I’ve been trying to blog for the past day and a half, but every time I try, I end up sitting and staring at my site for 15 minutes. In my characteristically fickle way, I’ve decided I’m not in love with my new design. It’s just not me and I might be PMSing so this is suddenly very important. It’s blocking my creative juices. And also maybe my chi. Do I have a chi or is that just for Asians?
Anyway, I think the design is absolutely adorable. Don’t get me wrong. It’s just too adorable. There’s too much lady and not enough sailor visually represented here. I wear stilettos and skirts every day but I also usually have soy sauce on my blouse and I freely flip people off behind their backs when they don’t hold the door for me. Those are equally important sides of my personality. As I explained to Bologna earlier, long hair is fine as long as you tie it back during bar fights. There’s just too much loose hair around here and I’m beginning to compensate with crazy. And we don’t want the crazy to bubble up. Nobody wants that.
So, we’ve identified the problem, but the solution is trickier. My designer just had a baby a week or so ago. I sent a tentative email requesting help but she’s understandably busy caring for a new life form and not tending to my whininess. I’m going to wait till the end of the month to give myself ample time to think this over but I’d kind of like to scrap the frou frou thing, take it back down to the bare bones, and let it return to a more natural state.
Oh God. I think I just got why Britney shaved her head.
Showing posts with label whining. Show all posts
Showing posts with label whining. Show all posts
Wednesday, August 19, 2009
Sunday, June 7, 2009
Should I Stay Or Should I Go?
I sporadically keep a private journal in addition to my blog. Usually I cover 30 pages before either growing bored of it, feeling embarrassed by my own emo ramblings, or deciding that i just don't like the general direction or tone that I've established. I'm preparing to throw yet another one in the trash and I couldn't help but notice that I'm having the same issues in keeping up with my blog. This site was founded in my rum-soaked, binge-drinking, trouble-causing days. The stories focused predominately on barhopping and my subsequent hangovers. So, how am I supposed to turn around now and tell you that on vacation, I actually didn't get drunk? Or that my new favorite blogger is an 18-year-old British chick who likes pink things and polka dots? Or that I now like pink things and polka dots?
Call it maturity, call it a soft liver, but I think my wild oats are officially sown. That brings us to the actual problem which I find similar to my issues with regular personal journals. I find it off-putting to continue on in the same place but with a complete reinvention of tone. Damn you English degree for making me care about continuity.
I'm trying to decide if I want to continue writing here about my tamer exploits and interests, start a Dangerous K 2.0 blog, or just scrap the whole damn thing entirely.
If anyone actually has an opinion, please share!
Call it maturity, call it a soft liver, but I think my wild oats are officially sown. That brings us to the actual problem which I find similar to my issues with regular personal journals. I find it off-putting to continue on in the same place but with a complete reinvention of tone. Damn you English degree for making me care about continuity.
I'm trying to decide if I want to continue writing here about my tamer exploits and interests, start a Dangerous K 2.0 blog, or just scrap the whole damn thing entirely.
If anyone actually has an opinion, please share!
Friday, March 27, 2009
The Terror and Wonder of Advil PM
Disclaimer: This blog may have been written under the influence of OTC sedatives. If you are the criticizing type, I urge you to stop reading. If you are the criticizing type and continue reading, I urge you to take your complaints and shove them.
At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.
Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.
All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.
I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.
This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.
At 9pm last night, I was still a cranky girl due to possibly the least eventful work day that I’ve had in the past 3 months. Most of the day was spent complaining to whoever would listen to me and constructing elaborate castles out of office supplies on my desk. At 9 pm I was in such a foul mood that I Advil PM’ed myself to ensure a good night’s sleep instead of one of those fretful, emo-poetry-writing-in-your-head kind of nights. No disturbing little sonnets. That’s a plus for Advil PM.
Normally I can shake my drugs off by the time I need to leave the house in the morning, but that doesn’t seem to be the case today. I half shook it off. I was fully capable of driving but I was sedately listening to The Shins on my commute instead of baring my teeth and hollering at minivans. No road rage or sprained middle fingers. That’s another plus for Advil PM.
All this positivity isn’t enough to save me from drifting off to sleep in a more recumbent position than my swivel chair is intended for. From the minute I sat down at the computer, my eyes started drooping. Narcolepsy. Definitely minus one for Advil PM.
I was the first one in the office this morning but now my coworkers are coming in thick and fast and they all want to talk about last night’s American Idol. Can you not see me trying to nap here? Fine, we’ll chat. Unfortunately, though my hooded eyes suggest I am awake, my speech pattern does not and now I’m very sure my peers think I am stoned. Minus another one for Advil PM.
This leaves me with very few options. I could build another Post-It fortress or I could sit here and inanely blog with drool on my chin which is actually the more legitimate looking way to spend my time.
Thursday, June 5, 2008
Monday, June 2, 2008
Karma
I didn’t vomit in a recycling bin on Friday like I thought I would, though I did subject my designated driver, the ever patient Beau, to a loud, torturous rendition of Elton John’s entire body of work.
Karma didn’t catch up with me until Sunday morning, when, presented with the house to myself, a pot of coffee, and an ANTM marathon, I got up to do some laundry and along the way caught my little toe on the leg of the coffee table and apparently broke it. Again. I did this in December 2006 when I was chasing my roommate’s dog and caught the same little toe on the leg of the futon [Tangent: this was the same evening of the Aftershock incident at Copperfield’s. I figured I’d just stubbed it really, really bad, so I went out to the bar hopping on one foot and drank myself retarded to deal with the pain. Then I did the Running Man with a man dressed as Santa].
So, in order to save my remaining nine toes from a similar fate, I will now formally apologize to people who don’t recycle for antagonizing them and the girl that puked at my subway stop for shaking my head at her. I’m very, very sorry for judging you harshly. I promise not to rant about environmental issues instead of confessing my horribly embarrassing and moderately amusing shenanigans ever again. Now that I’ve restored balance to the karmic universe, I will proceed to hobble around in flip-flops as penance instead of my adorable black peep toe pumps.
