November 2nd, 2009
I own one of those alarm clocks that just knows what time it is. Something to do with magical signals from space or some such. And because of those magical space signals, at 2AM on Sunday, bloop! the time fell back automatically, without a bit of assistance from me. So low maintenance, my little alarm clock! Only, apparently, it decided that once wasn’t enough and bloop! the time fell back AGAIN lat night while I was sleeping. I struggled from sleep at 5AM to head out to boot camp, only to learn from the microwave that it was 6AM and camp was going on without me.
Are you sure, Microwave?
The microwave referred me to the DVR box for back up and then to the cell phone, who has a long and storied history of truth-telling. It was indeed 6AM.
Oh, technology, you rogue. Between the Dork Lord and me, it took a good twenty minutes of jabbing at that thing to figure out how to manually reset it and even now, I’m not so sure it won’t get crazy ideas about how to pass the time when it’s bored again at 2AM. God, I’m glad I didn’t end up purchasing a Clocky. By now, that thing would have figured out how to roll right off the night stand, yank my car keys and go joyriding. And something tells me it would not have any respect for speed bumps.
October 30th, 2009
I found a hair in my salad. At lunch with a potentially very important client. I very quietly removed the offending gag-worthy hair and ate the damn salad. Now I’m waiting for the communicable, debilitating disease to kick in. In three, two, one…
We celebrated the one year anniversary of our meeting, in the same pub, in the same booth. Then we bought a mullet wig at Walmart. Because that is what love is about. The best part of it was, when I suggested dinner Thursday night at The Restaurant Where We Met, his response:
“Sure. What’s Thursday?”
“Um, the day we met?”
FAIL. Though, I suppose the Universe is going on just as it should. I’m still not sure he knows my birthday.
My nephew Owen tuned one. If you don’t have a reason for not stepping in front of a bus at the end of a long, assy day, you may borrow this one. I nearly died of The Cute.
Penny Jayne had her first sponge bath. And she hated it. My brother sent a bunch of pictures of her tiny, pink pissed off face. But I prefer this one. Where she’s clearly telling her mother all about the pony she should receive for having gone through such an ordeal.
“Oooh, or maybe a WHITE pony with PINK ribbons…”
October 27th, 2009
When Penny was born yesterday afternoon, she was scuttled away to the NICU for some special attention, and in the first picture I saw, her sweet round face was covered with tubes and bands and cords. My first thought was a shout out to the Universe to tread lightly with this one, please and thank you. My second was a shout out to my brother.
“Penny looks like an X-wing pilot.”
“That’s my girl.”
His girl. That my brother has a child is so far out, I can hardly stand it. He will be a great, if absurd, daddy. Frankly, I’m a little surprised she wasn’t named after a Transformer, but I assume that has a great deal to do with his wife’s firm and graceful touch. Still and all, she was (and I report this with glee) middle-named after a character on Firefly, little miss Penelope Jayne.
She is, by the way, out of NICU and sleeping off her birthday adventures (being born is very hard work). I simply cannot wait to gnaw on her cheeks (in stupid MARCH, which is so far away she will probably be doing calculus by then and want nothing to do with her old maid auntie). With her parents’ permission, I will try to post a picture of those glorious cheeks later this afternoon.
Oh, and for the curious, I did not die at hot yoga. In fact, I’ve been back three times. Bow pose will be mine, dammit. Also, I did not die on my bike ride. In fact, our 15 mile ride to the lake and back was 100% incident-free. I’m still waiting for the Boy to take back all that crap about me falling and breaking all my bones. I have a feeling I’ll be waiting a long, long time. And maybe by the time I get some satisfaction on the matter, my freaking tailbone will have stopped the ohmyhell aching. Those seats are made for folks who already have trim fannies. Those of us who want them, well, we have to suck it up or learn to pedal standing.
TA DA!
October 23rd, 2009
I feel really good today – mentally, that is. Boot camp this morning was all about sprinting (it’s cold; they wanted to keep our muscles warm. Mmm hmmm) so physically, I’m all wobbly legged and still haven’t lost that heaving feeling, whoa, that heaving feeeeeeling. But! Since today was the last day of the four-week camp, I ventured onto the scale and was greeted with a number eight and a half pounds lower than when I began. This makes me very happy. True, due to some very stubborn saddlebags, I’m still approximately eighty THOUSAND squat jacks away from fitting into jeans I don’t hate because of how closely they come to falling into Category: Mom Jeans, but this is the kind of progress I can get behind.
Tomorrow, I aim to ride a bike, a feat I have not attempted in seventeen years. Ooh, and on Sunday, I start hot yoga (ten days for ten dollars! Suckers). If you do not hear from me on Monday, come looking. I will be the one in a dehydrated heap of a pretzel on the classroom floor. Just add water.
In case you’re wondering why I’m being such a nut so dedicated about this exercise crap (more than one person has insinuated it’s because of my boyfriend), I’m telling you straight: it’s not at all about the Boy (who just plain loves me, inclusive of very stubborn saddle bags). It’s about clothes. Fall time brings cooler weather and an outdoor wedding in the middle of November brings about a need for an outfit to withstand – and fashionably, at that – the aforementioned weather. And seeing as how I can’t afford to buy clothes in Size Fluffy and also make my car payment, I’m trying to whittle down to fit in my pre-existing fall wardrobe. Right now, my full length coat doesn’t close around my bum. And I’d sure like it to.
In a final bit o’ news, we’re expecting the arrival of my niece, Penny, ANY DAY NOW. To hasten delivery, my brother has tried loading his wife up with spicy foods and driving her up into the canyon for some experiments in elevation – all to no avail. I’ve even tried to coax her out with a cheery game of Red Rover (send Penny right over!) but obviously, good clean fun means nothin’ to kids these days because she’s still in there. Taunting us.
