your belly to be right most of the time,
3) every woman is one man away from welfare if she lets herself be.
in my dealings with her, i alternate between wanting to shake some sense into her and really, really pitying her wasted life.
this much i know is true, it's time for her to take off the rose-colored glasses and live her own life.
Wednesday, September 20, 2006
digesting the skinny person within
there is no greater foe to a chubby chick than a mutherfcuking camera.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
you wanna hear some wicked screams? try this horror movie plot on for size -- how about "cameras pointed at a fat chick" rather than "snakes on a plane". let's see if samuel l. jackson is man enough for that flick.
the damn camera tells all by showing all. for all posterity (or until we can destroy any negatives). as in the jiggly, wobbly, and swollen parts we'd like to ignore - okay - deny were really what our bodies have become.
ugh. no matter how rockin' or how much like a hottie we felt that day, boom! the camera slaps our fat ass to remind us that we are NOT the skinny person we still try to imagine ourselves to be.
the mirror, see, is our friend. the camera is not. now you can debate the effects of reality and what prolonged use of narcotics may do to perception, but the face looking back at you in the mirror is not the swollen chipmunk who peers back at you from the photograph.
the mirror is obviously smarter because we'd smash it to bits with our chubby little hands if it showed otherwise.
back to the skinny person trapped inside...
perhaps the worst part of being a chubby chick is if you actually had a chance to not be one for a while. once you enter the land of the skinny-rati, it's a looong, sad, chub-rub-inducing walk back to fatsville.
you have tasted the non-caloric life of a skinny-rati! you know just how great the "you look awesome" comments feel. you can buy jeans in single digit sizes! you feel the slight burn of shame when you look at those photos of you taken back in fatsville.
"never again," you vow. and you mean it. momentarily.
until the next stress-filled life event occurs. until the taste of carrot sticks and celery make you want to cry. until you forget every thing you attempted to "unlearn" in your last weight-loss strategy. when to eat. what to eat. what mentally fcuked up thoughts we have to stave off hunger (my personal fave is when you actually feel hunger pains and you tell yourself not to eat. that's right, because the rumbles are the sounds of fat cells armies dying en masse. twisted, huh?)
all this insanity to release the trapped, skinny white bitch lurking inside me.
damn that camera. damn that camera for reminding me what the skinny person inside looks like wearing a fat suit with swollen chipmunk cheeks and jiggly, old-lady arms.
Tuesday, September 19, 2006
weathervein
you can never really imagine how much time you actually spend sitting on your ass until you need to be aware of such things.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours.
that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
mi-clot-ski, as my co-workers lovingly call me, needs to get up and walk around every 2 hours. that means, no more sitting for a whole afternoon while in the zone, plugging away at work-stuff. no more long car trips which really sucks because i live in the 'burbs where places of interest are at least an hour away. rest stops will need to be more frequent and i guess i will actually allow myself to drink water while on a car trip. (my camel-like tendencies are needed to counterbalance what has to be the world's smallest bladder.)
but even all of this can be accepted easier than my vascular systems latest trick -- i am the human weathervane.
this newest thing to plague my body is a direct result of the blood clot i suffered through this summer. the veins in my legs -- both the healthy one and the bad one now have this roaring, flushed feeling whenever a change in the atmospheric pressure indicates a storm is approaching.
to describe the feeling, i need to take you out back -- not to outback, as in the steakhouse, that would be against my vegetarians beliefs -- but out back to the yard, where the garden hose is kept. when the water is running through the hose, if you squeeze the hose, you feel the water pressure change inside. going back to basic science class, if you increase the pressure on the outside of the hose, the pressure inside the increases as well causing the water to move quicker and more forcefully.
this is what is happening inside my legs. those little purple spider veins look darker and more pronounced. the larger blue ones, which i swear are the beginnings of varicose veins, come to the skin's surface to wave hi. say hello. be neighborly.
it is the throbbing that accompanies all of these physical changes that pains me. i knew i would never win a beauty pageant based on my thunder thighs and big, manly calves.
it starts slowly enough with a itchiness, like the feeling of you get when you use bar soap that dries out your skin. only this itchiness is internal and no matter how much rubbing or touching of your legs can you satisfy that urge.
as the itchiness subsides, the twinges begin. little bursts of "why hello there, legs. i had forgotten all about you, hadn't i?" remind me to pack an umbrella. once we enter this stage of the hose being stepped on randomly without warning, with proper care the twinges can be managed. frequent walks to nowhere, propping of the legs, increased water consumption can help ease their transition. why water? not sure exactly, but it keeps me getting up to go to the 'loo.
but what if you can't prop your legs up somewhere? say you're in a meeting? or driving? what happens next you ask?
you bend over and take it deep. for the team, of course.
if you can't remedy the twinges, you get the full-on, run-a-marathon-without-training, deep aches. at this point, you would prefer to actually have run the miles so you at least you could say you had gotten some exercise.
the only thing you can do in this phase is move to the nearest sofa, sprawl out and self-medicate with a glass of wine. or two. and wait for the storm to pass.
Tuesday, September 12, 2006
insta-friends
one of the best female bonding experiences can often be expressed in one word - bridesmaid.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
from the moment you are asked to be one until the moment you do the asking, this rite of passage for women only seeks to deepen our common bond.
if the wedding happens to be for one of your goddess girls , it is a time for a chance to grow even closer than you thought imaginable.
if you are adding to the list of the bridal party "cool kids" because you are a family or peripheral friend, there is a great opportunity to add more goddess girls to your line-up with insta-friends.
insta-friends are friend-of-friends, who simply because the size of the universe is too great for you to meet them on your own, you gain through the experiences of your other friends. when acquaintences reach the highest level, or a great blind date.
it makes sense, really. if you like your friend so much and share similar qualities, there isn't a big stretch to think she may have more clones of you in her friendship lineups. and pow! when you meet, there it is!
insta-friends.
bread and cheese for the soul
how often does the saying "be careful what you wish for" actually friggin come true?
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
true that one of my life's great pleasures is food -- good food, bad food, salty food, chocolate food, i love it all. the proof is in the size of my ass.
and now that i have a scout's honest need to gorge myself on none other than bread, cheese and foreswear most -- if not all -- things healthy and good for oneself, i feel gross. i am bloated and gas-y from a steady diet of cheese. my skin is breaking out like a love-lorn teenager at prom-season from the lack of vegetables and my energy level is next to nill.
and of course, since my doctor weened me from my blood-clot-forming birth-control pills, i am horny as a cat in heat. you know you want me --looking all luscious as i do right now with multiple chins and pimples. admit it -- i am one hot momma.
smokin.
so please heed my warning. when you wish you could eat your off-limit foods anytime you wish, be careful what you wish for. it may just come true.
and if you happen to find me in the closet hunched over a bag of spinach in a compromising position, please just shut avert your eyes and shut the door.
