April 30, 2010
Meh
I’ve had a couple of really vivid dreams lately. Seems to happen more on the nights that I’m able to squeeze in more than 6 hours of sleep. And the dreams… I remembered them, and wrote them down, and am examining them further to see what I might do with them. If anything.
I’ve been bouncing around this office for a few years now. It is a job, and it does the things that a job is supposed to do – pays the bills, etc. It’s not a career, but it could be, and I’m trying to figure out what I need to do to make it a career, and whether I want to do those things.
And there are my hobbies, and wanting to get and stay in shape, and trying to address my food issues in some meaningful way that won’t have me back in the same headspace in 2 years, wondering why exactly it’s so hard to leave that jar of peanut butter ALONE.
There’s my family and friends, and trying to keep in touch with and spend time with people who have been there for me, people I’d like to keep in my life, and it’s just not as easy to do that as it was before. Email and texting isn’t always enough.
All of which to say, I just don’t have as much time anymore. I can’t steal minutes from my workday, not if I actually want to go that extra mile and see what’s at the other end of it. I can’t steal minutes from sleep or gym or pool or friends – I don’t have enough minutes for those things as it is.
It’s just been really hard to be *here*.
April 28, 2010
I don’t watch SNL
though, I’ve seen Tina Fey in action via hulu and youtube, and I think she’s mostly hilarious.
ButI have to say (and she’s just a famous example of this), I have a few issues with her recent comments about Michelle McGee.
Getting a tattoo, or eleventy billion, says absolutely NOTHING about someone’s ethics or moral values. Nothing. You can get a sense for that person’s aesthetic, and maybe make an educated guess about his or her tolerance for pain, but that’s about it. I wonder how many of the Patriot Guard Riders have full sleeves – heck, full “suits” of tattoos? I wonder how many people might see one of them on the street, and dismiss them as “trash” or “low-class” on the basis of their appearance?
I know that at least one of Ms. McGee’s tattoos suggest she may be a white supremacist, and that’s not something I can stomach, really – but attacking her on the basis that she looks like “a dirtbag’s binder from 7th grade metal shop” is ad hominem, and weak, and going for the cheap shot when other issues are so much more important. And frankly, I expected better from someone who has demonstrated intelligence and wit, in the past. And frankly, I expected at least as much bile directed towards the man who actually broke his vows. And who, it might be noted, has quite a few tattoos of his own. As does Brad Pitt. Funny, I don’t remember those being a major part of the discussion when he left Jennifer Aniston for Angelina Jolie – but the tattoos of the latter most definitely marked her for suspicion in the eyes of the press.
For the record, I have tattoos. Three of them, not typically visible in the workplace (or, given my daily wardrobe choices, most other times). That’s my choice, and other than suggesting a desire to express myself that is at war with a desire to conform to typical upper-middle class aesthetic mores, it doesn’t say jack shit about my character.
I can be a woman with ink, and still be a good person. And anyone who says differently is, quite frankly, an asshole. Which, I guess, makes Tina Fey kind of an asshole. Which is sad, because when she’s not being an asshole, she’s actually kind of funny.
April 27, 2010
Recovered
Honestly, it really didn’t take that long. Compared to birthdays past, it was a portrait of moderation in all things, including moderation.
When Thursday is one’s birthday, and Thursday is also one’s league night, one warns one’s teams that one might not play one’s best. Which is why I’m not at all upset about losing the one match that I played. Also, there was alcohol to enfuzz my memory. And, there was cake.
Cake! For me! With my name on it! And singing! It was a total surprise.
W took me home, and promised to help me retrieve my car the next day, which I mostly spent lazing about. Mostly, that is, until I couldn’t take it any more, and went for a run in the lovely spring weather, because I fail at sloth.
It really is so much easier to keep going, once you start to see good progress. Once things start to fit better, and you can see the lines just beginning to show around your abdominal area, and you can look at the stack of jeans in your closet and daydream, instead of wincing.
And so yes – I am recovered from the weekend of birthday celebration – but I feel like I’m also recovering from the past year or so of being just a little too indulgent, just a little too much of the time. Recuperation is a process, but I honestly feel like I’m getting better after a long illness of sorts.
It will be *great* to be 100% healthy again.
April 22, 2010
Aged and Decrepit
…but having a great day so far.
Just as an example?
Dr. Taggart called this morning, and sang “Happy Birthday” into my voicemail (I was in the shower).
Makes for a pretty good, and most unusual, start to the day.
Oh – and? My hair looks fantastic today. 😀
Hope everyone else is enjoying our brief return to gorgeous spring weather!
April 21, 2010
A Weekend Night, Part II
Have you ever started out an evening resigned to fending off someone else’s attempts to insert drama, and wound up just wanting to give them a great big hug?
As mentioned, I met my friend’s wife, Amy. And initially, we didn’t have all that much to talk about – and I thought that maybe we wouldn’t get along at all. But then she broke out her flask, and the conversation was more forthcoming.