October 22nd, 2009
Just so you don’t think I’m being an ingrate or that I’ve forgotten, if you haven’t already gotten a thank you note, you will soon. I ran out cards. And then out of postage. And some of you are in like, Norway! All of which requires a trip to the dreaded Post Office of Doom. Also, maybe I got a little bit of a hand cramp because you’re all so wonderful.
Thank you. Really a whole lot.
October 21st, 2009
My first order of business yesterday morning was to kick the waste basket. Hard. It hit the wall with a hollow thud, a sound satisfying enough that I thought about kicking it again, just because. I went for coffee instead. Ordinarily, I’m not much of a tantrum person, preferring to deal with my frustrations in the classic bottle-it-up method that does such wonderful things for my digestive system. But yesterday things had reached a boiling point, and I found myself not at all averse to some waste basket kicking and less than careful door closing. Bathroom door. Bam! Pantry door. Bam! Front door, car door, trunk. Bam times three! When I walked into the ladies’ room, I swear I saw the stalls quaked with fear.
The funny thing was, I was only beating the hell out of inanimate objects so I wouldn’t cry. To quote my favorite movie ding bat, Cher Horowitz, “I felt impotent and out of control, which I really hate.” Surely I’m not the only one whose inability to confront anger results in puddles of tears. What’s a girl to do? Get a punching bag? Take up a hobby that involves ripping or breaking things (oooh, maybe decoupage!)?
By late afternoon I figured I’d do humanity a favor and go home early. Take a nap. Take a bath. Eat some dinner and then let my fella take me to a movie. Oh, and watch Glee, which has this freakish way of making anything and everything better. The dancing! The My Fair Lady nod! God, it’s just so…me. It’s like Sarah says, the calls? They’re coming from inside the house.
Incidentally, Where the Wild Things Are was a misstep, if you’re doing any movie-going and need some guidance. It’s not about your favorite picture book. It’s not even really about childhood. It is about divorced parents. The allusion was very strong and made the movie sad – only, not in a good, cathartic way – in an unresolved, upsetting way.
October 19th, 2009
Who’s got two thumbs and lowered her cholesterol by ONE HUNDRED points? This girl right here! Don’t you know, I love getting awesome grades on tests (which, funnily enough, I just spelled as ‘testes,’ giggled and imagined what must be involved in getting an A on testes) and so it has bothered me for two years now that I couldn’t manage to ace the cholesterol one my doc gives me every fall. Well, the results came in the mail on Friday and I am a frickin’ heart disease champ! Bad cholesterol low. Good cholesterol high. Combined score of 147 for the win! Frankly, I’m more than a little disappointed that I don’t get a badge or a gold star or anything. I mean, I gave up things like beer and red meat (eh, mostly) and the yellow parts of eggs. People should know what I went through.
The above is evidence that I would not have done so well at one of those progressive, don’t give grades kind of schools. So I crave recognition. It’s not like it’s meth or anything.
Not all of the news from my doctor was good news, and so on Friday I had to get myself a specialist to administer some uncomfortable and terrifying procedures on my downtheres. Apparently, I chose wisely because not only was Dr. Specialist able to see me first thing this morning, it turns out he’s the dude who invented the terrifying and uncomfortable downthere procedures and if you’re gonna have just any ole person fiddling with your sensitive bits, it might as well be that guy. And while he delivered very good news within minutes and asked me out for a second date in three months, his expertise and my peace of mind cost me a whopping hundred and eighty bucks (thank you, stupid deductible).
I won’t lie, I was pretty nervous about this. I’ve dodged the bullet once before – precancer that just up! and vanished after a few tests. And as much faith and hope as I wanted to have, I doubted very much that you get more than one Get Out of Jail Free card when it comes to baby making health. But I’ve landed on Free Parking yet again and now I can go home and really eat up those gorgeous yellow roses the Boy brought home, without a second thought… and maybe with a glass of wine and a big ole hunk of cheese.
Do not tell my cholesterol.
October 12th, 2009
Today was my annual physical. Which meant I got to go see my doctor, get on a scale and have her put it down in writing that I’m significantly more fluffy than I was last year, have the very life blood taken from me and then, well, there were stirrups involved toward the end.
And… all the boys have all closed their browser windows.
I suppose I wouldn’t mind any of the above so much if I didn’t have to fast. Even the blood drawing is somewhat pleasant because nurses love my veins and always make such a fuss over how easy it is to perform this gruesome task when working with such fantastic subjects. I like to think I had something to do with these big, beautiful veins, so I always say thank you and grow a little bit of an ego. But me on an empty stomach? There’s nothing happy about that. It’s like… well, remember that time Woody Harrelson was walking through the airport and some paparazzo got in his face and he gave him a knuckle sammich and then in his own defense claimed it was because he thought the paparazzo was a zombie? Yeah, it’s like that. I’m willing to bet that Woody was just really hungry. Somebody made him skip breakfast for a cholesterol test and mistakes were made.
During the physical, my very sweet Physician’s Assistant got out her stethoscope, prodded around my tummy and then said with smile, “You sound very hungry.”
“That was your idea.”
No sense in pretending I got up at 5AM and then voluntarily went foodless until 10:30. So long as there are Kardashians starving in LA, I will clean my plate, dammit.
The nicest thing about going to my doctor is the quality listening time. Never once have I felt rushed into getting down to the paper gown part of the event and have always been relieved just to be able to say, “Here are all the things that don’t feel right. Can you make them better?” And having a doctor who will write you a prescription for a sleep aid without giving you hassle, well, I guess that’s worth a tummy rumble once a year.
October 8th, 2009
“You just weren’t built for that kind of thing.”
