Friday, February 27, 2004
Boss
I sent her an e-mail this morning just to say thanks and how much I appreciated everything. She sent back such a nice note that I actually cried, which I think proves how emotionally freaked out I am.
I sent her an e-mail this morning just to say thanks and how much I appreciated everything. She sent back such a nice note that I actually cried, which I think proves how emotionally freaked out I am.
Thursday, February 26, 2004
What am I going to do?
My boss is quitting tomorrow, and I'm flat-out traumatized. I don't really know how we're going to survive the Seagull without her to guide us. I need the buffer zone. I need someone to protect me from the elements. I need her friendship and her support and her ability to listen to me when I need to rant. When she told us today, I thought I was going to cry. She warned us. I knew it. But at the same time, I was really in denial about the whole thing.
So she's going, and they're laying off David, and god knows who else. Zoe is talking about quitting, Tim... crap, Tim never had it so good, so he has no reason to leave, really. Ever. Where else will an English-speaking marketing manager find a job where he doesn't have to write in complete sentences?
My boss is quitting tomorrow, and I'm flat-out traumatized. I don't really know how we're going to survive the Seagull without her to guide us. I need the buffer zone. I need someone to protect me from the elements. I need her friendship and her support and her ability to listen to me when I need to rant. When she told us today, I thought I was going to cry. She warned us. I knew it. But at the same time, I was really in denial about the whole thing.
So she's going, and they're laying off David, and god knows who else. Zoe is talking about quitting, Tim... crap, Tim never had it so good, so he has no reason to leave, really. Ever. Where else will an English-speaking marketing manager find a job where he doesn't have to write in complete sentences?
Mind Readers
There are certain people in the world that have a capacity for mind reading. I'm not talking about mental telepathy or the people who can bend spoons with their brains. It's that handful of people that when you're speaking to them, you know that they're not just listening intently to the words that you're saying, but they're innately tuned in to all the things you haven't said or can't say. And even if you try to deny it, there is an automatic sense of intimacy that arises.
It has to stem from subtle changes in expression or body language, because it's rarely effective on the phone or through e-mail. It's a subtle response to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, or how you push your hair out of your eyes, and it seems invisible to casual observers, yet is felt so strongly between the other two. I wonder what causes it, and why only certain people possess this level of insight?
There are certain people in the world that have a capacity for mind reading. I'm not talking about mental telepathy or the people who can bend spoons with their brains. It's that handful of people that when you're speaking to them, you know that they're not just listening intently to the words that you're saying, but they're innately tuned in to all the things you haven't said or can't say. And even if you try to deny it, there is an automatic sense of intimacy that arises.
It has to stem from subtle changes in expression or body language, because it's rarely effective on the phone or through e-mail. It's a subtle response to the way your eyes crinkle when you smile, or how you push your hair out of your eyes, and it seems invisible to casual observers, yet is felt so strongly between the other two. I wonder what causes it, and why only certain people possess this level of insight?
Risk?
I don't know what to make of this study. I've put on 40 pounds since high school, but I'd say that at least half of it is muscle weight and not the dreased fat weight that is supposed to cause a problem. And my body mass is still within a good range, which is aided by the fact that I was seriously underweight in high school and college. So is my risk any higher than it would have been if I'd remained scrawny? And why does it seem like every breast cancer danger factor points right at me?
I don't know what to make of this study. I've put on 40 pounds since high school, but I'd say that at least half of it is muscle weight and not the dreased fat weight that is supposed to cause a problem. And my body mass is still within a good range, which is aided by the fact that I was seriously underweight in high school and college. So is my risk any higher than it would have been if I'd remained scrawny? And why does it seem like every breast cancer danger factor points right at me?
Wednesday, February 25, 2004
Hurricanes
There's really nothing like several pint-sized glasses of fruity hurricanes to leave you utterly hammered in Mardi Gras evening. My neighbor went to college in New Orleans, so she's got a pretty good sense of how to make an authentic hurricane and an authentic gumbo. It was quite a night.
I finally crawl into bed and I'm really irritated by the sounds of the police helicopter (aka "the Ghetto Bird") circling the area over and over and over and over again. But then I realize that the Bird seems to have made friends: there are three choppers in the air. As it happens, the other two are new choppers and they're circling downtown to keep an eye on the riots that broke out when they tried to disperse the crowds of Mardi Gras partygoers. We just have so much fun downtown. I finally got to sleep a few hours later, and was awakened early this morning by the sounds of every neighbor's flowerpots, watering cans and lightweight patio furniture scooting across my backyard in 50 mph winds. The rain was coming down in sheets and the windows in the back room -- in good shape since I caulked them two years ago -- started leaking again because the rain was actually hitting sideways. I probably should have stayed home to make sure that the house didn't leak or blow away, but for some reason, I came to work.
There's really nothing like several pint-sized glasses of fruity hurricanes to leave you utterly hammered in Mardi Gras evening. My neighbor went to college in New Orleans, so she's got a pretty good sense of how to make an authentic hurricane and an authentic gumbo. It was quite a night.
I finally crawl into bed and I'm really irritated by the sounds of the police helicopter (aka "the Ghetto Bird") circling the area over and over and over and over again. But then I realize that the Bird seems to have made friends: there are three choppers in the air. As it happens, the other two are new choppers and they're circling downtown to keep an eye on the riots that broke out when they tried to disperse the crowds of Mardi Gras partygoers. We just have so much fun downtown. I finally got to sleep a few hours later, and was awakened early this morning by the sounds of every neighbor's flowerpots, watering cans and lightweight patio furniture scooting across my backyard in 50 mph winds. The rain was coming down in sheets and the windows in the back room -- in good shape since I caulked them two years ago -- started leaking again because the rain was actually hitting sideways. I probably should have stayed home to make sure that the house didn't leak or blow away, but for some reason, I came to work.
Monday, February 23, 2004
Resumes
I spent a good chunk of time working on mine this weekend, although I don't know why. There really aren't any jobs out there. It's not news that I want to get out. This interval with EH has been peaceful and the best stretch of time I've had at this god-forsaken company. So now I need to find someplace a little less mediocre to pick me up, dust me off and remind me of what it's like to be busy and fulfilled all day.
I spent a good chunk of time working on mine this weekend, although I don't know why. There really aren't any jobs out there. It's not news that I want to get out. This interval with EH has been peaceful and the best stretch of time I've had at this god-forsaken company. So now I need to find someplace a little less mediocre to pick me up, dust me off and remind me of what it's like to be busy and fulfilled all day.
Sunday, February 22, 2004
Silly Marketing
I am the owner of an extensive collection of Victoria's Secret cotton panties in a variety of styles and colors. One might question why I wear such boring underwear. Clearly, anyone who wonders has never tried to work out in something fancy. Very, very uncomfortable.
Anyway, there is this one pattern, white with red snowflakes. I remember that the pattern name is called "Nordic Snow". Why the hell do they feel compelled to name them such bizarre things. Nordic snow? Where in the world do they have red snowflakes falling? Chernobyl? I think I would have gotten the same effect if the website had just listed the pattern as "Red Snowflakes". Really. I didn't need "Nordic Snow" to make the sale.
And what's with the odd names for colors? Poppy? No, let's call it red. Peony? Pink. Jonquil? Yellow. I don't really need fancy names. White can be white, it doesn't have to be called "frost".
I am the owner of an extensive collection of Victoria's Secret cotton panties in a variety of styles and colors. One might question why I wear such boring underwear. Clearly, anyone who wonders has never tried to work out in something fancy. Very, very uncomfortable.
Anyway, there is this one pattern, white with red snowflakes. I remember that the pattern name is called "Nordic Snow". Why the hell do they feel compelled to name them such bizarre things. Nordic snow? Where in the world do they have red snowflakes falling? Chernobyl? I think I would have gotten the same effect if the website had just listed the pattern as "Red Snowflakes". Really. I didn't need "Nordic Snow" to make the sale.
And what's with the odd names for colors? Poppy? No, let's call it red. Peony? Pink. Jonquil? Yellow. I don't really need fancy names. White can be white, it doesn't have to be called "frost".
Boy or Baby?