Karma didn’t catch up with me until Sunday morning, when, presented with the house to myself, a pot of coffee, and an ANTM marathon, I got up to do some laundry and along the way caught my little toe on the leg of the coffee table and apparently broke it. Again. I did this in December 2006 when I was chasing my roommate’s dog and caught the same little toe on the leg of the futon [Tangent: this was the same evening of the Aftershock incident at Copperfield’s. I figured I’d just stubbed it really, really bad, so I went out to the bar hopping on one foot and drank myself retarded to deal with the pain. Then I did the Running Man with a man dressed as Santa].
So, in order to save my remaining nine toes from a similar fate, I will now formally apologize to people who don’t recycle for antagonizing them and the girl that puked at my subway stop for shaking my head at her. I’m very, very sorry for judging you harshly. I promise not to rant about environmental issues instead of confessing my horribly embarrassing and moderately amusing shenanigans ever again. Now that I’ve restored balance to the karmic universe, I will proceed to hobble around in flip-flops as penance instead of my adorable black peep toe pumps.
Wednesday, May 14, 2008
That Which Does Not Kill You, Only Makes You Stronger (Try Telling That To a Person With a Stab Wound)
For 2 weeks now, I have been sitting cross-legged, desperately waiting for Grad School to cash my moderately obscene deposit check and thereby confirm that they have received my acceptance of their acceptance of my application. The money is still sitting in my bank account, festering away and not being spent on rum or books or those adorable metallic ballet flats that I saw in DSW. Every time I check my balance and realize its still there, my left eye twitches a bit harder. To say money burns a hole in my pocket is a gross understatement. To say my Chili’s budget alone is close to $1000/year is closer to the truth.
And this is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ll be going to school full-time in the fall and hopefully have the first of two required internships, so it would be really, really peachy if I didn’t have to work. At all. If I have the slightest chance of doing that, now is the time to stuff my purse full of cash and not let it out. Even when I can hear its muffled screams for a merciful shopping spree, I will continue to chant the five pillars of my new existence: food, shelter, transportation, health insurance, textbooks.
Though it may get tricky when the time comes and my purse strings are tied even tighter against the leering gaze of my favorite bar, for now I’m actually looking forward to this as a challenge. In my emo adolescence, I would often stare longingly past my stereo and towering music collection and out the window of our lovely suburban townhouse wishing my upper middle class family was less fortunate. It’s so easy to use Dad’s credit card for lavish amounts of clothing. Where’s the drama in that? Where’s the glamour? Where’s the poverty stricken but quietly ambitious child graciously sharing a bowl of peas with her fifteen siblings and then huddling next to a wood stove for warmth? No, no. Living in the lap of luxury was far too average. I knew it would never make for a decent introduction to the movie based on my life story. But welfare might.
Of course, now I have the opportunity to fulfill that foolish day dream, now that I’m quite sure that spending Daddy’s money on designer hand bags is ABSOLUTELY better than the poor house. I have my chance to embrace my impending pennilessness as another adventure to chronicle in my eventual memoir. I will keep that in mind months from now when I’m subsisting on Ramen noodles and doing my homework in a cardboard box down by the river.
And this is just a taste of what’s to come. I’ll be going to school full-time in the fall and hopefully have the first of two required internships, so it would be really, really peachy if I didn’t have to work. At all. If I have the slightest chance of doing that, now is the time to stuff my purse full of cash and not let it out. Even when I can hear its muffled screams for a merciful shopping spree, I will continue to chant the five pillars of my new existence: food, shelter, transportation, health insurance, textbooks.
Though it may get tricky when the time comes and my purse strings are tied even tighter against the leering gaze of my favorite bar, for now I’m actually looking forward to this as a challenge. In my emo adolescence, I would often stare longingly past my stereo and towering music collection and out the window of our lovely suburban townhouse wishing my upper middle class family was less fortunate. It’s so easy to use Dad’s credit card for lavish amounts of clothing. Where’s the drama in that? Where’s the glamour? Where’s the poverty stricken but quietly ambitious child graciously sharing a bowl of peas with her fifteen siblings and then huddling next to a wood stove for warmth? No, no. Living in the lap of luxury was far too average. I knew it would never make for a decent introduction to the movie based on my life story. But welfare might.
Of course, now I have the opportunity to fulfill that foolish day dream, now that I’m quite sure that spending Daddy’s money on designer hand bags is ABSOLUTELY better than the poor house. I have my chance to embrace my impending pennilessness as another adventure to chronicle in my eventual memoir. I will keep that in mind months from now when I’m subsisting on Ramen noodles and doing my homework in a cardboard box down by the river.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
Teaching Old Coworkers New Tricks
I’m actually quite good at handling the serious problems that life throws my way. It’s not long ago that I was an unemployed, narcotics-dabbling nomad with a serious attitude problem. And look how well I’ve turned out? No, it’s the daily trivial irritations that drive me absolutely nuts. For example, I almost advised a woman on the train last night to close her mouth while chewing her gum to avoid making that smack smack smack noise. I’ve gone completely ape shit crazy on commuters for not signaling properly in traffic. I’ve worked myself up in a foamy lather over someone sitting in my favorite lunch spot.
Another of my pet peeves includes the inability of certain individuals to place a dirty dish in the dishwasher instead of the sink. I’m often ruffled by what I can’t understand, and this is outside my realm of logic. Why it is so difficult to extend the arm two feet in the other direction, open the machine, and place the item inside? Is it laziness? Unconscientiousness? Out and out defiance? Whatever causes the behavior, it bothers me because in the end, I must transfer them myself, usually after scraping at crust-covered surfaces and transferring food sludge to my carefully selected ensemble.
Several months ago, while enacting this cherished ritual, an unidentifiable piece of food shrapnel landed on my shoe. MY SHOE. My very favorite pair of yellow Steve Madden peep toe heels. Is nothing sacred?! So, I snapped. In a PMS-induced temper tantrum, I manifested my rage in a series of highly passive-aggressive notes that I taped around the kitchen.
