This ain't Burger King
Well, we have another round of "I'm going to do it my way" problems popping up. Mostly at work. How about telling us how we're supposed to adapt to change? Instead of no communication and then watching us fall on our faces. Unclear emails are a hoot, as well. We don't need visual people in this office, we need people who understand nuances of language. Run-on misspelled sentences with incorrect phone numbers are a hindrance, not a plus. And I truly adore these methods because it is made to seem that I am the incorrect party, which is not the case. At least not when it comes to work. Teamwork only works when a system is put in place, not when I'm stuck with a bunch of changes no one is clarifying.
Another word of caution to friends and family: I cradle a phone in my ear all damn day. My neck truly hurts at the end of it. I spent yesterday afternoon going through hordes of People magazines in my doctor's office. I have four doctors--an endocrinologist for my thyroid and endocrine problems, a gynecologist for my hormonal issues (this falls under endocrine, too!), a regular physician, and a dermatologist for my hair and skin problems (which also falls under hormones and endocrine systems.) I absolutely refuse to give anyone an itinerary of what I do, where I go, when I go, or why I have to. I am an adult, case closed. Unresolved issues of rage and torment erupt violently when I think to the lack of boundaries I lived with in my childhood and adolescent home. If you haven't figured it out yet, the weekends are a better time to call me. My neck doesn't hurt as much, but I am not a phone person. Legend has it that I burst into tears while sitting in a high chair as a baby the first time I heard a phone ring. This still holds true. I hate phones.
Another thing: I watch maybe 4 hours of television a week. I don't want to miss my shows. I pay good money for cable, and I'm going to enjoy it. These shows are: Smallville, 20/20, Unwrapped, and the vh1 specials on 1986, 87, and 88. I skate on Thursday mornings. That means I get up at 4:45. I go to sleep at 9 pm. If I am tired during the week regardless, I will go to bed. It is too damn bad if you don't like it, I don't care if you hate figure skating, this the one joy I have left. I have to get up in the morning. I have a demanding job. I work a 45 hour, 5 day week. I am ready to fucking collapse at the end of the day. I don't want to hear any shit when I come home because I haven't called you or emailed you back. Capisce? Yes, mom, this includes you. I haven't had the money or the time for a vacation since 1999. I do not have rich relatives or a sugar daddy who will buy me first class tickets to Aruba, so knock it off already. If I seem stressed out, curt, tired or crabby, I'VE JUST EXPLAINED TO YOU WHY. PRINT THIS OUT IF YOU CAN'T REMEMBER.
If I am out of my office, guess what? I have an answering machine and a cell phone. That's why I bought them. If you get a voice mail, that's why I have voice mail. FOR MY CONVENIENCE. If you cannot handle the idea of having to wait, then don't call or send an owl with a letter like Harry Potter does. I absolutely, for the love of god, heaven and every saint, REFUSE to give people an itinerary of where I go or what I am doing. If I asked for the same thing, all of you would stick lawsuits up my ass sideways. Yes, mom, that means you.
And please no lectures about the fact that I sleep late Saturdays and Sunday. I work. I don't sit in front of a computer and pick my nose all damn day. I've earned the right to lay there for as long as I wish or at least until a feline friend needs a food/water bowl refill.
And please don't tell me to "shut the fuck up." If I hear this phrase again, even in passing, I will lose it. A litte consideration, folks? That's all I ask. I am truly exhausted.
Thursday, October 30, 2003
Tuesday, October 28, 2003
No candy this year...
I'm going to watch the parade go by. I haven't done so since 1997, so I think it's time. After that, I'm hightailing it over to the nearest theater and watching "Alien" on the big screen. Dan O'Bannon's "monster in the basement" formula really works in space. Halloween on a Friday? When's the last time that happened. I'm always running around watching the next moment ahead of me, so I don't remember a lot of Halloweens. The last few good ones were always at 1738, my childhood home.
I distinctly remember 1981 with Jessica Manzione, a classmate that my mother disliked, inexplicably. My mother disliked all of my friends, now that I think of it. I went to Jessica's apartment, trick or treated and spent the night over there. We had to be separated because we were laughing so hard. Her gray cat, Pixie, kept attacking the zipper on Jess's sleeping bag and this was hysterical to us. She lived on the second floor of that huge building near Cropsey Park. I last saw her when I took my SAT's in November 1988 in a futile attempt to best my rather embarrassing score of 900. Since there was no money, 900 seemed enough for a community college, but I felt the Kaplan-ette kids' sting. Their expensive classes ensured they'd hit 1100 or above. One girl got 1140 and felt like a failure. She went to St. John's on a sports scholarship, too. Name escapes me, but the bad perm on her head will stay with me forever. The hit song in 1981 was "He's So Shy" by the Pointer Sisters. To this day, I hear this song and smell autumn leaves and Snickers bars.