Yesterday was my neighbor Emily's 2nd birthday party. Playing the role of Obnoxious Big Brother was Ben, just a week shy of seven years old. He was being a royal pain in the ass, complaining about "all the babies in the house" (the kids from Emily's daycare were there), and pitching an absolute fit about the fondue and "why do you have to serve such stinky cheese?" In the midst of all of this ranting and raving, I'm sitting on the arm of the living room chair. He comes over, gives me a big hug and says, "Hey, how are you?" I ran my fingers through his hair, chatted with him about his upcoming birthday, and all the while he stayed there in my arms. About a minute later he pulls away, rants about the party some more, and runs off to lock himself in his room. Who is this kid? Has he crossed the line into obnoxious pre-teen this early, or is he still the kid who comes over and gives me hugs? For as strange as it seems to me, he must be feeling absolutely bipolar.
Yesterday was my neighbor Emily's 2nd birthday party. Playing the role of Obnoxious Big Brother was Ben, just a week shy of seven years old. He was being a royal pain in the ass, complaining about "all the babies in the house" (the kids from Emily's daycare were there), and pitching an absolute fit about the fondue and "why do you have to serve such stinky cheese?" In the midst of all of this ranting and raving, I'm sitting on the arm of the living room chair. He comes over, gives me a big hug and says, "Hey, how are you?" I ran my fingers through his hair, chatted with him about his upcoming birthday, and all the while he stayed there in my arms. About a minute later he pulls away, rants about the party some more, and runs off to lock himself in his room. Who is this kid? Has he crossed the line into obnoxious pre-teen this early, or is he still the kid who comes over and gives me hugs? For as strange as it seems to me, he must be feeling absolutely bipolar.
More Dreams
I've been having some of the most vivid, weirdest dreams that I've had in ages. The other night I was a pudgy, curly-haired disaffected teenager who had sex with a just-out-of-college music teacher in a motel room in the US Virgin Islands (which, in dream geography, are located just off the coast of Cape May, NJ).
Last night I kept having this weird dream subplot that my grandmother was nearby, yet just out of sight. The primary dream was that Korean exchange students at my high school (it was really my high school, which was odd) were actually terrorists who had sabotaged the Korean Air jet that had taken off from the soccer field. So I guess my high school, one that has never had an Asian exchange student in its history, is now harboring airline terrorists while doubling as an international airport. Oh, and before they left for the airplane sabotage mission, they killed a priest on the front porch of one of the houses on 13th Avenue. I don't have a clue what priests have to do with terrorists, Asians or public high schools, but it all seemed to make sense last night.
I've been having some of the most vivid, weirdest dreams that I've had in ages. The other night I was a pudgy, curly-haired disaffected teenager who had sex with a just-out-of-college music teacher in a motel room in the US Virgin Islands (which, in dream geography, are located just off the coast of Cape May, NJ).
Last night I kept having this weird dream subplot that my grandmother was nearby, yet just out of sight. The primary dream was that Korean exchange students at my high school (it was really my high school, which was odd) were actually terrorists who had sabotaged the Korean Air jet that had taken off from the soccer field. So I guess my high school, one that has never had an Asian exchange student in its history, is now harboring airline terrorists while doubling as an international airport. Oh, and before they left for the airplane sabotage mission, they killed a priest on the front porch of one of the houses on 13th Avenue. I don't have a clue what priests have to do with terrorists, Asians or public high schools, but it all seemed to make sense last night.
Friday, February 20, 2004
Bad Doctors
I hate to dwell on this, but there are some really crappy doctors out there. My aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly before my grandmother died last year, maybe in August or September. She went to the surgeon and got a second opinion. Both docs said she could have a lumpectomy, but she wanted to be more aggressive and have a full mastectomy to make sure that they got it all. Now, six weeks after her surgery and recovery, they tell her that it was in her lymph nodes all along, which means that there's a very good chance of it spreading to her bones, liver or brain. What I don't understand is why they didn't take the lymph nodes. They should have been able to see that they were abnormal when they were in there doing the surgery.
So now they tell her that she needs to go through six months of aggressive chemotherapy and radiation to kill the remaining cancer, which will give her a 50-50 shot. I wonder if it's worth being sick for six months without a better guarantee of success? I think I would rather ditch the current surgeon and have someone new open me up and try to get the rest of it. The post-surgery recovery would have to be a hell of a lot easier than being poisoned by chemicals for a prolonged period of time.
I'm telling you, when it comes time for my surgery, they're taking everything they can find. Let 'em fish around in there all they want. I'll be like my grandmother and have the giant ugly football-shaped scar from the skin graft where her breast used to be. I know that men won't ever look at me again, but I just don't think chemo is worth the quality-of-life tradeoff. Life is too short to spend 6-9 months weak and vomiting.
I hate to dwell on this, but there are some really crappy doctors out there. My aunt was diagnosed with breast cancer shortly before my grandmother died last year, maybe in August or September. She went to the surgeon and got a second opinion. Both docs said she could have a lumpectomy, but she wanted to be more aggressive and have a full mastectomy to make sure that they got it all. Now, six weeks after her surgery and recovery, they tell her that it was in her lymph nodes all along, which means that there's a very good chance of it spreading to her bones, liver or brain. What I don't understand is why they didn't take the lymph nodes. They should have been able to see that they were abnormal when they were in there doing the surgery.
So now they tell her that she needs to go through six months of aggressive chemotherapy and radiation to kill the remaining cancer, which will give her a 50-50 shot. I wonder if it's worth being sick for six months without a better guarantee of success? I think I would rather ditch the current surgeon and have someone new open me up and try to get the rest of it. The post-surgery recovery would have to be a hell of a lot easier than being poisoned by chemicals for a prolonged period of time.
I'm telling you, when it comes time for my surgery, they're taking everything they can find. Let 'em fish around in there all they want. I'll be like my grandmother and have the giant ugly football-shaped scar from the skin graft where her breast used to be. I know that men won't ever look at me again, but I just don't think chemo is worth the quality-of-life tradeoff. Life is too short to spend 6-9 months weak and vomiting.
Fishy
I've seen Coke cans floating in the water. I can understand that. But where would a cod encounter six frozen hamburger patties? Do they have a lot of frozen foods floating around in the Norwegian waters?
I've seen Coke cans floating in the water. I can understand that. But where would a cod encounter six frozen hamburger patties? Do they have a lot of frozen foods floating around in the Norwegian waters?
Quiet
I haven't had much to say lately, have I? I'm in a bit of a funk over the news that my boss -- my first good boss in my entire life -- plans to leave in April. I don't blame her for a moment. Between the PMMs and her demon VP boss, she's in a no-win situation where she couldn't possibly deliver a team that would actually be able to satisfy everyone. It's sad to think that all the assholes will remain while someone who actually has a clue is leaving, but why should that surprise me?
So what will happen when she goes? The scenarios look like this (each just a varying level of hell):
1) We report directly to the demon VP. I will slit my wrists.
2) We report back into the PMM group, and will be largely ignored by the director. This is probably the best option.
3) We get a new boss to replace E, either someone from outside the company or a shift from another group. Guranteed to be someone humorless and unwilling to stand up for his or her employees.
4) They decide to promote me to E's role, leaving me in direct line of fire for the demon VP, plus dealing with the management of G. This is also a wrist-slitter.
Of course, the logical answer would be to find another job, but there are two problems with that: a) nobody is hiring, and b) even if someone was hiring, it would be really hard for me to find a job that wouldn't require late nights (late nights interfere with studio operations, and that would be very bad).
I'm very upset about all of it. Of course, life would be so much easier if I hadn't opened the studio. It's my own damned fault that I'm in such a bind.
I haven't had much to say lately, have I? I'm in a bit of a funk over the news that my boss -- my first good boss in my entire life -- plans to leave in April. I don't blame her for a moment. Between the PMMs and her demon VP boss, she's in a no-win situation where she couldn't possibly deliver a team that would actually be able to satisfy everyone. It's sad to think that all the assholes will remain while someone who actually has a clue is leaving, but why should that surprise me?
So what will happen when she goes? The scenarios look like this (each just a varying level of hell):
1) We report directly to the demon VP. I will slit my wrists.