Say what you will about the use of passive-aggressive notes, but I find them to be a valuable means of communicating what would otherwise go completely unresolved because it simply can not be transmitted in any other way. The trick to successful use is to keep your notes lighthearted enough so as to give others a chuckle. This will divert them from seeing directly into your black, withered soul which is secretly wishing horrible things about them. Case in point: my signs worked. On occasion, a stray butter knife covered in jam is abandoned in the sink, but for the most part, I’ve cured the office of their dishwasherophobia. Next, I will begin to train Beau.
Another of my pet peeves includes the inability of certain individuals to place a dirty dish in the dishwasher instead of the sink. I’m often ruffled by what I can’t understand, and this is outside my realm of logic. Why it is so difficult to extend the arm two feet in the other direction, open the machine, and place the item inside? Is it laziness? Unconscientiousness? Out and out defiance? Whatever causes the behavior, it bothers me because in the end, I must transfer them myself, usually after scraping at crust-covered surfaces and transferring food sludge to my carefully selected ensemble.
Several months ago, while enacting this cherished ritual, an unidentifiable piece of food shrapnel landed on my shoe. MY SHOE. My very favorite pair of yellow Steve Madden peep toe heels. Is nothing sacred?! So, I snapped. In a PMS-induced temper tantrum, I manifested my rage in a series of highly passive-aggressive notes that I taped around the kitchen.
Exhibit A (located above the sink)
Exhibit B (located on the counter to the right of the sink)
Exhibit C (located on the front of the elusive dishwasher itself)
Say what you will about the use of passive-aggressive notes, but I find them to be a valuable means of communicating what would otherwise go completely unresolved because it simply can not be transmitted in any other way. The trick to successful use is to keep your notes lighthearted enough so as to give others a chuckle. This will divert them from seeing directly into your black, withered soul which is secretly wishing horrible things about them. Case in point: my signs worked. On occasion, a stray butter knife covered in jam is abandoned in the sink, but for the most part, I’ve cured the office of their dishwasherophobia. Next, I will begin to train Beau.
Sunday, February 17, 2008
Beau Goes
After five days of nursing me through a nasty case of the flu Beau has escaped my cesspool for the warmer climes of Florida. This means I am grumpy and moody and I'm sitting on the couch in his pajamas with the stuffed animal he bought for me at Sea World. What happened to Miss Independent?
I'm going to go moan to myself while eating the brownies he made me and listening to chick music. And if I have time later, I'm going to look for my balls.
I'm going to go moan to myself while eating the brownies he made me and listening to chick music. And if I have time later, I'm going to look for my balls.
Thursday, January 31, 2008
I'm Bad At Sharing
There’s no time to discuss the outcome of yesteryesterevening’s experiment. I have breaking news of the receptionist kind.
Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.
Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.
A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"
Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)
Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.
Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.
So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.
Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly
Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.
Hrmph.
This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.
Several weeks ago, the receptionist from the office across the hall (we will call them the Inferior Nerd Company) came in asking to borrow our little red dolly. Let me preface this story by stating that it is my favorite dolly. It’s just the right size for the big boxes of magazines and paper that I need to haul around. Without it, I’m forced to either schlep 50 lb boxes around the office by hand or use one of the other dollies that are just totally useless. The brown one doesn’t have a handle – it’s just a board on wheels. The blue one is so big that it aught to have an engine so I could drive it around which would be freaking awesome and I have just added to my list of To Dos. Anyway, the Inferior Nerd Companyy’s receptionist didn’t really ask to borrow it so much as waltzed past me and took it which she does all the time and makes me frown.
Last week one of her coworkers came in looking to borrow yet another dolly. I informed him that I couldn’t lend out any more of our equipment until the piece that was previously borrowed was returned. That’s fair, right? He hung his head and left. Later that day, I could see him through the glass doors in front of my desk pushing stuff around in the elevator vestibule with, what else, a little red dolly.
A few hours later, the IN Co. receptionist comes back in with My Precious, apologizing for its late return which I graciously accepted with a "Oh no - don't even worry about it. I'm just glad it hasn't been lost or something!"
Today, another of her coworkers, Mr. Man, walks in with the janitorial guy that creeps me out (first I thought he was one of those cute, non-English speaking types that waves and smiles in order to communicate but now he has lengthy cell phone conversations outside my office doors while staring at me. The bond is broken.)
Mr. Man: Our receptionist returned the wrong dolly to you. It belongs to building managements [gestures to creepy janitorial guy]. We need it back.
Dangerous K: No, she returned ours which went unreturned for almost a month.
So, we walked into the mailroom and I put my hand on the red dolly to signify "this one" at the same time that Mr. Man gestures to the useless, (currently) undriveable blue dolly that’s collecting dust in the corner because no one wants to borrow it. In doing so, he also clearly demonstratd that he doesn’t know what’s going on. Creepy Janitor says "no" to the blue one and "yes" to the red one which upon closer inspection I realize is much more beat up than the one I had lent out. Perhaps this wasn’t My Precious after all.
Regardless, after a month of back breaking box moving, I had A Precious back if not My Precious and frankly, I don’t feel that I deserve to be Preciousless any longer. I related this sentiment as I herded them out of my mailroom, saying, “It’s entirely possible that she returned the one belonging to building management. We might have the same model. But that means that your office still owes us a dolly". I stood righteously in the doorway to block their forcible removal of my red dolly
Then I stood in the doorway to the mailroom in my righteous receptionist glory to prevent the forcible removal of A Precious. And that is where I remained until they got the point that they weren't taking the GODDAMN RED DOLLY UNTIL I GOT MINE BACK.
Hrmph.
This, yes, technically means that I am currently engaged in a hostage situation.
Tuesday, January 29, 2008
Ode to the Days When My Bottom Was Smaller
Once upon a time, I rented a room in the student ghetto of Boston where I cohabitated with two girls, two boys and two dogs, not to mention the ever shifting group of hippies in the first floor apartment and the creepy guy that lived in a tent next to the washing machine in the basement.