I won't be around for candy if I stay in the city this year, but I'll see all the lunacy. I don't plan on drinking, but maybe a cup of apple cider. Sad, all the kids will pound on my door at 4 pm. I'm sure the knocking will scare my cats.
Then we roll into November, another month that feels like a truck hitting me. This will mark the 8th year that I probably won't have turkey. I might have had turkey at Robert's house in 2001, but I remember Rose's apple pie and lasagna more than the bird. 1995 was the last great Thanksgiving. After that, if I didn't organize it? It didn't happen. Now, there's work before and after that Thursday, so I don't know. If I don't do it, it doesn't get done. Let that be my epitaph. Maybe I'll find a $12 special at a diner and have a nice waitress wait on me. I'll leave her a nice, fat tip. I deserve gravy and gobbles.
I'm going to watch the parade go by. I haven't done so since 1997, so I think it's time. After that, I'm hightailing it over to the nearest theater and watching "Alien" on the big screen. Dan O'Bannon's "monster in the basement" formula really works in space. Halloween on a Friday? When's the last time that happened. I'm always running around watching the next moment ahead of me, so I don't remember a lot of Halloweens. The last few good ones were always at 1738, my childhood home.
I distinctly remember 1981 with Jessica Manzione, a classmate that my mother disliked, inexplicably. My mother disliked all of my friends, now that I think of it. I went to Jessica's apartment, trick or treated and spent the night over there. We had to be separated because we were laughing so hard. Her gray cat, Pixie, kept attacking the zipper on Jess's sleeping bag and this was hysterical to us. She lived on the second floor of that huge building near Cropsey Park. I last saw her when I took my SAT's in November 1988 in a futile attempt to best my rather embarrassing score of 900. Since there was no money, 900 seemed enough for a community college, but I felt the Kaplan-ette kids' sting. Their expensive classes ensured they'd hit 1100 or above. One girl got 1140 and felt like a failure. She went to St. John's on a sports scholarship, too. Name escapes me, but the bad perm on her head will stay with me forever. The hit song in 1981 was "He's So Shy" by the Pointer Sisters. To this day, I hear this song and smell autumn leaves and Snickers bars.
I won't be around for candy if I stay in the city this year, but I'll see all the lunacy. I don't plan on drinking, but maybe a cup of apple cider. Sad, all the kids will pound on my door at 4 pm. I'm sure the knocking will scare my cats.
Then we roll into November, another month that feels like a truck hitting me. This will mark the 8th year that I probably won't have turkey. I might have had turkey at Robert's house in 2001, but I remember Rose's apple pie and lasagna more than the bird. 1995 was the last great Thanksgiving. After that, if I didn't organize it? It didn't happen. Now, there's work before and after that Thursday, so I don't know. If I don't do it, it doesn't get done. Let that be my epitaph. Maybe I'll find a $12 special at a diner and have a nice waitress wait on me. I'll leave her a nice, fat tip. I deserve gravy and gobbles.
Monday, October 27, 2003
Rollin, rollin, keep them doggies rollin...
Insanity abounds, but I was extra fast this morning. Blazed to work, opened the door at exactly 8:59 am.
I caused quite a commotion on the X37 express by shouting at the driver to put the air on. It's 90% humidity and the bus was about 80 degrees. I sat there dripping after running down the block. Other people piped in only AFTER I said something, which is why I'm convinced 98% of people are sheep. I love when they turn around and look at me. I always go "WHAT??!! Did I say something WRONG?" They usually turn and go back to grazing like the idiots they are. I am decidely un-PC in a time where it's insurmountable to say the right thing, the thing no one else has the guts to, or simply the truth. My golly gee willigers, someone's feelings might get hurt. Bad enough the MTA's dissecting my paychecks piece by piece, I have to sit at 8 am and sweat like a pig? OH, fuck that. It's humid and hot. You're at work, I'm trying to get there. Turn the damn air on.
