Sunday, November 30, 2003
...whimper... Help!
I think that today's completion of the paint job at the studio might have ruined me. I'm having back spasms for the first time in my life, and I'm not liking it. Christ. I have to pack a suitcase for C's week in Miami while he's out picking up T&D from the airport, and I think my back is going to kill me. Help!
I think that today's completion of the paint job at the studio might have ruined me. I'm having back spasms for the first time in my life, and I'm not liking it. Christ. I have to pack a suitcase for C's week in Miami while he's out picking up T&D from the airport, and I think my back is going to kill me. Help!
Black Friday
Growing up, mom would drag me to the stores for the early bird sales on black friday. When I was smaller, I was terrified that someone would trample me. Now I see it's not impossible. I can't believe that someone was trampled for a DVD player.
Growing up, mom would drag me to the stores for the early bird sales on black friday. When I was smaller, I was terrified that someone would trample me. Now I see it's not impossible. I can't believe that someone was trampled for a DVD player.
Thursday, November 27, 2003
Happy Thanksgiving
Ok, it's time for the cheesy "what am I thankful for" list. I'm thankful for my family, even when they're driving me nuts, and the really fabulous friends that I've been lucky enough to find and keep no matter how far apart we've ended up. I'm glad I have my business, even though it sometimes terrifies me. And I really love this silly little house I live in, in spite of the fact that it's too darned small.
Ok, it's time for the cheesy "what am I thankful for" list. I'm thankful for my family, even when they're driving me nuts, and the really fabulous friends that I've been lucky enough to find and keep no matter how far apart we've ended up. I'm glad I have my business, even though it sometimes terrifies me. And I really love this silly little house I live in, in spite of the fact that it's too darned small.
Paint
I got the painting process started at the studio today, although it's not going very quickly. I had to do stuff myself because C's still got a terrible fever, and I didn't get started until after 3:00 by the time I got back from my delicious filipino thanksgiving (as though a 75 pound roast pig wasn't enough, there was also turkey, rice, mashed potatoes, lumpia, pancit, salad, fruit and dessert). So I put in a few hours of work moving stuff to the center of the room, taking down light fixtures and masking off small sections of trim. I painted a small section of the back entryway, but at the rate I'm going as a solo painter, it's going to take all weekend just to do the one room. As long as I have it done before January 10, though, I'm good.
I got the painting process started at the studio today, although it's not going very quickly. I had to do stuff myself because C's still got a terrible fever, and I didn't get started until after 3:00 by the time I got back from my delicious filipino thanksgiving (as though a 75 pound roast pig wasn't enough, there was also turkey, rice, mashed potatoes, lumpia, pancit, salad, fruit and dessert). So I put in a few hours of work moving stuff to the center of the room, taking down light fixtures and masking off small sections of trim. I painted a small section of the back entryway, but at the rate I'm going as a solo painter, it's going to take all weekend just to do the one room. As long as I have it done before January 10, though, I'm good.
Wednesday, November 26, 2003
The Start of More Fiction
His pending arrival had come as something of a surprise. I hadn't planned on bringing another life into the world, but somehow, once I overcame the initial shock of it all, I warmed to the idea and became utterly giddy at the sight of baby clothes, baby bottles, baby strollers and baby powder. His father, however, reacted somewhat differently. After overcoming the initial shock of my revelation, he responded with anger and frustration, demanding that I make a choice between him and the baby. In spite of being a worldly pro-choice woman, I decided that I didn't like ultimatums and kicked him out of my apartment. I haven't heard from him since.
Turns out that I got what I needed from him, though. I got Michael. The rest of it -- childbirth classes, painting the baby's room, planning for the future -- could all be done alone or with the help of my best friend Carla. She was there with me through it all, and we held hands and walked through the process together, blissfully ignorant as only two thusfar childless women can be. She held back my hair and fed me crackers during the worst of the morning sickness. We did yoga. She took me for my prenatal massages. I learned to breathe in childbirth classes. All of this became terribly irrelevent at the moment the contractions began, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless, and a great bonding experience.
They tell you that you forget the pain as soon as you see the baby. They lie, of course, but it's a necessary lie designed to perpetuate the species. You still hurt like hell when they hand this tiny wrinkled creature to you, when you count all of the tiny fingers and toes that look entirely too small to belong to a real person. And you can't believe that this baby actually came from you. It's yours for life. No panic.
The first weeks are a blur of feedings, diapers and trying to figure out what is making the poor little thing cry. You feel terrible when you watch this small body contort and wail, knowing that he's trying as hard as he can to tell you what's wrong without being able to speak a word of your language. But then he gets older, and smiles, and opens his eyes to look around and absorb all that he can about the world. He rolls over, sits up, crawls, walks and begins to talk and you think to yourself that this is the most amazing thing you've ever witnessed, even though you've seen babies before and yours is no different.
But something is different, at least with Michael. In the middle of the winter I noticed that he was having trouble breathing. He didn't seem interested in food anymore and stopped walking and talking. It was like my perfect baby had retreated into a shell. It was his pediatrician that gave me the diagnosis of neuroblastoma and referred me to an oncologist. It was the tumor in his belly that was putting pressure on his lungs and organs, affecting respiration and digestion. Neuroblastoma is rare, occurring in only about 600 children in the US each year. Did you hear that, Michael? You're special.
The next few months are a blur. Doctors, tests, diagnoses, treatments. Hospital visit after hospital visit. Artificially cheery corridors painted in Crayola colors. Surgeries. Chemotherapy treatments that last for days and result in secondary infections. Oxygen tanks and breathing tubes. Poisons coursing through his tiny body in measured doses that we hope will kill the tumor without killing him. Tubes and monitor electrodes connecting him to half a dozen different machines. I sob quietly as he sleeps so he doesn't know that his mommy is sad.
After his third round of chemo, I have to take him home attached to all of his apparatus. His lungs are weak from the surgery and infections, and he's not keeping down any food, so all nutrition must come intravenously. As I'm wheeling him down to the car, several of the nurses stop me. "We're praying for you," they say. Praying? I never thought of praying. I've never been religious and I've always believed that your strength comes from within. But what if I'm wrong? What if there is a god and he notices that Michael is sick and that his own mother isn't praying for him. Will he hold it against him? So that night I begin to pray. I pray for his tiny heart and his weak lungs. I pray for his missing hair and eyebrows. I pray for his red blood cells to stay healthy and avoid anemia. I pray that the cancer isn't in his bone marrow or his brain. I pray that after all of this, my sweet angel will grow up to be a normal, healthy, happy boy. But I know that the chances aren't good, and I pray that whatever happens, it won't be too painful. I try to out-pray everyone on the hospital prayer chain to prove to god that I'm a good mother and that I'll do anything for my son.
His pending arrival had come as something of a surprise. I hadn't planned on bringing another life into the world, but somehow, once I overcame the initial shock of it all, I warmed to the idea and became utterly giddy at the sight of baby clothes, baby bottles, baby strollers and baby powder. His father, however, reacted somewhat differently. After overcoming the initial shock of my revelation, he responded with anger and frustration, demanding that I make a choice between him and the baby. In spite of being a worldly pro-choice woman, I decided that I didn't like ultimatums and kicked him out of my apartment. I haven't heard from him since.
Turns out that I got what I needed from him, though. I got Michael. The rest of it -- childbirth classes, painting the baby's room, planning for the future -- could all be done alone or with the help of my best friend Carla. She was there with me through it all, and we held hands and walked through the process together, blissfully ignorant as only two thusfar childless women can be. She held back my hair and fed me crackers during the worst of the morning sickness. We did yoga. She took me for my prenatal massages. I learned to breathe in childbirth classes. All of this became terribly irrelevent at the moment the contractions began, but it was a nice gesture nonetheless, and a great bonding experience.
They tell you that you forget the pain as soon as you see the baby. They lie, of course, but it's a necessary lie designed to perpetuate the species. You still hurt like hell when they hand this tiny wrinkled creature to you, when you count all of the tiny fingers and toes that look entirely too small to belong to a real person. And you can't believe that this baby actually came from you. It's yours for life. No panic.
The first weeks are a blur of feedings, diapers and trying to figure out what is making the poor little thing cry. You feel terrible when you watch this small body contort and wail, knowing that he's trying as hard as he can to tell you what's wrong without being able to speak a word of your language. But then he gets older, and smiles, and opens his eyes to look around and absorb all that he can about the world. He rolls over, sits up, crawls, walks and begins to talk and you think to yourself that this is the most amazing thing you've ever witnessed, even though you've seen babies before and yours is no different.
But something is different, at least with Michael. In the middle of the winter I noticed that he was having trouble breathing. He didn't seem interested in food anymore and stopped walking and talking. It was like my perfect baby had retreated into a shell. It was his pediatrician that gave me the diagnosis of neuroblastoma and referred me to an oncologist. It was the tumor in his belly that was putting pressure on his lungs and organs, affecting respiration and digestion. Neuroblastoma is rare, occurring in only about 600 children in the US each year. Did you hear that, Michael? You're special.
The next few months are a blur. Doctors, tests, diagnoses, treatments. Hospital visit after hospital visit. Artificially cheery corridors painted in Crayola colors. Surgeries. Chemotherapy treatments that last for days and result in secondary infections. Oxygen tanks and breathing tubes. Poisons coursing through his tiny body in measured doses that we hope will kill the tumor without killing him. Tubes and monitor electrodes connecting him to half a dozen different machines. I sob quietly as he sleeps so he doesn't know that his mommy is sad.
After his third round of chemo, I have to take him home attached to all of his apparatus. His lungs are weak from the surgery and infections, and he's not keeping down any food, so all nutrition must come intravenously. As I'm wheeling him down to the car, several of the nurses stop me. "We're praying for you," they say. Praying? I never thought of praying. I've never been religious and I've always believed that your strength comes from within. But what if I'm wrong? What if there is a god and he notices that Michael is sick and that his own mother isn't praying for him. Will he hold it against him? So that night I begin to pray. I pray for his tiny heart and his weak lungs. I pray for his missing hair and eyebrows. I pray for his red blood cells to stay healthy and avoid anemia. I pray that the cancer isn't in his bone marrow or his brain. I pray that after all of this, my sweet angel will grow up to be a normal, healthy, happy boy. But I know that the chances aren't good, and I pray that whatever happens, it won't be too painful. I try to out-pray everyone on the hospital prayer chain to prove to god that I'm a good mother and that I'll do anything for my son.
Happy Silver Anniversary, Let's Get Divorced
While I can understand that everyone wants to find happiness, regardless of how late in life, there's something so strange about the thought of divorcing after being married 25 years or more. It must be so terribly difficult to go through such a major life change and let go of the person that has been so much a part of your life for so long. Although I do know many couples who could logically head for divorce court after that long, it just seems to me that it would be unbelievably daunting to start over. I, for one, don't even know how I'd do it after five years. I wasn't ever really good at dating. I never had many men interested in me. So what would make me think that I'd ever have any luck now, eight years after my last first date?
While I can understand that everyone wants to find happiness, regardless of how late in life, there's something so strange about the thought of divorcing after being married 25 years or more. It must be so terribly difficult to go through such a major life change and let go of the person that has been so much a part of your life for so long. Although I do know many couples who could logically head for divorce court after that long, it just seems to me that it would be unbelievably daunting to start over. I, for one, don't even know how I'd do it after five years. I wasn't ever really good at dating. I never had many men interested in me. So what would make me think that I'd ever have any luck now, eight years after my last first date?
Wednesday/Friday
I know it's Wednesday, but it feels like Friday, knowing that the weekend starts tomorrow. It always seemed weird that days felt like other days. Why do days have feelings? They're just days. Very strange to me.
C has a raging case of the flu, and it was bad enough to scare me into badgering him into going to the doctor this morning for the first time in 7 years. 103 fever, cough, achiness, extreme fatigue... his breathing was so bad last night that I just laid there awake for hours, afraid that he'd stop breathing on me. Of course, even though I got my flu shot, they say it's not effective on this year's dominant strain. Let's hope that he's got the lesser strain, or else I've got this to look forward to. I did get out my inhaler as a precautionary measure, just in case things get bad all of a sudden and I can't breathe. I didn't want to have to go looking for it when things had already gotten bad. Honestly, to me there's nothing scarier than being unable to catch your breath.
So I stayed home today. By the time you get back from the doctor's, what's the point of going in? It was already noon, and on the day before a holiday that seemed pathetic, since most people will be gone shortly after lunch anyway. So I crashed on the couch and wrote out most of my Christmas cards. I didn't say much in them this year -- I used to try to really personalize them -- but I realized it's much faster and more pleasant this way. Of course, the other issue is the signature. Do I sign from me and C or just me? Do I sign "love, me" or just my name? So I opted for this general rule of thumb: if I have something to do with you throughout the year, you're worthy of a "love". If you're pretty much reduced to an annual Christmas card and not much else, you get my name. Seemed like a fair compromise. I don't believe in signing things, "fondly" or "affectionately" or anything like that. You either love someone or you don't. Plain and simple, right?
