I have The Herp again, which means the lower left-hand corner of my lip is swollen and pustuled and…well, it feels pretty tingly and gross, and I keep asking Adam if he wants to make out and surprisingly, he continues to turn me down. In truth, between freak lip and the dangerously hairy leg underneath my cast, I actually feel somewhat relieved that he’s letting me in bed at all. And, as I’ve discussed before, I’m still living in fear that I’m going to spread The Herp everywhere, and have become a model citizen in terms of hand hygiene, and if I smell Bath & Body Works Cucumber Melon anti-bac gel ONE MORE BLOODY TIME, I’m just going to smear my lips all over my body and be done with it for God’s sake, and just turn myself into a Garbage Pail Kid named Herpy Helga. I could do the circus circuit, actually, and probably make some decent money.
Somewhat separately, I got into a bit of a tiff with T-Mobile today (blah, blah, they reset my voice mail during a troubleshooting call and deleted my much-needed work related messages, blah), and I politely yet firmly expressed my displeasure…well, I tried to at least. I was very…firm and quite articulate in my dissatisfaction, right up to the point where I forcefully announced that under no circumstances would I call T-Mobile for assistance again “unless my PHONE was on fire!!”
Because a mobile phone fire is totally something I would have the flexibility to wade through three minutes of voice recognition introductions for, not to mention the vast potential for in-person help offered by some call center representative in Arizona named Dusty. And also, um, if the phone is on fire, I will not have a phone with which to call them. I also closed the call with the terrifying threat that “when my two-year mandatory unconditional contract is up I AM SO OUT OF HERE.”
I wish I were exaggerating. They are terrified of me, just petrified, can’t you tell?
(Also, that was entirely separately, not “somewhat” separately, because The Herp and T-Mobile have very little in common other than being vague nuisances.)
Even more distinct and separate, while I was out walking the other night, a neighbor stopped me and asked somewhat tentatively if I’d lost a lot of weight recently – she “didn’t want to offend,” but she noticed. Quite honestly, I can’t see how that would be offensive, because JESUS YES THANK YOU NEIGHBOR. Exactly no one in my actual life has noticed, save for a coworker who knew I was dieting all along who is being very kind and offering support by commenting how thin I look every day. But even I know how impossible it is to see weight loss on someone you see every day, because the changes are so gradual that they barely slip into our consciousness until one day everything is different, and you’re not even sure how it happened.
Not that you needed to hear this, but I’ve lost roughly 25 pounds since January, give or take a pound or two, and it’s a weird and completely exhilarating thing. It’s become passe to rely on the scale, out of fear that dieters – excuse me, lifestyle changers – will rely too heavily on the numbers instead of recognizing what’s in the mirror. To some degree, I get that, because although I don’t plan on getting carried away, I absolutely need the scale.
I need the scale to remind myself of what I look like, because I honestly have no earthly idea. I still look in the mirror and see a larger person – one who really should avoid anything sleeveless, if I’d like to protect the precious, precious eyesight of those around me. I went shopping with a friend the other day, and the things she suggested I try on simply shocked me – I can’t actually believe that I can wear them, and did you know that right now, I’m wearing a tank top? And I wore it outside of the house today and everything! And I looked almost good. Well, except for the hidden, yet excessively hairy leg and Herp-laden lip, that is. But we can’t have everything.
Happy Tuesday! I love Tuesdays.
*Tom Waits
June 4th, 2007
It’s that special time of year again. A time to casually wake up on a Saturday morning, walk the dog and come back to find no fewer than four lines of ants cruising in and out of various rooms throughout our house, the lion’s share of which were snacking happily on last night’s cat food leftovers, and my God, if that’s not the grossest way to wake up, I don’t know what is.
(Actually, now that I’ve let my mind go there, I can think of a multitude of grosser things I could wake up to, like images of Tub Girl.)
(Also minor disclaimer that if by some chance that reference eludes you, sweet Jesus, consider yourself lucky and look it up on Urban Dictionary rather than regular old Google. Your intestines will thank me, and by jove, you might actually eat again, unlike the rest of us. Updated: Um, for real. I regret making the reference, but now that it’s out there, I can’t take it back, but seriously, I wish I could. My mind, it is a little twisted at times, and I erroneously assumed that by now, years later, everyone had been tortured by that image at least once. I was apparently wrong. Heed my warning.)
