Archive for June, 2005
I guess I thought it would be easier. I thought she’d be mad at me. Yell at me. Something – anything – other than what she did.
She cried. I didn’t expect it. My volatile, Scorpio sister tried so hard to hold it together, smiling the whole time, insisting that it was what’s best for me, and that objectively she knew that. Until she realized she had to be selfish for a second and consider what we’d both be missing.
She’ll never watch my kids while I run to the grocery store. They won’t know her the way I know her two sons. She won’t be there when they fall down the stairs, or spit up on the floor, or projectile poop all over the room or reach their chubby little arms up to her while glaring at me in revenge, because she’s the pushover.
Because I will be somewhere else. I think she thought it would be different, and so did I. I always did. I remember as a teenager thinking that I would spend the rest of my life here. In my stupid declarations senior year of high school, I said I would be a PR executive and live in Massachusetts. I am and I do.
But I won’t anymore. She thought it would be different.
I did, too. I thought she would yell.
June 29th, 2005
“Dude, he is SO LUCKY that he’s not based in this office. I am not kidding. You think I’m kidding? So help me, if he were, I would fucking body check him. I’m serious.”
June 28th, 2005
The process of getting a mortgage blows. I wish I was warned of this. I had no idea how much information we’d be forced to hand over to this grumpy old cadger- I mean, mortgage broker. I feel violated and strangely exposed. Christ, the man could walk off with our entire identity and life savings.
The Cadger is a friend of the father in law, and has apparently been doing mortgages for about five hundred years. After I handed over the last pile of my personal information that included the date I lost my virginity and my first bank account, I idly wondered if mortgage brokers were forced to undergo stringent criminal background checks to ensure that they didn’t run off to the Bali Hai with our life savings.
I think when he told me yes, he was just humoring me.
June 27th, 2005
When I was a kid, I wanted to be famous. This is funny to me when I think about it today – since most of you will never actually meet me in real life, it might surprise you to know that I hate being the center of attention, and that I’m the person most likely to try to sneak into a party unnoticed. I’m not socially awkward, or hideous, or painfully shy, I just don’t like being the center of attention – when attention is good, it’s good, but when it’s bad, it’s not so fun. I never want to open myself up for mass criticism of a pile of failures that I chose to execute in public. I tend to fly under the radar. If I were on Survivor, I’d be Amber Brkich the first time around, before she won All Stars.
Anyway, when I was five, I was convinced I was going to be famous – an actress, perhaps. I had my Academy Award speech fully prepped and memorized, and if you really pushed me, I could recite it for you now. And while I certainly never expected that my life would take me where it has, I never thought I would be so thankful that I’m not an actress, or in any way famous. Fame scares me in ways I never thought possible – the perpetual pressure to be thin, (“I eat whatever I want, really! Junk food galore!”), the paparazzi, the constant need to manage your ‘image’ and what not. But what is honestly most terrifying to me is that the prestige and money you gain as a celebrity puts you in a strange position – one that gives you a sense of power over others. And what’s unfortunate is that this very sense of power is why no one tells you when you’re full of shit. No one calls you out on bad behavior and NO ONE tells you you’re wrong.
What an incredibly boring life. I imagine that, more than anything, is what seems to perpeuate a constant state of arrested development – a life of spoiled childhood where your every whim is catered to, and statements like, “I want an Oompa Loopma NOW!” are not completely unheard of and worse, no one tells you to stuff it and quit being a brat. In fact, if Jennifer Lopez screams that she wants an Oompa Loompa, 19 sycophantic assistants probably go trekking off to Loompaville, battling Vermicious Knids to bring her back the one she wants AND her golden goose, too. Who knew that deprivation and delayed gratification were blessings? Have you SEEN Mariah Carey in an interview lately? Or ever? It’s like listening to a 12 year old girl whose daddy has just bought her first pony.