2) We report back into the PMM group, and will be largely ignored by the director. This is probably the best option.
3) We get a new boss to replace E, either someone from outside the company or a shift from another group. Guranteed to be someone humorless and unwilling to stand up for his or her employees.
4) They decide to promote me to E's role, leaving me in direct line of fire for the demon VP, plus dealing with the management of G. This is also a wrist-slitter.
Of course, the logical answer would be to find another job, but there are two problems with that: a) nobody is hiring, and b) even if someone was hiring, it would be really hard for me to find a job that wouldn't require late nights (late nights interfere with studio operations, and that would be very bad).
I'm very upset about all of it. Of course, life would be so much easier if I hadn't opened the studio. It's my own damned fault that I'm in such a bind.
Thursday, February 19, 2004
Addicts
The stupid stoners next door are being loud and obnoxious.
The stupid stoners next door are being loud and obnoxious.
Wednesday, February 18, 2004
Low Carb Diets (or I Would Have Been A Terrible Neanderthal)
I don't really understand why there's such a furor over the Atkins thing. While I do agree with Atkins that we all eat too much grain and carbs, I don't agree that the solution is a diet of steak, bacon and cheese. It just defies all logic. We know that cheese and bacon, for example, aren't "healthy" foods. So why do people eat them like there's no tomorrow? Probably because with the heart problems you'll develop, there won't be a tomorrow.
Let's flash back to neanderthal times. They ate what was available: berries, nuts and the occasional large chunk of meaty carcass, served raw because they hadn't quite mastered the art of fire. As one who doesn't do well with meat that isn't cooked to at least an internal temperature of 155, I would have had trouble with this. But they didn't make bread, or cheese, or beer. They didn't cultivate and harvest tomatoes. They didn't run down to the corner market to grab some broccoli. So it seems to me that for the duration of recorded history, we predominantly ate simple things. So how did we become a Twinkies and Cheez-Doodles kind of society? And why would I give my left arm for some M&Ms? How has a few thousand years of eating habits been undone by a century of processed food?
I don't really understand why there's such a furor over the Atkins thing. While I do agree with Atkins that we all eat too much grain and carbs, I don't agree that the solution is a diet of steak, bacon and cheese. It just defies all logic. We know that cheese and bacon, for example, aren't "healthy" foods. So why do people eat them like there's no tomorrow? Probably because with the heart problems you'll develop, there won't be a tomorrow.
Let's flash back to neanderthal times. They ate what was available: berries, nuts and the occasional large chunk of meaty carcass, served raw because they hadn't quite mastered the art of fire. As one who doesn't do well with meat that isn't cooked to at least an internal temperature of 155, I would have had trouble with this. But they didn't make bread, or cheese, or beer. They didn't cultivate and harvest tomatoes. They didn't run down to the corner market to grab some broccoli. So it seems to me that for the duration of recorded history, we predominantly ate simple things. So how did we become a Twinkies and Cheez-Doodles kind of society? And why would I give my left arm for some M&Ms? How has a few thousand years of eating habits been undone by a century of processed food?
Rats
How many rats must it take to generate 400 pounds of rat meat? It seems to me that they wouldn't be the meatiest of animals, and that you'd have to slaughter a hell of a lot of them to equal a decent-sized meal for a family of four.
How many rats must it take to generate 400 pounds of rat meat? It seems to me that they wouldn't be the meatiest of animals, and that you'd have to slaughter a hell of a lot of them to equal a decent-sized meal for a family of four.
Tuesday, February 17, 2004
Hey Jude
When I was in high school, I babysat three kids that lived around the corner. I spent a lot of time there because the mother was diagnosed with MS and was doing a lot of doctors' appointments and sleeping (I don't know whether that was MS fatigue or depression). Ryan, the baby, was just the sweetest little thing, curly red hair and a great big smile. When he had problems sleeping one night, sobbing his little heart out in his crib to the point where I thought he'd never catch his breath, I called my mother to get advice. She told me to sing him a lullaby. I could not think of a lullaby to save my life, so I sang "Hey Jude" over and over again while rubbing his back. He was asleep in just a few minutes. It became my old standby any time he was being fussy. I babysat for them for a few years, and as he grew older he'd try to sing along with me. "Na-na-na... hey dude!"
Mom calls on Saturday to tell me that she saw his older sister, Liz, at the bakery. Liz informed her that Ryan has been court-ordered to attend a boarding reform school in Massachusetts, "to get himself clean and straighten out his attitude." Great. My little Ryan, just barely 15, is a drug-addicted asshole. That's just fabulous. Good to know that I raised him right.
When I was in high school, I babysat three kids that lived around the corner. I spent a lot of time there because the mother was diagnosed with MS and was doing a lot of doctors' appointments and sleeping (I don't know whether that was MS fatigue or depression). Ryan, the baby, was just the sweetest little thing, curly red hair and a great big smile. When he had problems sleeping one night, sobbing his little heart out in his crib to the point where I thought he'd never catch his breath, I called my mother to get advice. She told me to sing him a lullaby. I could not think of a lullaby to save my life, so I sang "Hey Jude" over and over again while rubbing his back. He was asleep in just a few minutes. It became my old standby any time he was being fussy. I babysat for them for a few years, and as he grew older he'd try to sing along with me. "Na-na-na... hey dude!"
Mom calls on Saturday to tell me that she saw his older sister, Liz, at the bakery. Liz informed her that Ryan has been court-ordered to attend a boarding reform school in Massachusetts, "to get himself clean and straighten out his attitude." Great. My little Ryan, just barely 15, is a drug-addicted asshole. That's just fabulous. Good to know that I raised him right.
Sunday, February 15, 2004
Skin
There is something wonderful about bare skin. Just the feel of it against your own. Not even in a sexual way per se, but just in the way that there's an almost magical closeness in a skin-on-skin setting that is on a whole different plane from sex itself. Being held against a man's naked chest... there's just something about that, something indescribably amazing.
There is something wonderful about bare skin. Just the feel of it against your own. Not even in a sexual way per se, but just in the way that there's an almost magical closeness in a skin-on-skin setting that is on a whole different plane from sex itself. Being held against a man's naked chest... there's just something about that, something indescribably amazing.
Dinner
Dinner tonight at the neighbors' house. J is making some really ornate lamb dinner (we'll cast aside my problems with lamb for the moment) and creme brulee for dessert. I'm in it for dessert, personally. That and some quality time with the kids. Hopefully Emily will be in a playful mood tonight. She always cracks me up when she is. Her birthday is next weekend. I remember coming back from that night at Mission Ale house with the guys from work, and seeing all of the lights on in the house, knowing that she was on the way. It all seemed so remarkable as I stood by the water cooler, drunk and chugging glass after glass of water, to think that a baby was being born right next door.
Back to food: what's with lamb, anyway? Why haven't the lamb farmers come up with a better name? The beef producers had the good sense to develop "veal" rather than "helpless baby cow", yet the sheep farmers still sell "lamb"... as in "Mary had a little lamb"... as in the kinds of small cuddly-looking animals that populate kids' picture books. I just don't understand why they haven't learned to call it something different.
Dinner tonight at the neighbors' house. J is making some really ornate lamb dinner (we'll cast aside my problems with lamb for the moment) and creme brulee for dessert. I'm in it for dessert, personally. That and some quality time with the kids. Hopefully Emily will be in a playful mood tonight. She always cracks me up when she is. Her birthday is next weekend. I remember coming back from that night at Mission Ale house with the guys from work, and seeing all of the lights on in the house, knowing that she was on the way. It all seemed so remarkable as I stood by the water cooler, drunk and chugging glass after glass of water, to think that a baby was being born right next door.
Back to food: what's with lamb, anyway? Why haven't the lamb farmers come up with a better name? The beef producers had the good sense to develop "veal" rather than "helpless baby cow", yet the sheep farmers still sell "lamb"... as in "Mary had a little lamb"... as in the kinds of small cuddly-looking animals that populate kids' picture books. I just don't understand why they haven't learned to call it something different.