Monday, September 11, 2006
as visions of patios danced in my head
everyone has those family members that they see maybe once a year and think of even less. sure, admittedly, they can sometimes be the scarier swim club members of your gene pool but deep down, you know they are still family. no matter how much chlorine you try to dump in the pool.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.
as another summer-picnic-season draws to a close, i knew i had still one last picnic to get through on chuckie's side. the chuckinator is the only female descendant who managed to escape the pleasures of alcoholism. so when the offer of spending an otherwise beautiful day with the mountain people arose, i rightfully tried to find an excuse.
i failed miserably in my attempts to lie my way out of going. at least, my otherwise cunning cousins would be there with me to snarl at the mountain people. unlike me, however, my cousins are still being subsidized so the choice to picnic or not to picnic was not entirely their own.
so we travel, the three she-devils of my family and my poor husband who feared an attack by one (or all if the smell of blood taunted the others) at any time made the hourlong journey to the mountain folk.
the running joke in pennsylvania is that therein lies philly and pittsburgh on the edges of the state with pennsyl-tucky or pennsyl-bama in the middle. our journey dear reader, took us not only into pennsyl-tucky, but also northward into god's country. goddess help us.
my uncle's directions told us to turn left when we saw the brown cow with the white tail. we weren't udderly convinced he was joking.
so as we drove these increasingly twisted roads, with more cornfields than cornrows that i ever did see living in the ghetto, we entered into the land of "no trespassing" signs and wondered aloud how serious its poster might be.
"my gawd," one of the she-devils gasped, "he really is trying to lead us into the woods to kill us."
"nahhh, he's not the stupid." chimed the other. "he's got the chuckinator with him. he knows he's safe for now."
upturns, downturns, past clapboard houses and around white steeple towers, the road lead us into the sleepy little 'burg of slatington, population 50 if you count the sisters and wives as two separate people instead of one.
but what before my wondering suburban eyes should appear? mountains of slate, with no home depot check out lines in sight! as my lip quivered in joy, my husband turned to say, "you know that is how stone and slate came to be. they are carted from the wall of slate in your mountain people's backyard and trucked to the salivating stores you suburban wives crave."
needless to say, even the tanned, gold-digger cousin barbie that showed up didn't cause much of a stir. although once or twice her tanned face -- and with any hope, one day leather-like -- turned to face the three she-devils, perhaps the palest people on the planet to exclaim the virtues of the tanning booth or her new beemer. if it hadn't been for the mountain of slate behind her, i can say things probably would have gotten ugly.
Wednesday, August 23, 2006
princess in the time before piglet
once upon a time, in a kingdom nestled deep into suburbia, lived a princess of extraordinary beauty. with doe-like eyes and silky golden hair, the princess was worshipped and adored by all who met her.
only her parents were witness to her some of her more private habits the princess had -- like anxiety attacks and insatiable beaver-like need to consume any rough edges of furniture made of wood.
but the princess inspired the queen to do more for the others in the kingdom. the queen had decided to take the princess with her on visits to meet with prospective puppy parents in the village. to see how worthy they may be of having an adorable princess-like addition to their family.
so the queen and princess,escorted by the king, travelled to a home in a neighboring village. the princess was quite excited by the prospect, as was the king, although he deliberately attempted to tone down his excitement of their journey. the queen, who had been on similar journeys alone was the only one not bouncing with excitement as she knew the severity of this visit.
those villagers who called upon the queen were desperate. they had lost their own princess a few months back to a horrible disease and greatly missed the care and comfort of having a princess in their midst iin which to serve and cater to. their hopes of welcoming such a lass lay in the decision of the queen. and as we all know, the queen makes her decision based on the will of the princess.
so the villagers threw open their doors at once the queen's aging chariot drew near. with much fanfare, the villagers drew down to worship at the princess's feet, as people are wont to do in her presence. the princess smiled upon their welcome reception as the queen silently took note.
the king followed the villagers as they welcomed the princess on a tour of their not-so-humble abode. the queen slowly trapsed behind to look for split fences, gates that don't lock and anything that might not be fitting of a princess's home. but she found nothing that offended her.
inside, the villagers spoke of their love in which they hoped to share with a princess of their own. long walks, luxurious foods, spa-like trips in which to cleanse both body and soul of a princess. these villagers obviously knew the love of another, as the princess shook with joy as the villager seemed to know her favorite spot! (a good scritch behind the ears, if you must know.) my princess did a happy circle through my legs in which to share, unmistakeningly that these villagers had her approval.
after duly noting, the princess's approval, the queen and king found themselves drawn into conversation with the villagers as the test seemingly drew to a close. in those moments, the villagers and the king and queen, were reminded exactly who was in charge.
after sniffing her away around the villagers lovely white-carpetted home, the princess eyed up her spot. behind the coffee table and almost out of sight, the little princess began her dance.
spin once in a wide round circle.
spin twice for good measure, twisting round tighter this time.
spin the golden circle, even tighter this time, as her little white rabbit fluffy butt perches high over her intended target --
and drop two perfect, princess-like turds upon the carpet.
only her parents were witness to her some of her more private habits the princess had -- like anxiety attacks and insatiable beaver-like need to consume any rough edges of furniture made of wood.
but the princess inspired the queen to do more for the others in the kingdom. the queen had decided to take the princess with her on visits to meet with prospective puppy parents in the village. to see how worthy they may be of having an adorable princess-like addition to their family.
so the queen and princess,escorted by the king, travelled to a home in a neighboring village. the princess was quite excited by the prospect, as was the king, although he deliberately attempted to tone down his excitement of their journey. the queen, who had been on similar journeys alone was the only one not bouncing with excitement as she knew the severity of this visit.
those villagers who called upon the queen were desperate. they had lost their own princess a few months back to a horrible disease and greatly missed the care and comfort of having a princess in their midst iin which to serve and cater to. their hopes of welcoming such a lass lay in the decision of the queen. and as we all know, the queen makes her decision based on the will of the princess.
so the villagers threw open their doors at once the queen's aging chariot drew near. with much fanfare, the villagers drew down to worship at the princess's feet, as people are wont to do in her presence. the princess smiled upon their welcome reception as the queen silently took note.
the king followed the villagers as they welcomed the princess on a tour of their not-so-humble abode. the queen slowly trapsed behind to look for split fences, gates that don't lock and anything that might not be fitting of a princess's home. but she found nothing that offended her.
inside, the villagers spoke of their love in which they hoped to share with a princess of their own. long walks, luxurious foods, spa-like trips in which to cleanse both body and soul of a princess. these villagers obviously knew the love of another, as the princess shook with joy as the villager seemed to know her favorite spot! (a good scritch behind the ears, if you must know.) my princess did a happy circle through my legs in which to share, unmistakeningly that these villagers had her approval.
after duly noting, the princess's approval, the queen and king found themselves drawn into conversation with the villagers as the test seemingly drew to a close. in those moments, the villagers and the king and queen, were reminded exactly who was in charge.
after sniffing her away around the villagers lovely white-carpetted home, the princess eyed up her spot. behind the coffee table and almost out of sight, the little princess began her dance.
spin once in a wide round circle.
spin twice for good measure, twisting round tighter this time.
spin the golden circle, even tighter this time, as her little white rabbit fluffy butt perches high over her intended target --
and drop two perfect, princess-like turds upon the carpet.