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
Storing enough food for five humans and two animals in one refrigerator is tricky at best. Luckily for my roomies though, I can’t cook. Since leaving my father’s household, I’ve subsisted mainly on salad, veggie burgers, and couscous. These fantastically yummy treasures are conveniently healthy enough to curb the effects of excessive alcohol consumption. But times have changed. This has not been my diet since Beau and I moved in together last summer because – and my mouth waters just at the thought – Beau cooks like the dickens.
Now life is full of meat and carbs and the occasional side dish of something green. I’m a spoiled, ruined woman. Despite Beau’s absence in the house this week (he’s in Florida to start that project that will steal him away again in February) and a grocery trip consisting entirely of veggies, faux-meat products and Lean Cuisines, I am unable to go back to my old ways. In the 36 hours following Beau’s departure, I consumed: an entire bag of chips, an unmentionable amount of ice cream, half a bottle of wine, two cups of white rice, all the leftover burrito fillings in the last remaining tortilla and four waffles. What about the broccoli in the crisper yearning for consumption? It’s still there. Oh. It’s very much still there.
And what did I do with my new found freedom from the oppressive presence of Man? Did I put on a little Kelly Clarkson and shake my money maker in front of the mirror? Did I do pilates? Did I pluck my eye brows and paint my nails and slough the dead skin from my elbows? No. I was too busy ingesting EVERYTHING in the house to do any of that. I sat on the couch inhaling approximately a week’s worth of calories and giving myself a tummy ache.
As I’ve said before, I’m not hatin’ on my fabulous chubbiness. I’ve been plump since I was a kid and I’ll be damned if I drop below a size 10. That said, I must reiterate: a girl has her limits. Eating chicken parmesan once a week, GOOD. Eating entire contents of the fridge once a week, BAD. What I’m hatin’ on is this bizarre spell that cohabitation has cast on me. I think other women refer to it as “letting yourself go.”
It would seem I am in sore need of some disciplinary action. As such, I have decided to run a little experiment. I have set the following goals for this evening:
- Do not snack pre-dinner
- Eat something healthy instead. This does not include: condiments eaten from the jar with a spoon, ice cream straight from the container or cheese in any form.
- Dance around in underwear or exercise otherwise for a minimum of 20 minutes.
- Drink a cup of tea while reading. Just because it sounds quaint.
Now that the bag of Tostidos is no longer a threat, I feel optimistic as to the outcome. Full report tomorrow.
Friday, January 4, 2008
Don't worry - I'm not deep enough for this to be a metaphor
On the surface, I may appear pulled together in my little twin sweater sets and A-line skirts, but inside, I'm just a tattered mess.
Exhibit A: Circa 11:00 this morning, the underwire portion of my bra poked its way out of the fabric. I have readjusted it multiple times but it refuses to stay put. As such, it is now wearing a hole in the side of my lady-lump, the process of which is beginning to cross from "uncomfortable" to "moderately painful". Thankfully, Beau will be here any minute to pick me up from work and I whole heartedly intend to free-boob in the car.
Exhibit B: Sometime over the course of last night, my insides liquefied and began pouring out my nose. Yes, it's winter. Yes, colds are common. But this is the 3rd cold I've had since the beginning of December (unless it's the same vicious virus that periodically goes into remission before coming back to ruin my weekend) and I'm getting really tired of it. In addition, runny noses are particularly troublesome because of my darling sister, Bologna, and a little fib she told me when I was a wee lass. She informed me that snot is brain leaking out your nose. So from an early age, I made a concerted effort to keep as much of it in as possible by sniffling it in as opposed to blowing it out. I have since discovered that this is not in fact true, but try as I might, I am still an avid sniffler. This makes me an even grosser and more annoying coworker than usual. Plus, actively giving oneself post-nasal drip means I'll be nauseous and unable to consume alcohol for an indeterminate amount of time. On the upside, no one wants to stand near me on the subway while I'm snorting my own mucus. Especially when I make eye contact.
Exhibit C: On my way home Wednesday evening, I had just begun to climb up the steep, black-ice-covered hill between the train station and my house juggling a bag of groceries as well as my own personal effects (which Beau will tell you are vast - similar to those of a nomadic desert-dwelling tribe except without the handy camel) when my underwear just kind of... gave up. Initially, I was very sad when the elastic died since I was pretty sure I was wearing my one and only pair of polka dotted knickers. Much sadder was the thought that the article of clothing closest to my loins had just lost the will to live. But the mourning period was brief (hehehe, brief). Mere moments later it became apparent that it was not enough for my favorite pair of skivvies to die. No. They were dead and rapidly leaving. Thankfully, I was wearing a belted pant ensemble and not a skirt, so they made it as far as the bottom on my cheeks but had no where to go from there, despite their desperate straining for the light at the end of my trousers. At that point, even if I could have simultaneously juggled the multiple bags, hiked up my knee length coat, and reached in deep enough to seize the offending garment, I would still have had to contend with the looks of the many commuters nearby. Instead I just trudged along praying that my belt wouldn't snap next.
I need a solid weekend of drinking excessive NyQuil and shopping on Victoriassecret.com. Together, I think I have a chance of beating this godforsaken affliction.
Exhibit A: Circa 11:00 this morning, the underwire portion of my bra poked its way out of the fabric. I have readjusted it multiple times but it refuses to stay put. As such, it is now wearing a hole in the side of my lady-lump, the process of which is beginning to cross from "uncomfortable" to "moderately painful". Thankfully, Beau will be here any minute to pick me up from work and I whole heartedly intend to free-boob in the car.