Saturday, February 14, 2004
Purity
No offense to these guys, but they look like the leaders of the Nerd Herd anyway (as a former member, I feel qualified to make that judgement). Who would be sleeping with them anyway?
http://www.cnn.com/2004/EDUCATION/02/13/day.of.purity.ap/index.html
No offense to these guys, but they look like the leaders of the Nerd Herd anyway (as a former member, I feel qualified to make that judgement). Who would be sleeping with them anyway?
http://www.cnn.com/2004/EDUCATION/02/13/day.of.purity.ap/index.html
Friday, February 13, 2004
Former Crush Marries, Woman Crushed
Well, not completely crushed. I've mostly recovered and wish him all the best. But there's something about it that reminds me of my age, and that always shocks me.
Well, not completely crushed. I've mostly recovered and wish him all the best. But there's something about it that reminds me of my age, and that always shocks me.
Story
She says it with the offhanded casual sarcasm that only a born-and-raised east coaster can manage. "I've been vomiting black bile," she says. "Do you think that's bad?"
There is no logical response to this question, other than sheer, unbridled panic. But of course, I won't let her hear that in my voice because that's the reaction she's looking for. "I suppose that depends," I respond calmly. "Was it something you ate?"
"No." She pauses for a moment. "It's been happening for about two days now."
"Interesting," I say. "When did it start? Was there a trigger event?" I ask this like I'm some sort of medical professional.
"Right after I met with the realtor about selling grandmom's house."
Well, that explains it, then, at least on some level. "And it's been nonstop since then?"
"No, not nonstop. I just haven't been able to keep food down. I eat, of course, but then after a little bit I get sick." She's chomping on potato chips as we speak. I half-expect her to vomit into the phone.
I think for a moment. "Are you having any chest pains?" I ask, as though I have a diagnosis.
"No."
"Back pain?"
"No more than usual."
"Sleeplessness?"
"Oh yeah, definitely. I haven't been able to sleep through the night in a few days."
"Hmmm...." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Do you know that the vomiting and sleeplessness can be signs of a heart attack?"
"Yes, that's why I called you to ask what you thought."
"Why would you do that? I would only tell you to go to the doctor, as anyone with any common sense would tell you. But of course, I know that you'll never do that."
"I never said that I'd never go to the doctor..."
"You haven't been to one since I was three years old..."
"I've had no reason to go!"
No, of course not. "Basic medical maintenance doesn't count? Mammograms or something? You know, it seems pretty clear that we have the breast cancer gene."
"I got a flu shot last fall."
"You had a flu shot at the drugstore. You didn't go to a doctor. It doesn't count as medical treatment."
"So you didn't answer my question. Do you think this is serious?"
"Do you want my honest answer?"
"Of course."
"Yes, it's got the potential to be quite serious."
"Oh." There is an extended pause in the conversation.
"Will you consider going to a doctor?" I ask, knowing the answer already.
"Not this week. I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. I'm just busy, ok?"
"No, mom, it's not really ok. You really have to go to the doctor."
"But I don't want to."
How do you argue with a grown adult who won't do the only logical, rational thing?
She says it with the offhanded casual sarcasm that only a born-and-raised east coaster can manage. "I've been vomiting black bile," she says. "Do you think that's bad?"
There is no logical response to this question, other than sheer, unbridled panic. But of course, I won't let her hear that in my voice because that's the reaction she's looking for. "I suppose that depends," I respond calmly. "Was it something you ate?"
"No." She pauses for a moment. "It's been happening for about two days now."
"Interesting," I say. "When did it start? Was there a trigger event?" I ask this like I'm some sort of medical professional.
"Right after I met with the realtor about selling grandmom's house."
Well, that explains it, then, at least on some level. "And it's been nonstop since then?"
"No, not nonstop. I just haven't been able to keep food down. I eat, of course, but then after a little bit I get sick." She's chomping on potato chips as we speak. I half-expect her to vomit into the phone.
I think for a moment. "Are you having any chest pains?" I ask, as though I have a diagnosis.
"No."
"Back pain?"
"No more than usual."
"Sleeplessness?"
"Oh yeah, definitely. I haven't been able to sleep through the night in a few days."
"Hmmm...." I pause, choosing my words carefully. "Do you know that the vomiting and sleeplessness can be signs of a heart attack?"
"Yes, that's why I called you to ask what you thought."
"Why would you do that? I would only tell you to go to the doctor, as anyone with any common sense would tell you. But of course, I know that you'll never do that."
"I never said that I'd never go to the doctor..."
"You haven't been to one since I was three years old..."
"I've had no reason to go!"
No, of course not. "Basic medical maintenance doesn't count? Mammograms or something? You know, it seems pretty clear that we have the breast cancer gene."
"I got a flu shot last fall."
"You had a flu shot at the drugstore. You didn't go to a doctor. It doesn't count as medical treatment."
"So you didn't answer my question. Do you think this is serious?"
"Do you want my honest answer?"
"Of course."
"Yes, it's got the potential to be quite serious."
"Oh." There is an extended pause in the conversation.
"Will you consider going to a doctor?" I ask, knowing the answer already.
"Not this week. I'm busy."
"Doing what?"
"I don't know. I'm just busy, ok?"
"No, mom, it's not really ok. You really have to go to the doctor."
"But I don't want to."
How do you argue with a grown adult who won't do the only logical, rational thing?
Thursday, February 12, 2004
Weekend Plan
I hate to blow my weekend, but I should probably spend my time figuring out how to improve my sucky website. It looks so 1997. I just wish that I had more of a design vision than I do.
I hate to blow my weekend, but I should probably spend my time figuring out how to improve my sucky website. It looks so 1997. I just wish that I had more of a design vision than I do.
Do You Believe In V-Day?
In all my life, I really never had any belief in the significance of Valentine's Day. There's nothing wrong with it, really, but I'd like to think that if you really love someone you'll do nice things for them randomly throughout the year, and not on one commercialized day of the year. Although I must admit, as a teenager I would have given my left arm for one of the guys at school to send me a carnation (we always had carnation day around V-Day) and tell me that he liked me. Never really happened. I guess that's what happens when you're the class nerd. Do you think they would look at me any differently today?
In all my life, I really never had any belief in the significance of Valentine's Day. There's nothing wrong with it, really, but I'd like to think that if you really love someone you'll do nice things for them randomly throughout the year, and not on one commercialized day of the year. Although I must admit, as a teenager I would have given my left arm for one of the guys at school to send me a carnation (we always had carnation day around V-Day) and tell me that he liked me. Never really happened. I guess that's what happens when you're the class nerd. Do you think they would look at me any differently today?
Freaked Me Out
Ok, so last night I was online looking for massage techniques to figure out the best way to get rid of that knot that develops in the shoulder/neck region after sitting at the computer all day (or am I the only one who gets that knot?)
Anyway, somehow I stumbled across a webpage about breast implants. Now, I have no experience whatsoever with these things (perhaps you have some, I don't know), but... evidently in the old days, the implants were put in just below the skin. Now they're put in below the muscle in the chest, I guess because they're less likely to sag there. The way they loosen the muscle to get them in there, evidently you have this sort of pocket in the muscle above the implant.
So they had this little slideshow thing that was on endless loop... and it appears that you can kind of squeeze beneath the implant, and when you do the whole darned thing shoots up to around the area of the collarbone. Up. Down. Up. Down. It was completely freaky. I haven't been so creeped out by anything in quite a while. They just shouldn't be able to move like that. Ewww.
Ok, so last night I was online looking for massage techniques to figure out the best way to get rid of that knot that develops in the shoulder/neck region after sitting at the computer all day (or am I the only one who gets that knot?)
Anyway, somehow I stumbled across a webpage about breast implants. Now, I have no experience whatsoever with these things (perhaps you have some, I don't know), but... evidently in the old days, the implants were put in just below the skin. Now they're put in below the muscle in the chest, I guess because they're less likely to sag there. The way they loosen the muscle to get them in there, evidently you have this sort of pocket in the muscle above the implant.
So they had this little slideshow thing that was on endless loop... and it appears that you can kind of squeeze beneath the implant, and when you do the whole darned thing shoots up to around the area of the collarbone. Up. Down. Up. Down. It was completely freaky. I haven't been so creeped out by anything in quite a while. They just shouldn't be able to move like that. Ewww.