Then I told 23rd St to go kiss my ass by hopping on the 6 train---4 short stops to 51st street where I blazed up the blocks past St. Pat's into my building. Can't be too careful or paranoid with job-hockey ruling the order of the day. This place is becoming a business just like everything else. If I could go back in time? I would have signed up for every business class available in high school and took classes on entrepreneur ventures. More people are working at shittier jobs with less pay, no benefits, and a sense of being on a tightrope with no net. At least if I failed, I could only blamed myself, the location, or my business plan.
Personally, I'm ready for this city to bottom out. The divide's coming between the ultra-rich and the poverty stricken. What these corporate-minded yuppie bastards don't realize is that class division will divide their ranks as well. If the ultra-rich keep getting richer, the somewhat-rich will drop down to what once was the lower middle-class. The merely rich will be considered the poor, the destitute, the "wanting". Anyone who knows a damn thing about yuppies is how much they despise drops in status of any kind. They are so image-conscious, so consumer-addicted, and success-driven that they simply will not stand to be in a lower level of anything. God forbid New York Magazine drops their neighborhoods or martini bars from the Top Ten Lists, oh it's a travesty for all concerned. Not getting a table at Sarabeth's? Steve Madden shoes suddenly being as worthless as Pay Less? Oh god, get out your umbrellas, those bloody bodies will be hitting the pavement very soon after plunging from their condo windows.
There's a change coming kiddies. The middle class will only stand for getting kicked in the head for so long. Bloomberg and his cronies are going to get their asses kicked in the next election, make sure you're registered to vote. And Bush and his "invented" war---well, I can't wait to see what happens there. People have had enough of lies and spin. I thought "Wag the Dog" was a so-so movie. I watched it again recently and shivered. That's exactly what we're living in, and boy, it scares the holy hell outta me.
I'm all for rioting in the streets. Just gimme a bat and I'm ready.
Insanity abounds, but I was extra fast this morning. Blazed to work, opened the door at exactly 8:59 am.
I caused quite a commotion on the X37 express by shouting at the driver to put the air on. It's 90% humidity and the bus was about 80 degrees. I sat there dripping after running down the block. Other people piped in only AFTER I said something, which is why I'm convinced 98% of people are sheep. I love when they turn around and look at me. I always go "WHAT??!! Did I say something WRONG?" They usually turn and go back to grazing like the idiots they are. I am decidely un-PC in a time where it's insurmountable to say the right thing, the thing no one else has the guts to, or simply the truth. My golly gee willigers, someone's feelings might get hurt. Bad enough the MTA's dissecting my paychecks piece by piece, I have to sit at 8 am and sweat like a pig? OH, fuck that. It's humid and hot. You're at work, I'm trying to get there. Turn the damn air on.
Then I told 23rd St to go kiss my ass by hopping on the 6 train---4 short stops to 51st street where I blazed up the blocks past St. Pat's into my building. Can't be too careful or paranoid with job-hockey ruling the order of the day. This place is becoming a business just like everything else. If I could go back in time? I would have signed up for every business class available in high school and took classes on entrepreneur ventures. More people are working at shittier jobs with less pay, no benefits, and a sense of being on a tightrope with no net. At least if I failed, I could only blamed myself, the location, or my business plan.
Personally, I'm ready for this city to bottom out. The divide's coming between the ultra-rich and the poverty stricken. What these corporate-minded yuppie bastards don't realize is that class division will divide their ranks as well. If the ultra-rich keep getting richer, the somewhat-rich will drop down to what once was the lower middle-class. The merely rich will be considered the poor, the destitute, the "wanting". Anyone who knows a damn thing about yuppies is how much they despise drops in status of any kind. They are so image-conscious, so consumer-addicted, and success-driven that they simply will not stand to be in a lower level of anything. God forbid New York Magazine drops their neighborhoods or martini bars from the Top Ten Lists, oh it's a travesty for all concerned. Not getting a table at Sarabeth's? Steve Madden shoes suddenly being as worthless as Pay Less? Oh god, get out your umbrellas, those bloody bodies will be hitting the pavement very soon after plunging from their condo windows.
There's a change coming kiddies. The middle class will only stand for getting kicked in the head for so long. Bloomberg and his cronies are going to get their asses kicked in the next election, make sure you're registered to vote. And Bush and his "invented" war---well, I can't wait to see what happens there. People have had enough of lies and spin. I thought "Wag the Dog" was a so-so movie. I watched it again recently and shivered. That's exactly what we're living in, and boy, it scares the holy hell outta me.
I'm all for rioting in the streets. Just gimme a bat and I'm ready.