I don't know why people put so much stock into the phrase, "I love you". It's been overused by the universe to the point of meaninglessness. I think real love deserves a new word to convey the depth of power that the emotion possesses. The other, original "love" can be left for more common uses like, "I love this jacket," or "Don't you love this ice cream?" Even friends deserve a word better than love to explain the affection that you feel for them. Something more meaningful than this "love" thing, but less over the top than grabbing them and kissing them until they're breathless. Although on some counts, I wouldn't mind the latter.
So until we meet again, all my love....
I know it's Wednesday, but it feels like Friday, knowing that the weekend starts tomorrow. It always seemed weird that days felt like other days. Why do days have feelings? They're just days. Very strange to me.
C has a raging case of the flu, and it was bad enough to scare me into badgering him into going to the doctor this morning for the first time in 7 years. 103 fever, cough, achiness, extreme fatigue... his breathing was so bad last night that I just laid there awake for hours, afraid that he'd stop breathing on me. Of course, even though I got my flu shot, they say it's not effective on this year's dominant strain. Let's hope that he's got the lesser strain, or else I've got this to look forward to. I did get out my inhaler as a precautionary measure, just in case things get bad all of a sudden and I can't breathe. I didn't want to have to go looking for it when things had already gotten bad. Honestly, to me there's nothing scarier than being unable to catch your breath.
So I stayed home today. By the time you get back from the doctor's, what's the point of going in? It was already noon, and on the day before a holiday that seemed pathetic, since most people will be gone shortly after lunch anyway. So I crashed on the couch and wrote out most of my Christmas cards. I didn't say much in them this year -- I used to try to really personalize them -- but I realized it's much faster and more pleasant this way. Of course, the other issue is the signature. Do I sign from me and C or just me? Do I sign "love, me" or just my name? So I opted for this general rule of thumb: if I have something to do with you throughout the year, you're worthy of a "love". If you're pretty much reduced to an annual Christmas card and not much else, you get my name. Seemed like a fair compromise. I don't believe in signing things, "fondly" or "affectionately" or anything like that. You either love someone or you don't. Plain and simple, right?
I don't know why people put so much stock into the phrase, "I love you". It's been overused by the universe to the point of meaninglessness. I think real love deserves a new word to convey the depth of power that the emotion possesses. The other, original "love" can be left for more common uses like, "I love this jacket," or "Don't you love this ice cream?" Even friends deserve a word better than love to explain the affection that you feel for them. Something more meaningful than this "love" thing, but less over the top than grabbing them and kissing them until they're breathless. Although on some counts, I wouldn't mind the latter.
So until we meet again, all my love....
Tuesday, November 25, 2003
Again
C's grandmother is dying, and while the root cause is different, the end result is like mine: she's starving to death. On the bright side, at least Grandma Helen is going quickly, and I guess that's all you can ask for in the end. It gives the family enough time to say their last goodbyes, but without years of enduring pain and trauma. Of course, I feel terrible about the situation in general, and as recently as my grandmom has gone, it's only opening barely-closed wounds and bringing those raw feelings of anxiety back to the surface. Maybe the worst part of it all is the knowledge that with the grandparents going, that means that the parents are next in line. For as much as I bitch and moan about my mother, I can't imagine what a void there would be if she weren't there to torment and hassle me about things. ;-) But seriously, knowing that she hasn't been to a doctor since 1976 doesn't bode well for her longevity.
On the selfish side of my world, I'm hoping that Helen holds on long enough that I can paint the studio as planned this weekend. It's not often that I have the chance to close the place down without affecting classes, so I really need to maximize this. Although I suppose that even if she were to die today, they probably wouldn't have her funeral until next Monday. Do they even do them on holiday weekends?
C's grandmother is dying, and while the root cause is different, the end result is like mine: she's starving to death. On the bright side, at least Grandma Helen is going quickly, and I guess that's all you can ask for in the end. It gives the family enough time to say their last goodbyes, but without years of enduring pain and trauma. Of course, I feel terrible about the situation in general, and as recently as my grandmom has gone, it's only opening barely-closed wounds and bringing those raw feelings of anxiety back to the surface. Maybe the worst part of it all is the knowledge that with the grandparents going, that means that the parents are next in line. For as much as I bitch and moan about my mother, I can't imagine what a void there would be if she weren't there to torment and hassle me about things. ;-) But seriously, knowing that she hasn't been to a doctor since 1976 doesn't bode well for her longevity.
On the selfish side of my world, I'm hoping that Helen holds on long enough that I can paint the studio as planned this weekend. It's not often that I have the chance to close the place down without affecting classes, so I really need to maximize this. Although I suppose that even if she were to die today, they probably wouldn't have her funeral until next Monday. Do they even do them on holiday weekends?
Knots In My Neck
I have one of those computer-related knots in my right shoulder/neck that won't go away. I've tried Motrin, heating pads... and in the end it still sticks around. I may actually have to get a massage.
I'm surrounded by an ever-growing to-do list, including whitepapers, launch kits, datasheets, web content and web audits. Since none of it is at all interesting, I of course don't want to do any of it. This is why I blog.
I have to figure out how much paint I need for the studio this weekend. More than I want to admit to, I'm sure. Paint, rollers, masking tape, dropcloths... it's going to be pricey, and of course I don't have a ton of money to spend on it. I need a miracle, like 100 people showing up at my door wanting to buy unlimited monthly memberships. That would be helpful.
I have one of those computer-related knots in my right shoulder/neck that won't go away. I've tried Motrin, heating pads... and in the end it still sticks around. I may actually have to get a massage.
I'm surrounded by an ever-growing to-do list, including whitepapers, launch kits, datasheets, web content and web audits. Since none of it is at all interesting, I of course don't want to do any of it. This is why I blog.
I have to figure out how much paint I need for the studio this weekend. More than I want to admit to, I'm sure. Paint, rollers, masking tape, dropcloths... it's going to be pricey, and of course I don't have a ton of money to spend on it. I need a miracle, like 100 people showing up at my door wanting to buy unlimited monthly memberships. That would be helpful.
Monday, November 24, 2003
Christmas
It's almost time to send out Christmas cards and plan my cookie party. Yum! For some reason, I'm totally into Christmas at this very moment (probably because they decorated the street in front of the studio in white Christmas lights), but I'm just feeling unusually festive. It feels good. Christmas is a great time of year, up until the point at which I have to actually climb on a plane with 150 holiday tourists with too much luggage. But that means I'm in good shape for the next 28 days until 10:15pm on Dec 22.
Christmas songs are in my head. Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.... Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire's so delightful.... All I want for Christmas is you....
Yep, I'm losing my grip on reality.
It's almost time to send out Christmas cards and plan my cookie party. Yum! For some reason, I'm totally into Christmas at this very moment (probably because they decorated the street in front of the studio in white Christmas lights), but I'm just feeling unusually festive. It feels good. Christmas is a great time of year, up until the point at which I have to actually climb on a plane with 150 holiday tourists with too much luggage. But that means I'm in good shape for the next 28 days until 10:15pm on Dec 22.
Christmas songs are in my head. Jingle bell, jingle bell, jingle bell rock.... Oh the weather outside is frightful, but the fire's so delightful.... All I want for Christmas is you....
Yep, I'm losing my grip on reality.
Good Mood
Is it the fact that it's a short holiday week that has me in such a good mood? Is it the prospect of Christmas -- my cookie party, giving gifts, decorating a tree -- that makes me so happy? I really don't know the answer, I'm just feeling really good today. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Is it the fact that it's a short holiday week that has me in such a good mood? Is it the prospect of Christmas -- my cookie party, giving gifts, decorating a tree -- that makes me so happy? I really don't know the answer, I'm just feeling really good today. I'll enjoy it while it lasts.
Love Actually
I'm not usually one for upbeat girly movies with a message (love is all around us, and tell someone you love them at Christmas), but I saw Love Actually last night and it made me feel good. I've been in my own little funk lately -- dead grandmothers, business bleeding money, work sucking -- but last night I left the theater and I actually felt good. I felt lighter, like the world wasn't pressing down on my shoulders. I needed that.
I'm not usually one for upbeat girly movies with a message (love is all around us, and tell someone you love them at Christmas), but I saw Love Actually last night and it made me feel good. I've been in my own little funk lately -- dead grandmothers, business bleeding money, work sucking -- but last night I left the theater and I actually felt good. I felt lighter, like the world wasn't pressing down on my shoulders. I needed that.
Saturday, November 22, 2003
Power of Suggestion
Did you ever notice that someone can plant an idea in your head that manifests itself in your subconscious and only comes out in dreams? Or maybe that's just me.
Did you ever notice that someone can plant an idea in your head that manifests itself in your subconscious and only comes out in dreams? Or maybe that's just me.
Friday, November 21, 2003
Is There Ever A Time That I Don't Have A Song In My Head?
Answer: no. I'm plagued by music. Today it's Simon & Garfunkel, and at least I know all the words. I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but at least it isn't Old Blue Eyes and his Rat Pack band today.
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence baby
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia
Up in my bedroom making love
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone's taken my place
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence baby
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Jubilation! She loves me again!
I fall on the floor and die laughing
Jubilation! She loves me again!
I fall on the floor and die laughing
Answer: no. I'm plagued by music. Today it's Simon & Garfunkel, and at least I know all the words. I don't know if that's a good thing or not, but at least it isn't Old Blue Eyes and his Rat Pack band today.
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence baby
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Making love in the afternoon with Cecilia
Up in my bedroom making love
I got up to wash my face
When I come back to bed
Someone's taken my place
Celia, you're breaking my heart
You're shaking my confidence baby
Oh Cecilia, I'm down on my knees
I'm begging you please to come home
Come on home
Jubilation! She loves me again!
I fall on the floor and die laughing
Jubilation! She loves me again!
I fall on the floor and die laughing
Retreat
How much would I just love to go here? I'm not even a spa girl, like many I know, but I'm really liking the idea of working out and stuff during the day, and having these quiet nights where the phone doesn't ring and I don't have to cook dinner. Let others take care of me for a change. But not only is this place astonishingly expensive, it's also in Texas. Quite a hike from here.
How much would I just love to go here? I'm not even a spa girl, like many I know, but I'm really liking the idea of working out and stuff during the day, and having these quiet nights where the phone doesn't ring and I don't have to cook dinner. Let others take care of me for a change. But not only is this place astonishingly expensive, it's also in Texas. Quite a hike from here.
Ikea, Baby
I went to Ikea at lunchtime to buy some stuff for the studio. I'd been walking through the marketplace for a while when I realized something odd: every woman I passed had a baby. I'm not exaggerating. I don't think I've ever seen so many babies in one place. At one point in line, the woman behind me asks, "Is your baby at daycare?" When I told her I didn't have one she looked at me like with confusion, like everyone is supposed to have one. So she must have been feeling comfortable with me, and she says, "Oh, I'm sorry, you must be infertile." Well, no, I'm not... well, I suppose I could be, but not that I know of. She's even more baffled. "What are you waiting for?" Oh, I don't know. Hell to freeze over? For all of my eggs to go bad and decide the whole issue for me? I don't want to say that I hear the biological clock thing, but I'm aware that I have a finite amount of time to decide things. I don't want to be an old mom, but do I really want to be a mom at all? If I follow my do-nothing approach long enough, eventually the decision will be made for me.
I went to Ikea at lunchtime to buy some stuff for the studio. I'd been walking through the marketplace for a while when I realized something odd: every woman I passed had a baby. I'm not exaggerating. I don't think I've ever seen so many babies in one place. At one point in line, the woman behind me asks, "Is your baby at daycare?" When I told her I didn't have one she looked at me like with confusion, like everyone is supposed to have one. So she must have been feeling comfortable with me, and she says, "Oh, I'm sorry, you must be infertile." Well, no, I'm not... well, I suppose I could be, but not that I know of. She's even more baffled. "What are you waiting for?" Oh, I don't know. Hell to freeze over? For all of my eggs to go bad and decide the whole issue for me? I don't want to say that I hear the biological clock thing, but I'm aware that I have a finite amount of time to decide things. I don't want to be an old mom, but do I really want to be a mom at all? If I follow my do-nothing approach long enough, eventually the decision will be made for me.