Monday, August 21, 2006
salty salad tears
crying at weddings is usually reserved for a select few -- the mothers of the bride and groom, bridesmaids, grandmothers, the little old ladies who wander in off the street to see a bit of romantic love in action. these tears are most often to occur during the actual ceremony or during a speech.
who you will usually NOT find crying at a wedding is an usher or other male friends of the groom. and you really wouldn't expect it to happen over the second course at dinner.
but at the most recent wedding i attended and served in, that's exactly what happened. i'm not sure what served as the catalyst as his salad was being served to him. it could have been the red wine, it could have been the song ("over the rainbow" by israel something-hawaiian-that-i-never-remember) or my incessant bleating on about how cool the bride's dad is and how i wished he was my own. it could have been an aggregate of all of these things as much as it could have been nothing at all.
my husband broke down over his salad.
it's been only a few months since his dad had passed away. i thought he was handling the loss fairly well, adjusting to how his life and those of his mother and siblings had changed. he seemed to be "normalizing" from the events of this spring.
he maintained his composure until he could no longer do so. tears welling up so far as to finally allow the dam to break at his best friend's wedding, over salad, in a crowded room full of people. this burst of emotion scared me. i have only witnessed this type of instant-meltdown once before -- when his mother did the same thing to me. from out of the blue, a gut-wrenching sob shakes from them. i do the only thing i know how to do -- get him up and out of there. before his mother who was in attendance catches on as to what is happening... before i have TWO instant-meltdowns happening at once.
into the long hallway that connects the banquet room and the hotel we walked. glass doors along both sides make this a fishbowl of human emotion. a kind waitress walks up behind me and hands off a box of tissues and a bottle of water. a simple gesture.
i should have recognized some of the signs. at the rehearsal dinner when he spoke from the heart about his status as honorary step-child of the groom's family. his many fond memories of growing up together with the groom, of friendship and love.
all of this speaking to those who understand his unspoken language of his fractured relationship with his own father. how much of his formative years were spent under the shadow of his younger brother's accomplishments.
all of which didn't matter now. nothing could underscore how much he missed his father. how in this room, filled with happiness and family and love -- a concept not linked often enough in reality -- he felt his loss most severely.
who you will usually NOT find crying at a wedding is an usher or other male friends of the groom. and you really wouldn't expect it to happen over the second course at dinner.
but at the most recent wedding i attended and served in, that's exactly what happened. i'm not sure what served as the catalyst as his salad was being served to him. it could have been the red wine, it could have been the song ("over the rainbow" by israel something-hawaiian-that-i-never-remember) or my incessant bleating on about how cool the bride's dad is and how i wished he was my own. it could have been an aggregate of all of these things as much as it could have been nothing at all.
my husband broke down over his salad.
it's been only a few months since his dad had passed away. i thought he was handling the loss fairly well, adjusting to how his life and those of his mother and siblings had changed. he seemed to be "normalizing" from the events of this spring.
he maintained his composure until he could no longer do so. tears welling up so far as to finally allow the dam to break at his best friend's wedding, over salad, in a crowded room full of people. this burst of emotion scared me. i have only witnessed this type of instant-meltdown once before -- when his mother did the same thing to me. from out of the blue, a gut-wrenching sob shakes from them. i do the only thing i know how to do -- get him up and out of there. before his mother who was in attendance catches on as to what is happening... before i have TWO instant-meltdowns happening at once.
into the long hallway that connects the banquet room and the hotel we walked. glass doors along both sides make this a fishbowl of human emotion. a kind waitress walks up behind me and hands off a box of tissues and a bottle of water. a simple gesture.
i should have recognized some of the signs. at the rehearsal dinner when he spoke from the heart about his status as honorary step-child of the groom's family. his many fond memories of growing up together with the groom, of friendship and love.
all of this speaking to those who understand his unspoken language of his fractured relationship with his own father. how much of his formative years were spent under the shadow of his younger brother's accomplishments.
all of which didn't matter now. nothing could underscore how much he missed his father. how in this room, filled with happiness and family and love -- a concept not linked often enough in reality -- he felt his loss most severely.
Tuesday, August 08, 2006
call me
when i got married 5 years ago, it was very important to my husband that i take his last name. me, being the feminazi that i am, didn't want to just take his name -- so i decided to hyphenate.
the problem was my maiden name was very ethnic, easy to spell but definitely left no imagination as to my parental ancestry. my husband's name was even more ethnic, a bijillion letters in odd combinations that often leaves strangers garbling over the pronunciation.
so my decision to hyphenate his and my last names, well, it was the united-nations-on-a-business card. the little sign at my office door? barely fit in all the letters. at last count, it had somewhere in the realm of 25 letters to fit. professionally and personally, after about a year and a half, i switched to take only his name. it really meant a lot to him and honestly, as long as people don't call me a nasty cnut, i don't quite care what they call me.
besides, after hearing just about every botched attempt to pronounce my married last name, it's quite fun in a warped twisted way to watch people's panicked expressions as the "omigod, how do i pronounce this without choking?" look appears on his or her face. yes, i let them struggle a bit before rescuing them. any time i need to do a public speaking gig, i just laugh because that moment is coming my way.
my point in all this -- do what you want and if neither last name is normal, change 'em both to smith or something equally boring.
the problem was my maiden name was very ethnic, easy to spell but definitely left no imagination as to my parental ancestry. my husband's name was even more ethnic, a bijillion letters in odd combinations that often leaves strangers garbling over the pronunciation.
so my decision to hyphenate his and my last names, well, it was the united-nations-on-a-business card. the little sign at my office door? barely fit in all the letters. at last count, it had somewhere in the realm of 25 letters to fit. professionally and personally, after about a year and a half, i switched to take only his name. it really meant a lot to him and honestly, as long as people don't call me a nasty cnut, i don't quite care what they call me.
besides, after hearing just about every botched attempt to pronounce my married last name, it's quite fun in a warped twisted way to watch people's panicked expressions as the "omigod, how do i pronounce this without choking?" look appears on his or her face. yes, i let them struggle a bit before rescuing them. any time i need to do a public speaking gig, i just laugh because that moment is coming my way.
my point in all this -- do what you want and if neither last name is normal, change 'em both to smith or something equally boring.
