Archive for March, 2007
I had a bison burger for dinner after an insatiable craving for more than a week, thinking it would somehow be better than, I don’t know, a regular burger, and while in theory, it is, but when I went to check out the nutritional information, I ACTUALLY DIED. Again and always with the dying, but really bison ain’t nothing but a big, fat lie, and thank you, Flex Points for making my stupid Ruby Tuesday’s buffalo dreams come true, even if they weren’t worth it.
I went to the doctor today, and I’m supposed to stretch and do yoga (YOGA OH HOLY CHRIST) for my plantar fasciitis, which continually renders me unable to walk after a run, hobbling around like a sad, waddling Weeble Wobble. Given that I’d like to run again, I’ve agreed to the stretching. Hence, I tried a yoga video tonight – one I’d done a hundred times before, in a different time, when I was somewhat in shape and, I don’t know, stretchy. Oh my God, I thought yoga was supposed to be relaxing? I’m not a yoga person. I’ve never been a yoga person, and worse, I act a little like a third grader in yoga, because when they start with the oohming and the namastes, I want to break into a Beavis and Butthead giggle and screech, “NAMASTE THIS, BITCHES!” and wave my middle finger around in a yogafied blind rage.
Last night as I was falling asleep, I was overcome with the urge to have a deep discussion with Adam about energy, and where it all goes, man. I believe my exact words were, “When we burn energy….where does it go, dude? Where does it go?” followed by, “And why are we here. I mean, why are we really here? ENERGY.”
Approximately 4.2 seconds after that, I passed out.
Finally, I got home early today and was greeted by perky little Sunny, all smiles and waggy tails and I was so excited to see her that I didn’t hear Adam yell downstairs, “DO NOT LET HER KISS YOU,” until she’d kissed me something in the range of 100 times. I’m not one of those people who’s freaked out by letting pets lick my face, and while I realize that many people find it horrifying, I figure what, most kitchen sponges and toilet seats are grosser than dogs’ mouths, right? Except today, not so much, because approximately 20 minutes prior to the welcome home kisses, Sunny had been snacking on poop. Lots and lots of poop, as Adam described and demonstrated in foul, excruciating detail, before he realized I didn’t hear him, and it was just merciless.
P.S. Chris Sligh? He’s a dick. He’s an arrogant, arrogant dickhead.
March 28th, 2007
I caught a smidge of Oprah this afternoon, and while I’m easily the last person to come to this complete realization, Oprah sucks. In today’s episode, I felt mixed emotions surrounding the woman who wrote an extraordinarily snippy letter to Oprah’s producers saying that the title for the segment “Oprah and Gayle’s Big Adventure” has been driving her crazy, just crazy, since it should be “Oprah’s and Gayle’s Big Adventure,” because that’s grammatically correct! She was so smug about it, too, because she was right, dammit. SHE WAS RIGHT! And Oprah and her team of 50 million copyeditors were wrong. And because, apparently, she didn’t pay attention in fifth grade English.
But the thing is, even though I love grammar more than life itself, and even though I wanted to stick a soggy grilled cheese sandwich right into Ms. Smuggypants’ ear, like a giant cheesy wet willy, I wanted the laws of grammar to bend at my will and for just one second, I wanted that poor, self-righteously dumb woman to be right, because I loathe Oprah that much. The condescension! The fact that she only talks about herself! And her many accomplishments! Hell, even in the grammar conversation she managed to talk about her damn school no fewer than three times. Because if you didn’t know, Oprah has a school, and she saves lives – thousands and thousands of lives – every day. Like Jesus. Jesus and Oprah are interchangeable, really.
I know. This isn’t new. Everyone hates Oprah. But I couldn’t stop ranting about it to Adam to the point where he rudely cut me off at dinner with, “We get it. You hate Oprah. WE KNOW.”