Catalogs and Bikinis
I'm looking through the Victoria's Secret catalog at the swimwear, dreaming about my trip to Kauai in April. I point a nice bikini out to C and tell him that's what I want to wear, but I'm not quite there yet. He says, "Why? Because your boobs are small?" (Not an unreasonable question since the model was a solid C-cup, if not larger and I'm... well, nowhere near that, even with quite a bit of padding.) I reply, "Boobs! I'm not worried about my boobs! I've given up worrying about them. I'm worried about the size of my penis, especially since I've started getting these e-mails about it...." He cracked up. Actually, it's more of my belly/waistline that's the bikini problem. I just can't seem to tone between my bra line and my hipbones. Cardio would help, but cardio sucks. I should go walking at lunch or something, but laziness is my master. In less than 30 minutes I will go out and procure a high-fat, high-sodium, high-calorie lunch, and proceed to sit and eat it at my desk. What a fabulously healthy habit!
I'm looking through the Victoria's Secret catalog at the swimwear, dreaming about my trip to Kauai in April. I point a nice bikini out to C and tell him that's what I want to wear, but I'm not quite there yet. He says, "Why? Because your boobs are small?" (Not an unreasonable question since the model was a solid C-cup, if not larger and I'm... well, nowhere near that, even with quite a bit of padding.) I reply, "Boobs! I'm not worried about my boobs! I've given up worrying about them. I'm worried about the size of my penis, especially since I've started getting these e-mails about it...." He cracked up. Actually, it's more of my belly/waistline that's the bikini problem. I just can't seem to tone between my bra line and my hipbones. Cardio would help, but cardio sucks. I should go walking at lunch or something, but laziness is my master. In less than 30 minutes I will go out and procure a high-fat, high-sodium, high-calorie lunch, and proceed to sit and eat it at my desk. What a fabulously healthy habit!
Wednesday, February 11, 2004
Out of the Blue
My former best friend, R, has this habit of being a self-absorbed little prick. When I lived in NJ, he spent every weekend (Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights) crashed on our couch. We met the first day of college and lived on the same hall. He was my best man (not C's, mine... my only bridesmaid).
Last summer, I had the surprise birthday party for C. I offered R an invite and a free ticket to come out here. Not only did he not come, but he never even responded to the invitation. He called the week after the party to tell me that he'd decided to go to Florida for a week instead. I haven't spoken to him since.
Today I get a message from him. "Hellllooooo! I know, I've been so terrible for not calling, but once you hear about what's been going on in my life, you will totally understand. It's just been madness, I tell you. So I'll call you back tonight. Much love, darling."
Bullshit he'll call back tonight. It'll be another six months. C thinks that R operates on a different space-time continuum. He has R years, which are like dog years. We think it's been six months since we've spoken. He thinks it's been six days. But the fact of the matter is that I'm really tired of having a friend that just takes and takes and gives me nothing but aggravation in return. He'll probably call with some sort of sob story -- the further evolution of his mother's lesbian exploration, a pregnancy for his sister, or maybe he's actually found a guy... but I don't even know any gay men that could tolerate his affectations and preening for more than a month. I really don't have any intention of answering the phone tonight. I really just don't care. 12 years of unending loyalty on my part has come to an abrupt halt. End of story.
Maybe he's just now realizing that we never called to meet him at Christmas. Or, more importantly, that we never sent a gift. Keep in mind that I haven't gotten a gift from him since I lived at home before I was married, and even then it was leftover giveaway goodies from Citibank. Nice Skagen watch, though, if you're into the Citibank logo.
My former best friend, R, has this habit of being a self-absorbed little prick. When I lived in NJ, he spent every weekend (Friday, Saturday and Sunday nights) crashed on our couch. We met the first day of college and lived on the same hall. He was my best man (not C's, mine... my only bridesmaid).
Last summer, I had the surprise birthday party for C. I offered R an invite and a free ticket to come out here. Not only did he not come, but he never even responded to the invitation. He called the week after the party to tell me that he'd decided to go to Florida for a week instead. I haven't spoken to him since.
Today I get a message from him. "Hellllooooo! I know, I've been so terrible for not calling, but once you hear about what's been going on in my life, you will totally understand. It's just been madness, I tell you. So I'll call you back tonight. Much love, darling."
Bullshit he'll call back tonight. It'll be another six months. C thinks that R operates on a different space-time continuum. He has R years, which are like dog years. We think it's been six months since we've spoken. He thinks it's been six days. But the fact of the matter is that I'm really tired of having a friend that just takes and takes and gives me nothing but aggravation in return. He'll probably call with some sort of sob story -- the further evolution of his mother's lesbian exploration, a pregnancy for his sister, or maybe he's actually found a guy... but I don't even know any gay men that could tolerate his affectations and preening for more than a month. I really don't have any intention of answering the phone tonight. I really just don't care. 12 years of unending loyalty on my part has come to an abrupt halt. End of story.
Maybe he's just now realizing that we never called to meet him at Christmas. Or, more importantly, that we never sent a gift. Keep in mind that I haven't gotten a gift from him since I lived at home before I was married, and even then it was leftover giveaway goodies from Citibank. Nice Skagen watch, though, if you're into the Citibank logo.
Tuesday, February 10, 2004
Dreams
In last night's dream, the psycho customer came to the studio and stole all the wine from my personal wine cellar, which seemed to be in the storage closet. Nevermind that I don't drink wine because I'm allergic. Evidently I do in dreams, because I was really pissed about it.
There was another one, too, but damned if I can remember it now.
In last night's dream, the psycho customer came to the studio and stole all the wine from my personal wine cellar, which seemed to be in the storage closet. Nevermind that I don't drink wine because I'm allergic. Evidently I do in dreams, because I was really pissed about it.
There was another one, too, but damned if I can remember it now.
We've Been Here Since Forever
Yesterday's mail brought me confirmation from the Delano family genealogy group that I am, in fact, French through the Delano line (what a surprise), and that I am descended from the Mayflower pilgrims in Plymouth. I wish I'd known this in elementary school. It would have made that whole pilgrim lesson more interesting each year at Thanksgiving. I'm also supposed to be distantly related to presidents Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Ulysses S. Grant, but let's face it, if six degrees of separation is a real concept, I could be distantly related to almost anyone. But to think that I really had relatives arriving here in 1620 and 1621... as little as they all move around now, it's hard to imagine that anyone in the bloodline had the chutzpah to board a ship and sail across an entire ocean.
Yesterday's mail brought me confirmation from the Delano family genealogy group that I am, in fact, French through the Delano line (what a surprise), and that I am descended from the Mayflower pilgrims in Plymouth. I wish I'd known this in elementary school. It would have made that whole pilgrim lesson more interesting each year at Thanksgiving. I'm also supposed to be distantly related to presidents Franklin Delano Roosevelt and Ulysses S. Grant, but let's face it, if six degrees of separation is a real concept, I could be distantly related to almost anyone. But to think that I really had relatives arriving here in 1620 and 1621... as little as they all move around now, it's hard to imagine that anyone in the bloodline had the chutzpah to board a ship and sail across an entire ocean.
Creepy, Creepy
Duran was totally checking out my ass from his perch on the smoking porch. Dude, you're still a newlywed. Try to keep the ogling to a minimum. Besides, his wife is the kind who would and could kick my ass if she thought I was a threat.
Duran was totally checking out my ass from his perch on the smoking porch. Dude, you're still a newlywed. Try to keep the ogling to a minimum. Besides, his wife is the kind who would and could kick my ass if she thought I was a threat.
Atkins
What a shock to learn that Atkins himself was obese and had heart disease. I would never think that a diet of bacon and steak would cause such problems. This must be more of that propaganda by the liberal media. ;-)
What a shock to learn that Atkins himself was obese and had heart disease. I would never think that a diet of bacon and steak would cause such problems. This must be more of that propaganda by the liberal media. ;-)
Monday, February 09, 2004
Compost
"I'd like to become a white rhododendron." I'll have to tell my sis-in-law about this, as we were at the funeral discussing how we were creeped out by the preservatives and burial thing, and we were both all for cremation. This gives another option that's low on the volumetric scale.