Thursday, August 03, 2006
goodsearch
if you're anything like me, you probably go to google a few, okay, many times through out the day. mainly, it's because you're too lazy to bookmark sites (like me) or you're doing new searches.
now your lazy ass will do something good for a change.
goodsearch.com is a new search engine that will donate $0.01 per search towards the charity you register with. that means any time you want to look for a new and exciting site on the internet, your charity gets cash.
so go to
.com and in the bottom box that asks what you are supporting, type in majesty rottweiler rescue and hit verify. it will then show up in the box as majesty rottweiler rescue (darlington, md). from there, my search engine lovers, each search will donate money to help rotties in need. sadie thanks you for it.
Wednesday, August 02, 2006
5 things
5 things to be thankful for (despite crappy news from the doctor today)....
i am feeling okay today. my leg is definitely much better but the pharmaceutical industry is killing me. the blood thinners i am on aren't stabilized yet, so if i am not swallowing a bunch of pills, then i am injecting the crap into me. my future career as an iv drug user is that much closer now that my fear of needles is gone! and thankfully, all of my bruises are located in only places that only my husband and the plastic surgeon who will one day do my tummy tuck will see.
i work indoors, in a blissful, air-conditioned office 'cause the heat in philly is disgusting. on my walk to the train today, i opened my mouth to say something to the person i was walking with and i swear i swallowed a big rush of foul, humid air when i did. i gotta tell ya, i nearly gagged, it was so gross.
i am thankful i didn't hit send on the email that i was directing to the wrong person. i thought a brother of one of the goddess girls was emailing me in response to a note i had left for him while he's on this super road trip. turns out the email from "jb" was actually from my other friend with the same initials. not that anything bad was being discussed, but "jim" -- who was just saying hello -- would have thought i was completely nuts.
i am thankful for friends who threaten my body with the wrath of O.B.P. if it doesn't quit being a freak and play nicely with the drugs i am ingesting.
i am thankful for a wonderful puppies who decided that mamma needs some extra love and take turns giving me lots of doggy kisses when i got home. of course, it could also be the fact that they were trying to hide the fact that one of them ate another fcuking doggie bed while in the crate today.
in a nice close to this post, i believe that would be the 5th bed they have shredded into cabbage-like consistency.
in a nice close to this post, i believe that would be the 5th bed they have shredded into cabbage-like consistency.
the mysteries of the universe revealed
in my desperate need for a mindfcuk today, i came across this site for myers-briggs assessment. my results...
intj
You are:
introverted +33 moderately expressed introvert
intuitive+12 slightly expressed intuitive personality
thinking +25 moderately expressed thinking personality
judging +78 very expressed judging personality
my rating didn't shock me so much as how dead-on the analysis was of me.
now my struggle to understand how my left-brain and right-brain passions can coexist in one body makes sense. my independent-streak evident as a small child when i would wear a purple corduroy jumper over teal corduroy pants and a turtleneck because - in my mind - they looked good together (and this was BEFORE the 80s adopted my color scheme. my abiility to piss people off because i "push the envelope" too far and ask too many questions. need to know the hows and whys.
once again, anyone who knows when i have my head wrapped around an idea, get the fcuk out of my way. 100% that last paragraph is me. i get myself into trouble because people rely on me to be the problem-solver, organizer and still get things done on deadline. at times i sit there and think, why am i doing this? if i do a good job, they are just going to ask me to do it again -- like a show-pony called in to work a miracle on a project. why do i do it? because dammit, i like to wear my gold-star sticker on my forehead the day i complete the task. for all of my confidence, i need the validation that i am good enough, smart enough and people like me. (thank you stewart smalley)
me and small talk -- not fun. i just don't get the hang of it. before you think i'm stuck under a rock, i can talk to people if i am familiar with them or if it takes place in a small group or one-on-one situation when i can feel out the person. i am worried that i will have a "blond moment" with someone who doesn't know that i am not naturally an idiot. i am worried that my passion for certain topics will offend b/c it's not proper to talk about religion (against) or politics (as liberal as i wanna be). feminism, animal rights, gay rights? nope. nope. and nope.
if i know you and you know me? shit, we can talk for hours. until that point, i am guarded in my emotions and conversation, and unfortunately people pick up on it.
the great empathisizer i AM NOT. my friends, all social animals and into touchy-feely emotions, called me out on not being more sympathetic to their needs. ask more questions about them and their goings on. i guess i was marsha to their jan in a "marsha, marsha, marsha" type of way.
i have a hard time asking questions, not because i am uncaring, but because i am clueless. if you don't share it, i may not pick up on your need for me to probe for your hidden needs (sounds dirty, no?). my supposed intuitiveness i think only works for dangerous people to stay away from -- a well-honed gut instinct. but in matters of good it falls silent.
i also want to things and people to make sense. do what you say you will. don't make excuses. take responsibility for your actions. if i were queen of the universe, these would be my laws. and no matter how much i love you, i am not the person to turn to when you need a should to cry on. tears ick me out. i feel helpless and can't understand why you wouldn't rather cry by yourself somewhere to let out the emotion instead of sharing it with me?
i guess that's when the very expressed judgemental side of me comes out.
intj
You are:
introverted +33 moderately expressed introvert
intuitive+12 slightly expressed intuitive personality
thinking +25 moderately expressed thinking personality
judging +78 very expressed judging personality
my rating didn't shock me so much as how dead-on the analysis was of me.
To outsiders, INTJs may appear to project an aura of "definiteness", of self-confidence. This self-confidence, sometimes mistaken for simple arrogance by the less decisive, is actually of a very specific rather than a general nature; its source lies in the specialized knowledge systems that most INTJs start building at an early age. When it comes to their own areas of expertise -- and INTJs can have several -- they will be able to tell you almost immediately whether or not they can help you, and if so, how. INTJs know what they know, and perhaps still more importantly, they know what they don't know.
INTJs are perfectionists, with a seemingly endless capacity for improving upon anything that takes their interest. What prevents them from becoming chronically bogged down in this pursuit of perfection is the pragmatism so characteristic of the type: INTJs apply (often ruthlessly) the criterion "Does it work?" to everything from their own research efforts to the prevailing social norms. This in turn produces an unusual independence of mind, freeing the INTJ from the constraints of authority, convention, or sentiment for its own sake.
now my struggle to understand how my left-brain and right-brain passions can coexist in one body makes sense. my independent-streak evident as a small child when i would wear a purple corduroy jumper over teal corduroy pants and a turtleneck because - in my mind - they looked good together (and this was BEFORE the 80s adopted my color scheme. my abiility to piss people off because i "push the envelope" too far and ask too many questions. need to know the hows and whys.