As much as I hated to admit it, the Dork Lord was right. I was not built for this kind of thing. We’d worked out in the cold rain that morning, and by late afternoon I was in bed with a chill. Knee socks, heating pad, hot soup and clinging to the down comforter for dear life. Boot camp was going to be the ruin of me. It was only Friday that I took a header during the relay races and tore the ever-loving heck out of my hands. Sure, I fell. But did I get back up and finish every single race with scraped up palms, blood running down my arm and a skinned knee? Oh, yes. Yes, I did. And we won, too. Because I may be sickly and accident prone, but I am a friggin’ champ. Also, I really didn’t want to look like a quitter in front of those people, most of whom are actual athletes – you know, the kind who come without FRAGILE stamped on their hind ends.
Fra-gee-lay. It must be Italian!
Having not lost a single ounce, I’m not sure what I’m getting out of camp, other than out of bed at god forsaken o’clock in the morning and sore. But it is serving as a good motivator and I have every faith that one day — one sweet, sweet day — my jeans will fit again. And all the peasants will cheer.
Speaking of cheer, you guys are really effing fantastic. The in-the-mail thank you notes will come as promised, but I’d feel remiss if I posted today and didn’t mention how thankful I am. There aren’t enough words. There just aren’t.
October 6th, 2009
Will you and the Dork Lord/Christopher be settling down in Texas? -Do you guys have any plans for your 1yr anniversary coming up? Thank you! – Kehinde
I do believe we will. Although, he’s in school for the next few years here in Dallas, we’ve got pipe dreams of ending up in Austin when he’s done. Oh, 2013. How I long for ya. As far as the anniversary, we opt for the day in early November on which we became super glued to each other, as opposed to the day we met. And on that day this year, we will be in Austin (funny enough) celebrating the wedding of some friends. Nice, right?
Are you obsessed with Mad Men? If yes, which character? – BookMoth
Please don’t let this change your opinion of me (assuming that right now it is a positive opinion. If it’s not, well then, proceed with the changing), but I have never seen a single episode. However, that dude in the suit? Don Draper, I think? Holy drool all over my pillow at night. The only thing hotter than him is the redhead I always see on the red carpet. She’s a total knockout. I’d consider quitting boys.
I know this one could be a touchy one so I totally understand if you don’t post it. How is your dad doing? And how is your relationship? – Carrie
Hrm. Well. He called me on my birthday, which was a first in like, oh, four or five years. We’ve maybe talked twice since. I feel very conflicted about him. When I was a kid, you could not ask for someone more perfect at fathering. Which is why now, after one disappointment after the other, I have a hard time reconciling which one of the two is my dad – the memory or the current specter.
Have you ever been to Italy? – Sarah
Yes! Two years ago, I put on a backpack and headed across the ocean. London, Scotland, Barcelona and… several stops in Italy. You can read about it here and here, or in the travel blog I kept for ISE Cards.
Mike or Dexter? – Sarah Brown
Zing! That’s the toughest one yet. However, upon deep consideration, I have decided that Mike was too melancholy. Hello, Dexter.
Hi Fish, Do you have any cute, single, man friends left in the Boston area? And for my non-self centered question…What was your nephew’s first word? – Different Melissa
Hmm, actually, I think all the fellas (cute or otherwise) I hung out with in Boston are married. Let’s appeal to the audience, shall we? And though I’m not sure if he’s repeated it since, I’ve been told Owen’s first word was, “cookie.” That’s how we know he’s one of us.
What’s your favorite part of the day? What’s your favorite girly girlmemory? How many cookies do you think you could polish off if you had agood friend and a really big glass of milk? What traveling is there onthe immediate to-do list? – Melissa
Whoa! Way. Too. Many. Questions. I feel like I need multiple choice to tackle this! Let’s take the travel one. Aside from our Disney World family adventure in TWO MONTHS FROM RIGHT NOW (eeee!), we will be traveling to Austin in November and Utah in March. Both for weddings. Another little sister is gettin’ hitched.
These are not nearly as profound, but here goes:1. How long did it take you before you could complete the 30-day shredworkout without wanting to throw up? and,2. Are you still running? These are just questions because I need -NEED!! – to get motivated, and if I know that there is a light at theend of the workout tunnel, I might be less inclined to sit by the trackwith my eyes closed…..  – Lawyerchik
1. A week and then I went to Level Two. GOD. 2. No, but I intend to work back up to it. When I moved in with the Dork Lord, I lost my early morning running buddy. Haven’t found my groove since!
What is your favorite concert? – MissusB
Turns out, I’m not much of a live music person (I can take it or leave it). But the Indigo Girls concert experience is one I’d repeat.
What kind of work are you doing now? – Molly
Marketing & Business Development for the A/E/C industry. Try not to be blinded by the glamor.
Just in case you don’t want to answer my other question, how long exactly have you and Dork Lord been dating? – Danielle
One year this month.
I’m a very long time reader and am really curious if you ever talk to Jor have you in the last few years? If not, do you think he reads yourblog? – Danielle
Yes, we keep up over Facebook. I think occasionally he reads the blog but I doubt it’s with any regularity. My own boyfriend doesn’t read it!
So you live in Texas, you lived in New York and (I think) you lived inBoston for awhile. People from any of those three places usually have arecognizable accent. My mother-in-law has a serious Boston accent goingon even though she left Boston 40 years ago. So what (if any) accent doyou have? – Misses M
None, so far as I know. I haven’t been anywhere long enough for any one accent to take!
How are you adjusting to the pooch these days? Do he and kitty get along? Can we ever see a picture of Dork Lord?? – Deeana
We’re thick as thieves. Mostly because I’m the resident sucker and he knows he can flash his muppet face and get anything he wants. I do love him. He and the cat get along just fine. And, no, probably not (unless you’ve been very clever and found it elsewhere). I don’t think he’d dig that at all.