So anyway, I suppose it’s no huge shock that many celebrities desperately try to find meaning in their lives by subscribing to interesting religious principles such as Scientology. Yes, I think a religion founded by a science fiction writer is a bit illogical. I can’t help it. I’m not usually one to judge others’ religious choices or practices, and I feel like a hypocritical ass even bringing this up, but I can’t help but wonder if the unusual and seemingly desperate search for meaning isn’t driven by an incredibly unsatisfied life? I guess searching for meaning is why we all turn to our respective religions, but I think it’s sad when it smacks of desperation, rather than honest faith.
I’ve never been so thankful to have people in my life who love me enough to call me out on my shit. To have to work for things. To have hard choices in life, and things of meaning because I either worked for them or was given them not out of obligation or fear, but out of genuine love.
Today I am thankful for my mundane, ordinary life.
June 26th, 2005
If Google ‘Hot’ under Google Images, this is the first image that comes up – at least this evening. This is perplexing on many levels, given that I see nothing about this image that is hot in any sense of the word. They don’t look like they’re particularly overheated, unless the face of the second girl is meant to convey, “God, it’s hot in here, isn’t it? I’m parched!” I also don’t think either one of them are hot in the Paris Hilton sense, nor the Nelly sense.
So who does? What are they DOING? And who decided they were hot? Apparently, throngs of people, to get them to the top of the Google list. Googling at its most bizarre.
My GOD, I’m hot. In the literal sense. My whole body is itchy and sweet Jesus, the air is thick, like a cloud of hot vanilla pudding. The worst part is that I feel like I can’t complain. I *am* moving to Florida after all. But Christ, they have AIR CONDITIONING THERE.
June 25th, 2005
I’m a hypochondriac. Always have been, and there seems to be a solid chance, if history is any indication, that I always will be. My past is checkered with mind-boggling brushes with Seriously Deadly Diseases, in addition to a host of Lesser Diseases. Some of my most shining examples include:
- In the eighth grade, I spent the day in the emergency room because I had convinced my parents that the urinary tract infection I had was actually a severe kidney disorder that required immediate attention. If my mother didn’t take me IMMEDIATELY, I was going to die.
- Shortly following the ER visit, the medication I was taking caused me to break out in lesions (an allergic reaction), which I then assumed was HIV-induced Kaposi’s Sarcoma. I assumed I got HIV, of course, from my 60-year-old Israeli pediatric dentist who no doubt passed it to me during a rough cleaning.
- Freshman year of college, during a drunken BSE (yes, that stands for breast self-examination. I TOLD YOU I WAS CRAZY), I found a large lump. Hysterical, I called my mother to say my final goodbyes, convinced it was cancerous. It was 2 a.m. Morning light revealed the lump I had found was MY ENTIRE BREAST. Yes, imagine, my breast is a lump… OF FLESH! Call Dr. Koop!
- Two years ago, I suddenly had to pee a lot. The cause? Definitely fatally dangerous diabetes. Never mind that shortly before this revelation, I bought a Nalgene bottle and started drinking at least 64 ounces of water by 2 p.m. every day.
- A few months ago, my arm was going numb. Googling, along with some ‘help’ from a friend, revealed that the cause of this sensation was most definitely early onset multiple sclerosis.
So, two weeks ago, when I broke out in a rash on my face, the cause was definitely some sort of flesh-eating disease. When the dermatologist informed me it was rosacea, I actually argued with him, insisting that the streptococci had invaded my skin through a cat scratch, and that without his help, and some serious special drugs (did you know that the flesh eating disease is resistant to most antibiotics? OF COURSE I DID!), death was IMMINENT.
So you can imagine how well I reacted, when shortly after taking the medication for my rosacea, Adam announced, “What the HELL is that on your neck?”
A perfunctory glance in the mirror revealed a dark brownish-red splotch in the shape of a boat on the back of my neck. If I didn’t know better, I’d have sworn that someone tried to choke me, and instead of killing me, only managed to leave me with a severe bruise. Since I didn’t wake up in the middle of the night being choked to death (though I’m sure at times Adam is tempted), my first thought was leukemia, since severe bruising can be an early symptom, you know. At least it was for one of the characters in the book I was reading, and if that’s not a reliable source, I DON’T KNOW WHAT IS.