Friday, October 24, 2003
Another long week ended
And what a relief. With all the changes around here, you'd think you'd get a cappuccino from a decorator or something. Floor plans, exec changes, office space being switched, measured, rerouted, rebuilt, or ready to be shredded, trashed, or thrown away. Instead of candy dishes and fresh flowers, there should be Excedrin dispensers on every floor. I got here at 9:03 this morning and almost keeled over. That idiot I keep running into on the bus in the morning drives TOO DAMN SLOW. I certainly leave enough time, and he manages to find every red light.
None of my eBay items sold, I guess people are broke from buying Halloween candy? Just a thought.
An interesting question from a very neurotic buyer went to the tune of "Does your magazine pass the "sniff" test? I have allergies. Is it moldy? Dusty?" "
Thanks for asking, I usually get a butter knife and smear spores from a petri dish on all of my items. I have cats too, I make sure they shed, sneeze, and piss on my magazines. It's a delightful aroma! I await your frenzied bidding." I mean, have you ever?
It's just too damn much. I've got an old Barbie up I totally forgot about. Let's see if they leap over each other to get to it. AHHH!!! 5:30--Freedom Time, kiddies!
Buh Bye.
And what a relief. With all the changes around here, you'd think you'd get a cappuccino from a decorator or something. Floor plans, exec changes, office space being switched, measured, rerouted, rebuilt, or ready to be shredded, trashed, or thrown away. Instead of candy dishes and fresh flowers, there should be Excedrin dispensers on every floor. I got here at 9:03 this morning and almost keeled over. That idiot I keep running into on the bus in the morning drives TOO DAMN SLOW. I certainly leave enough time, and he manages to find every red light.
None of my eBay items sold, I guess people are broke from buying Halloween candy? Just a thought.
An interesting question from a very neurotic buyer went to the tune of "Does your magazine pass the "sniff" test? I have allergies. Is it moldy? Dusty?" "
Thanks for asking, I usually get a butter knife and smear spores from a petri dish on all of my items. I have cats too, I make sure they shed, sneeze, and piss on my magazines. It's a delightful aroma! I await your frenzied bidding." I mean, have you ever?
It's just too damn much. I've got an old Barbie up I totally forgot about. Let's see if they leap over each other to get to it. AHHH!!! 5:30--Freedom Time, kiddies!
Buh Bye.
Wednesday, October 22, 2003
It's not like I didn't know...
More disappointment abounds. And it's starting to show up in my face. I got a good look at myself this morning when I rushed on the 6 train at 8:42 am. Droopy eyelids, frown lines, forehead burrows. I don't think plastic surgery or botox could take away the idea that I've simply had it and can't deal with any more.
My job is ????? Will I be here? Will I not? This thing that resembles a relationship I'm supposed to be in is starting to resemble a convenient arrangement for someone with no clear priorities. It's also obvious to me that he is going into the bends of a depression. Depressed people can't make head nor tail of their lives. So the obvious question is, Why Is This My Problem?
Now, now, please don't start on me with all the "Oh ye of little faith" garbage. I'm not buying it this time.
Let's stick to the facts.
I am going to be 32 in less than 6 months. I have worked very hard through a fucked up family, abusive bureaucratic schools and relationships, I have tried to maintain my dignity and play by the rules. This has given me nothing.
Can I ask when I'm supposed to have some success? If I left New York (which is a real possibility in the next 5 years), would these problems go with me? Would they improve? Moderate themselves? Disappear completely?
Who in the fuck cares? I have done so much, and gotten so little back. My phone barely rings, unless it's my office calling or my mother. How many more years will I have her? Do I give up and say fuck it all to hell? Do I try to work harder? I can barely get out of bed on the weekends. And everyone around me seems to have some sort of crutch or utensil to help them up. I don't and I don't even have the sense to quit.
File under insult + injury: I recently found out that some of the more expensive gifts I've gotten for Christmas were actually re-gifted. That's that gorgeous ghetto word for "I'm too cheap to take money out of my pocket for you." If not that, they were passed around, no one wanted the item(s), and then they came to me. I actually like three of these gifts, but the rest I'd like to burn with lighter fluid. And to think I thought highly of these people? I am extremely grateful for the people that told me of such insulting travesties, though. A good friend is one who tells you the truth, not what you want (or what they think you want) to hear. I'm not putting Chapstick on to kiss someone's ass, which is precisely what they expect of me.
I am going to try to get through this holiday season in one piece. The people who make an effort, stay in my life. The ones who don't? Good luck getting in touch with me. Emails and answering machines don't count for shit.