Whenever you do a Q&A I always want to ask about Ben & The Intern.I know you won’t answer, so:What do you miss about NY, if anything? – Heidi
Le sigh. What more is there to know about that? Every time it comes up, I post the same link to the same story and let folks glean what they will. So, we’ll just move on… I miss my friends, sometimes to the point it gives me a stomach ache. And I miss the food, and having things to do ALL the time. Other than that, New York can suck it.
I’m sure you get asked this a lot, but how did you get into blogging? Iam a recent college grad., and I’d love to eventually do something likeyou’re doing, but I have no idea where to start. and a fun one: If youcould have a lifetime supply of any food (regardless of cost orcalories) what would it be? – Katy
I went to blogger.com and started a blog. It was that simple. Just put it out there. If you write it, they will come. Oh, and Ben & Jerry’s Chubby Hubby.
A long time ago you blogged about your gyno lecturing you on waxing. Ihave always wondered why? I can’t figure out what’s wrong with it!- Alexa
Apparently it has something to do with prevention of disease and infection. But the, she was sort of an angry lady, too, so take that into consideration.
How long do you see yourself continuing to blog for? do you ever seeyourself NOT blogging, in some capacity at least?-someone once asked me this: “assuming that you write an anonymous orpartially anonymous blog, by what non-physically identifyingcharacteristics might you be identified in a bar?”-do you follow a lot of blogs? who are your favorites right now? – Brooke M
I will probably always blog in some capacity – I think it’s such a great way of recording my personal history, easy reference remembering! And, um, I’m not anonymous at ALL, since there’s my name and picture up there. But, I snort when I laugh. That’s hard to miss.
What are you and the dork lord going to be for halloween this year? – Betsy
We actually talked about this last night (as we will be attending a party) and came to zero conclusions. I kind of don’t really LIKE the fuss of costumes. I know. I ruin everything.
What name did Dork Lord’s parents bestow upon him at birth? If you’re taking guesses, I guess Jason or Michael. – Barbara E.
Christopher. LG, whoever they are, is clearly in the know, and thus, a cheater and a spoiler and will be taken to the stocks later.
My morning coffee guy is talented at making me a good cup of dark roast every morning and I regularly tip him for a job well done. I’ve been following you for a couple years now. I think you are a talented writer and I enjoy your work. Any way grateful readers like me could tip YOU for a job well done? Ever thought of putting a tip jar on your site? – Doug
Oh, Doug. You just gave me some warm fuzzies. I have an ancient PayPal account, which I think still works for that sort of thing. And, if you pass along your address, you’ll get a handwritten thank you note.
P.S. Oh my goodness, you guys. I just got an email from PayPal and I started crying. You’re unbelievably generous. Thank you.
October 5th, 2009
Today I’m off to volunteer at a golf tournament for work. I know. So many things about that sentence seem… off. But there you have it. Anyway, since so many fun and interesting things come from it, let’s open up the comments to question. You ask, I’ll answer in the next post.
Ready? Go!
Oh, and comments are moderated, which means they get scanned for swears and stuff before they’re posted. So, don’t worry if you don’t see your question for a while.
Besos!
October 2nd, 2009
We’re going to the Ranch this weekend for some R&R (and maybe a little poker) and I can’t help feeling like this little trip is in everyone’s best interest. And I do mean everyone. The people I drive on the freeway next to (I think I sprained my middle finger yesterday giving someone a very well deserved and enthusiastic bird), my coworkers, my sweet boyfriend. Every one. Even you. Surely it has not required much reading between the lines to get the vibe that I’m frazzled and anxious lately. I know that talking about these sorts of things helps, so I’ve tried to run my yapper as much as possible. But I’m not really sleeping. So a trip to the doc is also on the menu. But I’m reserving a tiny bit of hope that maybe some good old fashioned not doing jack shit will help me uncurl my toes, if just for a day or two.
When I was a kid, money was tight. It wasn’t tight in the way it’s tight for me now, where my bi-weekly cushion of $38 makes spontaneous purchases a rare and stomach knotting experience. I’m pretty sure back then, there wasn’t such thing as a cushion. I remember seeing my mom cry when I grew out of my school shoes. I also remember what she was like then. Tight lipped and tense. That’s not the version of me I want to be. But yet, as the Dork Lord and I have discussion after discussion about money, and salaries are getting cut (thanks, economy!), and it seems that no matter how hard I try, catching a break is simply not in the cards for me, I’ve been playing that version of myself and worse.
It isn’t that I want things and not being able to have them makes me pouty. I don’t want things. I want to be out of debt. Realizing that I may never get there, and how much of that is my fault, well, spending money at all has become very, very hard for me. Going to the grocery store gives me anxiety. And I try so hard to hide it. I do. Because I know the Boy senses it and that in turn, it stresses him out to know I’m upset.
I suspect that the recession has made a lot of people feel this way – strung out and desperate. I also suspect (with a side order of hoping) that it will pass. May it pass soon. Because there’s a version of me that laughs loud and means it. And I kind of miss her.
October 1st, 2009
Okay, so I really kind of hate one of the trainers at boot camp. There, I said it. Maybe it’s the condescending way she talks, or the looks she gives me when it turns out I can’t SPRINT 400 METERS on my second day, but hoo boy, I do not like her one bit. I signed up for this class for me. Because I want to get better at things like push ups and sprinting some distance (though, seriously? Four hundred meters? I’ll jog, thanks). But I’m pretty good about knowing my limits. So yelling at me to finish an exercise that has made it virtually impossible to use the toilet for the last two days, well, that’s not going to get you anywhere but in the Do Not Like section of my slam book. We are not going to be besties. Ever.
The rest of the trainers are all very nice and don’t seem to mind that I’m not going to be a serious contender while I’m carrying around an extra thirty pounds of body weight. I think maybe they’re just glad I save the over-exertion vomiting for the privacy of my own comode.