After realizing that it wasn’t a bruise, I came to the next logical conclusion: melanoma. New growth? Check. Flat, irregular border? Check. Brown, red or tan? CHECK CHECK CHECK. Death was finally upon me. This was the big one. The disease I’d been preparing for. I called my dermatologist in near-hysterics, only to be told there were no available appointments for a week.
“But you DO NOT UNDERSTAND,” I wailed helplessly. “I COULD BE DEAD BY THEN.”
They were unmoved, and I was given an appointment for this Saturday, and left to my own WebMD devices. WebMD is a hypochondriac’s most trusted tool, you know. You can diagnose yourself with a host of disorders, squeezing square pegs of symptoms into round disease holes and by the end of the surf, you’ve got six months to live. Tick tick, people.
Finally, my dear friend and fellow hypochondriac E, did some Googling on my behalf. No one understands my hypochondriacal plight more than she does – just last week, in fact, I received a rather stressed phone call,
“Dude. I have lupus. It’s definite.”
“E, get out of WebMD. You have a STY in your eye.”
“It’s ocular herpes. I know it.”
It wasn’t, needless to say. Innyhoo, E’s Google search revealed that what I have is actually hyperpigmentation. A somewhat uncommon, innocuous side effect from my rosacea antibiotic.
But I’m still going to the derm on Saturday. Why? BECAUSE IT STILL MIGHT BE MELANOMA.
June 22nd, 2005
I have so, so very much to say. But I am so very tired. I’ll be back as soon as I get some sleep.
In the meantime, like every other blogger under the sun, I feel compelled to invite you to discuss what a tool Tom Cruise is, and how RIDICULOUS he sounded telling the fake reporter, “You’re a jerk!”
You too, Tom.
June 20th, 2005
I haven’t exactly *mastered* identifying the signs of irrational PMS, but I’m getting there. Light just dawned on Marblehead, when the following thoughts flashed before me, one louder than the next:
1) I am very upset about the location of my new cubicle in the new building. More annoyed at the location than the fact that I no longer have an actual OFFICE even though I am a freaking manager (we all got cubes. The bastards.) These two facts have almost brought me to tears today – twice. Need I remind you that I AM LEAVING THIS NO-GOOD JOB AND STATE and should not care. And really, I don’t. So why am I crying over my cube? A CUBE. IN A JOB I WILL NOT HAVE IN TWO MONTHS.
2) The salami sandwich I got instead of the turkey low-carb wrap I ordered? DEVASTATING. In fact, I’m still not over it. My diet and ENTIRE LIFE is ruined because of nitrates and preserved meat. Thank you, Corporate Chefs, you dumb fucks. I hope you are force-fed salami until you puke.
3) I’m sitting here STEWING over the fact that my downstairs neighbor used most – no, all – of my Oxyclean. The two of us share a washer/dryer, and I left the tub down there for convenience. I have used it twice. It is now empty. I handled this discovery by gracefully slamming the machines open and shut repeatedly, and by standing in the laundry room, which is conveniently outside her bedroom door and exclaiming very loudly, “Fucking CHRIST. I just bought this tub and now it’s gone because some lazy SOW REFUSES TO BUY HER OWN. You must be fucking kidding me. YOU MUST BE FUCKING KIDDING ME YOU CHEAP PAIN IN THE ASS.”
I need to be institutionalized or medicated. Hurry.
June 15th, 2005
I’m told my attitude toward my pets will change when I have children. My sister never fails to remind me that once a baby enters the picture, I will realize that my beloved tuxedo kitty is not He Who Shall Inherit the Earth and All That is Holy, but is, in fact, just a cat.