Conversation, for example, about her husband. Whom she accused of being extremely critical of her, and of being antisocial around everyone but her. Which was a bit weird, at least from the perspective of someone who’s known him for over a year. And thus, I thought she might just be in constant need of that combination of sympathy/praise/attention that drama is uniquely suited to provide, and resigned myself to supplying her with as many piscis laudatius as she seemed to require.
It was afterward, when we got to the show, and suddenly, she was pulling me into the “pit” area, right in front of the stage. And it was just the two of us, because everyone else had sort of congregated elsewhere. And again, she seemed intent on telling me why I should be on her side – she asked to borrow my skirt (?!?) and then suggested that it might be too small. When I obligingly replied that if anything, it would likely be too big, she suggested I repeat that in front of her husband. Because he was always saying how big she was, you see.
And then we went up to the restroom, and she said that I wasn’t at all what she had expected. And I said that I’d take that as a compliment, even though I didn’t know what she meant. And she said, “Oh, it’s definitely a compliment. Nothing’s too good for my love.”
Which, um. Ooooookay. Not sure *what* she meant by any of that exactly, but I *am* kind of sure that I’m not crazy about the implications of what she might have meant.
And it would have been SO easy to take offense (even if it was just internally). But when I stopped to think about it for a second, I realized that she was pretty drunk. And also, probably pretty sad, if she actually believed even half the things she’d said over the course of the evening.
And so really, I just wanted to give her a hug and tell her everything was okay.
April 20, 2010
A Weekend Night
This past weekend, I went to see a truly entertaining phenomenon known as The Legwarmers. I highly recommend it, the next time they’re in town. SO MUCH FUN!
I went with a group, some of whom were kind enough to pick me up at my place so that I didn’t have to worry about transportation to and fro. I spent some time assessing various combinations of current wardrobe components to put together a mildly era-appropriate but still flattering outfit, and hopped in the car when my friends arrived.
One of my friends was driving. His wife was in the front seat, and his good friend was in the back. Brief introductions occurred, and the gentleman in the back (we’ll call him Will) was a youngish guy who apparently grew up in a rougher part of the Boston area. He and my friend’s wife (we’ll call her Amy – more about her in Part II) were exchanging tales of neighborhood woe, as she works with disadvantaged youth in a rougher part of another city.
Relatively early on in their conversation, Will described the area where he grew up, and used a common derogatory term for Polish people as he discussed the primary demographic there. I deliberately did not react, but had visions of watching Dr. Taggart beat him severely, about the head and shoulders.
As we all sat down to eat, Will and I struck up a conversation about a variety of things – hockey, hometowns, Harleys, etc. The conversation was definitely flowing, and I got the impression that Will thought I was pretty great. W couldn’t make it that night, and it seemed as though Will hadn’t heard that I wasn’t a ready target for more flirtatious attention.
Over the course of the evening, my friends and I teased each other, and Will noted that I had a fairly thick skin. To which I responded (as I sometimes do, when that observation is made), that as a naturally blond, half-Polish lawyer from New Jersey, my life was someone’s stand-up routine – I’d been forced to develop some kind of defense system pretty early on.
And then I watched as poor Will recalled with chagrin his poor choice of words earlier in the evening. And listened as he tried to cover it by saying, “Oh, right – yeah, I think I mentioned earlier that I grew up in a very Polish neighborhood.”
And I smiled as I met his eyes and said, “Yes, I remember you mentioning that.”
April 16, 2010
Breathe.
When I moved into my condo, everything seemed perfect. Granted, there was a lot of new stuff, and new-carpet smell and new-carpet lint and just generally getting used to things, but it was all pretty cool, and the home inspector had even checked out my condenser, etc. up on the roof.
Which he was able to do, because there is a roof access panel just outside my unit. He did all of that, pronounced it fine, and then I went ahead and got a home warranty anyway.
A few months ago, the access panel had changed. It now sports a sign and a padlock, and the sign directs anyone needing access to the roof to call the property management company to have someone come out there.
A few weeks ago, the smell of death started entering my little abode. I walked in, and WOW did it smell… chemical-y. I thought it might be my brand-new tv, offgassing. But, no, because I took the tv out and no change. And then I did this fun thing where I would go outside for a while, and then run inside and sniff things to see if they could be the source of the smell. And then go back outside… etc., etc.
W says it smells like mothballs. To me, it reminds me vaguely of turpentine with notes of lighter fluid. I haven’t been feeling entirely well, and it seriously smells.
Oh! And then, it got cold. And I turned on the heat, as opposed to the fan/AC, because it was cold. And the smell started to go away.
So, I called to schedule an appointment for my central AC, through the home warranty people, who scheduled it for a few days later. And then I called the condo management company, so they could unlock the padlock.