More disappointment abounds. And it's starting to show up in my face. I got a good look at myself this morning when I rushed on the 6 train at 8:42 am. Droopy eyelids, frown lines, forehead burrows. I don't think plastic surgery or botox could take away the idea that I've simply had it and can't deal with any more.
My job is ????? Will I be here? Will I not? This thing that resembles a relationship I'm supposed to be in is starting to resemble a convenient arrangement for someone with no clear priorities. It's also obvious to me that he is going into the bends of a depression. Depressed people can't make head nor tail of their lives. So the obvious question is, Why Is This My Problem?
Now, now, please don't start on me with all the "Oh ye of little faith" garbage. I'm not buying it this time.
Let's stick to the facts.
I am going to be 32 in less than 6 months. I have worked very hard through a fucked up family, abusive bureaucratic schools and relationships, I have tried to maintain my dignity and play by the rules. This has given me nothing.
Can I ask when I'm supposed to have some success? If I left New York (which is a real possibility in the next 5 years), would these problems go with me? Would they improve? Moderate themselves? Disappear completely?
Who in the fuck cares? I have done so much, and gotten so little back. My phone barely rings, unless it's my office calling or my mother. How many more years will I have her? Do I give up and say fuck it all to hell? Do I try to work harder? I can barely get out of bed on the weekends. And everyone around me seems to have some sort of crutch or utensil to help them up. I don't and I don't even have the sense to quit.
File under insult + injury: I recently found out that some of the more expensive gifts I've gotten for Christmas were actually re-gifted. That's that gorgeous ghetto word for "I'm too cheap to take money out of my pocket for you." If not that, they were passed around, no one wanted the item(s), and then they came to me. I actually like three of these gifts, but the rest I'd like to burn with lighter fluid. And to think I thought highly of these people? I am extremely grateful for the people that told me of such insulting travesties, though. A good friend is one who tells you the truth, not what you want (or what they think you want) to hear. I'm not putting Chapstick on to kiss someone's ass, which is precisely what they expect of me.
I am going to try to get through this holiday season in one piece. The people who make an effort, stay in my life. The ones who don't? Good luck getting in touch with me. Emails and answering machines don't count for shit.
Tuesday, October 21, 2003
Thinning the ranks
Scary time here. About 50 people are gone. Attrition and change rule the day here. Loadsa jobs gone. Let's see if I make the cut. It's Survivor around here, yet more proof that although we are not like other companies, it ain't that different.
Just when I think I should take it easy comes news like this. I'll stay neurotic and workaholic, thank you.
Steely Dan blasting on the RealPlayer, loving Aja as usual. This is almost 30 years old, still slammin.
Rereading Toller Cranston's take on Sonja Henie last night. This man should have his own column in the Globe & Mail. Bad enough CBC got rid of him as a commentator. I need his blustery, creative opinions given the fact that a whole crop of skaters this season are ONCE AGAIN using "Swan Lake" for their competitive music. Just take the damn bird and shoot it already. The last time I saw a hapless pixie attempting a double axel to this tiresomeness, I yelled "PULL!" right there in the rink. The coaches got the joke, but I don't think the mommies were very happy. And the costumes are just tired, too. A junior competitor this season looks like a Pigeon met Pocahontas on the road and flew to Vegas. The result is a fringed sequined diseased mess of white, silver, and winged cutouts. White does not equal simple and pretty.
Imagine a dove trying to fly through black snow. Bleah.
More doctor's appointments too to check out my liver functions after all this medication I'm on. I used to have a fear of needles. After all these blood tests? I'm over it.
Somewhere out there a voodoo doll is screaming.
Scary time here. About 50 people are gone. Attrition and change rule the day here. Loadsa jobs gone. Let's see if I make the cut. It's Survivor around here, yet more proof that although we are not like other companies, it ain't that different.
Just when I think I should take it easy comes news like this. I'll stay neurotic and workaholic, thank you.
Steely Dan blasting on the RealPlayer, loving Aja as usual. This is almost 30 years old, still slammin.
Rereading Toller Cranston's take on Sonja Henie last night. This man should have his own column in the Globe & Mail. Bad enough CBC got rid of him as a commentator. I need his blustery, creative opinions given the fact that a whole crop of skaters this season are ONCE AGAIN using "Swan Lake" for their competitive music. Just take the damn bird and shoot it already. The last time I saw a hapless pixie attempting a double axel to this tiresomeness, I yelled "PULL!" right there in the rink. The coaches got the joke, but I don't think the mommies were very happy. And the costumes are just tired, too. A junior competitor this season looks like a Pigeon met Pocahontas on the road and flew to Vegas. The result is a fringed sequined diseased mess of white, silver, and winged cutouts. White does not equal simple and pretty.