Things I'd Like to See or Do Before I Die
Aurora Borealis
the pyramids in Egypt
Stonehenge
Tahiti
Australia
learn to ride a horse
learn to ice skate properly
learn to paint
write a novel (yeah, I know....)
figure out where my ancestors are from and visit those places
run a marathon or do something that proves a special level of strength and commitment
own a big old house with a front porch and a porch swing (must be accompanied by a pitcher of lemonade and a dog)
travel to someplace very far north and very far south within a year
find my abs (part of the killer body plan)
visit a buddhist temple & jewish synogogue, just to see if they have any insights that I never got from christianity
Things I've Seen & Done Already
Eiffel Tower
glaciers
Alaska
Hawaii
active lava flow
Pompeii
watched a meteor shower in the desert
fallen in love
looked into the eyes of a child that adored me
tried on $200,000 pieces of jewelry (back when I worked at Tiffany's... it's really not that special)
had a first kiss that left me breathless and absolutely giddy
been a published writer
owned my own business
Wrigley Field
top of WTC/lunch at Windows on the World
bought a red car
Things I'll Never Do, But Would Be Cool Anyway
carrier landing in an F-14 or F-18
fly on the Concorde
quit my job and travel the world
see penguins in their natural habitat
learn to ski (but only when I'm prepared to break bones)
establish a foundation at a children's hospital for kids and their families dealing with long-term care
write a novel (it really belongs here, doesn't it?)
laser eye surgery (sorry, I just can't get into elective surgeries)
drive across the country alone, on lazy backroads, seeing what each place is really all about
be a New York City girl
become a jewelry designer
live in another country
Aurora Borealis
the pyramids in Egypt
Stonehenge
Tahiti
Australia
learn to ride a horse
learn to ice skate properly
learn to paint
write a novel (yeah, I know....)
figure out where my ancestors are from and visit those places
run a marathon or do something that proves a special level of strength and commitment
own a big old house with a front porch and a porch swing (must be accompanied by a pitcher of lemonade and a dog)
travel to someplace very far north and very far south within a year
find my abs (part of the killer body plan)
visit a buddhist temple & jewish synogogue, just to see if they have any insights that I never got from christianity
Things I've Seen & Done Already
Eiffel Tower
glaciers
Alaska
Hawaii
active lava flow
Pompeii
watched a meteor shower in the desert
fallen in love
looked into the eyes of a child that adored me
tried on $200,000 pieces of jewelry (back when I worked at Tiffany's... it's really not that special)
had a first kiss that left me breathless and absolutely giddy
been a published writer
owned my own business
Wrigley Field
top of WTC/lunch at Windows on the World
bought a red car
Things I'll Never Do, But Would Be Cool Anyway
carrier landing in an F-14 or F-18
fly on the Concorde
quit my job and travel the world
see penguins in their natural habitat
learn to ski (but only when I'm prepared to break bones)
establish a foundation at a children's hospital for kids and their families dealing with long-term care
write a novel (it really belongs here, doesn't it?)
laser eye surgery (sorry, I just can't get into elective surgeries)
drive across the country alone, on lazy backroads, seeing what each place is really all about
be a New York City girl
become a jewelry designer
live in another country
Rough Day
Yesterday was the kind of day that just kept smacking me around. First it was the keys. Then last night at the studio, I slammed my finger in the door. I actually thought I'd broken it, but that was just the swelling. It's able to bend its puffy, purplish self today, and the cut seems to be in decent condition. Then as the night went on, my back started to ache. I haven't had problems with my back in a really long time, but it was so incredibly stiff. I made C put Biofreeze on it. Now, I've used Biofreeze in small quantities before for localized muscle tightness, but when you put it all over your back it's like someone set you on fire. Christ, I thought I was going to die. It took hours to doze off while the icy-hot healing power burned a hole through my skin. My back feels better today, but I'm exhausted from the inability to sleep. So now I'm drinking caffeine. Word of warning: there will probably be lots of caffeine-induced babbling writing coming as the day progresses.
Yesterday was the kind of day that just kept smacking me around. First it was the keys. Then last night at the studio, I slammed my finger in the door. I actually thought I'd broken it, but that was just the swelling. It's able to bend its puffy, purplish self today, and the cut seems to be in decent condition. Then as the night went on, my back started to ache. I haven't had problems with my back in a really long time, but it was so incredibly stiff. I made C put Biofreeze on it. Now, I've used Biofreeze in small quantities before for localized muscle tightness, but when you put it all over your back it's like someone set you on fire. Christ, I thought I was going to die. It took hours to doze off while the icy-hot healing power burned a hole through my skin. My back feels better today, but I'm exhausted from the inability to sleep. So now I'm drinking caffeine. Word of warning: there will probably be lots of caffeine-induced babbling writing coming as the day progresses.
Runaways
My best friend from high school has a niece that her parents have been raising for the last two years. K is 17 now. Like her mother, she was a wild child with no shortage of problems until she came to live with her grandparents. Everything has been good since. Until a week and a half ago, when she ran away with absolutely no warning and seemingly no cause. She came back last night at the hands of the police.
All of this prompts a million questions in my mind. What made her leave? Did she think about where she was going? Was there a plan? Did she have any plans to come back? Did she even think about her grandparents and how worried they would be, not to mention the rest of her family? What about school? What made her come back? Was she found or did she go to the police because she wanted to be found? How do you come back after you've run away? Did she realize that she'd lost all of their trust and their faith in her? Does she think that this is no big deal? How are her grandparents going to handle it? Will they want to kick her ass or will they be relieved that she's home? How will they ever let her out of their sight again?
And here's the classic for me: didn't it occur to her that next week is Thanksgiving and she would have to face the disapproval of her entire family in one place at dinner? That alone might be enough to send me out the door again. God, that's 2 grandparents, a mother, 6 aunts and uncles and their various spouses and significant others, and at least three cousins that are old enough to know what's going on. Ouch. Happy holidays to you!
My best friend from high school has a niece that her parents have been raising for the last two years. K is 17 now. Like her mother, she was a wild child with no shortage of problems until she came to live with her grandparents. Everything has been good since. Until a week and a half ago, when she ran away with absolutely no warning and seemingly no cause. She came back last night at the hands of the police.
All of this prompts a million questions in my mind. What made her leave? Did she think about where she was going? Was there a plan? Did she have any plans to come back? Did she even think about her grandparents and how worried they would be, not to mention the rest of her family? What about school? What made her come back? Was she found or did she go to the police because she wanted to be found? How do you come back after you've run away? Did she realize that she'd lost all of their trust and their faith in her? Does she think that this is no big deal? How are her grandparents going to handle it? Will they want to kick her ass or will they be relieved that she's home? How will they ever let her out of their sight again?
And here's the classic for me: didn't it occur to her that next week is Thanksgiving and she would have to face the disapproval of her entire family in one place at dinner? That alone might be enough to send me out the door again. God, that's 2 grandparents, a mother, 6 aunts and uncles and their various spouses and significant others, and at least three cousins that are old enough to know what's going on. Ouch. Happy holidays to you!
Thursday, November 20, 2003
Never Too Old
I had feared that I was just too old for a miniskirt, but I went to work today in black knee-high boots, black tights, black mini and a conservative pink turtleneck sweater. Got rather fabulous response, none of which had an implied "old tramp" sense about it. Maybe I'm not that old after all.
I had feared that I was just too old for a miniskirt, but I went to work today in black knee-high boots, black tights, black mini and a conservative pink turtleneck sweater. Got rather fabulous response, none of which had an implied "old tramp" sense about it. Maybe I'm not that old after all.
Keys
I never lose anything. Ever. So when I realized today that I'd lost my keys, I was in an absolute panic. I had a lunch meeting with my boss at Toma's and no way to get there. I searched this cube high and low, wandered my path from the lot to my desk, and they were nowhere to be found. I sent an e-mail to the lead admin hoping that they had turned up somewhere. I had to bum a ride with a friend to get to lunch.
When I returned, they were on my keyboard. I didn't leave them there, that's for sure. I have no idea who found them, but I'm waiting to go to my car and have this Ferris Bueller moment where I realize that the car's been driven 200 miles while I wasn't looking.
I never lose anything. Ever. So when I realized today that I'd lost my keys, I was in an absolute panic. I had a lunch meeting with my boss at Toma's and no way to get there. I searched this cube high and low, wandered my path from the lot to my desk, and they were nowhere to be found. I sent an e-mail to the lead admin hoping that they had turned up somewhere. I had to bum a ride with a friend to get to lunch.
When I returned, they were on my keyboard. I didn't leave them there, that's for sure. I have no idea who found them, but I'm waiting to go to my car and have this Ferris Bueller moment where I realize that the car's been driven 200 miles while I wasn't looking.
In Custody
Michael Jackson is in custody. Damn. I was hoping for an OJ slow-speed chase, or maybe to discover that he's spent the last week getting plastic surgery to make him look black again... no one would ever look for a black Michael on the run.
Michael Jackson is in custody. Damn. I was hoping for an OJ slow-speed chase, or maybe to discover that he's spent the last week getting plastic surgery to make him look black again... no one would ever look for a black Michael on the run.
Sexiest Man Alive?
Johnny Depp? Really? Are you sure? I can think of many that are better. Spike from Buffy is tops on my list, as though that might surprise someone. Owen Nolan of the Maple Leafs. Pierce Brosnan (but maybe that's just a James Bond thing... or an Irish accent thing... hard to tell). Derek Jeter of the Yankees, as much as I hate to be on that bandwagon... but he's got such great eyes and a great sense of humor.
Look at People's top 10 for this year:
Brad Pitt (ok, if we're basing it on the shirt-off scenes in Fight Club, then maybe...)
Ashton Kutcher (not remotely)
George Clooney (hmmmm... I don't know. He wouldn't be high on my list, but he's not bad)
Lenny Kravitz (no)
Justin Timberlake (no, I'm not 16)
Hugh Grant (can be sexy in movies, but no appeal as the man himself)
Russell Crowe (no)
Hugh Jackman (no)
Denzel Washington (he's ok, I have nothing against him, but there are much sexier men)
Colin Farrell (god, no)
Johnny Depp? Really? Are you sure? I can think of many that are better. Spike from Buffy is tops on my list, as though that might surprise someone. Owen Nolan of the Maple Leafs. Pierce Brosnan (but maybe that's just a James Bond thing... or an Irish accent thing... hard to tell). Derek Jeter of the Yankees, as much as I hate to be on that bandwagon... but he's got such great eyes and a great sense of humor.
Look at People's top 10 for this year:
Brad Pitt (ok, if we're basing it on the shirt-off scenes in Fight Club, then maybe...)
Ashton Kutcher (not remotely)
George Clooney (hmmmm... I don't know. He wouldn't be high on my list, but he's not bad)
Lenny Kravitz (no)
Justin Timberlake (no, I'm not 16)
Hugh Grant (can be sexy in movies, but no appeal as the man himself)
Russell Crowe (no)
Hugh Jackman (no)
Denzel Washington (he's ok, I have nothing against him, but there are much sexier men)
Colin Farrell (god, no)
Wednesday, November 19, 2003
Michael Jackson
Is there anyone in the world that's surprised by this? What took the police so long? And what kind of parent would actually let their child go anywhere near the weirdo?
Is there anyone in the world that's surprised by this? What took the police so long? And what kind of parent would actually let their child go anywhere near the weirdo?
WTC Memorial
The finalists. The votives remind me of everything that I always found beautiful about Catholic churches. The stars appeal to me on some level, but that one with the glassy cloud absolutely gives me the chills (is that good or bad? the Vietnam memorial hits me the same way). For as much as I usually like water and fountains, the watery designs really creep me out. Somehow the watery memorial bothers me.
How can you build a memorial that really expresses any of it? They just become names, no meaning behind it. Naming Michael won't explain that he was a cool guy, a former Navy pilot with a wicked sense of humor and a great smile, that he loved Miriam and the kids, that we'll forever know that it was his plane that we all watched slam into the tower over and over again on video until it seemed unreal. Part of all of us died with him. How can you explain that? How can you convey any of the lives? They're just names.
The finalists. The votives remind me of everything that I always found beautiful about Catholic churches. The stars appeal to me on some level, but that one with the glassy cloud absolutely gives me the chills (is that good or bad? the Vietnam memorial hits me the same way). For as much as I usually like water and fountains, the watery designs really creep me out. Somehow the watery memorial bothers me.
How can you build a memorial that really expresses any of it? They just become names, no meaning behind it. Naming Michael won't explain that he was a cool guy, a former Navy pilot with a wicked sense of humor and a great smile, that he loved Miriam and the kids, that we'll forever know that it was his plane that we all watched slam into the tower over and over again on video until it seemed unreal. Part of all of us died with him. How can you explain that? How can you convey any of the lives? They're just names.
Damn Frank Sinatra
I woke up with Sinatra in my head. I like the song, but I need to get it out of there. And, even worse, I can only remember the words to the first two verses.
Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.
Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you
And the way you look tonight.
I woke up with Sinatra in my head. I like the song, but I need to get it out of there. And, even worse, I can only remember the words to the first two verses.
Some day, when I'm awfully low,
When the world is cold,
I will feel a glow just thinking of you
And the way you look tonight.
Yes you're lovely, with your smile so warm
And your cheeks so soft,
There is nothing for me but to love you
And the way you look tonight.
Tuesday, November 18, 2003
Sheltered Lives
Ok, so I lived a fairly sheltered life. I dated some guys, no one terribly exciting, and lusted after several others. I spent 2 1/2 years with a guy I didn't love but I thought was too unstable to withstand the breakup (turns out that I was right). There was the three years of on-again, off-again relationship with the blonde that overlapped the previously mentioned unstable relationship (is it cheating if you feel nothing but pity for the person you're dating?), but never amounted to anything since he was just in it for the chase, in spite of his claim that he wanted to marry me. There was the longhaired guy who lived in the basement at college, and the redhead from home who felt more like a brother than a boyfriend. There was my tall blonde, 6'9", who was not very bright and would have driven me crazy if I hadn't graduated and gotten out. There was my Bostonian, who I had a desperate crush on for four years, but when he finally decided he wanted to sleep with me, I realized that the reality would never be as good as what I'd imagined it to be, so I declined. There was my best friend's little brother, a stunning combination of looks, sense of humor, and the ability to kiss so well that I wondered if I'd need a difibrillator to get my heart started again... oh, if only he wasn't three years younger, which was an eternity in college. Two Marines, one Army, three firemen, an EMT, a radical environmentalist, two engineers, a total loser, a cop and one who served prison time (wahoo!)