Did I mention I can’t use the toilet? Too true. I can’t get down or up. And let me tell you, to complete any sort of business in there, you gotta have the down and up! Confession: Last night, I had to pee really, really bad, but the idea of the down and up became so unbearable that I… took a shower instead. That’s right. I George Costanza-ed. And you know what? I’m okay with that.
September 29th, 2009
Amanda and I started our 5:30AM body boot camp this morning. And then I came home and threw up. No stranger to some ass-kicking workouts (oh, hello, Jillian Michaels), I was prepared for it to be…well, not easy. But I didn’t wake up at five o’clock this morning thinking, Golly, I hope I get to run ladder sprints until I hork. Jillian never made me barf. But then again, The Shred was like, 20 minutes, not a solid hour of torture. I don’t have to tell you that I am now keenly aware of every muscle in my midsection.
Stupid core.
What’s even more torturous is that the Boy is sitting next to me on the sofa, watching football with a plate of chocolate chip cookies. Do I want one of those cookies? No. I want seven of them. But there’s a lot of other things I want more. Like, to not have suffered in vain at Early Thirty in the morning. See? This is what being a grown up is about! Being oh so wise – and realizing your metabolism isn’t moving any faster than the plot of LOST.
I’m going to have a sharing moment and tell you that right now, I’m under a significant amount of personal stress. Some of it is of my own making, but most of it isn’t and there are so many things out of my hands and I’ve been doing things like trying to find an attorney. I never in my life thought I’d need to sue anyone, but here we are. I feel so helpless, being trampled on by a company who has the power to put my future in peril, and that feeling makes me so freaking MAD. So, you know, if you’re an attorney with experience in credit libel and all that fair credit reporting stuff, I’ve got a winner for ya. And a sweet, sweet paper trail.
September 23rd, 2009
Did I mention I’m tweeting? Oh, because I am. Just one more way for you to have even more access to total non-importance. Rockin’!
September 22nd, 2009
Oh, thank god. Ken Wheaton’s book arrived in the mail this afternoon! I’ve been looking forward to it for so long, that it’s like… well, okay, you know how you get it in your head that you want a certain food (say, pappardelle al telefono) and you google your little fingers to the bone only to realize that not one damn restaurant in all of Dallas offers this tasty little number and so now you don’t want ANYTHING, thank you very much, if you can’t have that? Yeah, that’s how I’ve been about this book. Because until I finish it, Half Price Books is dead to me.
The cost of life is really doing a number on my ‘tude. I walked out of the car dealership yesterday after dropping my car off for an oil change, tire mumbo jumbo, and that rattle in the front end, and the estimate they gave me nearly dropped my bottom lip to my shoes. You know, on top of the nearly $500 out-of-pocket price of not having a ten-day gin hangover in my face. I told Sarah that it was like Disappointment and Desperation had a colicky baby and left it on my doorstep.You’ve got no choice but to take care of it and yet… the resentment! I’ve been saving money and being careful and having zero adventures and, pardon if this sounds a little dramatic, I feel like I’m dying a little. Compared to my former, irresponsible life this new practical one is hard on the spirit. Even those big, romantic, swoony Let’s Get Married! talks have all turned into, “one day when we’re out of debt and out of school and blah blah” and I can’t help but feel a little bit disappointed all the time.
We’re going to the symphony on Thursday. The Dork Lord has to go as part of an assignment for his humanities class and I would like to kiss his professor right on the mouth. I wish she’d specified “uber tragic Puccini opera” instead of the generic “live performance” but I’ll take what I can get. Cellos!
On Sunday, the Dork Lord was busy getting sunburned on the golf course when his family called to invite us to lunch. So his mom asked me to come all by myself. And I loved it. It can be pretty dicey, inheriting family (not unlike being invited to a vegetarian Thanksgiving dinner), but I’ve been so lucky – none of that tofurkey crap; this is the real deal.
September 18th, 2009
The wisdom tooth thing went very well (thanking you all for the well-wishing and helpful suggestions). Dealing with some post-anesthesia nausea (god, that’s a mouthful of vowels!) but I’d say it went about as smoothly as it could. My oral surgeon was a dream. The Dork Lord casually mentioned that it would not be pleasing to him if I ran away with my surgeon, but there’s no real worry of that. Yes, he was tall, dark and handsome, but really, I was simply momentarily in love with his bedside manner. And that’s not anything to base a relationship on. His nurse was also top notch. She instructed me not to do anything that requires using judgment for the next twenty four hours. And here I am on the Interwebs. Where so much damage could be done. But she meant things like driving, calling clients, cooking (stove = bad! when one is on all sorts of drugs), or caring for small children. Fortunately, the Dork Lord is not what you’d consider ‘small’ so we’re going to be just fine.
Among her instructions – and one that she was very, very clear about – was that I was to drink a chocolate shake or Wendy’s Frosty (again, she’s a specific lady) on the way home. Period. You know, for swelling. And then she winked. True love forever, people.
I don’t have much else to say today, but I did want to share an article Miss Tanya passed on the other day. Now, you know those stories where like, a dog will nurse an abandoned piglet? Or a fawn? I live for that shit. I will sit at my desk all teary and love the whole damn world for a good fifteen minutes. Well, then there was this. It begins,
Just six months ago, Robbie and Susan Goodrich of Marquette, Mich., were expecting their second child.
Now Robbie Goodrich is the single father of two young children as hemourns the death of his wife while some two dozen women visit his housein shifts to breast-feed his infant son.
It got me all choked up. And not just because of the terrible tragedy of losing one’s wife in childbirth, but because this is how I believe the world should work – people taking care of each other, with not a single thought for what they have to gain. Please read it.