FYI, this vitriol also extends to Kelly Ripa for many of the same reasons, but with the added bonus of incessant perkiness related to, of course, herself and her wonderful life. Rachael Ray, however, I dig, for reasons unknown.
Entirely unrelated and also for reasons unknown, once in a while it occurs to me how much happier I am since I changed careers, and sometimes, in the infinitely nonsensical workings of the psyche, this bothers me. Because of course, I should have been able to hack it, as friends of mine work under similar circumstances and they seem just fine. I, however, was a stressed-out sniveling mess who couldn’t get up in the morning without wanting to throw up, and the amount of time I spent smiling each day was in the negative points range. I don’t know, I guess I’m wondering if I missed out on some sort of valuable work/life balance lesson by getting out. Shrug.
And finally, in the “Did you know? Of course you did!” category, did you know that if you mix half and half with vinegar, it curdles? Yes! You’re welcome. So if you’re looking to make a creamy low-fat salad dressing with apple cider vinegar and fat free half and half, you might want to re-think that. Because vinegar is also an acid! Like lime juice!
Did I ever tell you that I failed chemistry? Because I did, actually. Two semesters, in high school, and not because I didn’t try hard – oh, I did – but because I just didn’t get it. I know. Not much has changed.
*Snow. Y’all remember INFORMER! Of course you do. Again, you’re welcome.
March 26th, 2007
Well. There’s so much going on here, I’m not sure where to start. First of all, my Moon Cup arrived. Except it’s not a Moon Cup. I got The Keeper, which is so not what I ordered.
The Keeper. The one that looks like this, that I ripped on mercilessly here.
Where is my Moon Cup? Is this some kind of lesson not to judge a book by its cover? And the worst thing about it is that I’ll probably keep it (heh), because I am a wuss and don’t want to return and wait and return and wait and that whole not returning with the stem cut thing makes me irrationally scared that maybe if I get a new one, I risk getting a used one, which makes me want to cry. But then again, so does the Keeper. It’s BROWN. And POROUS. It’s going to ABSORB MENSTRUAL MOLECULES AND NEVER LET THEM GO.
And let’s face it, with the stem policy, who’s to say this one isn’t used? But let’s not think about that. (For those who missed the thread, apparently they don’t take menstrual cups back if they’ve got too much stem cut off, which begs the question: why not? WHY NOT? Are they sending unwanted cups back into the world? GOD.)
(Also, edited to add that I’m with Schnozz and I really don’t think they do, but that small, irrational part of my brain that is afraid of such things can’t entirely accept this.)
Unrelated, I went with a bold choice of earrings today, and while I wasn’t entirely sure if they were really for me, it was confirmed that indeed, they weren’t, when I returned home to find Adam staring at me, a bemused look on his face, until finally he said, “Wow. Um, you could use those as nunchuks later, if there’s some kind of…ninja emergency. You could just swing your head around. Nice.”
So there goes that.
Also! I am in the throes of plotting an upcoming weekend trip to Chicago, because – and this is so exciting – one of my best friends from way, way back is the lead! In Wicked! I know! If you live in Chicago, and you can go, please go. Because she’s amazing, honestly, and I quite guarantee it will be worth it. And it’s quite possible that she’s the nicest person ever, and I love when nice people get good things.
And now, ah, the misery that is the vet. The anal sacs just scratched the surface of the…issues.
She’s got fleas. And a yeast infection in her ear. Yeast. Fleas. Anal sacs. God.
Um, are you as itchy as I am? Because even though half of them were dead because of the Frontline. She’s Frontlined! And still! STILL! THE FLEAS OH MY GOD. She got them at the doggie spa last weekend while we were away and OH MY SWEET LORD, I can’t stop scratching and desperately seeking phantom fleas. FleaBusters are coming this weekend, and while she took some kind of Capstar something that had the fleas (THE FLEAS) literally falling off of her in little brown bits and I thought I’d kill myself right then and there, I really did.