INTJs are known as the "Systems Builders" of the types, perhaps in part because they possess the unusual trait combination of imagination and reliability. Whatever system an INTJ happens to be working on is for them the equivalent of a moral cause to an INFJ; both perfectionism and disregard for authority may come into play, as INTJs can be unsparing of both themselves and the others on the project. Anyone considered to be "slacking," including superiors, will lose their respect -- and will generally be made aware of this; INTJs have also been known to take it upon themselves to implement critical decisions without consulting their supervisors or co-workers.
once again, anyone who knows when i have my head wrapped around an idea, get the fcuk out of my way. 100% that last paragraph is me. i get myself into trouble because people rely on me to be the problem-solver, organizer and still get things done on deadline. at times i sit there and think, why am i doing this? if i do a good job, they are just going to ask me to do it again -- like a show-pony called in to work a miracle on a project. why do i do it? because dammit, i like to wear my gold-star sticker on my forehead the day i complete the task. for all of my confidence, i need the validation that i am good enough, smart enough and people like me. (thank you stewart smalley)
Personal relationships, particularly romantic ones, can be the INTJ's Achilles heel. While they are capable of caring deeply for others (usually a select few), and are willing to spend a great deal of time and effort on a relationship, the knowledge and self-confidence that make them so successful in other areas can suddenly abandon or mislead them in interpersonal situations.
This happens in part because many INTJs do not readily grasp the social rituals; for instance, they tend to have little patience and less understanding of such things as small talk and flirtation (which most types consider half the fun of a relationship). To complicate matters, INTJs are usually extremely private people, and can often be naturally impassive as well, which makes them easy to misread and misunderstand. Perhaps the most fundamental problem, however, is that INTJs really want people to make sense. :-) This sometimes results in a peculiar naivete', paralleling that of many Fs -- only instead of expecting inexhaustible affection and empathy from a romantic relationship, the INTJ will expect inexhaustible reasonability and directness.
me and small talk -- not fun. i just don't get the hang of it. before you think i'm stuck under a rock, i can talk to people if i am familiar with them or if it takes place in a small group or one-on-one situation when i can feel out the person. i am worried that i will have a "blond moment" with someone who doesn't know that i am not naturally an idiot. i am worried that my passion for certain topics will offend b/c it's not proper to talk about religion (against) or politics (as liberal as i wanna be). feminism, animal rights, gay rights? nope. nope. and nope.
if i know you and you know me? shit, we can talk for hours. until that point, i am guarded in my emotions and conversation, and unfortunately people pick up on it.
Probably the strongest INTJ assets in the interpersonal area are their intuitive abilities and their willingness to "work at" a relationship. Although as Ts they do not always have the kind of natural empathy that many Fs do, the Intuitive function can often act as a good substitute by synthesizing the probable meanings behind such things as tone of voice, turn of phrase, and facial expression. This ability can then be honed and directed by consistent, repeated efforts to understand and support those they care about, and those relationships which ultimately do become established with an INTJ tend to be characterized by their robustness, stability, and good communications.
the great empathisizer i AM NOT. my friends, all social animals and into touchy-feely emotions, called me out on not being more sympathetic to their needs. ask more questions about them and their goings on. i guess i was marsha to their jan in a "marsha, marsha, marsha" type of way.
i have a hard time asking questions, not because i am uncaring, but because i am clueless. if you don't share it, i may not pick up on your need for me to probe for your hidden needs (sounds dirty, no?). my supposed intuitiveness i think only works for dangerous people to stay away from -- a well-honed gut instinct. but in matters of good it falls silent.
i also want to things and people to make sense. do what you say you will. don't make excuses. take responsibility for your actions. if i were queen of the universe, these would be my laws. and no matter how much i love you, i am not the person to turn to when you need a should to cry on. tears ick me out. i feel helpless and can't understand why you wouldn't rather cry by yourself somewhere to let out the emotion instead of sharing it with me?
i guess that's when the very expressed judgemental side of me comes out.
Thursday, July 27, 2006
pink mist
for any devoted grey's anatomy fans, you'll understand my reference in the subject line. in one amazingly brilliant episode, a patient comes into the hospital bleeding out and most likely to die if not for the actions of a young EMT played by christina ricci who instinctively put her own hand inside his chest to stop the flow of blood rushing from his heart.
her actions are somewhat heroic; the doctors are all amazed at her quick thinking to save the patient's life. that is, until they discover the patient whose heart she is holding is determine to have a live, homemade grenade lodged in his chest cavity. one that could detonate at any moment. with or without provocation.
that's how i feel right now. this blood clot in my leg is that live, homemade grenade wedged inside my calf at this moment, waiting to dislodge and travel to my heart or my lungs, cutting short my so-called life.
when this happens, when they know that it is a grenade that she is touching, her anxiety is palpable, her fear tangible as christina ricci acted her ass off in those scenes. so the moment when she decides she can't handle the pressure any more, good ol' meredith who is always a bit on the risky side, slides her hand in place of the young EMT. stupid move, some say when one false move could blow the building to smithereens. or pink mist, as the hunky bomb squad captain called it, as in the only thing left after detonation if you're the unfortunate one holding the bomb at the time.
the rest of the show is filled with nail-biting moments of anxiety and preparations to prep the hospital for the removal of the device. much like now, when i swallow 4 pills of blood thinner a day, trying to keep my blood thin enough while i wait for my body to dissolve the clot. much like now, there is confusion and uncertainty and moments of sheer anger at the helplessness of the situation.
and there are moments of sheer delirium when faced with challenge that you are able to muddle through, like meredith standing at the hallway watching the hunky bombsquad captain slowly make his way out with the building holding the device, freeing her from servitude to it. i was meredith yesterday after i successfully gave myself an injection, that's my "just in case" medicine.
in case the pills aren't working as they should (which they haven't) to prevent me from becoming my own version of pink mist.
her actions are somewhat heroic; the doctors are all amazed at her quick thinking to save the patient's life. that is, until they discover the patient whose heart she is holding is determine to have a live, homemade grenade lodged in his chest cavity. one that could detonate at any moment. with or without provocation.
that's how i feel right now. this blood clot in my leg is that live, homemade grenade wedged inside my calf at this moment, waiting to dislodge and travel to my heart or my lungs, cutting short my so-called life.
when this happens, when they know that it is a grenade that she is touching, her anxiety is palpable, her fear tangible as christina ricci acted her ass off in those scenes. so the moment when she decides she can't handle the pressure any more, good ol' meredith who is always a bit on the risky side, slides her hand in place of the young EMT. stupid move, some say when one false move could blow the building to smithereens. or pink mist, as the hunky bomb squad captain called it, as in the only thing left after detonation if you're the unfortunate one holding the bomb at the time.
the rest of the show is filled with nail-biting moments of anxiety and preparations to prep the hospital for the removal of the device. much like now, when i swallow 4 pills of blood thinner a day, trying to keep my blood thin enough while i wait for my body to dissolve the clot. much like now, there is confusion and uncertainty and moments of sheer anger at the helplessness of the situation.
and there are moments of sheer delirium when faced with challenge that you are able to muddle through, like meredith standing at the hallway watching the hunky bombsquad captain slowly make his way out with the building holding the device, freeing her from servitude to it. i was meredith yesterday after i successfully gave myself an injection, that's my "just in case" medicine.
in case the pills aren't working as they should (which they haven't) to prevent me from becoming my own version of pink mist.