Do I have any regrets? I'm glad I turned down the Norwegian in my last weeks before graduation. I wish that the little brother had been older, because I just couldn't handle the thought of a long-term, long-distance relationship with a college guy post-graduation (which is sad because we would have had a blast; he's one of the two men on this planet that I still have a crush on). I wish that the timing had been different for one of the blondes. And I wish that I'd realized that the seemingly normal guy I'd known for years was capable of violence the night he beat me up and raped me. Not exactly the way you want your first time to be, but that's what I get for waiting for the right guy.
The point of all of this is that there's nothing you can do with the past. It just is what it is. It's all stuff that shaped me into who I am today. I do think that my sheltered life has led me to somewhat fantasize about the alternate lives I could be living if I were single, but I just am what I am. Nothing that can be done, right?
Ok, so I lived a fairly sheltered life. I dated some guys, no one terribly exciting, and lusted after several others. I spent 2 1/2 years with a guy I didn't love but I thought was too unstable to withstand the breakup (turns out that I was right). There was the three years of on-again, off-again relationship with the blonde that overlapped the previously mentioned unstable relationship (is it cheating if you feel nothing but pity for the person you're dating?), but never amounted to anything since he was just in it for the chase, in spite of his claim that he wanted to marry me. There was the longhaired guy who lived in the basement at college, and the redhead from home who felt more like a brother than a boyfriend. There was my tall blonde, 6'9", who was not very bright and would have driven me crazy if I hadn't graduated and gotten out. There was my Bostonian, who I had a desperate crush on for four years, but when he finally decided he wanted to sleep with me, I realized that the reality would never be as good as what I'd imagined it to be, so I declined. There was my best friend's little brother, a stunning combination of looks, sense of humor, and the ability to kiss so well that I wondered if I'd need a difibrillator to get my heart started again... oh, if only he wasn't three years younger, which was an eternity in college. Two Marines, one Army, three firemen, an EMT, a radical environmentalist, two engineers, a total loser, a cop and one who served prison time (wahoo!)
Do I have any regrets? I'm glad I turned down the Norwegian in my last weeks before graduation. I wish that the little brother had been older, because I just couldn't handle the thought of a long-term, long-distance relationship with a college guy post-graduation (which is sad because we would have had a blast; he's one of the two men on this planet that I still have a crush on). I wish that the timing had been different for one of the blondes. And I wish that I'd realized that the seemingly normal guy I'd known for years was capable of violence the night he beat me up and raped me. Not exactly the way you want your first time to be, but that's what I get for waiting for the right guy.
The point of all of this is that there's nothing you can do with the past. It just is what it is. It's all stuff that shaped me into who I am today. I do think that my sheltered life has led me to somewhat fantasize about the alternate lives I could be living if I were single, but I just am what I am. Nothing that can be done, right?
Sort of Fascinating
I realize that with the passage of time I'm becoming less of a writer. I don't know if this is a result of my increased awareness of what quality writing is, or if I'm just so out of practice in writing anything other than businessspeak that I can't manage to get the scenes and thoughts from my head down onto paper. Maybe it's both. It doesn't stop me from writing here, but I'm also coming to a point where I no longer harbor any illusions about a career as a writer. The novel isn't in me. I just have a million different stories that rattle in my head and get put into a disjointed blog. It's hardly the stuff that dreams are made of.
There's a lot of stuff in my head, a lot of it darker than I'd like it to be. Most of it comes from me grappling with my own issues like depression and death and fear of bankruptcy and paranoia that my husband is outgrowing our relationship. There's no reason why I can't intertwine all of those themes and make them into subplots in a story, except that I can't seem to write creatively anymore.
The most interesting thing is that we all use the same words. From the best author to the worst hack, we all have the same arsenal of words at our disposal. We piece them together into a puzzle that we call our own, but the elements are all the same.
Writing is a challenge. It's not like art. Paintings can be seen as a whole, and then investigated in their component parts. You look at the Mona Lisa and see a woman (maybe), then a dark-haired woman, a woman with a mysterious smile, the scenery in the background... you have the luxury of noticing more or less depending on your interest. With a book, or any sort of writing, you have to pursue it slowly, each page an element of its own building to a holistic vision at the end. It reveals itself slowly, like a striptease, each page or chapter removing one article of clothing after another until it stands before you, naked to the world, with nothing left to reveal. Maybe that's what I fear. Maybe it's the nakedness, the revelation. Every author says that the story isn't about them but on some level it's always about them. The stories come from their own experiences. And you think that you can hide behind quotation marks and the implications that the thoughts or feelings belong to the character, but in the end it's always a part of you that you're giving up. And everyone who reads it will know you in all of your nakedness, just as anyone who reads this blog will be able to see deeper inside me than any one person really has any interest in knowing. Does anyone really want to know? Especially the darker side of things. Does anyone who knows me want to see that far inside and know the things that I feel and think? It's easier to look into the story of a stranger, the voyeur peeking through the window to catch a glimpse of what goes on when someone doesn't think they're being watched.
I realize that with the passage of time I'm becoming less of a writer. I don't know if this is a result of my increased awareness of what quality writing is, or if I'm just so out of practice in writing anything other than businessspeak that I can't manage to get the scenes and thoughts from my head down onto paper. Maybe it's both. It doesn't stop me from writing here, but I'm also coming to a point where I no longer harbor any illusions about a career as a writer. The novel isn't in me. I just have a million different stories that rattle in my head and get put into a disjointed blog. It's hardly the stuff that dreams are made of.
There's a lot of stuff in my head, a lot of it darker than I'd like it to be. Most of it comes from me grappling with my own issues like depression and death and fear of bankruptcy and paranoia that my husband is outgrowing our relationship. There's no reason why I can't intertwine all of those themes and make them into subplots in a story, except that I can't seem to write creatively anymore.
The most interesting thing is that we all use the same words. From the best author to the worst hack, we all have the same arsenal of words at our disposal. We piece them together into a puzzle that we call our own, but the elements are all the same.
Writing is a challenge. It's not like art. Paintings can be seen as a whole, and then investigated in their component parts. You look at the Mona Lisa and see a woman (maybe), then a dark-haired woman, a woman with a mysterious smile, the scenery in the background... you have the luxury of noticing more or less depending on your interest. With a book, or any sort of writing, you have to pursue it slowly, each page an element of its own building to a holistic vision at the end. It reveals itself slowly, like a striptease, each page or chapter removing one article of clothing after another until it stands before you, naked to the world, with nothing left to reveal. Maybe that's what I fear. Maybe it's the nakedness, the revelation. Every author says that the story isn't about them but on some level it's always about them. The stories come from their own experiences. And you think that you can hide behind quotation marks and the implications that the thoughts or feelings belong to the character, but in the end it's always a part of you that you're giving up. And everyone who reads it will know you in all of your nakedness, just as anyone who reads this blog will be able to see deeper inside me than any one person really has any interest in knowing. Does anyone really want to know? Especially the darker side of things. Does anyone who knows me want to see that far inside and know the things that I feel and think? It's easier to look into the story of a stranger, the voyeur peeking through the window to catch a glimpse of what goes on when someone doesn't think they're being watched.
Fictiony Scenes
One would ask why I bother writing this stuff, knowing that it's not good, but that's why there are anonymous blogs. I can write whatever I want, however cheesy, just to get a scene out of my head. It doesn't have to be good. It never has to be good. Nobody edits their diary, and that's what I use this for. This, of course, is my justification for why I don't feel humiliated to let these poorly-written scenes out of my head.
She reached towards him, and casually mentioned that his shirt tag was sticking out. She graciously offered to tuck it back in, and he agreed. The entire act couldn't have taken more than three seconds, but to her it was an eternity. Gently reaching for the tag, she slowly returned it to its normal position, grazing his skin and letting her fingers linger for just a moment too long as she felt the warmth from his body. Trying to push more complicated thoughts from her head at the conference table, she couldn't keep out imaginary images of him shirtless with his arms wrapped around her, kissing her until she was breathless, his lips on that sensitive spot on her neck that made her whole body tingle.... She hoped that her cheeks hadn't flushed with embarrassment as she returned her hand to her own space and began absentmindedly doodling alongside her meeting notes.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what it was about this woman that her touch made him want to grab her and kiss her. He watched the way she sat, the curves of her leg in its black stockings, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, and the dancing light in her eyes. Her cheeks were slightly pink as though the room had grown suddenly hot. He carefully let his pen drop from his hands in her general direction, and bent over to check out her legs while picking it up. Without thinking, he brushed against her leg with his left hand and couldn't tell from the look on her face which one of them was more surprised that he'd done it. He smiled at her -- god, she had beautiful eyes -- and returned to an upright position, forcing himself to focus on the numbers in the presentation they were watching.
He was the only one who stayed at the office late. He had weekly calls with each of the Asian divisions, and their early morning was his early evening. He was finishing up one of these calls when he heard the security pad at the door beep. Someone was coming back to the office. He leaned out the door and caught a glimpse of the top of her head over the sea of cubicles. She must have forgotten something. As he said his goodbyes, he turned his chair towards the door to leave. She was standing in the doorway, arms extended like she was trying to hold up the sides with her strength.
"Hi," she said. "I'm surprised you're still here."
"Singapore calls always run long for some reason," he explained.
"Oh." There was an awkward pause while her brain scrambled for something to say. "I was going to stop and get some Chinese for dinner, but I left my wallet on my desk." She let the sentence trail off, wondering if he'd invite himself to come along.
"It's been ages since I've had Chinese," he said quickly. "Would you mind company?"
She smiled. "Not at all. You're welcome to join me anytime."
He walked towards her, reaching for the lightswitch. The office was bathed in the low bluish glow of the evening lights. She didn't move from her spot in the doorway. "Are you going to let me out, or do I have to pick you up and move you?" he said, laughing. He could tell that she was smiling even though her face was in shadow. "I'd really like to see you pick me up and move me," said her silhouette. He reached around her and grabbed her by the waist. She let out a barely audible noise and let her arms drop down onto his. There was no fighting this, was there? In an instant, their lips met with a passion that only first kisses can possess. He pulled her close and pressed her body between him and the door. She pulled away for a moment. "This probably isn't the best place for this," she whispered. "Follow me." She turned her back to head out the door. He pulled her to him and found her neck with his lips. Her knees turned to jello. "Then again, right here is just fine." She kicked the door closed and led him to the couch, delighting in the exploration of every inch of him.
One would ask why I bother writing this stuff, knowing that it's not good, but that's why there are anonymous blogs. I can write whatever I want, however cheesy, just to get a scene out of my head. It doesn't have to be good. It never has to be good. Nobody edits their diary, and that's what I use this for. This, of course, is my justification for why I don't feel humiliated to let these poorly-written scenes out of my head.
She reached towards him, and casually mentioned that his shirt tag was sticking out. She graciously offered to tuck it back in, and he agreed. The entire act couldn't have taken more than three seconds, but to her it was an eternity. Gently reaching for the tag, she slowly returned it to its normal position, grazing his skin and letting her fingers linger for just a moment too long as she felt the warmth from his body. Trying to push more complicated thoughts from her head at the conference table, she couldn't keep out imaginary images of him shirtless with his arms wrapped around her, kissing her until she was breathless, his lips on that sensitive spot on her neck that made her whole body tingle.... She hoped that her cheeks hadn't flushed with embarrassment as she returned her hand to her own space and began absentmindedly doodling alongside her meeting notes.
He looked at her out of the corner of his eye, wondering what it was about this woman that her touch made him want to grab her and kiss her. He watched the way she sat, the curves of her leg in its black stockings, the way she tucked her hair behind her ear, and the dancing light in her eyes. Her cheeks were slightly pink as though the room had grown suddenly hot. He carefully let his pen drop from his hands in her general direction, and bent over to check out her legs while picking it up. Without thinking, he brushed against her leg with his left hand and couldn't tell from the look on her face which one of them was more surprised that he'd done it. He smiled at her -- god, she had beautiful eyes -- and returned to an upright position, forcing himself to focus on the numbers in the presentation they were watching.
He was the only one who stayed at the office late. He had weekly calls with each of the Asian divisions, and their early morning was his early evening. He was finishing up one of these calls when he heard the security pad at the door beep. Someone was coming back to the office. He leaned out the door and caught a glimpse of the top of her head over the sea of cubicles. She must have forgotten something. As he said his goodbyes, he turned his chair towards the door to leave. She was standing in the doorway, arms extended like she was trying to hold up the sides with her strength.
"Hi," she said. "I'm surprised you're still here."
"Singapore calls always run long for some reason," he explained.
"Oh." There was an awkward pause while her brain scrambled for something to say. "I was going to stop and get some Chinese for dinner, but I left my wallet on my desk." She let the sentence trail off, wondering if he'd invite himself to come along.
"It's been ages since I've had Chinese," he said quickly. "Would you mind company?"
She smiled. "Not at all. You're welcome to join me anytime."