I cannot. CANNOT STOP ITCHING, even though I’m not really itchy. However, the good news is that the infestation doesn”t seem to be bad, because the cat doesn’t have them, and thus far, Adam and I remain flea-bite free, save for the rashes we’re giving ourselves from scratching our skin raw in a bald panic. Gawd.
Lastly, because what’s a day without WW? Although I’ve been exercising consistently, I got to this point by using exercise as an excuse to hover over the sink with a jar of peanut butter after a run. Nice. And while I didn’t totally enjoy being healthy-but-hefty, one of the few side benefits of being…larger…was the boobs. Over the last few months, I’ve often looked in the mirror and marveled, because, whose boobs are those? I had boobs! Lots of boobs! And now, in a cruel twist of weight loss fate, they’re gone. The ass is there, but the boobs, they are dwindling, and it’s just one of the many, many ways that life is horrendously unfair.
ITCH. SANS BOOBS.
March 22nd, 2007
I’m both thrilled and a little horrified that after about a month and a half, I’ve fallen more than a little in love with Weight Watchers again. I mean, as healthy and happily effective as it is, it’s so obsessive compulsive that it’s a little disconcerting. On some days, it almost feels like I have an eating disorder, what with the perpetual need to be mere inches from a computer so I can frantically calculate the value of what it is I’ve just eaten. It’s creepy, yet effective. Ew.
Related but not, here’s a question. Does Beano work? I ask because brussels sprouts and cabbage are perhaps my favorite things in the world to eat and, to put it nicely, they don’t like me. In fact, they dislike me so much that I am no longer allowed to eat them without special dispensation from Adam, lest I smoke him out of the bedroom whilst curled up in the fetal position. His family, incidentally, finds his restriction incredibly cruel, and constantly admonishes him for his refusal to allow brussels sprouts into the home, to which he simply offers up my gaseous self to sleep in bed with them, and see how they like wishing over and over again that they would just DIE already, before the noxious misery knocks them out cold. That usually ends the discussion, but the Beano. I need to know about the Beano, because if I’m going to be stuck sucking down that many vegetables, it only seems fair that I should be able to eat Green Giant baby brussels sprouts in butter sauce without risking divorce.
Unrelated, I read three or four (three! or! four!) posts today that reference the Junior League from people I really like. I’m shocked by this, because frankly, I’ve only ever had one friend who was a member of the Junior League, and she has an infinitely higher tolerance for sweater sets than I do, and does well with organizations like that, whereas I’m not so sure about me. And I guess I’m wondering, uh, what’s it like, and what the hell is the Junior League, and why does it sound so creepy? I guess I just always figured it was Sorority 2.0, and that didn’t work out so well for me, so you can understand my trepidation. Not that I’m considering joining anything, but I’m curious, because my terribly stereotyped impression is likely very, very wrong. Is it one of those Zonta-like things where a bunch of women get together and decide what charity they’ll gather housewares for this week?
Equally pleasant as Beano (I have been nothing but gross lately, and I don’t know why, but I apologize. I APOLOGIZE), we’ve got some backlog in the anal sac department – Sunny, not me, ahem – and God, it’s miserable, because not only is she leaving puddles of fishy ickiness all over the house, but she’s perpetually tossing her own salad and then trying to put her little lips all over us, and while I love her, I can’t, I just CAN’T, and I’ve never looked forward to a vet appointment more in my life. I just overheard Adam tell Sunny in a bright, singsong voice, “Somebody’s got a BUTT SQUEEZIN’ tomorrow! Who’s excited? Who’s excited?”
I am! I am! Oh, I really, really am. But sadly, yet fortunately, that’s about as exciting as things have been around here lately. Except that I might be the only person who doesn’t find Idol’s Chris R. to be at all gross or rapist-like, but instead see him as rather cute, and does that make me attracted to what most people see as a potential sex offender? I mean, he’s no Matt Leinart, who reminds me of a cross between William Kennedy Smith and Robert Chambers, and gives me the creepiest of willies, and for some reason the use of ‘willy’ in that statement gave me the shivers. Blech.