September 16th, 2009
Me: I wonder what happens to her after she stops being young and pretty. I mean, for a cheerleader, she’s probably already pushing the age thing. What does she do next?
Him: Duh. The same thing they all do. (In falsetto mock Miss USA voice) “I want to major in communications! Yay!”
Me: Hey!
Him: What?
Me: That’s what I majored in.
Him: But… but you’re good at it. It’s different.
Me: Mmm hmm.
September 14th, 2009
In case this comes up at some point, the offending wisdom tooth is still lodged in my jaw (until Thursday) and that is why I am maybe just the teensiest bit cranky. Or prone to bouts of weeping. I swear, I’m trying to keep it in check, but it’s like having a ten-day gin hangover. In my face. The antibiotic that the dentist promised would have me back to normal in a jiffy has done nothing but give me stomach issues (I won’t elaborate), the Vicodin made me spacey and gave me menopausal hot flashes but didn’t do a thing to take the edge off the pain. And so, kids, we’re at the part of the story where our heroine flies to Houston for a meeting, gets lost on campus finding the building and sits in her rental car and cries because even bad guys* don’t deserve to have a ten-day gin hangover in their faces.
It’s also the part of our story where our heroine sits at her desk and thinks, Hmmmm, heroin. Maybe that’s the ticket!
I finally sent a check off to the IRS on Friday. Wowee, does that have to be one of the more mixed emotion moments I have experienced in a while. Getting out from under The Man’s thumb? Awesome. I mean, that’s a really good feeing. But emptying my savings account? A little scary. The Dork Lord and I have been doing so well with our saving and our careful spending, but this weekend, we talked about me getting a second job. He’s back in school, which is a second job of its own, and I feel like even the few hours that I spend watching Bones or HGTV could really be better spent toward some financial security. Freelance writing gigs aren’t as easy to come by as they used to be, so I’m thinking maybe something like, Barnes & Noble. Heck, or Target Team Member. That has to come with a sweet little discount. Yeah, and khaki pants, but you know what they say about beggars and choosers.
I put my foot down when it comes to pleats, though.
* Except you, Kanye.
September 9th, 2009
Over the long weekend, a wisdom1 tooth that had previously been minding its own business decided it was high time for a little excitement up in here. At first, it was just sort of annoying. The Dork Lord and I met one of his friends out for a nice dinner and halfway through my Hawaiian rib eye (drool), I got this odd, not exactly pleasant teething feeling. Now, when my nephew was cutting some new chompers last week, we shoved a pizza crust in his chubby little hand and let him gnaw on that. But while that may have worked for the kid, I figured I’d try a more… sophisticated approach: red meat and red wine. I don’t have to tell you how successful that was.
Apparently, the alcohol content of wine is not sufficient for sterilization. Who knew?
By Sunday, I had an ice pack glued to my face. Remember how it was a long weekend and how no one was open who does things like fix impacted wisdom teeth? Yeah, that was my favorite part. In the absence of proper medical care, I tried salt water, Orajel and finally, when I was beginning to lose my mind, dug through my cabinet for an old Vicodin prescription. And that’s when the heavens parted and angels sang. And I walked around like a zombie extra from Sean of the Dead.
Yesterday, the dentist stuck her little mirror in my mouth, put on her You Poor Dear face, wrote me a couple prescriptions and scheduled an afternoon of fun with the oral surgeon. When she told me that the antibiotic would have me feeling “right back to normal” by today, I didn’t yet know she was a lying liar, so I skipped right out of her office and to the pharmacy for my magical cure. The hopeful feeling carried on through dinner, which the Dork Lord took care of with a trip to The Grocery Store We Can’t Afford. Oh, the yummy things he came home with! I immediately put a pan on the stove to heat up the gourmet green chile chicken soup.
“How’s the soup?”
“Sheepy,” I said, making the face I normally reserve for goat cheese.
“Sheepy?”
“The whole thing tastes like hot sheep’s milk.”
I abandoned the sheepy soup on the counter and reached out to sip of the wine he’d opened to go with his real-food-for-people-with-working-teeth dinner.
“Oh my god, this is DISGUSTING. How are you drinking this?”
“It’s not the greatest, but I thought it was okay.”
“No, it’s bad. Really bad. It tastes like… dirty pennies!”
And that’s when we figured out that this magical antibiotic was not only not so magical, but it made everything I ate taste terrible.
“Nooo! I’m broken!”
The Boy sampled (and by sampled, I mean finished off) the soup, which he pronounced “pretty damn awesome” and I crawled onto the couch, defeated. Without wine and cream based soups, life was *this* close to losing meaning. So as a precaution against further devistation, I’m staying away from chocolate and cheese. I just don’t think I could live with that kind of disappointment.
1Question: Didn’t you already have your wisdom teeth out?
Answer: Sorta. My dental insurance in New York only covered wisdom teeth that had made their wise way through the gums. They don’t care so much about crowding or any of that nonsense. And me, I was in no position to elect to take the others out. So, in short, I still have two. Until next Thursday.
September 4th, 2009
My sister makes such a pretty, happy, smart baby. And though I love him with something fierce, sometimes I wish I had never met such a fantastic kid. Because if one day my own babies are not as pretty, happy or smart, I WILL KNOW BETTER. And things will be a little awkward around the house.
September 3rd, 2009
Last night I got a letter in the mail from MasterCard letting me know that they were closing my account. I read the letter three times to make sure I hadn’t missed something. Close? My MasterCard account? WHY?
Facts About my MasterCard Account
I have not had a late payment on that card (or any debt of any kind) in years. YEARS.
My balance on the card is like, half of the limit.
I maintain a balance but make double the minimum payment every month.
I don’t use the card. In fact, I have followed a cash-only policy for nearly a year.
I am a credit card company’s wet dream.