Ants aside, enjoyed our first rainy Saturday in what felt like more than a year, and to celebrate, we laid in bed until 2 p.m., went out for a leisurely lunch, and promptly came back to bed to lay around like bumps on pickles for another few hours. It was delicious and entirely guilt-free, because that’s what those days are for, are they not? By the way, Prep has come and gone and I loved it. I have to admit, however, that my love may have diminished had I not devoured it like a pile of carrot cakes. If it had dragged on for more than three or four days, I’m not as sure I would feel the same way. But since we’ll never know, it doesn’t matter, except that I recommend that if you read it, read it fast, before Lee wears on you.
By Sunday, however, we were back in a thick, pudding-like veil of sticky heat with absolutely no indication that it had ever rained, and let me tell you, nothing makes a hot, sticky afternoon more pleasant than wearing a non-removable thick wool sock on your right foot. I tore my plantar fascia a few months ago and, like a fool, continued running on it, thinking that running hurts for everyone of course, and that I really shouldn’t be such a pathetic little pansy. As a result, I’ve been wearing some version of this for ten days and I AM SO DONE WITH IT:
Gross. It’s gross. This particular soft cast has been on there for five days, and I’ve been wearing black flip flops, hence the black heels oh my God, and just looking at it makes me want to kill myself slowly, maybe with some sports tape. Also, under that cast is, I can only imagine, a hairy jungle of truly terrifying proportions that I’m trying not to think about too much, and I know Adam is avoiding even glancing in that general direction. I had an MRI on Thursday, and dear God, I hope this is all coming to an end soon, because, as I may have mentioned before, I have a weird thing about my feet being confined, and this is making me positively crazy, just CRAZY, not to mention very sweaty, which is compounded by the fact that I have to shower with a garbage bag on my foot. FREE THE FEET.
For the past five days, I’ve come home from my nightly walks with Sunny marveling at how each night, I seem to be following the same man – a man who wears far too much really cheap aftershave. I couldn’t believe the coincidence – every night, no matter what time I walked, I would be downwind of this mysterious man, and who was he married to anyway, who let him douse himself this way? Who?
As it turns out, no one, after a neighbor pointed out that my mystery man was very likely the open port-o-potty next to a cluster of houses under construction. And all this time, I’ve been inhaling deeply, trying to figure out the baffling odor. Was it Old Spice, I wondered? Also, while Googling port-o-potty (to see if it was trademarked, like Dumpster, out of nothing but curiosity), I discovered Uncle Booger’s Bumper Dumper, and I’m not even sure what to say next.
Incidentally, one of the best and most predictable things about walking Sunny is that every single evening – right next to the port-o-potties – we run into a giant cluster of blackbirds, and every single night, she gleefully tries to chase them, either to eat them or play with them, I’m honestly not sure which. Each and every time, without fail, either she runs out of leash or the birds fly away before she even gets close. And yet, every night she sees them, and joyfully runs after them like it’s her first time, never caring that there is no way in hell she’s ever going to catch them. I feel like there must be some sort of Martina McBride-like country song metaphor I can make here, about how we should learn from our dogs and pursue the impossible dream undaunted, but honestly, I think it mostly means that she’s simply not very bright.
I also have a strange compulsion to admit that sometime in the last few years, I’ve become the sort of person who TiVos Meet the Press. I remember a time when Sunday morning news was for old people who had nothing better to do but sit around and watch Tim Russert while catching up on their antimacassar crocheting. What has become of me? Seriously? I have become the kind of person who’s biggest weekend thrill – a thrill that Adam and I are still talking about and have actually re-watched since – is watching good old Tim positively skewer Democratic candidate Bill Richardson in one of the most impressive displays of television journalism I’ve ever seen. Next up: Reader’s Digest subscription, large-print edition.
I hope you have a delightful Monday.
*The Killers
June 3rd, 2007