*Modest Mouse. I haven’t had time to listen to the whole thing yet, or like, at all, and mostly I’m curious about Johnny Marr’s influence, which is lame, because it’s not like he’s going to break into “How Soon Is Now?” in the middle of an MM song. Jeez.
March 21st, 2007
There’s a restaurant on the corner near where we live, and since it’s well established that I can’t cook, we go there often, and by often, I mean at least three times a week. And while the food is fine, lovely, whatever, what draws both of us back, time and time again, is that they have the hottest waitresses I’ve ever seen. Every last one of them is smokin’ hot, and last week, one of the bartenders was wearing a corset! And hot pants! And while the corset/hot pants combo is a little much, I totally have a crush on two of them, to Adam’s endless delight. But damn, really, they are hot.
We spent the weekend with my parents in Pennsylvania, which was lovely, if uneventful, but did you know that Newark airport is really…well, terrible? You did! I know you did! And while intellectually I knew this too, it’s quite a different form of realization when you experience it first-hand. Especially when that experience includes TSA agents calling customers “fucking retarded dumbasses” and screeching to a Muslim couple – half of which was in a burqa, oh my God – that “all the Indians up in this piece are DUMBASSES, yo. Oh, I mean, no offense. If you’re Indian. You be Indian? Aw, shit, you be Indian. No offense. No offense.”
Security was also in full force when we found ourselves seated in an area where we were the only couple where the man wasn’t wearing a yarmulke, and we marveled at the circumstances, because really, what are the chances? It wasn’t until a few minutes later that we realized we’d accidentally been steered to a private super-secure area solely for passengers on an upcoming flight to Tel Aviv.
In other words, the Newark TSA employs some of America’s finest.
But! Most importantly, I saw snow! Lots and lots of snow! HAHAHAHAHA snow. I don’t be in love with the snow, but on that first day, when we got to my parents’ house, and there was nothing but gorgeous falling snow and we had nowhere to be? That was pretty cool. I miss that.
Sundry has already highlighted some of the…less than savory parts of Weight Watchers, and let it be known that those issues are fairly universal, at least in this household. But what no one really tells you about is what happens when you save up all of your Flex Points and go hog wild one weekend (with cookies!) and get so incredibly sick… and when you just can’t take it anymore, you happen to be in the bathroom of a tiny little Hungarian restaurant where your husband is trying desperately to smile his way through two giant (GIANT) deep fried Hungarian meatballs, and your plate of pork and sauerkraut is getting cold, oh so cold, but it is full! of! fiber!
Well, in my case, what happened is that I flooded – quite literally, flooded – the one-stall ladies room, which was dangerously close to the kitchen and was forced to tell the Hungarian real estate agent-cum-host (“I sell you property next door!”) that the ladies room toilet overflowed, which caused such a wild panic that he screamed in front of the whole restaurant, “THIS YOUNG LADY FLOOD BATHROOM AND BLOCK TOILET. HAND ME MOP.”
I returned to my sauerkraut and caught my parents and husband trying to hold back tears of laughter when I confessed that my overzealous toilet paper usage stopped up yet another toilet, and they interrupted with, “WE HEARD. WE ALL HEARD!” followed by braying laughter and a lecture from my dad that I’ve always used too much toilet paper ever since I was a kid. And to that I can only ask: seriously, too much toilet paper? I mean, no one wants to use an entire ROLL in one sitting, but come on.
Also, and perhaps most importantly: many people have ordered, and some have even received it in the mail already. My God.
March 19th, 2007
I’ve never seen anything quite like the past two days around these parts, and let me just say, I wish I did every day, because y’all are funny. In fact, I’ve never seen funnier people in my entire life, because seriously? The pendulum swing of the tampon? Wicking the poo to the who?