Exhibit B: Sometime over the course of last night, my insides liquefied and began pouring out my nose. Yes, it's winter. Yes, colds are common. But this is the 3rd cold I've had since the beginning of December (unless it's the same vicious virus that periodically goes into remission before coming back to ruin my weekend) and I'm getting really tired of it. In addition, runny noses are particularly troublesome because of my darling sister, Bologna, and a little fib she told me when I was a wee lass. She informed me that snot is brain leaking out your nose. So from an early age, I made a concerted effort to keep as much of it in as possible by sniffling it in as opposed to blowing it out. I have since discovered that this is not in fact true, but try as I might, I am still an avid sniffler. This makes me an even grosser and more annoying coworker than usual. Plus, actively giving oneself post-nasal drip means I'll be nauseous and unable to consume alcohol for an indeterminate amount of time. On the upside, no one wants to stand near me on the subway while I'm snorting my own mucus. Especially when I make eye contact.
Exhibit C: On my way home Wednesday evening, I had just begun to climb up the steep, black-ice-covered hill between the train station and my house juggling a bag of groceries as well as my own personal effects (which Beau will tell you are vast - similar to those of a nomadic desert-dwelling tribe except without the handy camel) when my underwear just kind of... gave up. Initially, I was very sad when the elastic died since I was pretty sure I was wearing my one and only pair of polka dotted knickers. Much sadder was the thought that the article of clothing closest to my loins had just lost the will to live. But the mourning period was brief (hehehe, brief). Mere moments later it became apparent that it was not enough for my favorite pair of skivvies to die. No. They were dead and rapidly leaving. Thankfully, I was wearing a belted pant ensemble and not a skirt, so they made it as far as the bottom on my cheeks but had no where to go from there, despite their desperate straining for the light at the end of my trousers. At that point, even if I could have simultaneously juggled the multiple bags, hiked up my knee length coat, and reached in deep enough to seize the offending garment, I would still have had to contend with the looks of the many commuters nearby. Instead I just trudged along praying that my belt wouldn't snap next.
I need a solid weekend of drinking excessive NyQuil and shopping on Victoriassecret.com. Together, I think I have a chance of beating this godforsaken affliction.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Boxing Day: Bane & Fruition of My Existence
There doesn’t seem to be a rational explanation for why we’re in the office today. I haven’t done an ounce of work all morning. There’s a uselessness that descends before a long break which, for me, extends until December 26, holiest of days: Dangerous K’s birthday. The big 2-4. HA - I’m not old yet. Enjoy your active adult retirement village, Father. Actually, I’m a big fan of his town of old folks in South Carolina. I spent a few of my college vacations there and was pleased with my lack of competition in the bathing suit arena. It’s a place where self-conscious chubby girls can go to the gym and feel superior to the blonde on the next elliptical over. These things are important to me.
My birthday’s unfortunate timing has long been a sore spot. Throughout childhood, peers would distribute cupcakes or other carbohydrate laden treats to signify the arrival of their birthday. Being born the day after Christmas means school is never in session for such festivities. The horror didn’t stop after college like I’d promised myself at the tender age of 7. My friends still have the absurd notion that they should spend the holidays with their families, wherever that may be. What they don’t understand is that Boxing Day is observed only in Canada, freakish carnival that it is, so the 26th does not count as part of the official American holiday season. I welcome them to celebrate Christmas as they see fit, but it’s just selfish to include the only day of the year when the world is ordered to revolve around me.
Normally my birthday consists of opening presents from my family and then reading on a couch curled up under an afghan (the blanket, not the nationality – I don’t think I could concentrate on a book if there was a terrorist lying on top of me). This is not a reflection of my lack of social life. It’s a reflection on the quality of my friends who will not drop everything they are doing to throw me a surprise party.
For example, on my 21st birthday, banished from college to the dirty south (which my alleged friends casually referred to as an “inaccessible location”), my father and evil stepmother took me to a steakhouse called Montana’s which has since been closed for health code violations but served an excellent bison burger. Here’s the clincher: I didn’t have a single drink. I only really drink to get drunk since idly sipping margaritas adds empty calories and I’m shallow like that. The calories cease to be empty if they result in my intoxication. That’s a solid purpose in my mind.
Even worse than my absentee friends, is the type of person who takes advantage of the timing and doubles up on presents. I’ve heard the phrase “Here’s your birthday slash Christmas present” a few dozen times. Those unfortunates are no longer counted amongst my comrades. Not that I would dump a friend over something so petty! But come March when I tell them that they received their birthday present on Christmas, there seems to be a fatal disconnect and we drift our separate ways.
Though I try to pump myself up with the ol’ Second Coming of Christ shtick, I just can’t get myself worked up over my birthday. Between the noneventfulness and the occasional screwing over in the presents department, it’s just not worth the effort. Too many disappointments, too many afghans. Purportedly, Beau has planned something so this may not be a blog entry of foreshadowing prior to an anticlimactic finish. This may be the introduction to a super birthday spectacular. That now lies entirely on his shoulders. The shoulders attached to the man who has forced me to eat things from a can (like soup and in one desperate moment, peas) in his absence for the past 2 days and is again abandoning me for Christmas to see relatives in another state. No pressure though.
(In the event that Beau does feel pressured, he should know that a puppy would immediately get him out of trouble.)
My birthday’s unfortunate timing has long been a sore spot. Throughout childhood, peers would distribute cupcakes or other carbohydrate laden treats to signify the arrival of their birthday. Being born the day after Christmas means school is never in session for such festivities. The horror didn’t stop after college like I’d promised myself at the tender age of 7. My friends still have the absurd notion that they should spend the holidays with their families, wherever that may be. What they don’t understand is that Boxing Day is observed only in Canada, freakish carnival that it is, so the 26th does not count as part of the official American holiday season. I welcome them to celebrate Christmas as they see fit, but it’s just selfish to include the only day of the year when the world is ordered to revolve around me.
Normally my birthday consists of opening presents from my family and then reading on a couch curled up under an afghan (the blanket, not the nationality – I don’t think I could concentrate on a book if there was a terrorist lying on top of me). This is not a reflection of my lack of social life. It’s a reflection on the quality of my friends who will not drop everything they are doing to throw me a surprise party.