He walked towards her, reaching for the lightswitch. The office was bathed in the low bluish glow of the evening lights. She didn't move from her spot in the doorway. "Are you going to let me out, or do I have to pick you up and move you?" he said, laughing. He could tell that she was smiling even though her face was in shadow. "I'd really like to see you pick me up and move me," said her silhouette. He reached around her and grabbed her by the waist. She let out a barely audible noise and let her arms drop down onto his. There was no fighting this, was there? In an instant, their lips met with a passion that only first kisses can possess. He pulled her close and pressed her body between him and the door. She pulled away for a moment. "This probably isn't the best place for this," she whispered. "Follow me." She turned her back to head out the door. He pulled her to him and found her neck with his lips. Her knees turned to jello. "Then again, right here is just fine." She kicked the door closed and led him to the couch, delighting in the exploration of every inch of him.
Sleep
I can't sleep again. I know that I'll be in bed until 30-60 minutes before the alarm, at which point I'll sink into the deepest sleep of my life, leaving me even more exhausted when the alarm goes off. I don't know what it is this time. I can't pinpoint anything. So what's my remedy? Get up and work, naturally. It's a stupid thing to do because it's precisely the last thing on earth I want to be doing.
I can't sleep again. I know that I'll be in bed until 30-60 minutes before the alarm, at which point I'll sink into the deepest sleep of my life, leaving me even more exhausted when the alarm goes off. I don't know what it is this time. I can't pinpoint anything. So what's my remedy? Get up and work, naturally. It's a stupid thing to do because it's precisely the last thing on earth I want to be doing.
Monday, November 17, 2003
I Can't Deal With This
A guy from the office is getting sent back to Iraq on Jan 1. He just got back over the summer when they recalled the Marines after we supposedly ceased combat. Now they're recalling him for another tour. I remember when I used to want to be Navy more than anything in the world. Now I have absolutely no tolerance for the military. Maybe because I'm scared. Maybe because I have this sinking feeling that this guy with the great sense of humor won't be coming back. Maybe because I know enough about middle east politics and policy to know that we're in over our heads and completely fucked, and that the lives of good people are being lost on both sides for a war based on false pretenses. Shit. I hope to god that he makes it through this ok.
A guy from the office is getting sent back to Iraq on Jan 1. He just got back over the summer when they recalled the Marines after we supposedly ceased combat. Now they're recalling him for another tour. I remember when I used to want to be Navy more than anything in the world. Now I have absolutely no tolerance for the military. Maybe because I'm scared. Maybe because I have this sinking feeling that this guy with the great sense of humor won't be coming back. Maybe because I know enough about middle east politics and policy to know that we're in over our heads and completely fucked, and that the lives of good people are being lost on both sides for a war based on false pretenses. Shit. I hope to god that he makes it through this ok.
Fictional Questions
What if your idential twin was mentally ill? Would you worry about your future and chances more than if it was hereditary through previous generations?
Ever since seeing the world Scrabble tournament on ESPN 2, I wonder if every activity could have a high-stakes championship tournament. Bingo. Tic-tac-toe. I think it would be classic to send a neurotic character to the World Bingo Championship in Omaha, Nebraska. It's one of those obscure comic subplots, with the nutty coworker prepping for the event at lunchtime.
How do people cope with losing the love of their life?
How do people cope with the birth of a child and the changes that accompany it? What's it like to go from being the most important thing in someone's life to a distant number two?
Can you ever really go home again?
What if your idential twin was mentally ill? Would you worry about your future and chances more than if it was hereditary through previous generations?
Ever since seeing the world Scrabble tournament on ESPN 2, I wonder if every activity could have a high-stakes championship tournament. Bingo. Tic-tac-toe. I think it would be classic to send a neurotic character to the World Bingo Championship in Omaha, Nebraska. It's one of those obscure comic subplots, with the nutty coworker prepping for the event at lunchtime.
How do people cope with losing the love of their life?
How do people cope with the birth of a child and the changes that accompany it? What's it like to go from being the most important thing in someone's life to a distant number two?
Can you ever really go home again?
Sunday, November 16, 2003
Sunday Night
As usual, I look upon the week ahead with an unnatural level of dread. It's not like the old days where I'd be awake all night hating myself for not having the balls to just walk out the door. The business ended that. I know I need this job now, even if it ruins my brain for 40+ hours a week, because the money is funding something much, much better. Of course, I can also hope that I can recover large sums of money as a tax refund to help offset the business cost, but that's another issue entirely.
I feel ok, though. I went out to the movies. Yesterday, I didn't set an alarm and just stayed in bed as long as I wanted. This sounds so trivial, but it was, without a doubt, the best-feeling decision I'd made in a long time. I gradually adjusted to being awake, read a little, talked a little, and in the end, got up when I felt well-rested and ready to face the day. I realize that normal people do this all the time, but for someone who feels like they need to race down to the studio to offer my support every day, it just felt beautiful.
My head is aching -- the rain to sun to rain transitions are tormenting my sinuses -- so the light from the computer is making me crazy. God help me, I think it might be the right night to read a book. Gasp! Can you imagine such an antiquated thing?
As usual, I look upon the week ahead with an unnatural level of dread. It's not like the old days where I'd be awake all night hating myself for not having the balls to just walk out the door. The business ended that. I know I need this job now, even if it ruins my brain for 40+ hours a week, because the money is funding something much, much better. Of course, I can also hope that I can recover large sums of money as a tax refund to help offset the business cost, but that's another issue entirely.
I feel ok, though. I went out to the movies. Yesterday, I didn't set an alarm and just stayed in bed as long as I wanted. This sounds so trivial, but it was, without a doubt, the best-feeling decision I'd made in a long time. I gradually adjusted to being awake, read a little, talked a little, and in the end, got up when I felt well-rested and ready to face the day. I realize that normal people do this all the time, but for someone who feels like they need to race down to the studio to offer my support every day, it just felt beautiful.
My head is aching -- the rain to sun to rain transitions are tormenting my sinuses -- so the light from the computer is making me crazy. God help me, I think it might be the right night to read a book. Gasp! Can you imagine such an antiquated thing?
Shocked
Good friends of mine, M & S, have been together for 8 years. They have a great relationship, the kind that other people envy. They're friends and lovers and have a great time together. You couldn't ask for a more compatible couple.
Last night she discovered his file of women he's met on Match.com. He's had an ad posted for two years. She's devastated, he's claiming that it didn't mean anything, and I'm left reeling, wondering if there's any such thing as a secure relationship. Do you ever really know the other person?
Good friends of mine, M & S, have been together for 8 years. They have a great relationship, the kind that other people envy. They're friends and lovers and have a great time together. You couldn't ask for a more compatible couple.
Last night she discovered his file of women he's met on Match.com. He's had an ad posted for two years. She's devastated, he's claiming that it didn't mean anything, and I'm left reeling, wondering if there's any such thing as a secure relationship. Do you ever really know the other person?
Friday, November 14, 2003
Changes
I'm having a damned hard time finding something to wear for this holiday party I've got next month. To look at me, you wouldn't notice that I'm any different than a year or two ago. But this whole pilates thing, while it's really good for me, is completely changing my body shape and making me even harder to fit. My hips... they're not any bigger, but because I've really built my quadriceps, the darned things stick out and pull the material funny in every pair of pants I try on, which in turn pulls everything across my hips and gives the impression that my hips themselves are too large. So in less than two years I've gone from a size 4 to a size 10. I'm not sure that this is a good thing when I go to the store and struggle to clothe myself. My back gets stronger, my shoulders are more shapely (I guess), and now I can't wear any shirt smaller than a large. This is a problem because I don't have the breasts required to make a large shirt fit properly.
Breasts. We all make such a big deal out of them. I used to be so terribly obsessed with their smallness. Now... should I say I don't care about them? I do, I guess, but I worry that they're going to cause me trouble. Now that all three of the sisters (grandmom, Grace and Blanche) have had breast cancer, it makes me wonder if I should get tested for the gene. Not that the gene itself is a guarantee one way or another, but I just wonder if I should know that my risks are higher or lower than the average population. I just can't imagine finding out that two things that are so small could betray me like that. It seems wrong. They're such a small part of me, and I'd hate to think that they have the possibility to cause so much trouble. But without mom ever going to a doctor, we'd never know if she had cancer unless she ended up with a tumor the size of a watermelon. That would get her attention, but even then I doubt that she'd go to the doctor about it. Stubborn as all hell.
I'm having a damned hard time finding something to wear for this holiday party I've got next month. To look at me, you wouldn't notice that I'm any different than a year or two ago. But this whole pilates thing, while it's really good for me, is completely changing my body shape and making me even harder to fit. My hips... they're not any bigger, but because I've really built my quadriceps, the darned things stick out and pull the material funny in every pair of pants I try on, which in turn pulls everything across my hips and gives the impression that my hips themselves are too large. So in less than two years I've gone from a size 4 to a size 10. I'm not sure that this is a good thing when I go to the store and struggle to clothe myself. My back gets stronger, my shoulders are more shapely (I guess), and now I can't wear any shirt smaller than a large. This is a problem because I don't have the breasts required to make a large shirt fit properly.
Breasts. We all make such a big deal out of them. I used to be so terribly obsessed with their smallness. Now... should I say I don't care about them? I do, I guess, but I worry that they're going to cause me trouble. Now that all three of the sisters (grandmom, Grace and Blanche) have had breast cancer, it makes me wonder if I should get tested for the gene. Not that the gene itself is a guarantee one way or another, but I just wonder if I should know that my risks are higher or lower than the average population. I just can't imagine finding out that two things that are so small could betray me like that. It seems wrong. They're such a small part of me, and I'd hate to think that they have the possibility to cause so much trouble. But without mom ever going to a doctor, we'd never know if she had cancer unless she ended up with a tumor the size of a watermelon. That would get her attention, but even then I doubt that she'd go to the doctor about it. Stubborn as all hell.
It's a Boy
Our friends have found out that their baby-to-be (arriving sometime near Valentine's Day) is a boy. He's going to be named Stefano (clearly her Italian names won out over his British choices). Of course, they're still debating about his last name -- she still uses her maiden name -- and what citizenships they want him to have. But I suppose she'll win on that one, too. After all, he's huddled in a corner in a panic after watching their first video at childbirth class. Poor bastard. It's not for the squeamish. My friend, when pregnant with her twins, watched that video and firmly decided that the twins were not coming out. Ever. She just couldn't handle the thought of it.
Our friends have found out that their baby-to-be (arriving sometime near Valentine's Day) is a boy. He's going to be named Stefano (clearly her Italian names won out over his British choices). Of course, they're still debating about his last name -- she still uses her maiden name -- and what citizenships they want him to have. But I suppose she'll win on that one, too. After all, he's huddled in a corner in a panic after watching their first video at childbirth class. Poor bastard. It's not for the squeamish. My friend, when pregnant with her twins, watched that video and firmly decided that the twins were not coming out. Ever. She just couldn't handle the thought of it.
What Do You Do?
I dropped my car off at Audi yesterday and the service guy, making conversation, says, "So what do you do?" I replied, "I'm a marketing manager at a software company by day." He looks really intrigued and says, "Does that mean you have some secret life at night?" I suspected that he wanted to think that I was an exotic dancer or something intriguing, so I replied, "At night I'm a crime-fighting superhero. Haven't you heard of me?" He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was kidding or not, but when he didn't see a cape he decided that I was just a joker and laughed awkwardly.
My favorite combination was once telling a guy that I was a librarian by day and a dominatrix by night. He sort of stammered for a moment, and then said, "Oddly enough, I think I believe you. You look like you just might fit the bill on both counts." Yeah buddy, don't let the glasses and freckles fool you. I have an arsenal of whips, chains and leather.
I dropped my car off at Audi yesterday and the service guy, making conversation, says, "So what do you do?" I replied, "I'm a marketing manager at a software company by day." He looks really intrigued and says, "Does that mean you have some secret life at night?" I suspected that he wanted to think that I was an exotic dancer or something intriguing, so I replied, "At night I'm a crime-fighting superhero. Haven't you heard of me?" He looked at me like he wasn't sure if I was kidding or not, but when he didn't see a cape he decided that I was just a joker and laughed awkwardly.
My favorite combination was once telling a guy that I was a librarian by day and a dominatrix by night. He sort of stammered for a moment, and then said, "Oddly enough, I think I believe you. You look like you just might fit the bill on both counts." Yeah buddy, don't let the glasses and freckles fool you. I have an arsenal of whips, chains and leather.
And the Idiot of the Week Award Goes to...
I have a system for getting out of the area after a hockey game. I park in the free garage about four blocks away, over near the restaurants, and walk over on the back road, as opposed to on the main street with the smoking, drunken throng of people. The system never fails. I usually just hop in my car, head down the spiral exit ramp and I'm home before most people even get to their cars.
Last night, I got about half a level down in the spiral before getting stuck in traffic. Nothing was moving. Then slowly, we'd creep forward. Stop. Creep. Stop. I'm baffled. In three years the system has never failed me, and this time it's worse than I could have ever imagined. I finally inch my way down to level 2 and see the problem: a guy in a white Ford Excursion (the ultra-enormous rival of the Chevy Suburban) with a roof rack for skis has gotten stuck in the spiral. Yes, stuck. Wedged in so tightly that he can't move forward or backward. All of the other traffic has to inch by him very slowly, because of course there's only about six inches to spare on those spirals in the first place. To add humor to the situation, the guy had gotten out of the monstrously large truck and was now standing there, staring at the place where the roof rack meets the ceiling, with this look of, "How dare you do this to me?" Something tells me that he won't be in any hurry to park in that garage again.