Please, I implore you, re-read those comments, because I’ve never seen funnier people, and for the love of God, don’t miss Diva Cup fan Clare’s Ode to the Cup. The cup, it moves people to poetry.
I’m beside myself, and while I draw the line at Jonniker-branded menstrual cups, I will fully admit, right here right now, in a public forum that I ordered the Moon Cup. Why the Moon Cup, you ask? Because I’m entirely with Swistle in that I cannot, just cannot wear anything that asks me to identify as a diva, and for chrissake, is TRADEMARKED as a diva-like entity. And winterwheat got me with the whole boiling/peroxide/porous thing with The Keeper, not to mention the germy tampon strings (GAAK). And it’s BROWN. So, ah, Moon Cup it is. And because you’ve all been on this…journey with me, I shall report back right around this time next month, and those of you who said you were trying it? I expect the same. Same place, same time next month. Be there or be…leaky.
And I just don’t know where to go from there. It seems sort of futile to go anywhere, as it’s all downhill from here, and I can’t help but think that you’ll all go there anyway, but the well may be dry. But really, Pattie deserves some kind of prize, because yesterday was the first time she came here, my sweet holy God.
Moving on! While I realize this will prompt nothing but a legion of tiny violins, tomorrow we head off for Pennsylvania, and we’re flying into Newark, and there is going to be snow. A WINTRY MIX, I hear, that should turn to heavy snow by tomorrow night, and I’m not pleased. For the first time in my whole life, I have managed to avoid winter completely for an entire year, and enjoy perpetual summer, and it seems wholly and entirely unfair that it’s almost spring, and I’m flying into a giant snowstorm on a plane that doesn’t have TVs. I call bullshit.
For the vast majority of today, my Weight Watchers-addled self would have gleefully sliced off my right nipple in exchange for a vanilla buttercream cupcake. Am I the only one whose Starbucks started carrying Cheesecake Factory products, including buttercream cupcakes and chocolate molten cakes? To say nothing of those goddamn cheesecakes that I don’t even like, yet they beckon to me. I like cheesecake, I just don’t like Cheesecake Factory cheesecake, because while it may their primary purpose, it’s sucky cheesecake and way too creamy, like cheesecake-flavored Cool Whip and not in a good way.
But! I persevered, in no small part due to catching a reflection of my whale-like sweaty self lumbering along while toting an ungodly amount of camera equipment after coming off of an assignment and GOD. Thus, I attempted to sate myself with a non-fat, no-sugar latte, which still netted me three goddamn points and zero satisfaction, because if you give me a razor, I’ll hand you the nipple, and you give me the cupcake. Sometimes it’s a grind, man.
Have a great weekend. I, for one, will be stranded in some frozen, wintry tundra wishing, just wishing, dammit, that it wasn’t so damn cold. And maybe dreaming of the day my Moon Cup arrives. Or not.
March 15th, 2007
The ah, Diva Cup? Seriously? After yesterday‘s post, there were two commenters, and no fewer than six (SIX) e-mails extolling the praises of the Diva Cup, which…well, I don’t know, because it’s oddly compelling, yet entirely repugnant at the same time. Although I have to say, it spooks me a tad less than when my friend K. insisted that The Keeper was for me, because it’s called THE KEEPER. What exactly is a keeper? It sounds like I want to keep whatever’s going in there, like it’s a unique sort of collection plate, which no one does, unless they’re some sort of strange fetishist, and I can’t believe I even allowed my feeble little mind to go there, but I just did. And, ah, now that I ponder it more deeply, Diva Cup has the same implication, and ‘cup’ is quickly becoming one of those words that I add to my list of Words I’ll Never Say Out Loud, holding a special place next to ‘moist’.
I never really stop grossing myself out. But first, I’ll take you with me, because, really Keeper people: brown? Is brown really necessary? (Photo courtesy of our friends at The Keeper, and would you believe they encourage people to take it? Ahem.)