Wednesday, July 26, 2006
livestrong
it's quite possible that you won't meet someone who hasn't had a friend, family member or associate battle cancer. the lance armstrong foundation is working to inspire and empower cancer victims - no, survivors - by supporting research, education and advocacy.
my good friend dan mccole is taking part in the philadelphia portion of lance armstrong's LIVESTRONG challenge. please support him in his ride and his goal to reach $500 in donations before the race on september 10, 2006.
to donate, click here to reach his personal page on LIVESTRONG.
c'mon, put your lance face on.
my good friend dan mccole is taking part in the philadelphia portion of lance armstrong's LIVESTRONG challenge. please support him in his ride and his goal to reach $500 in donations before the race on september 10, 2006.
to donate, click here to reach his personal page on LIVESTRONG.
c'mon, put your lance face on.
meet virginia
meet virginia. virginia gives me perspective as i lay here in this hospital bed watching the hands on the clock moving at their own lazy pace during my own private pity party.
she doesn't say much. her main communiciation she shares with me is her guppy-like gasps for air. wheezing high-pitched and soft, wimpering sounds of a puppy, blind and searching for its mother's teat follows each gasp.
occasionally, she'll moan when the nurses come to poke and prod her. forgetting that inside the mask-like creature still beats a heart all by itself -- at least for today. a dramatic difference from the rest of the mechanical tools needed to continue her existence. but for now, her heart still fills itself with her warm blood, filling nerve centers still active and alert although her mind no longer is.
the first night, i heard her cry out. i imagine behind the thin curtain that separates our beds that her hands are crossed prayerlike at her chest with her body twisted to the side. i am not sure if it is real or if i am just reliving how i first saw her. before the orderly wheeled my bed next to hers and pulling the curtain shut, as if the busy abstract pastel cotton sheet would separate us before joining us together.
in her sleep, oh how her mind must race. she shouts for "beverly" and cries out as to where she is going, to wait for her. so weak when "awake" yet how vividly her mind recreates memories of people and places. i believe that before we die, our friends and family come to ease our journey into the next life or whatever comes next. they join us on our deathbed and make the transition less frightening because of our trust in them. i believe beverly was there for her that night. her mind in its little shell, burst out of her age, her illness and dementia to make one last call out for help on her journey. it would be her last words spoken.
i feel honored to have been a witness.
meet virginia. she isn't gone. her body lay still in that hospital bed, family pushing doctors to do things they wish they never had to do. well-meaning but ignorant, the sons push for answers for reasons that being 90 years old and suffering from pneumonia and dementia in a life that is no longer your own will not satisfy as an answer.
i lay silent in my bed, waiting, wishing, wanting to disappear or become invisible to their pain. activity rushes in the room. hushed voices. beeping and clicks. the whrrrrl of machinery now pushing breath into her lungs since they can no longer expel the air on their own. the heavy, sweating man pushes his way into the room and the air around us cannot expel him. he leans over and whispers to her that he is there to help her and gives her last rites. anointing of the sick with oil. grade school sacraments flood my memory.
but the priest in sneakers and black t-shirt doesn't understand. these are not her last rites. virginia has no rights. her decisions are not her own. her last rights were taken from her a while ago. these are a feel-good motive to absolve her of her sins but what sins could she commit?
blessed are those who care for the sick, who take care of the elderly. the young nurse who comes in soon after, chases the family from her side. she slides the curtain around to give some dignity while she provides her own last rites. the water sloshes in the tub and the smell of dove soap fills the room. clean and refreshing to chase the smell of death and tubes that permeates in this room we share. i hear the nurse squeeze the droplets of water from the washclothe. another son bursts into the room and rips the curtain open.
the nurse yanks it right back and clears him from this sacred space. "you can sit with her after i am done giving her a bath," her kindness with virginia contrasts greatly with this newly tapped anger and frustration. but her movements continue, water still sloshes until virginia is clean and reborn.
a little while later i am moved to a new room, a single room where i won't be witness to a families' pain and woman's last breaths. a few more days later, i am able to leave the hospital that virginia won't be allowed to do.
they say there is no dignity in dying and i believe them -- meet virginia.
she doesn't say much. her main communiciation she shares with me is her guppy-like gasps for air. wheezing high-pitched and soft, wimpering sounds of a puppy, blind and searching for its mother's teat follows each gasp.
occasionally, she'll moan when the nurses come to poke and prod her. forgetting that inside the mask-like creature still beats a heart all by itself -- at least for today. a dramatic difference from the rest of the mechanical tools needed to continue her existence. but for now, her heart still fills itself with her warm blood, filling nerve centers still active and alert although her mind no longer is.
the first night, i heard her cry out. i imagine behind the thin curtain that separates our beds that her hands are crossed prayerlike at her chest with her body twisted to the side. i am not sure if it is real or if i am just reliving how i first saw her. before the orderly wheeled my bed next to hers and pulling the curtain shut, as if the busy abstract pastel cotton sheet would separate us before joining us together.
in her sleep, oh how her mind must race. she shouts for "beverly" and cries out as to where she is going, to wait for her. so weak when "awake" yet how vividly her mind recreates memories of people and places. i believe that before we die, our friends and family come to ease our journey into the next life or whatever comes next. they join us on our deathbed and make the transition less frightening because of our trust in them. i believe beverly was there for her that night. her mind in its little shell, burst out of her age, her illness and dementia to make one last call out for help on her journey. it would be her last words spoken.
i feel honored to have been a witness.
meet virginia. she isn't gone. her body lay still in that hospital bed, family pushing doctors to do things they wish they never had to do. well-meaning but ignorant, the sons push for answers for reasons that being 90 years old and suffering from pneumonia and dementia in a life that is no longer your own will not satisfy as an answer.
i lay silent in my bed, waiting, wishing, wanting to disappear or become invisible to their pain. activity rushes in the room. hushed voices. beeping and clicks. the whrrrrl of machinery now pushing breath into her lungs since they can no longer expel the air on their own. the heavy, sweating man pushes his way into the room and the air around us cannot expel him. he leans over and whispers to her that he is there to help her and gives her last rites. anointing of the sick with oil. grade school sacraments flood my memory.
but the priest in sneakers and black t-shirt doesn't understand. these are not her last rites. virginia has no rights. her decisions are not her own. her last rights were taken from her a while ago. these are a feel-good motive to absolve her of her sins but what sins could she commit?
blessed are those who care for the sick, who take care of the elderly. the young nurse who comes in soon after, chases the family from her side. she slides the curtain around to give some dignity while she provides her own last rites. the water sloshes in the tub and the smell of dove soap fills the room. clean and refreshing to chase the smell of death and tubes that permeates in this room we share. i hear the nurse squeeze the droplets of water from the washclothe. another son bursts into the room and rips the curtain open.
the nurse yanks it right back and clears him from this sacred space. "you can sit with her after i am done giving her a bath," her kindness with virginia contrasts greatly with this newly tapped anger and frustration. but her movements continue, water still sloshes until virginia is clean and reborn.