I have a system for getting out of the area after a hockey game. I park in the free garage about four blocks away, over near the restaurants, and walk over on the back road, as opposed to on the main street with the smoking, drunken throng of people. The system never fails. I usually just hop in my car, head down the spiral exit ramp and I'm home before most people even get to their cars.
Last night, I got about half a level down in the spiral before getting stuck in traffic. Nothing was moving. Then slowly, we'd creep forward. Stop. Creep. Stop. I'm baffled. In three years the system has never failed me, and this time it's worse than I could have ever imagined. I finally inch my way down to level 2 and see the problem: a guy in a white Ford Excursion (the ultra-enormous rival of the Chevy Suburban) with a roof rack for skis has gotten stuck in the spiral. Yes, stuck. Wedged in so tightly that he can't move forward or backward. All of the other traffic has to inch by him very slowly, because of course there's only about six inches to spare on those spirals in the first place. To add humor to the situation, the guy had gotten out of the monstrously large truck and was now standing there, staring at the place where the roof rack meets the ceiling, with this look of, "How dare you do this to me?" Something tells me that he won't be in any hurry to park in that garage again.
Thursday, November 13, 2003
:-)
Since I know you'll read this eventually... congratulations on the new job! I'm really happy for you, in a jealous kind of way. But at the moment I think I'm more jealous of your massage appointment tonight. I think I could use that more than a job right now. :-)
Since I know you'll read this eventually... congratulations on the new job! I'm really happy for you, in a jealous kind of way. But at the moment I think I'm more jealous of your massage appointment tonight. I think I could use that more than a job right now. :-)
And Another Thing...
I love my car, but I hate the Audi corporation. Every time I have to deal with the dealership, something goes wrong that makes me feel compelled to bitch-slap the Audi management. (Interesting, I don't think I've ever written the words "bitch-slap" before, but this is a special circumstance.) Today is the 30k checkup, the replacement of the failed and recalled ignition coils (oh, don't get me started on that), deglazing the brakes (which seem to suffer from an unnatural buildup of brake dust and hence, squealing), and replace the right rear brake light. Now, the brake light should be a simple thing to replace, right? Ha! No lie, according to the owner's manual, I would have needed to take off the whole back half of the car in order to change one stupid bulb. So of course, I'm leaving it up to them until the warranty expires in 10,000 miles (at which point I need to decide my level of commitment to the car... I wonder if Nadim is serious about wanting to buy it?
I love my car, but I hate the Audi corporation. Every time I have to deal with the dealership, something goes wrong that makes me feel compelled to bitch-slap the Audi management. (Interesting, I don't think I've ever written the words "bitch-slap" before, but this is a special circumstance.) Today is the 30k checkup, the replacement of the failed and recalled ignition coils (oh, don't get me started on that), deglazing the brakes (which seem to suffer from an unnatural buildup of brake dust and hence, squealing), and replace the right rear brake light. Now, the brake light should be a simple thing to replace, right? Ha! No lie, according to the owner's manual, I would have needed to take off the whole back half of the car in order to change one stupid bulb. So of course, I'm leaving it up to them until the warranty expires in 10,000 miles (at which point I need to decide my level of commitment to the car... I wonder if Nadim is serious about wanting to buy it?
Disguises
Please tell me that our own intelligence wizards have given thought to the fact that Saddam is in disguise. It astonishes me that this could be news. Did we think he was walking around town in his little green soldier suit like GI Joe?
Please tell me that our own intelligence wizards have given thought to the fact that Saddam is in disguise. It astonishes me that this could be news. Did we think he was walking around town in his little green soldier suit like GI Joe?
Wednesday, November 12, 2003
8 of 10
If 8 of 10 people want a new job, then 2 of 10 must be satisfied with what they do. I don't think I've ever met those two people.
If 8 of 10 people want a new job, then 2 of 10 must be satisfied with what they do. I don't think I've ever met those two people.
Thanksgiving
First my parents call and say they're coming for Thanksgiving weekend. Then they call and say they're coming for 10 days around Thanksgiving. Then they call to say they're not coming at all. Then they (and by they, I mean my mother) call to sob and say that they really want to come, but it's just too many decisions to make, so they're really not coming. All the while, I sit here wondering if they'll ever be normal again, or if this thing with my grandmother has done permanent damage to my mother's psychological state.
First my parents call and say they're coming for Thanksgiving weekend. Then they call and say they're coming for 10 days around Thanksgiving. Then they call to say they're not coming at all. Then they (and by they, I mean my mother) call to sob and say that they really want to come, but it's just too many decisions to make, so they're really not coming. All the while, I sit here wondering if they'll ever be normal again, or if this thing with my grandmother has done permanent damage to my mother's psychological state.
Hockey
Got last-minute tickets for the hockey game last night -- Sharks vs Avs. They were great seats, 12 rows back and just off center ice. We went with one of C's coworkers and his fiancee. Now, let me preface this story by saying that we always thought that this coworker was... well, gay. He gives every indication of being gay. The gaydar goes wild when people meet him. And yet, he seems to not notice this. Well, he meets this girl, and the first creepy thing about it is that she looks like she could be his sister. The second creepy thing is that they use terms of endearment in a tone that makes them sound like insults. In my mind I was replacing Sweetie with Bitch and Honey with Asshole.
"Don't forget to turn here honey."
"Don't worry sweetie, I remember."
"Ok honey, I just wanted to make sure."
"Honey, you parked crooked, you really ought to straighten the car out."
"Of course sweetie."
The whole damned thing was creepy.
But the game was good. I also fell absolutely in love with a little kid two rows down from me. He was maybe a year and a half old, blonde and green-eyed, just gorgeous. He would babble and laugh and curl up on his dad's shoulder with his little blanket, and flash this beautiful smile in my direction. I wanted to grab him, put him in my pocket and take him home with me. When they got up to leave the game, he turned around to wave to his admirers with a big "bye-bye!" That's when I noticed that he was wearing the world's tiniest yellow Sweden hockey jersey, each of the three crowns barely larger than a fingernail. Just adorable.
Got last-minute tickets for the hockey game last night -- Sharks vs Avs. They were great seats, 12 rows back and just off center ice. We went with one of C's coworkers and his fiancee. Now, let me preface this story by saying that we always thought that this coworker was... well, gay. He gives every indication of being gay. The gaydar goes wild when people meet him. And yet, he seems to not notice this. Well, he meets this girl, and the first creepy thing about it is that she looks like she could be his sister. The second creepy thing is that they use terms of endearment in a tone that makes them sound like insults. In my mind I was replacing Sweetie with Bitch and Honey with Asshole.
"Don't forget to turn here honey."
"Don't worry sweetie, I remember."
"Ok honey, I just wanted to make sure."
"Honey, you parked crooked, you really ought to straighten the car out."
"Of course sweetie."
The whole damned thing was creepy.
But the game was good. I also fell absolutely in love with a little kid two rows down from me. He was maybe a year and a half old, blonde and green-eyed, just gorgeous. He would babble and laugh and curl up on his dad's shoulder with his little blanket, and flash this beautiful smile in my direction. I wanted to grab him, put him in my pocket and take him home with me. When they got up to leave the game, he turned around to wave to his admirers with a big "bye-bye!" That's when I noticed that he was wearing the world's tiniest yellow Sweden hockey jersey, each of the three crowns barely larger than a fingernail. Just adorable.
Tuesday, November 11, 2003
Casual
Let me set up a scenario. Imagine if you will, a woman. We'll call her Shelly. She's in her mid-30s, single and has started hanging out at an upscale bar & restaurant that opened up down the block from her place. Since spending time here, she's developed a casual recurring sexual relationship with one of the owner/chefs, a man we'll call Aaron. While at the bar, Aaron and Shelly do their best to out-ignore each other and give the distinct impression that neither cares about the other. He talks about his sexual exploits with other women (hard to believe, having seen him), and she flirts with other men. At the end of the night, he walks her home and they fuck like rabbits.
Fast forward to Halloween night. Shelly has told her waitress friend, Jen, that she can stay at her apartment rather than driving home after partying at the local clubs. Jen goes out with Aaron, just as friends. Shelly takes another chef, Brad, a rather hot specimen of humanity, back to her apartment for sex. Aaron spends the whole night talking about Shelly and how he knows she's having sex with Brad... not that he cares, of course, he's just mentioning it... again and again and again.
It's late, and Jen returns to Shelly's apartment to crash for the night. Aaron tries to talk her out of it because "I know she's doing him." Jen says it doesn't matter, that she's staying there anyway. She calls up to Shelly's room, and Shelly comes down to let her in, only to find Jen on her doorstep and Aaron cowering in the bushes, asking if he was at the door because he didn't want to have an awkward encounter. Shelly invites both of them up to her loft apartment where a clearly naked (and slightly befuddled) Brad is baffled to see one of his waitresses and his boss standing in Shelly's living room. Aaron is left gaping at his much sexier coworker as he climbs from bed with the sheet wrapped around his waist.
Shelly doesn't seem to think it's the least bit weird to have the guy she slept with tonight and the guy she slept with two nights ago, guys who happen to be coworkers and work friends, in the same room together with the whole "we just had sex" thing looming heavy in the air. I, on the other hand, know that they would probably talk amongst themselves, but wouldn't ever put myself in the position of having them all in the same room together, especially when one is naked and still sweaty from the event. It all just seems like a really bad idea to me. But then again, as Shelly tells me all the time, it's just because I'm a prude. I don't think that's it at all. I think it's just common courtesy. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
Let me set up a scenario. Imagine if you will, a woman. We'll call her Shelly. She's in her mid-30s, single and has started hanging out at an upscale bar & restaurant that opened up down the block from her place. Since spending time here, she's developed a casual recurring sexual relationship with one of the owner/chefs, a man we'll call Aaron. While at the bar, Aaron and Shelly do their best to out-ignore each other and give the distinct impression that neither cares about the other. He talks about his sexual exploits with other women (hard to believe, having seen him), and she flirts with other men. At the end of the night, he walks her home and they fuck like rabbits.
Fast forward to Halloween night. Shelly has told her waitress friend, Jen, that she can stay at her apartment rather than driving home after partying at the local clubs. Jen goes out with Aaron, just as friends. Shelly takes another chef, Brad, a rather hot specimen of humanity, back to her apartment for sex. Aaron spends the whole night talking about Shelly and how he knows she's having sex with Brad... not that he cares, of course, he's just mentioning it... again and again and again.
It's late, and Jen returns to Shelly's apartment to crash for the night. Aaron tries to talk her out of it because "I know she's doing him." Jen says it doesn't matter, that she's staying there anyway. She calls up to Shelly's room, and Shelly comes down to let her in, only to find Jen on her doorstep and Aaron cowering in the bushes, asking if he was at the door because he didn't want to have an awkward encounter. Shelly invites both of them up to her loft apartment where a clearly naked (and slightly befuddled) Brad is baffled to see one of his waitresses and his boss standing in Shelly's living room. Aaron is left gaping at his much sexier coworker as he climbs from bed with the sheet wrapped around his waist.
Shelly doesn't seem to think it's the least bit weird to have the guy she slept with tonight and the guy she slept with two nights ago, guys who happen to be coworkers and work friends, in the same room together with the whole "we just had sex" thing looming heavy in the air. I, on the other hand, know that they would probably talk amongst themselves, but wouldn't ever put myself in the position of having them all in the same room together, especially when one is naked and still sweaty from the event. It all just seems like a really bad idea to me. But then again, as Shelly tells me all the time, it's just because I'm a prude. I don't think that's it at all. I think it's just common courtesy. Or at least that's what I keep telling myself.
See Dick Run
Dick Gephardt's wife's name is Jane. Dick and Jane? Are they kidding? Do they have a dog named Spot? I really think he should run on a platform of early childhood literacy, if that's the case.
Dick Gephardt's wife's name is Jane. Dick and Jane? Are they kidding? Do they have a dog named Spot? I really think he should run on a platform of early childhood literacy, if that's the case.
Legs
Today I'm wearing a skirt. This isn't necessarily common, but it's not unheard of, either, especially in the summer. So former boss L sees me today and starts making an unnecessarily big deal out of the fact that I'm in a skirt. She's calling people over as we stand in the hall. I feel like the freak in the carnival sideshow. Needless to say, I don't have much inclination to repeat the performance anytime soon. Back into the jeans I go! But that's fine with me. I'm sexier in jeans anyway.
Today I'm wearing a skirt. This isn't necessarily common, but it's not unheard of, either, especially in the summer. So former boss L sees me today and starts making an unnecessarily big deal out of the fact that I'm in a skirt. She's calling people over as we stand in the hall. I feel like the freak in the carnival sideshow. Needless to say, I don't have much inclination to repeat the performance anytime soon. Back into the jeans I go! But that's fine with me. I'm sexier in jeans anyway.
Monday, November 10, 2003
I'm Surprised This One Isn't Taken....