Oh my God. It’s awful. The brown is awful. Everything about it is wildly bizarre, and yet again, oddly compelling, because THE CONVENIENCE would be overwhelming. Also, I am kind of questioning the argument that tampons are overtaking landfills by the legion, because really, they’re SO TINY, and also made of cotton, and since I only use biodegradable applicators and wrappers, I think I’m in the clear, as I am a Tampax loyalist all the way. However, by TheKeeper/Moon/Diva people’s logic, I should be using reusable toilet paper, perhaps made of washable silicone sheets.
Update: As Beth points out, there is a LiveJournal message board about Menstrual Cups. Where people post threads celebrating their anniversaries with the item, and some people also discuss the transition from CLOTH PADS.
I am at a loss. And sufficiently humbled. And also, horrifying male readers by the truckload.
Even though I really just don’t know what else to say, because this whole thing is the lowest I’ve ever sunk, we can’t end with the thought of a reusable menstrual cup AND reusable toilet paper. So…is it just me, or does bald American Idol contestant look like a pedophile? I fully expect to find him on To Catch a Predator in a few years. THE EARS. OH MY GOD, THE EARS. And the eyebrows. And the smarmy everything. And he’s a parent, oh holy smarminess.
*The Velvet Underground
March 13th, 2007
There’s absolutely nothing on TV tonight, so while we clickity clack away on our little laptops, making money to pay for the neverending stream of dental care, Splash is on. Splash! Surely you know Splash. Tom Hanks. Daryl Hannah. Some sort of unbelievable mermaid plot that continues to be rehashed over and over and bloody over again in different incarnations including one starring Julia Roberts’ niece that I will fully cop to watching on HBO, but I really don’t care, because honestly? I love it. I’ve always wanted to be a mermaid. Hasn’t everyone? I have an ungodly amount of the movie memorized, and what I find particularly amusing is that everyone makes fun of the name Madison that Daryl has chosen for herself, and yet – and yet! – it’s one of the most popular names today, and right now, as I sit here, there are four, maybe six, Madisons being born right here in this county! I’m sure of it! And all of them are hoping to grow up to be mermaids. I know I am.
I realize this is about as exciting as watching mold grow, but I feel disingenuous in not sharing that I’m on Weight Watchers. Again. And what I find increasingly disturbing is that I don’t know what I’m doing right or wrong, but at the end of every day, I have too many points leftover, and I’m stuck trying to figure something out to eat. I know, cry me a fucking river, but I just have to figure that I’m doing it wrong, and surely, I can’t be adding up all my points properly, because it’s not like the weight is falling off of me in thick sheets, and yet I’m not that hungry. And while I’m doing my fair share of Draconian measures such as sucking down beef bouillon for snacking sustenance during the day because I’m so scared of running out of points, I feel astonishingly guilty pouring a little bowl of cereal at 11 p.m., because I’ve got 4 points left, and like bloody hell I’m going to leave food uneaten. Not leaving food uneaten is the reason I’m converting foods to weird little point values and entering them into the least user-friendly system ever (HONESTLY WEIGHT WATCHERS. Hire a GUI designer, would you?)
This is the first time I’ve done the Flex Plan (I’m a Core veteran), and it’s just…well, something’s not right, but I’ll tell you what’s even less right is seeing the lowest weight I was the last time I was on Weight Watchers. MY GOD, I was a skinny little bitch, and yet I wandered around whining about how big my hips were. I’d like to punch that little 130-pound me right in the face, and tell her to go eat a taco, that’s what I’d like to do.