So, now that I’ve been denied credit, I have earned ONE! FREE! Equifax credit report. Which I downloaded this morning. And look! It’s pages of “Pays as Agreed” or “No Negative Accounts.” And not a single missed ior late payment for years. But then, right down at the bottom under collections, I see a defaulted credit card I never opened. In a state I haven’t lived in for ten years.
In 2002, I realized that I’d had my identity stolen and went through a horrific process of trying to have it cleaned up. I thought I was successful. But here it is, seven years later, and one of the accounts I spent three months clearing off my record pops back up. When I tell you that resolving identity theft is a horrific process, I don’t think you can really understand the horrific-ness I’m talking about, until you go through it yourself. Much like passing a kidney stone or driving cross country in a 1984 Ford Escort in August with no air conditioning.
These are things you have to live through to appreciate.
Anyway, I have to go through this all again. And for what? A $627 debt to the University of Utah Credit Union. And after I go through it all again, you know what happens? Nothing. One call to the lender told me that once the account is closed, it cannot be reopened. Even though I have done nothing wrong. It’s closed. Fine. I don’t want to use the card. But from here on out, my credit history will have the words, Closed by Bank on it. And I don’t have to tell you that’s not good. Other lenders will see it and go, “Eeew. Don’t trust her. She’s been closed by the bank! And probably drives with an out of state driver’s license!”
I feel like crying. We’ve been trying so very hard to eliminate our debt, to save so that we can buy a home and have a family and all those others things people who didn’t spend their twenties racking up credit card debt seeing the world (Costa Rica, I’m looking at you) and buying groceries during unemployment have. This? It’s a setback. And I’m not really in a good place to handle any setbacks, you know?
September 1st, 2009
It wasn’t exactly love at first sight. But then again, this isn’t exactly the beginning of the story. So let’s back up.
After taking what amounted to a long time to get over a short relationship1, and having had a very meaningless and ultimately regrettable fling2, I decided it was time to cut the crap. I knew that what I wanted out of life wouldn’t simply arrive one day on my front step in a gift-wrapped parcel while I was sitting on my keister doing nothing. On October 9, 2008 I blogged,
…it’s probably time to start dating again. You know, with the purpose of not spending the rest of my life thinking only about myself, and having someone else to make the other side of the bed (seriously, that’s a lot of walking ’round and ’round). If you’ll remember, I made a similar decision last fall, and then opted instead to wander around Europe for a couple months, making out with college boys on study abroad. Not bad work if you can get it, but you see how far that got me. I’m still taking out the garbage every week (minus) and enjoying sole possession of the remote control (plus). Anyway, if you are reasonably tall, funny and do not intend to take me too seriously ever (and I mean EVER), please start lining up at my door. I like irises and hiking trips and I laugh in my sleep. That’s pretty much all you need to know.
I meant it. I wasn’t sure what I was going to do about it, though, beyond toying with the idea of re-activating the old Match.com account that had brought me so many quality experiences with the opposite sex3. But in the middle of all my pondering, on October 9, 2008 at 1:50PM, a woman I’d never met left a comment, offering a fix-up.
Sara said,
I have the most amazing and sweet friend in the world. He is 324, attractive, athletic, smart and funny. He has a great job, lots of good family and friends and is over all a winner. I would lurve to set you up. I know he would love your sense of humor and I think you could learn to adore his silly jokes and sweet smile. Maybe that’s weird, but if not, email me.
I cannot say what it was about the comment that made me open up my gmail to message a complete stranger about going on a date with an even stranger stranger. Part of me made allowances for my capriciousness by saying what I always have about potentially awkward experiences: At least it will be something to write about! Part of me knew better – the same part that knows when someone is lying to me or when Something Big is about to happen. I wrote,
Okay, are we being weird (you to suggest it, and me to consider it)? I don’t even care. Tell me more about your friend!
Emails were exchanged, photos were sent, and a double date arranged. And on October 29, just hours after my sweet nephew was born and I interviewed for my job (a very big day), Sara, her fiancé Jaime, the even stranger stranger and I met for burgers, beer and happily-ever-after. Well, mostly.
It wasn’t exactly love at first sight. But there was this feeling – one I’ll never be able to describe adequately without having an explanation for how it is that the universe bends just the right way, causing the chemicals in your body reorder themselves so that all the hairs stand up on your arms and your stomach flips, and simultaneously, you’re filled with a perfectly warm comfort, like curling up in your dad’s worn out corduroy recliner. See, if I could explain that, I’d really be in business. But as it was, while the universe was bending away, we sat, side by side, in a booth at Capitol Pub, eating, sipping beer and talking into the early hours of the next day.
And then he didn’t call5.
It turns out, he had to be warmed up for such things (he’ll tell you today that he only remembers being really, really intimidated. I’ll smile and roll my eyes). Sara, undeterred by the boy’s shyness, set up another date – a dinner party at her home one Friday night, to celebrate my return among the gainfully employed6.
We went out again on Tuesday. And since that Tuesday in November, I can count on my fingers the nights we’ve slept apart.
“In four words, tell us about this guy you’re dating.”
It was early December, at our company party in San Antonio. My boss was prying. It’s what he does. I smiled and rolled my left hand into a fist.
“Going,” I said, as I stuck out my thumb.
“To,” Index finger – that was two.
“Marry,” Middle finger. Three.
“Him,” Ring finger equals four.
Eyebrows around the table went up. My boss’s wife leaned forward in her chair.
“You don’t seem like the kind of girl who would just say something like that.”
“I’m not. I mean it. I’m going to marry him if he doesn’t screw it up.”
“Oh, Miss Hunter,” my boss laughed, eyes squinted, head back in a roar. “He’s a boy. He’s going to screw it up A LOT!”