"I'd like to become a white rhododendron." I'll have to tell my sis-in-law about this, as we were at the funeral discussing how we were creeped out by the preservatives and burial thing, and we were both all for cremation. This gives another option that's low on the volumetric scale.
Venting
So everyone in the extended group pitched in $20 for my boss's birthday gift -- a gift certificate to a spa. Now, let's keep in mind that we never do this, so I don't know what the heck prompted this enthusiasm from the masses.
Now G, my coworker and my boss's other subordinate, tells me that she's going to go out and get her a bunch of stuff to open at her birthday lunch. All I have to say is CRAP! I know that G is just trying to suck up to the boss, but that ups the ante and forces me to get her something more so I don't look like a slacker. Plus, I know G very well, and she will NEVER pick up the tab for lunch, which means that I'll be paying for that too. Thank god I talked her out of Parcel 104 and convinced her to settle for Toma's.
It's not that I don't like my boss and want her to have a happy birthday, but I have, over the years, grown resentful of having to give and give to others and not getting anything in return. It just seems crappy. I know, that's not the spirit of giving, and I do love to give, but it would be nice to have people treat me like I'm special once a year.
That really sounds awful, doesn't it? Really, I'm not materialistic and self-absorbed by nature. I just want to feel like people give a shit, and less like I'm perpetually shit upon.
So everyone in the extended group pitched in $20 for my boss's birthday gift -- a gift certificate to a spa. Now, let's keep in mind that we never do this, so I don't know what the heck prompted this enthusiasm from the masses.
Now G, my coworker and my boss's other subordinate, tells me that she's going to go out and get her a bunch of stuff to open at her birthday lunch. All I have to say is CRAP! I know that G is just trying to suck up to the boss, but that ups the ante and forces me to get her something more so I don't look like a slacker. Plus, I know G very well, and she will NEVER pick up the tab for lunch, which means that I'll be paying for that too. Thank god I talked her out of Parcel 104 and convinced her to settle for Toma's.
It's not that I don't like my boss and want her to have a happy birthday, but I have, over the years, grown resentful of having to give and give to others and not getting anything in return. It just seems crappy. I know, that's not the spirit of giving, and I do love to give, but it would be nice to have people treat me like I'm special once a year.
That really sounds awful, doesn't it? Really, I'm not materialistic and self-absorbed by nature. I just want to feel like people give a shit, and less like I'm perpetually shit upon.
Saturday, February 07, 2004
For Stefano, from V&A's Eyes
For all our years, the world was a big place, full of people and places, visions and tastes. But the day you arrived the world suddenly became very small; mommy, daddy and you at the center of all. Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes; fine, wispy hair and a cute button nose. Nothing else mattered but the sight of your face, the worry and stress of our lives was erased. We see our forever in the look in your eyes, knowing that you've become our most fabulous prize. No matter what happens, wherever you go, we'll love you forever, that much we know.
For all our years, the world was a big place, full of people and places, visions and tastes. But the day you arrived the world suddenly became very small; mommy, daddy and you at the center of all. Ten tiny fingers and ten tiny toes; fine, wispy hair and a cute button nose. Nothing else mattered but the sight of your face, the worry and stress of our lives was erased. We see our forever in the look in your eyes, knowing that you've become our most fabulous prize. No matter what happens, wherever you go, we'll love you forever, that much we know.
Movies on TV
I'm watching The Right Stuff on TV right now. I loved this movie when I was a kid. I wanted to be an astronaut... then decided that really what I wanted was to be one of the test pilots. It never occurred to me that I couldn't be. Can you imagine being Chuck Yeager and breaking the sound barrier for the first time? How fucking cool.
I'm watching The Right Stuff on TV right now. I loved this movie when I was a kid. I wanted to be an astronaut... then decided that really what I wanted was to be one of the test pilots. It never occurred to me that I couldn't be. Can you imagine being Chuck Yeager and breaking the sound barrier for the first time? How fucking cool.
:-(
I'm lonely, and that makes me sad. And for some reason, being sad is making me feel really pathetic. I'm curled up on the couch, still in my workout clothes, wrapped in my blanket and watching TV. Thank god I left the M&Ms at T&D's place last night or I'd be munching on them, too.
I'm lonely, and that makes me sad. And for some reason, being sad is making me feel really pathetic. I'm curled up on the couch, still in my workout clothes, wrapped in my blanket and watching TV. Thank god I left the M&Ms at T&D's place last night or I'd be munching on them, too.
Friday, February 06, 2004
Skulls
Ok, you'd have to be slightly odd to want one of these ceramic heads in the first place, but imagine your shock if you got it home, dropped it, and discovered a human skull inside. You just wouldn't expect to find human body parts at auction.
Ok, you'd have to be slightly odd to want one of these ceramic heads in the first place, but imagine your shock if you got it home, dropped it, and discovered a human skull inside. You just wouldn't expect to find human body parts at auction.
Model?
G, my Mary Kay lady, wanted me to model for her at an event next week. I can't do it because I have a conflict, but I was shocked that she'd choose me as her model. It's tough to do makeup on a freckly complexion, so I wouldn't think that I'd be the ideal choice.
G, my Mary Kay lady, wanted me to model for her at an event next week. I can't do it because I have a conflict, but I was shocked that she'd choose me as her model. It's tough to do makeup on a freckly complexion, so I wouldn't think that I'd be the ideal choice.
In Memory of Wheat
They (you know, the royal They that seem to be the authority on all things) say that if there is a particular food that you crave, then that is the worst food for you. For example, people with diabetic tendencies crave sugary foods. These are the foods that you can't have just one serving of. For me, it's anything that's a wheat-based carb. Pasta. Pancakes. Cookies. Cake. And the worst offender of all, bread. Take me out to a restaurant, and I will eat the entire basket of bread without blinking. I go to Willow Street and I'll eat the whole plate of bread plus a pizza and still want more bread. It's like giving an alcoholic a glass of wine. I just can't stop at a small amount
So I know that this isn't good for me. Now, They say that the way to overcome these cravings is to eliminate them from your diet, preferably forever, but at the very least for a week or two to retrain your body. I've done it for a week now. What's the result? Well, my characteristically growly, gurgly stomach isn't doing that anymore. That's probably a good sign. The bad part is that a) lunch sucks -- try finding something good to eat that doesn't involve a roll, bread, crust or tortilla wrap. I'm pretty much limited to Thai or chicken-rice Lean Cuisine. I can do salads, too, but they're never filling enough. Yuck. But am I craving these foods? Am I sitting here thinking, "If I don't have a waffle, I'll scream"? Not really. It's just a really sucky re-education. And b) I seem to want to replace the wheaty-carbo-sugar high with plain old sugar. Chocolate would be delightful. Frosted flakes (they're made with corn, so they're acceptable). Even ice cream, which I normally have very little interest in. So I'm indulging my cravings for all of these sugary foods, so I'm probably going to end up gaining weight before this is all finished. I can see it now: I'm going to have to start running to defeat the sugar. I hate running. You should only run when you're being chased.
Maybe part of the whole sugar thing is a comfort food need for being alone while C is in Europe. He's in Brussels today. I'm in San Jose. What's wrong with this picture? Why can't I ever go anyplace cool? I didn't even get to go to Dallas this year for kickoff, not that being sequestered in a hotel in Dallas in any sort of a thrill unto itself, but still.... I just want to go somewhere. A tropical island where I can base my entire diet on bananas and mangoes and fruity drinks with little umbrellas.