And since nothing is more exciting than weight loss or lack thereof, except maybe periods, I feel compelled to mention that the P decided to take a break from its friends M and S while I was in the car on the way to the airport, and mildly panicked that things weren’t going well down there. And also, I was extremely crampy, which required me to purchase one of those minipacks of Midol at the airport, which, by the way, was impossible to find, along with tampons, and wouldn’t you think they should just build a giant vending machine in the middle of the terminal and charge $10 per tampon? Because, honestly, if there’s ever a time where you’re willing to pay a premium for tampons and Midol, it’s just before you get on a plane where things could get…sticky, and hell, they have a captive audience. Then of course, I would start packing a box in my carry-on and sell them on the black market, like contraband. Except then I would have to start carrying Playtex, or at least something with a plastic applicator, and…no…so there goes my career as traveling illegal tampon seller.
Anyway, after the Midol was purchased, the man behind the counter offered to open it for me, which I guess was kind of nice, except that he screamed it repeatedly in broken English, along with too much detail for anyone, except for maybe Dwight Schrute. Honestly, he yelled, in front of an entire line,
“DO YOU WANT ME TO OPEN UP YOUR MIDOL FOR YOU THE PACKAGE IS PLASTIC AND I BET YOUR PAIN IS VERY BAD. IS IT CRAMPS MY WIFE GETS CRAMPS SO I OPEN THE MIDOL FOR HER ALL THE TIME. LET ME OPEN THE MIDOL FOR YOU. I RELIEVE CRAMPS.”
And then he repeated it again, nodding as he whipped out a (child-like, safety) scissors and freed the tablets from the plastic.
“I RELIEVE CRAMPS. I OPEN THE MIDOL.”
I fully realize the irony in me telling way more people about this than were in line at the airport, but it’s very different when someone says “I RELIEVE CRAMPS” over and over again like a mantra, when all you want to do is PAY for the cramp relief without the personal touch, and you don’t want an entire line of people watching you cross and uncross your legs in terrified desperation, only to see you waddle off to the bathroom in search of some assistance before things get out of hand. And while that was very nice and all, and I do think he meant well, but isn’t that kind of…weird? Never mind. I know it’s weird. Of course it’s weird. But, ah, well meaning.
I RELIEVE CRAMPS.
*The Roots. The punctuation is even correct.
March 12th, 2007
God, the weekend went fast. So fast, in fact, that it hardly seems right that I have to start a brand-new week tomorrow with a Monday, of all things, only to do it all again for five more days. Oh, excuse me – FOUR more days, because next weekend, we’re going to Pennsylvania to visit my dad’s side of the family, and this time we’re flying Continental, which is greatly disappointing, even though the flight was only $100. It’s just that I’ve become really, really addicted to watching “What Not to Wear” while I fly, and I don’t like to travel without Stacy and Clinton, especially during take off.
The weekend was the most compressed sort of wonderful, however, and even though I hardly felt like I spent quality time with anyone, I loved every second of the time I did spend with everyone. I also learned that I really and truly suck at Wii, and actually fell into the coffee table while trying to play tennis, prompting my 9 year-old nephew, who is on a Yoda kick, to announce sadly, “Stink at tennis, you really do,” followed by a decidedly Yodish grunt and groan. Heh. I miss my family.
Somewhat separately, I have a hard time understanding people who prefer large groups of people and lots of acquaintances, as opposed to a few very close friends – it’s not that I judge, it’s that it’s so different from how I, um, roll. I have no desire to have lots and lots of friends – I never have – and prefer instead to have very, very few friends that are of the more (oh my God) intimate variety. I’m certainly not beating away friendships by the dozen, and this isn’t even something I consciously choose on a daily basis, it’s just the way it works out for me, and I’m not satisfied until that’s the case. Quantitatively speaking, it seems easier to have fewer friends, but qualitatively, well, as you can imagine, it’s that much harder, because you just don’t click like that with everyone. I’m a bit of a selfish friend in that I prefer to spend time with my friends in relative seclusion, i.e., not in a large group where I have to compete with 100 other people to have a quality conversation. It goes back to that whole intimacy (I’m thinking of lube! And yet there is no other word!) thing, I suppose. Well, that, and I’m an outgoing introvert, and while I can fake my way through large crowds, inside I am breaking out in hives, wishing I could just get the hell out of there and sit in someone’s living room eating Doritos and drinking wine, preferably of the boxed variety, maybe from a nice Target vintage.