For example, on my 21st birthday, banished from college to the dirty south (which my alleged friends casually referred to as an “inaccessible location”), my father and evil stepmother took me to a steakhouse called Montana’s which has since been closed for health code violations but served an excellent bison burger. Here’s the clincher: I didn’t have a single drink. I only really drink to get drunk since idly sipping margaritas adds empty calories and I’m shallow like that. The calories cease to be empty if they result in my intoxication. That’s a solid purpose in my mind.
Even worse than my absentee friends, is the type of person who takes advantage of the timing and doubles up on presents. I’ve heard the phrase “Here’s your birthday slash Christmas present” a few dozen times. Those unfortunates are no longer counted amongst my comrades. Not that I would dump a friend over something so petty! But come March when I tell them that they received their birthday present on Christmas, there seems to be a fatal disconnect and we drift our separate ways.
Though I try to pump myself up with the ol’ Second Coming of Christ shtick, I just can’t get myself worked up over my birthday. Between the noneventfulness and the occasional screwing over in the presents department, it’s just not worth the effort. Too many disappointments, too many afghans. Purportedly, Beau has planned something so this may not be a blog entry of foreshadowing prior to an anticlimactic finish. This may be the introduction to a super birthday spectacular. That now lies entirely on his shoulders. The shoulders attached to the man who has forced me to eat things from a can (like soup and in one desperate moment, peas) in his absence for the past 2 days and is again abandoning me for Christmas to see relatives in another state. No pressure though.
(In the event that Beau does feel pressured, he should know that a puppy would immediately get him out of trouble.)
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Why I Need a Therapist (In 500 words or less)
When I graduated from college, my father said, “Pre-med majors become doctors. Pre-law majors became lawyers. English majors become… well, you must be an English.” Spot on, Dad. Here I am, launched from the safety of school with my fancy BA in Worthless, a giggly bucketful of dreams, rainbows, and pixie-farts and not a bloody clue what to do next. I have an inkling that I am not alone.
Know what happens when you slam on the breaks of a car going 90 mph? The car spins out. It’s scary and disorienting and more often than not, induces a panic attack that persists even after the vehicle has come to rest. Same thing here. We graduate with 16 years of educational momentum at our backs and nothing to do with it. Add to that the pressing need to pursue a career path that will determine the trajectory of our Mortal Lives or, more precisely, which advanced degree to dump our minimal earnings into so as to ENTER the career path that will determine the yadda yadda yadda.
Well, gee, that’s a little depressing. Maybe we should all go read The Bell Jar a few more times and cry into our pillows until Dr. Phil pops out of the TV like that creepy chick from The Ring. Except Dr. Phil would make everything right whereas Creepy Chick from The Ring made everything so very wrong.
Or alternately, we could start by succinctly defining these rambling paragraphs of run-on sentences as:
Post-college doldrums (n): (1) The period of early-20s existential crisis in which one flounders about in a series of unfulfilling entry-level jobs whilst picking a legitimate, stimulating career path so as to become a contributing member of society and not let one’s parents down (2) Alcoholism
This may sound very petulant to some of you (if there ARE any of you reading this). I’ll be the first to admit that I have lived a much more privileged life than many but despite that, I think the post-college doldrums is a much wider epidemic than is currently recognized. Is it the most pressing issue? No. Does it affect the lives and mental wellbeing of many of my peers? I think so.
Ok. Shake it out. I won’t end a posting on an emo note and since slapstick routines don’t translate via blog, I will reveal the correct answer to the symphony puzzle. The correct answer is 5. I shit you not. This woman had a red top hat on and seemed totally nonchalant about it. Beau thought Abe Lincoln was haunting the place. I had to hold him down so he wouldn’t run away. Seriously.
Know what happens when you slam on the breaks of a car going 90 mph? The car spins out. It’s scary and disorienting and more often than not, induces a panic attack that persists even after the vehicle has come to rest. Same thing here. We graduate with 16 years of educational momentum at our backs and nothing to do with it. Add to that the pressing need to pursue a career path that will determine the trajectory of our Mortal Lives or, more precisely, which advanced degree to dump our minimal earnings into so as to ENTER the career path that will determine the yadda yadda yadda.
Well, gee, that’s a little depressing. Maybe we should all go read The Bell Jar a few more times and cry into our pillows until Dr. Phil pops out of the TV like that creepy chick from The Ring. Except Dr. Phil would make everything right whereas Creepy Chick from The Ring made everything so very wrong.
Or alternately, we could start by succinctly defining these rambling paragraphs of run-on sentences as:
Post-college doldrums (n): (1) The period of early-20s existential crisis in which one flounders about in a series of unfulfilling entry-level jobs whilst picking a legitimate, stimulating career path so as to become a contributing member of society and not let one’s parents down (2) Alcoholism
This may sound very petulant to some of you (if there ARE any of you reading this). I’ll be the first to admit that I have lived a much more privileged life than many but despite that, I think the post-college doldrums is a much wider epidemic than is currently recognized. Is it the most pressing issue? No. Does it affect the lives and mental wellbeing of many of my peers? I think so.
Ok. Shake it out. I won’t end a posting on an emo note and since slapstick routines don’t translate via blog, I will reveal the correct answer to the symphony puzzle. The correct answer is 5. I shit you not. This woman had a red top hat on and seemed totally nonchalant about it. Beau thought Abe Lincoln was haunting the place. I had to hold him down so he wouldn’t run away. Seriously.
Friday, November 9, 2007
Bathroom Etiquette 101: What Not To Do
That game you play at work? The one where you sit alone in your cubicle drinking bottle after bottle of water so that eventually you'll have an excuse to hide in the bathroom for 5 gloriously free minutes? Yeah, you're not alone. Everyone does that.
This safe haven shouldn't be abused though and in my office building it certainly is. Not by my coworkers, but by the freaks at the company across the hall (heretofore known simply as "the Freaks"). In particular, by 2 individuals whose restroom behavior continues to fascinate and horrify me, much like a Discovery channel documentary of a lion eating a gazelle. Regardless of the entrails dripping from Mufasa's mouth and my own humanity puddling on the floor at my feet, I continue to watch. I continue to watch with my mouth slightly ajar and my head cocked to one side. This is similar to my expression whilst guarding the restroom.