They (you know, the royal They that seem to be the authority on all things) say that if there is a particular food that you crave, then that is the worst food for you. For example, people with diabetic tendencies crave sugary foods. These are the foods that you can't have just one serving of. For me, it's anything that's a wheat-based carb. Pasta. Pancakes. Cookies. Cake. And the worst offender of all, bread. Take me out to a restaurant, and I will eat the entire basket of bread without blinking. I go to Willow Street and I'll eat the whole plate of bread plus a pizza and still want more bread. It's like giving an alcoholic a glass of wine. I just can't stop at a small amount
So I know that this isn't good for me. Now, They say that the way to overcome these cravings is to eliminate them from your diet, preferably forever, but at the very least for a week or two to retrain your body. I've done it for a week now. What's the result? Well, my characteristically growly, gurgly stomach isn't doing that anymore. That's probably a good sign. The bad part is that a) lunch sucks -- try finding something good to eat that doesn't involve a roll, bread, crust or tortilla wrap. I'm pretty much limited to Thai or chicken-rice Lean Cuisine. I can do salads, too, but they're never filling enough. Yuck. But am I craving these foods? Am I sitting here thinking, "If I don't have a waffle, I'll scream"? Not really. It's just a really sucky re-education. And b) I seem to want to replace the wheaty-carbo-sugar high with plain old sugar. Chocolate would be delightful. Frosted flakes (they're made with corn, so they're acceptable). Even ice cream, which I normally have very little interest in. So I'm indulging my cravings for all of these sugary foods, so I'm probably going to end up gaining weight before this is all finished. I can see it now: I'm going to have to start running to defeat the sugar. I hate running. You should only run when you're being chased.
Maybe part of the whole sugar thing is a comfort food need for being alone while C is in Europe. He's in Brussels today. I'm in San Jose. What's wrong with this picture? Why can't I ever go anyplace cool? I didn't even get to go to Dallas this year for kickoff, not that being sequestered in a hotel in Dallas in any sort of a thrill unto itself, but still.... I just want to go somewhere. A tropical island where I can base my entire diet on bananas and mangoes and fruity drinks with little umbrellas.
Thursday, February 05, 2004
So Much Death
My friend M's dad is dying. He's nonresponsive in the ICU. I feel like everyone around me is dying. This will be my third funeral in three months. Before that, the last one I went to was in 1997. It's just overwhelming. I should be reveling in the birth of Stefano and the pending birth of T&D's baby. It should somehow offset this feeling of loss, but for some reason it doesn't feel that way.
I think I'm going home after work to drink, read and eat M&Ms. Maybe I'll stop by my neighbor's and get a hug from little miss Emily. Maybe her energy and happiness will make me feel better.
My friend M's dad is dying. He's nonresponsive in the ICU. I feel like everyone around me is dying. This will be my third funeral in three months. Before that, the last one I went to was in 1997. It's just overwhelming. I should be reveling in the birth of Stefano and the pending birth of T&D's baby. It should somehow offset this feeling of loss, but for some reason it doesn't feel that way.
I think I'm going home after work to drink, read and eat M&Ms. Maybe I'll stop by my neighbor's and get a hug from little miss Emily. Maybe her energy and happiness will make me feel better.
Wednesday, February 04, 2004
Happy Birthday Stefano
Vale had her baby 12 days early on Feb 2. He's got his mouth open in the picture... definitely the child of an Italian... already talking!
Vale had her baby 12 days early on Feb 2. He's got his mouth open in the picture... definitely the child of an Italian... already talking!
Death Again
My friend M's dad is in critical condition with a raging systemic infection a week after his bypass surgery. The doctors say that the next 24 hours will be the hard part, and then after that he's got a 50-50 chance of survival. Shit. How bad must he be now if 50-50 is a good set of odds? So of course, being me, I feel terrible and wish that there was something I could do for him or her or anyone in her family. Why does illness and death render us so powerless?
My friend M's dad is in critical condition with a raging systemic infection a week after his bypass surgery. The doctors say that the next 24 hours will be the hard part, and then after that he's got a 50-50 chance of survival. Shit. How bad must he be now if 50-50 is a good set of odds? So of course, being me, I feel terrible and wish that there was something I could do for him or her or anyone in her family. Why does illness and death render us so powerless?
Smack
Having a discussion with T&D last night about the baby. Evidently everyone at the office is pregnant -- 14 employees or employee spouses in a company of 150 people, which is really an astonishing rate, when you think about it. D joked that there was something in the water, and then says, "Good thing C's not around enough to drink the water." T responds with, "Forget the water, he's not around enough to have sex. Everyone would be shocked if you got pregnant." Lovely. It's really great to know that I'm universally thought of as The Girl Who Doesn't Get Any.
Having a discussion with T&D last night about the baby. Evidently everyone at the office is pregnant -- 14 employees or employee spouses in a company of 150 people, which is really an astonishing rate, when you think about it. D joked that there was something in the water, and then says, "Good thing C's not around enough to drink the water." T responds with, "Forget the water, he's not around enough to have sex. Everyone would be shocked if you got pregnant." Lovely. It's really great to know that I'm universally thought of as The Girl Who Doesn't Get Any.
Tuesday, February 03, 2004
Not Philly!
Olde City is such a nice area of Philly. It seems wrong to bring the Real World crew into town.
Olde City is such a nice area of Philly. It seems wrong to bring the Real World crew into town.
Dog Shows
I'm watching the dog show on Animal Planet. Some of these dogs look so overly groomed that they must be miserable. But some are just beautiful. The eyes on this Australian Cattle Dog are just amazing.
I'm watching the dog show on Animal Planet. Some of these dogs look so overly groomed that they must be miserable. But some are just beautiful. The eyes on this Australian Cattle Dog are just amazing.
Tears
I can remember the tears that define lives.
I can feel Michael collapsing outside the registrar's office when he had his breakdown. I ducked him into the alcove and sat there with him in my arms for hours, holding him and telling him that it would be ok. I wanted to do more. I wanted to heal whatever had broken inside of him, as though I could somehow will him to be better, or transfer what little strength I had to him.
I can still see Meg sobbing in her bed, drunk off her ass, afraid that she wasn't going to be able to save her little brother from the same drug addiction that had nearly claimed her sister.
I can feel the cold tile beneath me as I sat in the hall with Rudy as he told me the story of getting the EMT call to go to his uncle's house for cardiac arrest, and how his uncle died while he was performing CPR on him. He was devastated, and had that pain and sense of guilt and responsibility that I've never known in anyone other than only children.
I can remember getting that last e-mail from Chuck, telling me that he had the throat cancer. He knew how close he was to the end. He wouldn't have told me otherwise. He had always been there for me, much more than a professor normally would. I found out about his death a few months later, and I couldn't stop crying. I still get sort of teary thinking about it.
I can remember the tears that define lives.
I can feel Michael collapsing outside the registrar's office when he had his breakdown. I ducked him into the alcove and sat there with him in my arms for hours, holding him and telling him that it would be ok. I wanted to do more. I wanted to heal whatever had broken inside of him, as though I could somehow will him to be better, or transfer what little strength I had to him.
I can still see Meg sobbing in her bed, drunk off her ass, afraid that she wasn't going to be able to save her little brother from the same drug addiction that had nearly claimed her sister.
I can feel the cold tile beneath me as I sat in the hall with Rudy as he told me the story of getting the EMT call to go to his uncle's house for cardiac arrest, and how his uncle died while he was performing CPR on him. He was devastated, and had that pain and sense of guilt and responsibility that I've never known in anyone other than only children.
I can remember getting that last e-mail from Chuck, telling me that he had the throat cancer. He knew how close he was to the end. He wouldn't have told me otherwise. He had always been there for me, much more than a professor normally would. I found out about his death a few months later, and I couldn't stop crying. I still get sort of teary thinking about it.
Just Tell Me Who
Who does a girl have to sleep with to get some decent chocolate around here? I'm open to suggestions. This is not a day where you want to try to convince me that maybe a red vine might do the trick. It won't. Milk chocolate, please.
Who does a girl have to sleep with to get some decent chocolate around here? I'm open to suggestions. This is not a day where you want to try to convince me that maybe a red vine might do the trick. It won't. Milk chocolate, please.
Breasts
What's the big deal with breasts? There's such a ridiculous fuss over the whole Janet Jackson thing. It's a breast. What's the big deal? One out of every two people has them. Everyone on earth has seen them before. Do we really think that the children of America are going to be permanently damaged by seeing a quick flash of one? Strange, since we don't seem to have any reservations about letting them play violent video games or watching the news... I suspect that violence is far more psychologically damaging than breasts.