It goes without saying that I haven’t found any really close friends since we’ve lived here. It’s no longer the austere frozen tundra of loneliness it once was – I do have really friendly acquaintances here and there; I have a nice, if odd, little support system in my neighborhood, comprising of people of all ages; and God knows, I meet more people through my work than I know what to do with, even if most of them are over 80 – but I don’t have anyone I’d get on a plane and drive down the Route 1 Automile in my sister’s purple minivan for, if you know what I’m saying, and I doubt you do, because, really, a purple minivan.
And God, I don’t even know where I’m going with this except to say while it’s tempting to be very sad that I don’t have any really close friends nearby, the thing is, I’m not sad at all, I’m just very, very grateful. I have at least three women for whom I would gladly drive 3,000 miles in a purple minivan even if it was just for five minutes of their company, and I’m pretty sure they would for me, too. I’m not sure everyone is that lucky, and I’m just so glad they’re there, no matter where they live.
March 11th, 2007
As of this precise moment, it’s 11 degrees in Massachusetts, where I’ll be sleeping tomorrow night in full fleece pants, a hoodie, and definitely some some socks of the slipper variety. I mean, Jesus, I know I’m spoiled, but 11 degrees? Seriously? I don’t know how y’all do it. It will be in the 40s on Saturday, however, oh yes, it will. And I will still be freezing.
Per usual, the primary source of anxiety continues to be the flight, and the mere thought of getting on the plane kind of makes me want to cry, and, perhaps more anxiety-inducing is the PMS that’s making me have to pee somewhere in the range of every 3.1 seconds. This anxiety is further exacerbated by the fact that I am flying JetBlue, and despite promises of a customer’s bill of rights and all that happy hoo-ha, I am petrified of sitting on the tarmac for hours on end due to some freak ice storm. Of course, during these nine hours on the tarmac, I’ll have to go to the bathroom no fewer than 35 times, which will, of course, put the toilets over their capacity and then we’ll be flying and a chunk of blue ice will fall from the plane because I peed too much, landing on a group of retirees heading home to Minnesota. Retirees are dying, and it’s all my fault.
Truth be told, I think Adam’s a little bit thrilled to be rid of me, and I can’t say I blame him. As has been the case for the past few months, my PMS has been an odd sort of journey in the magic of mood swings, which leaves me giggling! Happy! Excited! one minute, and literally, not two minutes later, I’m inconsolable because the molecules in the air I’m breathing don’t meet my exact specifications. However, like a goldfish, within six or seven minutes, I can be cajoled out of weeping and within seconds, I’m happy! giggling! excited! again, which leaves everyone in my house, including the dog, completely reeling and perplexed and wondering Which Jonniker is Visiting Now? I’m doing my best to hide this fact, and I have my moments of sucking it up, but I’m even annoying myself this week, so believe me, it’s best for all parties involved that I’m fleeing the state into the care of someone else. If I could find a way to bottle the mean, confused and weepy personality and leave her here so that I can go to Boston, that would be great. I don’t want to be with her, either.
However, and I don’t know if it’s just me, but the moment, and I mean THE MOMENT, the, ah, PMS loses its ‘p’ I am almost euphoric, and back to my usual very happy self. Perhaps it’s my body’s way of making sure I’m happy to greet such a ridiculous nuisance into my life, because oh wow, I am. BRING ON THE NUISANCE.
However, this weekend, I’m a little on the excited side to see my friends and family, because I miss them terribly, and this weekend will be the first time I get to see everyone in such a condensed period of time, and I can’t wait, can’t wait, did I mention I can’t wait?
I hope you all have a great weekend, after which I will be happier! Less worky! PERKY!
*Augustana. The hell? Who are they? No matter.
March 8th, 2007