Imagine a dove trying to fly through black snow. Bleah.
More doctor's appointments too to check out my liver functions after all this medication I'm on. I used to have a fear of needles. After all these blood tests? I'm over it.
Somewhere out there a voodoo doll is screaming.
Monday, October 20, 2003
A completely worthless weekend
Well, my day off went bust, kiddies. I can barely wake up because I am so damn tired plus the fact that, puhhlease, I had to get up at my normal time and rush rush rush. J walks in, after a 21 hour ambush from his piece of shit car, and I ask him to drive me. We get there with 5 minutes to spare and I find out "Sorry, your appointment was canceled." Well, fuck you Princess Receptionist, no one told me! I wasted a damn vacation day thinking I'd be in this office 2 or 3 hours and I could have been working? Well, isn't that sweet.
I'm so pissed off at this point that I say To Hell With It All and we decide to go have breakfast. J has to beat the clock due to municipal parking ( 1 hour, 2 quarters), and we hop off at the post office, down from St. Finbar's church. Ok, one thing accomplished. I am too tired to think right now, let alone get to my next appointment, which was to ask about a thyroid sonogram and then to a blood test. I was livid. I go home, pay for an auction and look at 2 listings I put up, and then decide I'll do laundry. That was also a failure.
Turns out the laundromat's pulling a nice little scam. Reset the dryer clock for 7 minutes, not 10. That means you have to put more money in for less time. All of the dryers were set on "low heat" as well, not that I noticed this. So, after I ran 5 quarters for 32 minutes (I used to get 40 minutes), I notice all my sheets are still damp. More quarters. More time. My planned trip to Target (by train, not by car) was now off by 1 hour. I finally get to Target at 7:30 pm, which means I have no time to shop. I grabbed what I could and hightailed it to the R train, soaking wet due to rain. I get home at 9:40. There's no way I'm cooking a damn thing, so I order take out. That takes 45 minutes.
Dinner at 10:30. Nice. Tons of calories I can't burn. Wonderful.
Saturday and Sunday were also a waste. I think I need a new pillow and a blackened room with no clock so I can sleep uninterrupted, not unlike a ghoul or a vampire. Considering how much I'd like to rip people open lately and watch them bleed? I might have already turned into one of these creatures.
Well, my day off went bust, kiddies. I can barely wake up because I am so damn tired plus the fact that, puhhlease, I had to get up at my normal time and rush rush rush. J walks in, after a 21 hour ambush from his piece of shit car, and I ask him to drive me. We get there with 5 minutes to spare and I find out "Sorry, your appointment was canceled." Well, fuck you Princess Receptionist, no one told me! I wasted a damn vacation day thinking I'd be in this office 2 or 3 hours and I could have been working? Well, isn't that sweet.
I'm so pissed off at this point that I say To Hell With It All and we decide to go have breakfast. J has to beat the clock due to municipal parking ( 1 hour, 2 quarters), and we hop off at the post office, down from St. Finbar's church. Ok, one thing accomplished. I am too tired to think right now, let alone get to my next appointment, which was to ask about a thyroid sonogram and then to a blood test. I was livid. I go home, pay for an auction and look at 2 listings I put up, and then decide I'll do laundry. That was also a failure.
Turns out the laundromat's pulling a nice little scam. Reset the dryer clock for 7 minutes, not 10. That means you have to put more money in for less time. All of the dryers were set on "low heat" as well, not that I noticed this. So, after I ran 5 quarters for 32 minutes (I used to get 40 minutes), I notice all my sheets are still damp. More quarters. More time. My planned trip to Target (by train, not by car) was now off by 1 hour. I finally get to Target at 7:30 pm, which means I have no time to shop. I grabbed what I could and hightailed it to the R train, soaking wet due to rain. I get home at 9:40. There's no way I'm cooking a damn thing, so I order take out. That takes 45 minutes.
Dinner at 10:30. Nice. Tons of calories I can't burn. Wonderful.
Saturday and Sunday were also a waste. I think I need a new pillow and a blackened room with no clock so I can sleep uninterrupted, not unlike a ghoul or a vampire. Considering how much I'd like to rip people open lately and watch them bleed? I might have already turned into one of these creatures.