What's the big deal with breasts? There's such a ridiculous fuss over the whole Janet Jackson thing. It's a breast. What's the big deal? One out of every two people has them. Everyone on earth has seen them before. Do we really think that the children of America are going to be permanently damaged by seeing a quick flash of one? Strange, since we don't seem to have any reservations about letting them play violent video games or watching the news... I suspect that violence is far more psychologically damaging than breasts.
Monday, February 02, 2004
Ads
Highlights, compliments of SI.com:
Best monkey ad: A chimpanzee not only talks but also puts the moves on his owner's girlfriend while the guy is getting some Bud Light. Best back hair ad, too, although sadly we never do find out how she feels about it.
Best erectile dysfunction ad: Mike Ditka shows us how well Levitra works by tossing a football through a swinging tire. We get it, Mike.
Second-best erectile dysfunction ad: The narrator spends most of Cialis' 60-second spot rattling off a list of disclaimers, including the news that an erection lasting more than four hours is not a good thing. Say what?
Best credit card ad: Homer Simpson takes an appropriately grumpy turn in a "Priceless" spot. Yes, I'll say it: MasterCard's best spokesman since Olive Oyl.
Second-best credit card ad: The U.S. women's Olympic volleyball team tunes up by practicing on a frozen beach. We got goosebumps just watching ... their goosebumps.
Highlights, compliments of SI.com:
Best monkey ad: A chimpanzee not only talks but also puts the moves on his owner's girlfriend while the guy is getting some Bud Light. Best back hair ad, too, although sadly we never do find out how she feels about it.
Best erectile dysfunction ad: Mike Ditka shows us how well Levitra works by tossing a football through a swinging tire. We get it, Mike.
Second-best erectile dysfunction ad: The narrator spends most of Cialis' 60-second spot rattling off a list of disclaimers, including the news that an erection lasting more than four hours is not a good thing. Say what?
Best credit card ad: Homer Simpson takes an appropriately grumpy turn in a "Priceless" spot. Yes, I'll say it: MasterCard's best spokesman since Olive Oyl.
Second-best credit card ad: The U.S. women's Olympic volleyball team tunes up by practicing on a frozen beach. We got goosebumps just watching ... their goosebumps.
Schemes
I need a get-rich-quick scheme. Something that will allow me to get out of this job. Something that will allow me to continue to fund the business at a loss. Something that will allow me to spend some quality time on a beach with someone who will deliver me cold drinks and help apply sunscreen to my hard-to-reach freckles. I thought about planting a money tree, but I've heard a nasty rumor that money doesn't grow on trees. Maybe it grows on bushes.
I spend a lot of time worried about money. I wish it didn't have to be that way. Part of it is just my nature, but most of it is the business. At the rate I'm going, I'll be bankrupt before I hit a monthly break-even point. I just need to take deep breaths and not panic. Businesses aren't supposed to be profitable in the first year, right? Just breathe.
I need a get-rich-quick scheme. Something that will allow me to get out of this job. Something that will allow me to continue to fund the business at a loss. Something that will allow me to spend some quality time on a beach with someone who will deliver me cold drinks and help apply sunscreen to my hard-to-reach freckles. I thought about planting a money tree, but I've heard a nasty rumor that money doesn't grow on trees. Maybe it grows on bushes.
I spend a lot of time worried about money. I wish it didn't have to be that way. Part of it is just my nature, but most of it is the business. At the rate I'm going, I'll be bankrupt before I hit a monthly break-even point. I just need to take deep breaths and not panic. Businesses aren't supposed to be profitable in the first year, right? Just breathe.
Is This Crazy?
Part of my upset about T&D's baby-to-be is their work schedule. They're usually gone for 12 hours a day, and if the way they've raised their puppy is any indication of how the kid will be raised... well, it's not good. I hate to see kids become daycare babies. So my mother says to me, "So quit your shitty job and become their nanny." Oh. I don't know. I have no illusion that child-rearing is easy, but.... I doubt they could pay enough to make it worthwhile though. I still do need money for the business.
Part of my upset about T&D's baby-to-be is their work schedule. They're usually gone for 12 hours a day, and if the way they've raised their puppy is any indication of how the kid will be raised... well, it's not good. I hate to see kids become daycare babies. So my mother says to me, "So quit your shitty job and become their nanny." Oh. I don't know. I have no illusion that child-rearing is easy, but.... I doubt they could pay enough to make it worthwhile though. I still do need money for the business.
Sunday, February 01, 2004
Wisdom
My friend Heather is a wise woman, good friend and mother of three. In telling her the story of T&D's pregnancy and my response to it, she says that I'm freaked out because we've lived parallel lives for the last 5 1/2 years, and the fact that she's pregnant AND that it's unplanned really rocks my world because I am a planner and I know that T is as well, so for something so dramatic to happen to her, well then that makes me vulnerable, too. It's my own vulnerability that has me upset. She might be right.
When I was young, I used to have these visions of what my kids would look like. They were always blonde or redheads, always with light eyes. I could, theoretically, have a light-eyed kid, and I do have a recessive red hair gene in spite of my own dark hair. But of course, C is dark and Sicilian-Italian, so that pretty much puts an end to that vision unless I decide to be on a quest for a sperm donor.
I'm watching a History Channel special on sex in the bible. Interesting stuff. Definitely a little closer to the Da Vinci code look at Christianity and women than the version that I was always taught as a protestant growing up. It's interesting how things have changed over the years, how beliefs have evolved to be more restrictive, not less.
On a completely unrelated tangent, I have to pack C's stuff for his trip to Paris on Tuesday. He's flying back on one of those often-canceled terrorist flights, the Air France from Paris to LA. He's really upset about it, which is interesting to observe because this is the first time since September 11 that he's shown any sign of being freaked out. I, on the other hand, believe that the odds of something happening are slim, and that he's more likely to be inconvenienced than harmed. I hope I'm right. He's my best friend. What the heck would I do without him? I still have dreams about Michael in that plane before it crashed into the tower. I know they used gas in first class, but I also believe that before the plane hit, he and the pilot were dragged out of cockpit and into the galley with their throats slashed. I can hear it, see it, feel it. I wish that weren't the case, but I can't help it. I have those dreams sometimes, and I've been known to have dreams that are perilously close to reality.
The History Channel reports that the new testament says that lustful thoughts are sinful. I'm going to hell.
My friend Heather is a wise woman, good friend and mother of three. In telling her the story of T&D's pregnancy and my response to it, she says that I'm freaked out because we've lived parallel lives for the last 5 1/2 years, and the fact that she's pregnant AND that it's unplanned really rocks my world because I am a planner and I know that T is as well, so for something so dramatic to happen to her, well then that makes me vulnerable, too. It's my own vulnerability that has me upset. She might be right.
When I was young, I used to have these visions of what my kids would look like. They were always blonde or redheads, always with light eyes. I could, theoretically, have a light-eyed kid, and I do have a recessive red hair gene in spite of my own dark hair. But of course, C is dark and Sicilian-Italian, so that pretty much puts an end to that vision unless I decide to be on a quest for a sperm donor.
I'm watching a History Channel special on sex in the bible. Interesting stuff. Definitely a little closer to the Da Vinci code look at Christianity and women than the version that I was always taught as a protestant growing up. It's interesting how things have changed over the years, how beliefs have evolved to be more restrictive, not less.
On a completely unrelated tangent, I have to pack C's stuff for his trip to Paris on Tuesday. He's flying back on one of those often-canceled terrorist flights, the Air France from Paris to LA. He's really upset about it, which is interesting to observe because this is the first time since September 11 that he's shown any sign of being freaked out. I, on the other hand, believe that the odds of something happening are slim, and that he's more likely to be inconvenienced than harmed. I hope I'm right. He's my best friend. What the heck would I do without him? I still have dreams about Michael in that plane before it crashed into the tower. I know they used gas in first class, but I also believe that before the plane hit, he and the pilot were dragged out of cockpit and into the galley with their throats slashed. I can hear it, see it, feel it. I wish that weren't the case, but I can't help it. I have those dreams sometimes, and I've been known to have dreams that are perilously close to reality.
The History Channel reports that the new testament says that lustful thoughts are sinful. I'm going to hell.