I waved him off. See, it was at that Friday night dinner when my feeling turned into a knowing, and I didn’t care what anyone said. It goes a little something like this (and it’s an awfully good thing I’m not the one responsible for official explanations of these sorts phenomena, because this one’s not going to be any better than the previous, with its bending universe and arm hair and such): There are some things you know because handily, they come with back-up material. Facts. You can know what time it is, or how far it is to Denver or how many nines go into twenty-seven. But then there are the things you know just because. No facts, no back-up. Just knowing. Some people will tell you that’s how they feel about god. As for me, I simply knew I was done looking. I’d found what I was waiting for.
And he doesn’t just make his half of the bed; he makes the whole thing.
1 You can read about that here, here, here and… here.
2 You will probably never read about that. He was awful. The end.
3 You can read about that here (and don’t skip the comments). I hope that guy goes to jail.
4 Fibbing about age: it’s not just for celebrities! He turns 35 this year.
5 You can read about that here.
6 You can read about that here.
August 28th, 2009
I forgot how nasty the Internet could be. More to the point, how petty some of its users reveal themselves to be.
Yesterday, as I was lah-di-dahing my way around my favorite blogs, I landed on Dooce, a site I frequent because the writer is funny (often dirty/funny, which, if you know me, pretty much sums up my language of choice when there are not small children or employers present), she takes really gorgeous photos, and I like to read about her baby. Because I want one and now is not the time so I had better get it elsewhere.
Dooce’s post referenced some sort of melee going on in the Twitter world (I don’t participate; the whole, @ and RT business is too messy for me) about a washing machine. Dooce and her husband Jon bought a washing machine. For a lot of money. It was brand spanking new. And it didn’t work. So, after fruitless calls to the maker of said washing machine, Dooce took it to the Web. I’d like to slap her on the ass and add a, “Nice hustle!” for doing it, but that’s because I think customer service doesn’t usually serve anything other than a heaping dish of I-don’t-give-a-shit by the person taking your call.
What happened next? Well, people started to lose their minds. Either in defense of Dooce or to shame her for using her influence to (get this) slander the multi-billion dollar corporation that sent her the lemon washing machine. Slander. That gives me the giggles. In the way that listening to teenagers talk about love gives me the giggles. Degrassi High drama! What’s more, people who lay claim to “really liking” Dooce were apparently led by this great liking to post snide, snotty, passive-aggressive commentary about her. See also: Degrassi.
To be fair, I can understand people wanting a very popular blogger to wield her popularity with responsibility. But let’s keep this in perspective. It’s not like she is, for the sake of argument, the President, making a statement about “stupid” Cambridge cops. Ahem. She’s popular but not actually powerful. She can influence, but not enforce anything.
Besides, what ELSE is influence good for, if not pushing folks to do the right thing? Well, yeah, okay, besides getting free stuff and meeting Oprah, but that kinda goes without saying. Me, I think that we pay an awful lot of money for every day things – whether it be the apartments we rent, the hand held devices we carry or the produce we serve our families. That money takes hours and hours to earn, and mere minutes to spend. And that we allow ourselves to be subject to ambivalent customer service by companies who collectively don’t have to care, because they know we need a roof over our heads or a way to stay in touch with our families and jobs, well, it’s infuriating.
I had a terrible (that word hardly seems adequate, but there it is) experience with AT&T when, two days after I was laid off, my BlackBerry stopped working. It turned off when I made calls. It turned off when someone called me. It turned off at other times, too, just to be persnickety. You can see how that would interfere with getting a new job. Three times I was given a refurbished phone. Three times I went back, the third in tears, begging the store manager to do something. The manager’s solution? Add a line! Buy a new line of service, a new phone, and then you can get a NEW! BlackBerry for only one hundred dollars.
Thoroughly overwhelmed, I got so dizzy right there in the Park Lane store that I almost fainted. I was powerless and at the mercy of a giant company. And that giant company did not grant me a single shred of mercy.
I am one person. Despite her fame (or infamy, depending on how you see her), Dooce is one person. And when toeing up to the line against a giant corporation, it is nothing but smart to use all the ammunition in your camp. I don’t care how many people like your funny stories or ogle pictures of your pretty baby. And that’s that.
In the end, if the only thing that comes out of this messy situation is that one company will work harder to truly serve its customers, I would be totally satisfied. But (and this is just asking way too much), if it also happened to make the Internet masses take a second look at the shameless, Degrassi drama vitriol they spew, well, that would just be something, now wouldn’t it?
August 26th, 2009
The warning on the label says May Cause Drowsiness. It does not say May Cause Total Ineptitude and Clumsiness. And that bit about taking care while operating a car or heavy machinery didn’t mention one damn thing about the pantry door. But there I was, standing in my kitchen, staring down at the blood pooling around my foot wondering what exactly happened, slowly coming to the realization that, “Oh, yes, that IS blood!” and deciding I should have a seat before I found myself in even more of a pickle (see Item Nine in the list of things I want to be when I grow up).
You probably know by now that I’m a little bit clumsy on a good, solid, non-medicated day. And the only explanation I can give for opening a door into my toe is that this anti-barf medication is messing with my depth perception. Because um, I didn’t just nick the darn thing. I split the toenail right down the middle and made myself all woozy at the sight of it. On my lunch break, for ten bonus idiot points.
Here, let me hold your baby.
I am never really sure when you should let a professional intervene with this sort of goofy-ass injury. Right now it’s all wrapped up in bandaging any girl scout would be proud of, which is all the PrimaCare folks would do anyhow (and charge me seventy-five bucks to do it, thanks to a shiny new co-pay). But there’s also a part of me that’s sure that an owie of this magnitude deserves at least the glory of a trip to the ER. If not Snickers Blizzard for taking it like a champ.
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About Writer. Mother. Hiker. Yogi.
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