Thursday, October 16, 2003
I am off tomorrow, praise the lord
Now, the big question is can I get the money that my former manager owes me? Due to consistent nagging from his wife, he never paid me for cat sitting probably to spite her. This was the weekend I had my wallet stolen back in APRIL. I ran into him again, with her, and he promised the ever-mysterious funds. Unlike my mother, I will get this money from him by ambushing him. He does payouts on the register at Wollman, just the right time to remind him of money. Yes, kiddies, that means I'll be headed into Central Park after work.
His huge bratlings resemble that Gilligan's Island episode where all the fruit has radiation and grows really large. His newest kitty is totally black with a white spot on his neck and reminds me of Olive, even down to the squeakster "meow." Well, I won't watch them again if I don't get paid! He knows this. He also knows I will not comment on the disastrous nature of newspaper/magazine build-up in his front hall. Let's just say his wife has a beenie baby "problem" and there are bags and bags from Hallmark everywhere. He could make a killing on eBay with this stuff. Lord knows I was tempted to take a few. They're nice people, just very disorganized.
As for disorganization, I'm getting more militaristic by the day. I ruthlessly tore through a stack of old magazines and closet lunacy with fervent glee. If I can't think of 3 good reasons to keep it? Out if it's ripped/stained, eBay if it's in good shape. Why on god's green earth did I need 5 different articles about Mickey Mantle's death? 1 is enough. The rest will travel somewhere else. And the cookbooks are going out, too. I think my John Beard collection about Meats, Fish, Bread, Pasta, and Desserts is enough. Anything else is conspicuous consumption and must end.
Queer Eye has helped, too. All I need to do is take the same object and look at it in a different perspective, make some catchy Carson commentary, and it's either thrown out or redirected somewhere useful. If they can take hairy galoots and teach them how to fix their space and shave better? Then what the hell is my problem?
Anyway, I'm excited--another Target trip tomorrow. Huge boxes of Boo Berry cereal for $2.89, can't beat it!
Now, the big question is can I get the money that my former manager owes me? Due to consistent nagging from his wife, he never paid me for cat sitting probably to spite her. This was the weekend I had my wallet stolen back in APRIL. I ran into him again, with her, and he promised the ever-mysterious funds. Unlike my mother, I will get this money from him by ambushing him. He does payouts on the register at Wollman, just the right time to remind him of money. Yes, kiddies, that means I'll be headed into Central Park after work.
His huge bratlings resemble that Gilligan's Island episode where all the fruit has radiation and grows really large. His newest kitty is totally black with a white spot on his neck and reminds me of Olive, even down to the squeakster "meow." Well, I won't watch them again if I don't get paid! He knows this. He also knows I will not comment on the disastrous nature of newspaper/magazine build-up in his front hall. Let's just say his wife has a beenie baby "problem" and there are bags and bags from Hallmark everywhere. He could make a killing on eBay with this stuff. Lord knows I was tempted to take a few. They're nice people, just very disorganized.
As for disorganization, I'm getting more militaristic by the day. I ruthlessly tore through a stack of old magazines and closet lunacy with fervent glee. If I can't think of 3 good reasons to keep it? Out if it's ripped/stained, eBay if it's in good shape. Why on god's green earth did I need 5 different articles about Mickey Mantle's death? 1 is enough. The rest will travel somewhere else. And the cookbooks are going out, too. I think my John Beard collection about Meats, Fish, Bread, Pasta, and Desserts is enough. Anything else is conspicuous consumption and must end.
Queer Eye has helped, too. All I need to do is take the same object and look at it in a different perspective, make some catchy Carson commentary, and it's either thrown out or redirected somewhere useful. If they can take hairy galoots and teach them how to fix their space and shave better? Then what the hell is my problem?
Anyway, I'm excited--another Target trip tomorrow. Huge boxes of Boo Berry cereal for $2.89, can't beat it!
Wednesday, October 15, 2003
Tiger & Lion Update
Well, from the "I Told You So" files comes word that the lion cub that was snatched by an idiotic New York Post reporter is not doing well. Poor fuzzer was ripped from mama's giant paws and now is suffering from pneumonia, dehydration, and general disorientation. It's struggling to maintain body warmth, and is not doing well on formula. Bottom line? This Post asshole should have his skin ripped off by mama's big claws for pulling such a stupid stunt. Hey everyone! I can purchase plutonium and get away with it! Now, where do I add hydrogen to make a bomb? Just because you can do things on the internet doesn't mean you have to follow through. And the people that took the money for this poor creature have such incredibly bad karma coming their way, there's not even a scale to measure their bad luck.