a little while later i am moved to a new room, a single room where i won't be witness to a families' pain and woman's last breaths. a few more days later, i am able to leave the hospital that virginia won't be allowed to do.
they say there is no dignity in dying and i believe them -- meet virginia.
black and blue
it's funny, my bruises are never really black and blue.
they start out a vibrant green tinged with yellow as they radiate out from the spot where... well, where if you touched me too hard, if i bumped myself or carried something too heavy, anywhere you apply pressure to my body, they can form.
it's not immediate reaction, like "ouch, owww, that hurts." like a fine wine, they develop over time, leaving you to wonder days later what slight movement or touch gave birth to this one. i know some people in my situation who like to keep journals of each potential touch gone wrong but i refuse to drive myself to that level of distraction. my illness takes a large enough toll on my fragile resources, it will not claim my sanity as well.
bubblewrap girl.
i joke that i need it to protect myself from my surroundings, but in all honesty, the bruises are the only outward sign of the raging battle within. the bruises are like the smoldering battlefields left behind after the battle is over -- singed and scarred rememberances of power. the ebb and flow of the positive and the negative forces surging through my blood without rhyme or reason, or concern for the cells surrounding or the greater life force in which it is contained. it's greedy and myopic.
the bruises tell a silent story of something amiss that in looking at me you just would not hear otherwise. sure i look paler, move slower and more cautiously, but to the unassuming eye, those could all be explained or reasoned away as eccentricity or genetics.
my husband dreads moments when the bruises are especially large or well-placed. he gets the sly glances of disapproval, the disgust. he carries the burden of shame, undeserved and unspoken, that strangers cast on him. "how could he beat the girl? look at those bruises on her arms, her legs. someone should give him a taste of his own medicine. mmm - hmm," they tsk and shake a finger to themselves and occasionally at me.
"girl, don't you know better than to let that man take advantage of you like that? you don't need someone who hits you." my protests otherwise sound too familiar, like the fish that got away.
"no, he's a good man. he doesn't hit me." all told countless times by real victims protecting their abuser. only my story is true. but to the hardened souls, my words have no effect on their judgement. it's the bruises that do.
i'm not battered, just black and blue.
they start out a vibrant green tinged with yellow as they radiate out from the spot where... well, where if you touched me too hard, if i bumped myself or carried something too heavy, anywhere you apply pressure to my body, they can form.
it's not immediate reaction, like "ouch, owww, that hurts." like a fine wine, they develop over time, leaving you to wonder days later what slight movement or touch gave birth to this one. i know some people in my situation who like to keep journals of each potential touch gone wrong but i refuse to drive myself to that level of distraction. my illness takes a large enough toll on my fragile resources, it will not claim my sanity as well.
bubblewrap girl.
i joke that i need it to protect myself from my surroundings, but in all honesty, the bruises are the only outward sign of the raging battle within. the bruises are like the smoldering battlefields left behind after the battle is over -- singed and scarred rememberances of power. the ebb and flow of the positive and the negative forces surging through my blood without rhyme or reason, or concern for the cells surrounding or the greater life force in which it is contained. it's greedy and myopic.
the bruises tell a silent story of something amiss that in looking at me you just would not hear otherwise. sure i look paler, move slower and more cautiously, but to the unassuming eye, those could all be explained or reasoned away as eccentricity or genetics.
my husband dreads moments when the bruises are especially large or well-placed. he gets the sly glances of disapproval, the disgust. he carries the burden of shame, undeserved and unspoken, that strangers cast on him. "how could he beat the girl? look at those bruises on her arms, her legs. someone should give him a taste of his own medicine. mmm - hmm," they tsk and shake a finger to themselves and occasionally at me.
"girl, don't you know better than to let that man take advantage of you like that? you don't need someone who hits you." my protests otherwise sound too familiar, like the fish that got away.
"no, he's a good man. he doesn't hit me." all told countless times by real victims protecting their abuser. only my story is true. but to the hardened souls, my words have no effect on their judgement. it's the bruises that do.
i'm not battered, just black and blue.
Tuesday, July 18, 2006
this is war
wednesday, july 12
isn't it ironic? after nearly a decade of worrying that my body would relapse and betray me by bleeding out, it changes the rules of engagement by now deciding to clot.
i discovered my recent leg injury was caused not because i had twisted an ankle or pulled muscle. my leg pain was caused by a blood clot.
once again in the war for control, my body has found a way to play dirty.
now i sit anxiously waiting to know more. i know i have been through a lot and came out stronger for it. but now i want answers. i want drugs. "let's move it, people," i silently plead with passersby who refuse to look at me while quietly shaking their heads and wondering why a young woman sits alone in this er.
time is precious and i am scared. sitting in this waiting room i am reminded how alone i am. everyone around me is sitting in pairs. even the chair i pull towards me to rest my swollen leg upon is joined to two others. the dingy carpet shows the ground up remains of stains left behind by others who sat here like me, possibly alone, or more likely not, as judged by the sampling of people that surround me now. dark rings show the cleaning staff's ill-fated attempts to remove the evidence of the stain that the person who sat in this chair where i am sitting now left behind. for all i know, this dark ring could be the only thing that remains of the person who put it there in the first place.
but i am tired of looking down at the carpet but yet i still don't trust myself to look up at others around me or to look into their eyes.
i want to scream - not again! this can't be happening. haven't i had my own fairshare of freak things happen to my body? others my age aren't burdened with worrying about ptt levels and platelet counts and half of the other maladies, symptoms and side effects that swarm inside my head. i know this flustered feeling of uncertainty, of shock, an almost emptiness that sits at your very core knowing before you is two choices -- push forward and fight or retreat and concede the battle.
a decade ago, i sat in this very place when the doctors first told me they had a name for what was ailing me. a name to call my illness. finally. the disbelief of others was over. and my new disbelief was only starting.
almost five years of misdiagnosis, claims of fakery, accusations of domestic violence. they had a name, goddammit. i had a name. i.t.p. those three little letters started two long years of pills, pain, mood swings, anger and fear. lots of fear.
but yet, that battle has long since ended. victory was mine after i dropped my own version of an a-bomb on my body to end it. imagine doing something so drastic as to remove a piece of yourself in order to cure yourself. have someone reach way deep down inside of your sleeping self and cut away that which harms you. it would be almost biblical if i believed in a god.
now a new challenge presents itself. a new fight. every cell in my body tingles with fear, with anticipation. ready to be called up to fight but still unsure as to whose side it will fight. this is really nothing new to me.
i have been training for this all of my life.
i am a warrior and this is war.
isn't it ironic? after nearly a decade of worrying that my body would relapse and betray me by bleeding out, it changes the rules of engagement by now deciding to clot.
i discovered my recent leg injury was caused not because i had twisted an ankle or pulled muscle. my leg pain was caused by a blood clot.