Until then, I shall maintain my illusions that he is a princely demigod and treat him as he is accustomed. Which includes, filed under ‘Fine Moments in Cappy History,’ getting sprayed by a pair of mating skunks out the back of the house on my way to work as I attempted to open the window to rescue my little snugglebunny, who was apparently being attacked. Since he’s an indoor cat, his presence outside being attacked by a strange being were slim to none and made ZERO sense, but love knows no boundaries, now, does it? We won’t talk about the fact that I spent the majority of this episode screeching and pounding my fists in against the near-painted-shut window, shouting, “MOMMY’S COMING! HANG IN THERE CAPPYYYYYYY!” before getting splurted in the face with an oily mess that smells NOTHING like the vaguely pleasant ‘skunk smell.’ Instead, if you ever wondered, it smells like a mix between burning rubber, oil and the stankoniest fart from an old man in the shoe department of Filene’s. And, P.S., Cappy was inside asleep on the couch throughout the entire episode.
Anyway, I digress. In Cappy’s ideal world, his demigodliness does not involve a vet trip, but there are times I am there to serve whether he likes it or not.
Let me preface this by saying that my hearing is…something else. Depending on who you talk to, I am either going deaf or have supersonic hearing. The cat meows and I think it’s the phone. Adam shakes out the pillows in the bedroom to fluff them at night, I immediately ask him where he’s going. So, when a yelping/meowing/howling sound passed through the living room the other night, of COURSE I thought little Cappy was in serious pain and in need of my immediate assistance. A quick rewind on the TiVo revealed it was a screaming child in the stands at the Red Sox game. So, on Thursday afternoon, you can imagine my reaction when Adam discovered what we can only guess were two small pee spots on the floor of the sunporch. GOD ALMIGHTY, it could be a UTI! A BLOCKAGE! I had visions of my poor little baby straining to pee all over the house, trying to find somewhere that he could pee where it didn’t hurt.
I looked forward to the vet trip with the same outlook one brings to a public stoning. Our history is not good. We’ve been through three vets in as many years – the first one ripped him out of the carrier with such force that she took off the top of the box, and was heading towards him with her stethoscope, when I made the executive decision to pack it up and get the hell out of Dodge. The second vet lasted a bit longer – she was nice, probably my age, but didn’t seem particularly pleased with having a cat in her office instead of a dog. The world is full of dog people, I tell you, and while I love dogs – I really do! – I’m perplexed by those who don’t like cats. Especially vets. I mean, they deal with horses, pigs, ferrets and cattle and a vet doesn’t like CATS?
Cappy was apparently equally perplexed and dismayed, for he threw the World’s Biggest Hissy Fit in her office. Screamed like a banshee. Bared his claws, swiping in every direction and attempting to bite anything and everything in his wake. Falconer’s gloves were procured and used with caution. Yes, falconer’s gloves. And a leather bib. I sat in the waiting room, tears streaming down my face as one of the patrons waiting with his dog looked at me excitedly and asked, “Hey lady, whatcha got in there? Is that a mountain lion?”
So you can imagine my excitement at the prospect of another vet visit. We’ve since found another vet who treats him with worldly respect, but he was still Not Pleased to be there, to say the least.
Until now. Oh my God, until now. He didn’t want to leave. Who was this cat? And, more importantly, who was this vet? She let him sniff her all over – including her pen – before she even went NEAR him with an instrument, much less tried to shove her fingers in his ass, as the last vet was wont to do within three minutes. I mean, would YOU let some stranger shove their fingers in your ass within the first two minutes of meeting them?
She let him stick his whole head in the catnip jar and roll around in it, even though other cats have to use it (He refused to be satisfied with his little sprinkle – it was all or a hissy fit, for the Snapper. I should take a lesson).
*As an aside, he’s fine. Urine sample checked out A-OK! I suspect the pee stains were nothing more than a spilled glass of water, most likely perpetrated by me.
June 14th, 2005
Note to self: Know your audience.
Was at work today, RIPPING into a new concept for the naming of some icons in our new office facility with a coworker. Now, in fairness, the names were extra-lame- does anyone REALLY want to attend a meeting in a room called, “The Zoo” or “The Playground?”
However, after my diatribe was complete, my extremely polite and/or masochistic coworker announced, “Actually, I submitted those names. I won the Conference Room Naming Contest. I guess you don’t read the newsletter.”
No, um, I guess I don’t. World, please swallow me now.
June 7th, 2005