First, there's Bertha. Bertha is a girthy woman with a distinct odor (as her carefully chosen pseudonym might suggest). By "girthy" I mean she's the type of person who makes me put the extra cookie back in the jar and immediately start doing abdominal exercises at my desk. By "distinct odor" I mean one of my coworkers once reported to management that something must have died in the ventilation system.
Besides her moderately unsavory appearance, she spends a great deal of time violating our restroom... physically as well as vocally. Very vocally. And sometimes while eating chips.
Then there's Freak #2 who I once called security on. Freak #2 likes to stand in the bathroom stall thusly:
Mind you, in this illustration, I was there first. I came into an empty bathroom. She came in and of the 4 available stalls (all to my right) picked THAT one thereby completely eliminating the concept of the BUFFER stall and launching an aggressive assault on my personal space. When such an event occurs, I am left with no choice but the inevitable Stage Fright. I cannot urinate whilst preparing for a physical attack on my being. Furthermore, having identified herself as a freak, she cannot no longer be trusted to fall into the category of safe assumptions. Included in this category, the safe assumption that people don't just go into the restroom to listen to you pee. Awesome. Now I (maybe) have an audience who's (maybe) staring at the wall to her left instead of looking politely ahead. I could (maybe) feel her eyes boring through the thin wall as she attempted to see me with her xray vision. All bets are off and I just had a Venti iced coffee. Queue tilted walnut bladder's uncontrollable whimpering.
Wait. Stop. I'm getting way ahead of myself. You've gotten me all worked up. This event happened several weeks after my original encounter in which I called security. In said original encounter I went into the bathroom to find what appeared to be a person standing so close to the stall door that a pair of actively wiggling shoes were sticking out into the surrounding room. And the shoes were large and masculine. So, I pulled Trick #460 from the Ol' Rule Book and faux-blew my nose before running away... running away and calling security:
Dangerous: Hello?? Security??
Security Girl: Hi.
Dangerous: Security Girl, it's Dangerous from upstairs.
Security Girl: Oh hey, what's up? Time to go home yet? Haha.
Dangerous: SECURITY GIRL! Do not joke about home. There is a MAN in my bathroom. You must come immediately to arrest him.
Security Girl: Seriously?
Dangerous: I'm very sure of it.
Security Girl: I'm so there.
Until Security Girl made her way up the elevator, I jumped into my Concerned Citizen gear and ran to the hallway where I concealed myself in the trash area to watch the only entrance to the Ladies' Room for the serial killer to make his exit at which time I would pepper spray him and finally get on the 5:00 News.
Much to my dismay, the only occupant emerged: a squirrely woman I recognized from the office across the way. And oh boy was she surprised to see me hiding behind a recycling bin. I went back to my desk with my head hanging low to wait for Security Girl to laugh at me... again.
So while you enjoy the serenity of a quiet, deserted bathroom for extended stays of near 20 minutes, I am forced to reduce my visits to unclockable speeds lest another encounter with the Freak side ensue. I am bereft of refuge in this sea of cubicles. I am chained to my desk, unable even to urinate my way into safety. If anyone needs me, I will be in the trash area, sitting in the corner and eating wet cigarette butts.
This safe haven shouldn't be abused though and in my office building it certainly is. Not by my coworkers, but by the freaks at the company across the hall (heretofore known simply as "the Freaks"). In particular, by 2 individuals whose restroom behavior continues to fascinate and horrify me, much like a Discovery channel documentary of a lion eating a gazelle. Regardless of the entrails dripping from Mufasa's mouth and my own humanity puddling on the floor at my feet, I continue to watch. I continue to watch with my mouth slightly ajar and my head cocked to one side. This is similar to my expression whilst guarding the restroom.
First, there's Bertha. Bertha is a girthy woman with a distinct odor (as her carefully chosen pseudonym might suggest). By "girthy" I mean she's the type of person who makes me put the extra cookie back in the jar and immediately start doing abdominal exercises at my desk. By "distinct odor" I mean one of my coworkers once reported to management that something must have died in the ventilation system.
Besides her moderately unsavory appearance, she spends a great deal of time violating our restroom... physically as well as vocally. Very vocally. And sometimes while eating chips.
Then there's Freak #2 who I once called security on. Freak #2 likes to stand in the bathroom stall thusly:
Mind you, in this illustration, I was there first. I came into an empty bathroom. She came in and of the 4 available stalls (all to my right) picked THAT one thereby completely eliminating the concept of the BUFFER stall and launching an aggressive assault on my personal space. When such an event occurs, I am left with no choice but the inevitable Stage Fright. I cannot urinate whilst preparing for a physical attack on my being. Furthermore, having identified herself as a freak, she cannot no longer be trusted to fall into the category of safe assumptions. Included in this category, the safe assumption that people don't just go into the restroom to listen to you pee. Awesome. Now I (maybe) have an audience who's (maybe) staring at the wall to her left instead of looking politely ahead. I could (maybe) feel her eyes boring through the thin wall as she attempted to see me with her xray vision. All bets are off and I just had a Venti iced coffee. Queue tilted walnut bladder's uncontrollable whimpering.
Wait. Stop. I'm getting way ahead of myself. You've gotten me all worked up. This event happened several weeks after my original encounter in which I called security. In said original encounter I went into the bathroom to find what appeared to be a person standing so close to the stall door that a pair of actively wiggling shoes were sticking out into the surrounding room. And the shoes were large and masculine. So, I pulled Trick #460 from the Ol' Rule Book and faux-blew my nose before running away... running away and calling security:
Dangerous: Hello?? Security??
Security Girl: Hi.
Dangerous: Security Girl, it's Dangerous from upstairs.
Security Girl: Oh hey, what's up? Time to go home yet? Haha.
Dangerous: SECURITY GIRL! Do not joke about home. There is a MAN in my bathroom. You must come immediately to arrest him.
Security Girl: Seriously?