Many months ago, just as fiction research, I posted three ads on Yahoo personals: one as a 20-something lesbian, one as a short Asian woman, and one as me (none with photos). There's one guy who keeps writing even though I don't write back. He's Indian, completely overbearing and downright creepy. An example:
"Hey, tall grl U r tall and sexy mmmmmmmmmm . just Think of the things i can do with U and yor sexy body mmmmmmmmmmm. I am so trned on by yor long, sexy legs and want to feel them wrap around me while we do the nasty mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Pls snd me a photo so I can dream of U at nite. R U hot or not? I think U r hot and I am hard just thinking of U mmmmmmmmmmmm."
Yep, I'd want to snatch him up in a heartbeat. I think it's his subtle, hard-to-get approach that I find sexiest. Or maybe I'm just desperately turned on by the exaggerated moan at the end of every line.
Do guys really think that they can get chicks this way?
Many months ago, just as fiction research, I posted three ads on Yahoo personals: one as a 20-something lesbian, one as a short Asian woman, and one as me (none with photos). There's one guy who keeps writing even though I don't write back. He's Indian, completely overbearing and downright creepy. An example:
"Hey, tall grl U r tall and sexy mmmmmmmmmm . just Think of the things i can do with U and yor sexy body mmmmmmmmmmm. I am so trned on by yor long, sexy legs and want to feel them wrap around me while we do the nasty mmmmmmmmmmmmm. Pls snd me a photo so I can dream of U at nite. R U hot or not? I think U r hot and I am hard just thinking of U mmmmmmmmmmmm."
Yep, I'd want to snatch him up in a heartbeat. I think it's his subtle, hard-to-get approach that I find sexiest. Or maybe I'm just desperately turned on by the exaggerated moan at the end of every line.
Do guys really think that they can get chicks this way?
Lost in Translation
I saw Lost in Translation last night at the indie theater near my house. I know that a lot of artsy movie people totally slammed it because of its supposed racism, that the American characters never tried to speak Japanese, that they seemed baffled by the culture, but that was really the point. They weren't lacking for anything in this expensive hotel, except for the comfort of something familiar. When you're surrounded by a world that makes no sense, you really don't have a choice but to retreat inward and evaluate your life, and for the two of them, that's the loneliest and coldest place on earth. She's 25, he's 50-something, and neither of them seems to have a clue what comes next in their lives. At the end, he hugs her and whispers something into her ear that the audience can't hear. I think he tells her that he loves her, which means the world to her to feel worthy of love, and it means the world to him to have someone willing to accept his love. It doesn't mean that they're going to run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. It just means that they shared something special and they'll always carry that in their hearts. That's my perspective, anyway.
I saw Lost in Translation last night at the indie theater near my house. I know that a lot of artsy movie people totally slammed it because of its supposed racism, that the American characters never tried to speak Japanese, that they seemed baffled by the culture, but that was really the point. They weren't lacking for anything in this expensive hotel, except for the comfort of something familiar. When you're surrounded by a world that makes no sense, you really don't have a choice but to retreat inward and evaluate your life, and for the two of them, that's the loneliest and coldest place on earth. She's 25, he's 50-something, and neither of them seems to have a clue what comes next in their lives. At the end, he hugs her and whispers something into her ear that the audience can't hear. I think he tells her that he loves her, which means the world to her to feel worthy of love, and it means the world to him to have someone willing to accept his love. It doesn't mean that they're going to run off into the sunset and live happily ever after. It just means that they shared something special and they'll always carry that in their hearts. That's my perspective, anyway.
Saturday, November 08, 2003
And a Merry Christmas to All
The Christmas battle has begun. In spite of my lingering and farfetched hopes that my parents would actually come here for Christmas, it seems that I'm once again destined to head back to Philly. C is miserable because he hates doing the holiday thing, and every year swears that this will be his last. "If they want to spend Christmas with us, they can drag themselves across the country on a friggin' plane. I'm not doing it anymore." But of course, out of perverse levels of guilt, I can't say no and we end up going home, Guilty and Surly, the Christmas dwarves.
Of course, this means that there's no way in hell that I can get the studio painted over Christmas break. Really, it just keeps getting better and better. So the studio continues to look dumpy, I have to try to appease everyone and in the end, nobody's happy. Well hallelujah, bring on the dry, overcooked turkey and let's call it a holiday.
The Christmas battle has begun. In spite of my lingering and farfetched hopes that my parents would actually come here for Christmas, it seems that I'm once again destined to head back to Philly. C is miserable because he hates doing the holiday thing, and every year swears that this will be his last. "If they want to spend Christmas with us, they can drag themselves across the country on a friggin' plane. I'm not doing it anymore." But of course, out of perverse levels of guilt, I can't say no and we end up going home, Guilty and Surly, the Christmas dwarves.
Of course, this means that there's no way in hell that I can get the studio painted over Christmas break. Really, it just keeps getting better and better. So the studio continues to look dumpy, I have to try to appease everyone and in the end, nobody's happy. Well hallelujah, bring on the dry, overcooked turkey and let's call it a holiday.
Friday, November 07, 2003
Dreaming
Usually my dreams are vivid -- weird, but definitely clear. I can remember faces and incidents with clarity. But in the last few weeks, I wake up and all of the thoughts are muddy. It's like being underwater where the sounds and visions are distorted and far away. It shouldn't make a difference, really, but when I wake up it's like my brain is struggling to make sense of it all. I'm starting to wonder if there's anything there to make sense of at all. Maybe the neurons are just firing randomly.
I suspect that it all has to do with grandmom. I've been a little worried about my response to things. I was fine in the weeks approaching her death, even fine during the week I was home with mom. But suddenly, when I came back, it all hit me with a force that I wouldn't have expected. So now I'm suffering from this delayed reaction that seems too significant for a grandmother-level death. I've watched other friends when their grandparents died, even when my pop died six years ago, and the reaction isn't at all what I'm feeling now. C says it's because she was such a significant, defining force in my family, and my significant involvement with her over the years, both good and bad, is going to leave a hole. But I just want to stop feeling like I'm living under a cloud.
I'd had every intention of cutting off my antidepressants on 11/1, the one-year anniversary of when I started taking them in the first place, but under the circumstances that doesn't seem to be appropriate. So I guess I'll wait it out a while longer and see if I can stabilize myself enough to make the change. They say that after you've taken them for a while, your body "remembers" (for lack of a better word) to handle the serotonin on its own without the medical intervention. I'd like to think that I'd be able to ditch them at some point. I really hate taking pills. Birth control is bad enough, thank you.
Usually my dreams are vivid -- weird, but definitely clear. I can remember faces and incidents with clarity. But in the last few weeks, I wake up and all of the thoughts are muddy. It's like being underwater where the sounds and visions are distorted and far away. It shouldn't make a difference, really, but when I wake up it's like my brain is struggling to make sense of it all. I'm starting to wonder if there's anything there to make sense of at all. Maybe the neurons are just firing randomly.
I suspect that it all has to do with grandmom. I've been a little worried about my response to things. I was fine in the weeks approaching her death, even fine during the week I was home with mom. But suddenly, when I came back, it all hit me with a force that I wouldn't have expected. So now I'm suffering from this delayed reaction that seems too significant for a grandmother-level death. I've watched other friends when their grandparents died, even when my pop died six years ago, and the reaction isn't at all what I'm feeling now. C says it's because she was such a significant, defining force in my family, and my significant involvement with her over the years, both good and bad, is going to leave a hole. But I just want to stop feeling like I'm living under a cloud.
I'd had every intention of cutting off my antidepressants on 11/1, the one-year anniversary of when I started taking them in the first place, but under the circumstances that doesn't seem to be appropriate. So I guess I'll wait it out a while longer and see if I can stabilize myself enough to make the change. They say that after you've taken them for a while, your body "remembers" (for lack of a better word) to handle the serotonin on its own without the medical intervention. I'd like to think that I'd be able to ditch them at some point. I really hate taking pills. Birth control is bad enough, thank you.
Thursday, November 06, 2003
Why?
Can someone please explain to me why Jessica Lynch would tell the world that she was raped in her autobiography? I know we're all supposed to be past the stigma of rape (yeah, right, like that will ever happen), but there's just some stuff in life that I'd think you wouldn't want the general public to know.
Can someone please explain to me why Jessica Lynch would tell the world that she was raped in her autobiography? I know we're all supposed to be past the stigma of rape (yeah, right, like that will ever happen), but there's just some stuff in life that I'd think you wouldn't want the general public to know.
More Fictional Crap
I woke up this morning with the same cycle of thoughts running through my brain that had been there when I fell asleep the night before. I try not to dwell on it, but like a song that won't leave your head, it keeps looping and looping on some sort of neural repeat mode. I have a difficult time getting out of bed as I wonder if today is the day.
As I stagger to the bathroom to bruch my teeth, the thoughts get louder in my head. Space. Meteors. The inevitable destruction of life on earth as a result of a meteoric collision. These things are supposed to happen every three million years (or is it billion?) and since the last one happened at the time of the dinosaurs, we're way overdue. Which, according to the calculations I made thanks to a sophomore-year statistics class, means that with each passing day the likelihood of an impact on that day increases exponentially. Today might be the day.
I spit out my mouthful of foam, rinse the brush and reapply toothpaste to the bristles. Why should lather, rinse, repeat be limited to shampoo? Dental hygiene is much more important than caring for a collection of dead cells on your head. I don't want to have to have my teeth pulled for dentures. I once knew someone who developed a serious secondary infection from having his teeth pulled, which is why I carefully inspect all dentist's offices for any sign of lapses in hygeine and cleanliness. I've changed dentists 11 times in the last six years, but I think this one will work for me. They don't seem to mind that I bring my own lysol to clean the chair. They even let me wear my own latex gloves so I don't have to touch anything with my bare hands.
I carefully remove my fresh towel from its plastic storage pouch. Plastic is the only way to ensure that the towels do not attract contaminants between the dryer and my shower. The towel emerges, fluffy and fresh, and I carefully drape it over the towel bar before entering the shower. As I stand beneath the warm water, I carefully arrange my tubes and bottles alphabetically by brand: Ivory soap comes before Neutrogena face wash and Pert shampoo. I proceed with my shower, lathering my hair twice and washing only the top half of my face with the Neutrogena. I have determined that the bottom half of my face is actually closer in spirit to my neck and shoulders, and therefore is cleansed with the Ivory as opposed to the Neutrogena. Before finishing, I wash my hands three times and play with the soap bubbles on my hands, carving shapes of mountains and other terrain that I will never see firsthand.
I emerge from the shower, and as I'm toweling off I notice a piece of red lint on my white towel. Unacceptable! Dripping, I'm forced to prepare another towel from its plastic pouch and return to the shower to re-wash myself, hoping this time that the consecutive showers don't leave me without hot water before I can return to my handwashing.
I woke up this morning with the same cycle of thoughts running through my brain that had been there when I fell asleep the night before. I try not to dwell on it, but like a song that won't leave your head, it keeps looping and looping on some sort of neural repeat mode. I have a difficult time getting out of bed as I wonder if today is the day.
As I stagger to the bathroom to bruch my teeth, the thoughts get louder in my head. Space. Meteors. The inevitable destruction of life on earth as a result of a meteoric collision. These things are supposed to happen every three million years (or is it billion?) and since the last one happened at the time of the dinosaurs, we're way overdue. Which, according to the calculations I made thanks to a sophomore-year statistics class, means that with each passing day the likelihood of an impact on that day increases exponentially. Today might be the day.
I spit out my mouthful of foam, rinse the brush and reapply toothpaste to the bristles. Why should lather, rinse, repeat be limited to shampoo? Dental hygiene is much more important than caring for a collection of dead cells on your head. I don't want to have to have my teeth pulled for dentures. I once knew someone who developed a serious secondary infection from having his teeth pulled, which is why I carefully inspect all dentist's offices for any sign of lapses in hygeine and cleanliness. I've changed dentists 11 times in the last six years, but I think this one will work for me. They don't seem to mind that I bring my own lysol to clean the chair. They even let me wear my own latex gloves so I don't have to touch anything with my bare hands.
I carefully remove my fresh towel from its plastic storage pouch. Plastic is the only way to ensure that the towels do not attract contaminants between the dryer and my shower. The towel emerges, fluffy and fresh, and I carefully drape it over the towel bar before entering the shower. As I stand beneath the warm water, I carefully arrange my tubes and bottles alphabetically by brand: Ivory soap comes before Neutrogena face wash and Pert shampoo. I proceed with my shower, lathering my hair twice and washing only the top half of my face with the Neutrogena. I have determined that the bottom half of my face is actually closer in spirit to my neck and shoulders, and therefore is cleansed with the Ivory as opposed to the Neutrogena. Before finishing, I wash my hands three times and play with the soap bubbles on my hands, carving shapes of mountains and other terrain that I will never see firsthand.
I emerge from the shower, and as I'm toweling off I notice a piece of red lint on my white towel. Unacceptable! Dripping, I'm forced to prepare another towel from its plastic pouch and return to the shower to re-wash myself, hoping this time that the consecutive showers don't leave me without hot water before I can return to my handwashing.
Simon & Garfunkel
Want proof that I'm a dork? Here it is: I gladly and excitedly went to the Simon & Garfunkel concert last night. I have this strange fascination with the pair. You've got Paul Simon -- singer, songwriter, musician -- a man of many talents. And then there's Art Garfunkel. Granted, his voice complements Simon's nicely, but that's all he does. He stands on stage looking baffled, fiddling with the sleeves on his shirt because he has nothing else to do with his hands. I think it's hilarious. And when he's not singing, he's often staring up at the lights above him, like he's some sort of autistic idiot savant. Maybe he's Rain Man.