And not only did they not call me back, but they then tried to tell me that I would have to reschedule my AC appointment for Monday, because that particular property manager is in training until then, and won’t be able to come out and unlock the padlock. Because apparently, there is no one else covering his accounts for the three days that he’s in training. Perhaps these are magic keys, usable only by the Anointed Property Manager?
But no, because when I raised the point that the fumes were actually making me ill, and that I was pretty sure that not opening the access panel in a close-to-emergent situation kind of meant that they weren’t actually managing the property and therefore weren’t actually doing the thing they were hired to do, they decided to graciously allow me to go to their office and pick up the keys and unlock the access panel myself. FANtastic.
I’m going to go breathe some more. Hopefully, sometime soon, it will involve air that smells of humidity and pollen, and nothing else.
April 15, 2010
A stitch in my what?
Lately, running has been that thing I do when I can’t motivate to go to the gym, or don’t have time for the gym. Running I can do with a quick change of clothes, with no driving or parking or scanning in or stashing my stuff.
But it’s been allergy season around here, and that’s stalled my runs somewhere in the 4-4.5 mile range. I usually follow it up with Level 3 of the Shred, but still – I’m not making any progress towards my previous 10k glory. My runs have been occasionally punctuated with brief periods of walking, with having to talk myself back into a faster pace.
Also? The most bizarre pain ever.
I get it when my hips hurt, when my knees creak in protest, when my calf spasms or when my hand gets tired of holding my iPod (I loathe the feeling of an armband). I know what tightness of chest signifies.
But this? is the MOST BIZARRE PAIN EVER. Because it is somewhere under my right boob. Specifically in the upper left-hand quadrant of my right boob, if one is facing me.
And while I wouldn’t put it past the Universe to bestow an affliction on me solely for the purpose of amusing passers-by as I stop running and try to, um, apply pressure to ease the pain, I stopped to think about it.
FYI, I go to the doctor regularly. And thankfully, along with my “you-don’t-have-cancer-you’re-just-abnormal-please-come-back-in-six-months” diagnosis, the various white-coated types I see were able to confirm that my heart is in *great* shape. Seriously. 100/55, RHR of roughly 51. The cardio, it pays off!
So, I tried to describe the pain – it’s a really sharp pain, and after it starts, breathing hurts like a m*&^@#f!~+<@#. After walking for a bit, it subsides, and then I run some more. And the doctor, she says that sounds like a runner’s stitch. And I point out that it’s in my boob.
And she says that it sounds like I’ve got a stitch. In my boob.
Awesome.
April 14, 2010
Time marches on, and eventually you realize it’s marchin’ all over your face.
You know, because maybe somewhere back in your brain, Jake Ryan was your older sister’s crush. Because when that movie came out, you were just a year or two shy of having crushes or really understanding them, premature discovery of V.C. Andrews novels notwithstanding. And so, when you actually got around to seeing the movie again, you saw the oh-so-very-eighties clothes, and you thought it was all very cute, and certainly there was nothing objectionable about Mr. Ryan, but he just wasn’t doing it for you.
No, because by that point in time, you had found your own definitive crush. And his name was no paltry three-syllable concoction. No, no. This was TWICE the crush, for twice the syllables. And… he leaned really, really well.
And maybe you discovered that you could see him again, on Hulu. You could watch him lean to your heart’s content! Or… whatever.
You could watch him break your Angela’s heart, and forgive watch her forgive him. And remember how thoroughly you crushed on him, along with her.
And maybe, while you were re-watching, you noticed just how… flannel everything seemed. And … overalled. And… wow.
And then you realized that there are people out there – you’re sure you don’t know who, but there are people for whom someone else, some younger, Robert Pattinson type, is Jordan Catalano. Which is pretty upsetting, or something.
April 13, 2010
Q
It’s been suggested that not only have I not been getting enough sleep, but that I’ve been getting crappy sleep, as I’ve mentioned before.
Apparently, there are those who think that parrying my sleep-boxing efforts is neither fun nor normal. Hmph!
So, I opted to take a little “Acetaminophen PM” without the Acetaminophen part, and let me tell you – that shit will knock you out. It will make you fall asleep, and it will MAKE YOU SLEEP for at least 10 hours.
After which, you will still feel as though you are drugged. I can’t explain this feeling to someone who’s not experienced it, but it’s a complete lack of control over some aspect of your physical person. For me, the two days following the two nights where I took a little PM help felt like I was in a fog that I’d never get out of. Never. Until I did, but at that point I was already on edge and irritable because I’d thoroughly freaked myself out by wondering if I would ALWAYS feel as though I was just aware enough to know how unaware I was. Knowing that I should not operate heavy machinery, not even 12 hours after I’d take one tiny green gelcap.
So. I don’t think I’ll be taking that again, at least not during the week, not unless I have nearly 12 hours to spend horizontal amongst the covers.
And we’re back to the drawing board, because although I technically feel better having not taken the PM and thus gotten roughly 4.5 hours of sleep, I still don’t feel great.
What helps you sleep?
Seeking John Galt 