Dangerous: I'm very sure of it.
Security Girl: I'm so there.
Until Security Girl made her way up the elevator, I jumped into my Concerned Citizen gear and ran to the hallway where I concealed myself in the trash area to watch the only entrance to the Ladies' Room for the serial killer to make his exit at which time I would pepper spray him and finally get on the 5:00 News.
Much to my dismay, the only occupant emerged: a squirrely woman I recognized from the office across the way. And oh boy was she surprised to see me hiding behind a recycling bin. I went back to my desk with my head hanging low to wait for Security Girl to laugh at me... again.
So while you enjoy the serenity of a quiet, deserted bathroom for extended stays of near 20 minutes, I am forced to reduce my visits to unclockable speeds lest another encounter with the Freak side ensue. I am bereft of refuge in this sea of cubicles. I am chained to my desk, unable even to urinate my way into safety. If anyone needs me, I will be in the trash area, sitting in the corner and eating wet cigarette butts.
Saturday, October 27, 2007
In which I eat some Percocet and start a blog
I'm bad at introductions so I thought I'd skip that and launch straight into why they actually GAVE me pain medicine. Almost for free!
About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.
I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.
True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.
On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.
That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.
Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:
- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.
Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.
As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.
Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?
I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.
Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!
About a year and a half ago when I belonged to the most unholy of all professions, Freelancers, and thus had no health insurance, I began teething. That is because after 22 years of waiting, my wisdom teeth decided to be born after all. They also decided to take after me and half ass it. So I was stuck with a molar sticking partially out of my gum which was slightly uncomfortable. The real problem was that due to my moderate tendency towards hypochondria, I grew concerned that it would become infected causing some butcher in the emergency room to give me a jaw-rectomy, remove half my face, and leave me unable to chew and/or date. Sometimes I do both at once.
I discussed this issue with my then boss, a catalogue copywriter who smoked brown cigarettes from France and smelled like gin, because I often discuss inappropriate personal issues with practical strangers. Ergo blog. And also how I know about the bowel movement regularity of the girls from my college dorm. So my boss gave me the name of a fabulous Manhattan dentist down the street. I knew that it was meant to be because it had been rainy that week and I could access his office using the underground Rockefeller labyrinth which should NEVER be attempted when you are coming back late after lunch or if you've had more than 2 drinks.
True story, he had a pretty view from his office but $500 later I decided not to let this bad, bad man remove my teeth for several million dollars. When I started craving rawhide bones earlier this fall, I knew the time had come especially since I had dental insurance and wanted to be able to chew for the big family Thanksgiving trip to Florida.
On top of my hypochondria, I also greatly dislike dentists. Let's just say that I cried the last time I had a cavity filled. When I told this to the oral surgeon, he agreed that it might be best to knock me the fuck out before going in. Also I told him that I bite and if he wanted proof he could look at Beau's arm.
That's pretty much the back story to why I got to leave work early yesterday and take a lovely walk across the Longfellow bridge to MGH where they took away my clothing, purse, and underpants and forced me to wear ugly, size XXL hospital PJs that had an unearthly orange stain on the shoulder. But they did provide those socks with little grippies on the bottom of which I am a HUGE fan. Dressed in such an ensemble I spent an hour or so reading in the lobby with people who were not dressed like they lived in a mental ward.
Finally they brought me back to the pre-op area where I was given a little bed of my own with little privacy curtains of my own. Come to think of it, they really gave me a lot of things yesterday. The list of giving continues thusly:
- Warm blankets ... and I don't mean blankets which make you warm. I mean blankets which have been toasted prior to wrapped around you. It was like being a lovely little hospitalized burrito. If my dryer wasn't 3 flights of stairs away, I would do it every night.
- An IV full of yumminess which was very appreciated because I wasn't allowed to eat or drink anything past midnight the night before. Not even water... or worse, coffee.
- Medicine to "relax" me. Or, as the younger anesthesiologist called it, my Friday cocktail. Finally, someone spoke my language. I asked him to join me, but he said that would be a bad idea. Whatev, his loss.
Sometime after my cocktail, I woke up in the recovery room babbling about how I wanted to see Beau. They brought him to me (more of the giving) looking very concerned with that cute little furrowed brow that he does whenever I look ill or he's confused by something. Despite the thoughtful presents, I was pretty ready to get out of there so I stumbled around until I got my pants on the right way and my shoes (mostly) on. Once that was done they plopped me in a wheelchair and handed me off to Beau which was excellent because I like to be lazy whenever I see the opportunity to do so.
As my sister, the artist formerly known as Bologna, had informed me Friday morning, it's best to pick up your pain meds before the hospital goodies wear off. Though she didn't say it like that. She told me about when my brother-in-law had his wisdom teeth removed and delayed in the getting-of-the-pain-meds because he thinks he's a tough guy which resulted in his hollering and kicking things in the backseat of a car. Thanks for the consoling words, Bologna! I wasn't already about to CRAP MY PANTS before the surgery or anything. Anyway, that's why we went directly from the hospital to the local CVS where I handed them my prescription papers and told them "Um, now" when they asked when I'd like to pick up the goods.
Beau and I hung out in the little loungey place for a few minutes where I kind of dozed until they called my name. It wasn't until after the lady in front of us in line had inquired into my apparent state of postsurgeryness and I'd paid for my narcotics that Beau informed me that I had blood all over my face. Oh. And I thought people were just staring at my ice pack cum hat. Dear Internet People, what have your mothers been teaching you? Isn't it common practice to let a friend know when they have a boogey hanging out of their nose or, ya know, blood spattered across their cheek?
I digress because Beau then took me home and made me soup since he knows how Hangry (that's hungry gone angry) I get when I haven't eaten in a few hours and at this point it had been 24 hours since I'd put something yummy in my mouth which is 24 hours too many for my taste.
Here I am now: camped out on the couch with a stack of DVDs, a bottle of Percocet and all the ice cream a girl could ever want. On that note, Ima go watch a little TV and play with my toes. Goodnight!
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