But to the credit of the pair, here they are at 62 years old, and if you close your eyes and don't look at their aging selves, they sound exactly like they did 30 or 40 years ago. That's impressive, especially considering that the high notes Garfunkel hits should rightly cause a brain aneurism.
In spite of the fact that it proves I'm a dork, I had a great time.
Want proof that I'm a dork? Here it is: I gladly and excitedly went to the Simon & Garfunkel concert last night. I have this strange fascination with the pair. You've got Paul Simon -- singer, songwriter, musician -- a man of many talents. And then there's Art Garfunkel. Granted, his voice complements Simon's nicely, but that's all he does. He stands on stage looking baffled, fiddling with the sleeves on his shirt because he has nothing else to do with his hands. I think it's hilarious. And when he's not singing, he's often staring up at the lights above him, like he's some sort of autistic idiot savant. Maybe he's Rain Man.
But to the credit of the pair, here they are at 62 years old, and if you close your eyes and don't look at their aging selves, they sound exactly like they did 30 or 40 years ago. That's impressive, especially considering that the high notes Garfunkel hits should rightly cause a brain aneurism.
In spite of the fact that it proves I'm a dork, I had a great time.
Wednesday, November 05, 2003
Serial Killers
It surprises me that they can send a serial killer to jail. Can't the attorneys argue insanity? If they do it for single muders, how come they don't do it for mass murders? Really, when you come right down to it, isn't anyone who kills another person pretty clearly not in their right mind? So, by default, if one is sent to a mental institution instead of prison, shouldn't they all be sent away like that?
I wonder what happens in the brain of someone who snaps like that. Is the first one hard to do? Do they look back on it and become proud of their cleverness and have to kill more because it's just so easy? Why doesn't guilt kick in? I never really understood any of that stuff, although in a strange way, it's fascinating. These are usually people who seem outwardly normal and not the least bit unusual. For all I know, the guy in the cube next to me might have dead bodies in his backyard. I just can't imagine that.
It surprises me that they can send a serial killer to jail. Can't the attorneys argue insanity? If they do it for single muders, how come they don't do it for mass murders? Really, when you come right down to it, isn't anyone who kills another person pretty clearly not in their right mind? So, by default, if one is sent to a mental institution instead of prison, shouldn't they all be sent away like that?
I wonder what happens in the brain of someone who snaps like that. Is the first one hard to do? Do they look back on it and become proud of their cleverness and have to kill more because it's just so easy? Why doesn't guilt kick in? I never really understood any of that stuff, although in a strange way, it's fascinating. These are usually people who seem outwardly normal and not the least bit unusual. For all I know, the guy in the cube next to me might have dead bodies in his backyard. I just can't imagine that.
Battle of the Friends
My friend, H, announced yesterday that she was going out on a date with a married man. While I did not publicly pass judgement, I was concerned about her. My issue isn't even with the morality of the situation -- people cheat for a variety of reasons, but usually the other woman/man wouldn't have a chance if there wasn't something either temporarily or permanently wrong in the relationship -- but my issue was with the fact that H runs the risk of becoming emotionally invested in a situation that can't ever work out in her favor.
So she not only tells me about it, but she also tells N, our mutual friend. N is apparrently horrified that H has decided to move on to the world of the married men. H doesn't understand why she's so upset and taking everything so seriously. So of course N is looking to me to back her up and scold H, while H is looking to me to put N in her place and tell her it's no big deal. I want to take neither side.
I don't really know what to tell either of them. If I told H about my position, she would be offended that I think she's emotionally fragile. If I told N, she'd be offended that I wasn't morally outraged as a married woman. So I'm slowly backing away from the ticking time bomb of the situation and hoping that the whole event doesn't end up hurting H or ending a friendship.
I'm really fortunate to have avoided being the other woman in the course of my life, and even more fortunate to have a good marriage. Yeah, there have been rough spots -- mostly as a result of all of C's traveling, which leaves me feeling sad and lonely and disconnected -- but in the end, he's still the one I want to spend my time with, the one I want to call when something happens, good or bad, the one I want to curl up with at night. I've had feelings for other guys, some of whom make me totally crazy, but in the end I know that I wouldn't want to go through life without C. I hope that never changes for either of us. Because if I find out that he's out on a date with H, I'll be a little pissed.
My friend, H, announced yesterday that she was going out on a date with a married man. While I did not publicly pass judgement, I was concerned about her. My issue isn't even with the morality of the situation -- people cheat for a variety of reasons, but usually the other woman/man wouldn't have a chance if there wasn't something either temporarily or permanently wrong in the relationship -- but my issue was with the fact that H runs the risk of becoming emotionally invested in a situation that can't ever work out in her favor.
So she not only tells me about it, but she also tells N, our mutual friend. N is apparrently horrified that H has decided to move on to the world of the married men. H doesn't understand why she's so upset and taking everything so seriously. So of course N is looking to me to back her up and scold H, while H is looking to me to put N in her place and tell her it's no big deal. I want to take neither side.
I don't really know what to tell either of them. If I told H about my position, she would be offended that I think she's emotionally fragile. If I told N, she'd be offended that I wasn't morally outraged as a married woman. So I'm slowly backing away from the ticking time bomb of the situation and hoping that the whole event doesn't end up hurting H or ending a friendship.
I'm really fortunate to have avoided being the other woman in the course of my life, and even more fortunate to have a good marriage. Yeah, there have been rough spots -- mostly as a result of all of C's traveling, which leaves me feeling sad and lonely and disconnected -- but in the end, he's still the one I want to spend my time with, the one I want to call when something happens, good or bad, the one I want to curl up with at night. I've had feelings for other guys, some of whom make me totally crazy, but in the end I know that I wouldn't want to go through life without C. I hope that never changes for either of us. Because if I find out that he's out on a date with H, I'll be a little pissed.
Tuesday, November 04, 2003
Pet Peeves
A friend in HR asked several of us for guidance on our biggest pet peeves with the company, and what has a negative effect on morale. Unfortunately, she didn't give me the chance to mention all of it. I'd be writing for a week if she did.
A friend in HR asked several of us for guidance on our biggest pet peeves with the company, and what has a negative effect on morale. Unfortunately, she didn't give me the chance to mention all of it. I'd be writing for a week if she did.
Spas
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a girlie-girl. I've never been the kind to do days at the spa or have someone pamper me. But yesterday I got a brochure for a place in Austin, TX that looked absolutely gorgeous: fitness, food and pampering. It would cost an arm, two legs and a spleen to afford to go there, but suddenly I'm overwhelmed by the idea. I'd love to take a few days and have nothing to do but relax and take care of myself. That would be fabulous.
Anyone who knows me knows that I'm not a girlie-girl. I've never been the kind to do days at the spa or have someone pamper me. But yesterday I got a brochure for a place in Austin, TX that looked absolutely gorgeous: fitness, food and pampering. It would cost an arm, two legs and a spleen to afford to go there, but suddenly I'm overwhelmed by the idea. I'd love to take a few days and have nothing to do but relax and take care of myself. That would be fabulous.
Fiction: Inside Joey's Head
I climb on things to reach the lightswitch and watch the room illuminate. I could spend hours staring at the light, but then, like a cat, I dart into the other room like I've been possessed. I grab every toy I can find and try to smash it on the floor. The sound of the plastic shattering and skidding across the tile makes me happy. Loud noises delight me. I know my parents by the shape of their legs and feet, not by their face. I never look them in the eye. Faces hold no interest for me. I don't speak or socialize. I just spend my days staring at the lights. I don't want to eat or drink. I just want to watch the light. They told me it was my birthday. I'm three years old now. I got lots of new toys, all plastic, and they make such great smashing sounds when they hit the tile in the kitchen. Soon they will take me for testing and they'll know for sure that I'm autistic. They shouldn't be surprised. There are signs of it elsewhere in the family, and even my father had a learning disability. But they're going to discover that there's something bad going on in my brain, and that I'll never be a normal kid playing baseball or watching the Cowboys beat the Eagles with my dad. I'll always be alone inside my head.
I climb on things to reach the lightswitch and watch the room illuminate. I could spend hours staring at the light, but then, like a cat, I dart into the other room like I've been possessed. I grab every toy I can find and try to smash it on the floor. The sound of the plastic shattering and skidding across the tile makes me happy. Loud noises delight me. I know my parents by the shape of their legs and feet, not by their face. I never look them in the eye. Faces hold no interest for me. I don't speak or socialize. I just spend my days staring at the lights. I don't want to eat or drink. I just want to watch the light. They told me it was my birthday. I'm three years old now. I got lots of new toys, all plastic, and they make such great smashing sounds when they hit the tile in the kitchen. Soon they will take me for testing and they'll know for sure that I'm autistic. They shouldn't be surprised. There are signs of it elsewhere in the family, and even my father had a learning disability. But they're going to discover that there's something bad going on in my brain, and that I'll never be a normal kid playing baseball or watching the Cowboys beat the Eagles with my dad. I'll always be alone inside my head.
??? for President
I've decided that this time around I want to vote for the candidate with the best sense of humor. I think they all need to do a night at the Improv. I'd be more than willing to vote for the one who could actually make me laugh. Because I'd have to believe that you'd need a sense of humor to remain sane in the White House. What kind of lunatic would want the job, anyway?
I've decided that this time around I want to vote for the candidate with the best sense of humor. I think they all need to do a night at the Improv. I'd be more than willing to vote for the one who could actually make me laugh. Because I'd have to believe that you'd need a sense of humor to remain sane in the White House. What kind of lunatic would want the job, anyway?
Monday, November 03, 2003
Halloween
Most interesting Halloween observation: the people who dress up far sexier than their everyday personas would indicate. Me? I was a bad-looking 60s housewife with a blonde wig.
Most interesting Halloween observation: the people who dress up far sexier than their everyday personas would indicate. Me? I was a bad-looking 60s housewife with a blonde wig.
Still Chilly
Maybe my problem was not the fact that my blood is thin and I'm a weenie from California. Maybe the problem is that I'm battling against the cold that C brought into the house, complete with coughing, sniffling, sneezing and headache. So far, I have the headache down -- if the mirror hadn't told me otherwise, I'd be convinced that my head is twice its normal size and 200 pounds -- but I'm battling the rest of the symptoms.
C finished his MBA application yesterday, and of course I had to proofread it before it went out. Much to my surprise, in the final "take 300 words and tell us something else about you" section, he talked about me. Evidently I'm loving and supportive and everything else you could possibly ask for as someone about to embark on a grad school career. I, of course, cried. I've just been an emotional mess for the last few weeks and that was enough to send me over the edge.
Today's my cousin's kid's 3rd birthday. They finally got an appointment for him to be tested by the county educational services unit. He still doesn't talk, and his great joy in life is smashing things and staring at lightbulbs. I'm worried that he has some variation of autism. It makes me sad because these particular cousins of mine are far and away my favorites and I hate to think that they'd have to go through something so difficult. Plus, knowing their financial situation, I know that they wouldn't have the money to send him to private schools or put him through anything more than the standard county programs. Hopefully it's not autism and just some run-of-the-mill developmental delay that they'll be able to overcome, but I've had a bad feeling about this for a long time now, and I don't think it will amount to anything good.
Maybe my problem was not the fact that my blood is thin and I'm a weenie from California. Maybe the problem is that I'm battling against the cold that C brought into the house, complete with coughing, sniffling, sneezing and headache. So far, I have the headache down -- if the mirror hadn't told me otherwise, I'd be convinced that my head is twice its normal size and 200 pounds -- but I'm battling the rest of the symptoms.
C finished his MBA application yesterday, and of course I had to proofread it before it went out. Much to my surprise, in the final "take 300 words and tell us something else about you" section, he talked about me. Evidently I'm loving and supportive and everything else you could possibly ask for as someone about to embark on a grad school career. I, of course, cried. I've just been an emotional mess for the last few weeks and that was enough to send me over the edge.
Today's my cousin's kid's 3rd birthday. They finally got an appointment for him to be tested by the county educational services unit. He still doesn't talk, and his great joy in life is smashing things and staring at lightbulbs. I'm worried that he has some variation of autism. It makes me sad because these particular cousins of mine are far and away my favorites and I hate to think that they'd have to go through something so difficult. Plus, knowing their financial situation, I know that they wouldn't have the money to send him to private schools or put him through anything more than the standard county programs. Hopefully it's not autism and just some run-of-the-mill developmental delay that they'll be able to overcome, but I've had a bad feeling about this for a long time now, and I don't think it will amount to anything good.
Sunday, November 02, 2003
Sunday Morning
You know you've been in California too long when you wake up freezing cold. Clearly the blood has thinned to unmanageable proportions. Granted, it's probably in the 50s outside (and no warmer inside my house, with zero insulation and 100-year-old leaking windows), but still, it makes me feel like I've crossed some invisible line into pathetic.
You know you've been in California too long when you wake up freezing cold. Clearly the blood has thinned to unmanageable proportions. Granted, it's probably in the 50s outside (and no warmer inside my house, with zero insulation and 100-year-old leaking windows), but still, it makes me feel like I've crossed some invisible line into pathetic.