once again in the war for control, my body has found a way to play dirty.
now i sit anxiously waiting to know more. i know i have been through a lot and came out stronger for it. but now i want answers. i want drugs. "let's move it, people," i silently plead with passersby who refuse to look at me while quietly shaking their heads and wondering why a young woman sits alone in this er.
time is precious and i am scared. sitting in this waiting room i am reminded how alone i am. everyone around me is sitting in pairs. even the chair i pull towards me to rest my swollen leg upon is joined to two others. the dingy carpet shows the ground up remains of stains left behind by others who sat here like me, possibly alone, or more likely not, as judged by the sampling of people that surround me now. dark rings show the cleaning staff's ill-fated attempts to remove the evidence of the stain that the person who sat in this chair where i am sitting now left behind. for all i know, this dark ring could be the only thing that remains of the person who put it there in the first place.
but i am tired of looking down at the carpet but yet i still don't trust myself to look up at others around me or to look into their eyes.
i want to scream - not again! this can't be happening. haven't i had my own fairshare of freak things happen to my body? others my age aren't burdened with worrying about ptt levels and platelet counts and half of the other maladies, symptoms and side effects that swarm inside my head. i know this flustered feeling of uncertainty, of shock, an almost emptiness that sits at your very core knowing before you is two choices -- push forward and fight or retreat and concede the battle.
a decade ago, i sat in this very place when the doctors first told me they had a name for what was ailing me. a name to call my illness. finally. the disbelief of others was over. and my new disbelief was only starting.
almost five years of misdiagnosis, claims of fakery, accusations of domestic violence. they had a name, goddammit. i had a name. i.t.p. those three little letters started two long years of pills, pain, mood swings, anger and fear. lots of fear.
but yet, that battle has long since ended. victory was mine after i dropped my own version of an a-bomb on my body to end it. imagine doing something so drastic as to remove a piece of yourself in order to cure yourself. have someone reach way deep down inside of your sleeping self and cut away that which harms you. it would be almost biblical if i believed in a god.
now a new challenge presents itself. a new fight. every cell in my body tingles with fear, with anticipation. ready to be called up to fight but still unsure as to whose side it will fight. this is really nothing new to me.
i have been training for this all of my life.
i am a warrior and this is war.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
i carry your heart with me
since i'm in a bit of a sentimental mode, i wanted to share with you one of my favorite poems...
i carry your heart with me
by ee cummings
i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear;
and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
i carry your heart with me
by ee cummings
i carry your heart with me
(i carry it in my heart)
i am never without it
(anywhere i go you go,my dear;
and whatever is done
by only me is your doing, my darling)
i fear no fate (for you are my fate, my sweet)
i want no world (for beautiful you are my world, my true)
and it's you are whatever a moon has always meant
and whatever a sun will always sing is you
here is the deepest secret nobody knows
(here is the root of the root and the bud of the bud
and the sky of the sky of a tree called life;
which grows higher than the soul can hope or mind can hide)
and this is the wonder that's keeping the stars apart
i carry your heart (i carry it in my heart)
Saturday, June 24, 2006
miles to nowhere
when i turned on the radio thursday morning, i should have realized what was in store for me. my routine business trip would become the trip to hell.
at 6:00 am, the man on the radio said that there was an accident on the only road into my destination. i did not worry, though, because i would be arriving hours later, surely they could clean up an accident by then.
little did i know the carma police had melded with the karma police.
i had been looking forward to this trip for work, close enough to the beaches where i had many good childhood memories. there is something different about the light and air that it has the power to rejuvenate someone simply by breathing it all in. i was happy for two days away from the office, in this magical place. it would be a chance for me to bond with my new car in our first road trip alone.
my decision to buy this vehicle was a life-altering decision except that the decision was made for me. getting an suburban assault vehicle had never really crossed my radar until i felt the linebacker-like bear hug as the other car slammed me from the side, the crunch pushing me across the intersection. the other driver hit the side of my car where my husband and two babies were sitting. the side of my car was so crushed that doctors were amazed no one in my family was hurt. we were hyper aware that if the car had been any other make and model than what it was, we would have had a very different outcome. mama bear had been poked hard and she was ready to tear someone's muthafcuking limbs off.
if i could have wrapped my family in a bubble-wrapped version of steel, i would. so i went out and bought the next best thing. a massive, gaz-guzzling suburban assault vehicle (sav) that is large enough that if another idiot attempts to bear hug my car while we're in it, that car better be a friggin' slinky to absorb the impact.
in the next battle of us vs. them, i am not taking any chances. the muthafcuker better bounce.
all of this just leads to my business trip from hell. rolling down the highway in morning traffic in my sav, i kept checking in on the traffic reports to see where the pitfalls were. thankfully, i caught the report as we started to back up when a tractor trailer slid across three lanes of an exit route, blocking all traffic. my sav and i sat sucking down gas quicker than a toothless, $5 hooker gives a blowjob.
hopping off at the next available exit and maneuvering back roads instead of the highways i can't get to, with three hours to go, i felt like i was driving miles to nowhere.
at 6:00 am, the man on the radio said that there was an accident on the only road into my destination. i did not worry, though, because i would be arriving hours later, surely they could clean up an accident by then.
little did i know the carma police had melded with the karma police.
i had been looking forward to this trip for work, close enough to the beaches where i had many good childhood memories. there is something different about the light and air that it has the power to rejuvenate someone simply by breathing it all in. i was happy for two days away from the office, in this magical place. it would be a chance for me to bond with my new car in our first road trip alone.
my decision to buy this vehicle was a life-altering decision except that the decision was made for me. getting an suburban assault vehicle had never really crossed my radar until i felt the linebacker-like bear hug as the other car slammed me from the side, the crunch pushing me across the intersection. the other driver hit the side of my car where my husband and two babies were sitting. the side of my car was so crushed that doctors were amazed no one in my family was hurt. we were hyper aware that if the car had been any other make and model than what it was, we would have had a very different outcome. mama bear had been poked hard and she was ready to tear someone's muthafcuking limbs off.
if i could have wrapped my family in a bubble-wrapped version of steel, i would. so i went out and bought the next best thing. a massive, gaz-guzzling suburban assault vehicle (sav) that is large enough that if another idiot attempts to bear hug my car while we're in it, that car better be a friggin' slinky to absorb the impact.
in the next battle of us vs. them, i am not taking any chances. the muthafcuker better bounce.
all of this just leads to my business trip from hell. rolling down the highway in morning traffic in my sav, i kept checking in on the traffic reports to see where the pitfalls were. thankfully, i caught the report as we started to back up when a tractor trailer slid across three lanes of an exit route, blocking all traffic. my sav and i sat sucking down gas quicker than a toothless, $5 hooker gives a blowjob.
hopping off at the next available exit and maneuvering back roads instead of the highways i can't get to, with three hours to go, i felt like i was driving miles to nowhere.
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