Roy is also not doing well after Montecore's little Tiger fit 2 Fridays ago. He had a stroke on the operating table, and lost huge amounts of blood. Anyone else would have been dead by now, but this is 2003. The Grim Reaper's been having a fucking party lately, and I hope his mighty scythe doesn't take Roy out. I always liked him better than Siegfried for some reason. He's dehydrated and weak as well. The show is up in the air, but Monty the Tiger has been allowed back on the habitat and is no longer quarantined. Like Dexter says, Cats will be Cats.
My little maniacs left me a nice surprise on my blankets in the form of a hairball. I wiped off what I could and will trot playfully off to the laundromat on Friday. It's so lovely that my schedule does not permit doing anything else.
I guess it's a strange metaphor that I connect with these sinewy creatures. I had to jump around and perform stupid tricks and was ripped from comfort quite early in the game, too. Someone asked me recently about the first time I felt like an adult and I answered, "Age 7." I was cooking for myself, ironing my own clothes, doing my own hair, feeding cats, doing laundry and taking out the garbage. I distinctly remember dismantling my dollhouse at age 9, thinking to myself "Why is this here? I need the space for more books." That's why I'm so good at taking care of other people. The real question is, who the hell takes care of me? This question has gone unanswered for so long, it's an unspeakable phrase. Maybe if I stood in front of a mirror and said it out loud, I'd have my answer?
Well, from the "I Told You So" files comes word that the lion cub that was snatched by an idiotic New York Post reporter is not doing well. Poor fuzzer was ripped from mama's giant paws and now is suffering from pneumonia, dehydration, and general disorientation. It's struggling to maintain body warmth, and is not doing well on formula. Bottom line? This Post asshole should have his skin ripped off by mama's big claws for pulling such a stupid stunt. Hey everyone! I can purchase plutonium and get away with it! Now, where do I add hydrogen to make a bomb? Just because you can do things on the internet doesn't mean you have to follow through. And the people that took the money for this poor creature have such incredibly bad karma coming their way, there's not even a scale to measure their bad luck.
Roy is also not doing well after Montecore's little Tiger fit 2 Fridays ago. He had a stroke on the operating table, and lost huge amounts of blood. Anyone else would have been dead by now, but this is 2003. The Grim Reaper's been having a fucking party lately, and I hope his mighty scythe doesn't take Roy out. I always liked him better than Siegfried for some reason. He's dehydrated and weak as well. The show is up in the air, but Monty the Tiger has been allowed back on the habitat and is no longer quarantined. Like Dexter says, Cats will be Cats.
My little maniacs left me a nice surprise on my blankets in the form of a hairball. I wiped off what I could and will trot playfully off to the laundromat on Friday. It's so lovely that my schedule does not permit doing anything else.
I guess it's a strange metaphor that I connect with these sinewy creatures. I had to jump around and perform stupid tricks and was ripped from comfort quite early in the game, too. Someone asked me recently about the first time I felt like an adult and I answered, "Age 7." I was cooking for myself, ironing my own clothes, doing my own hair, feeding cats, doing laundry and taking out the garbage. I distinctly remember dismantling my dollhouse at age 9, thinking to myself "Why is this here? I need the space for more books." That's why I'm so good at taking care of other people. The real question is, who the hell takes care of me? This question has gone unanswered for so long, it's an unspeakable phrase. Maybe if I stood in front of a mirror and said it out loud, I'd have my answer?
Tuesday, October 14, 2003
Change is inevitable, folks
The folly of people who can't deal with change in any form is a topic that keeps popping up. My mother, friends, my redhead, and even someone from high school I ran into are bringing up this topic in myriad forms. It's incredible.
Go with the flow, people? Ok? It won't kill you. I'm losing my boss to an office in NJ in two weeks. All his stationery and biz cards are now useless, his job has been eliminated. You don't see him or me sweating it, do you? Why create insane situations just to keep holding onto the past? It's over, it's done, it's gone. Deal with it. Improve. Pick up, do your research and see how you can tailor the situation to your needs, not some outmoded concept someone else who isn't even around anymore told you how to do it. How many old tapes have to play in someone's head before you realize "this has nothing to do with me"?
And why all the disappointment? Old things go out so new ones can come in and make things better. I am so completely grateful that time moves forward and not backward. It's a blessing. Any fantasy I may have about going back in time disappears into thin air when I think of how much I was at the mercy of other people about 10-15 years ago. The fleeting moments of happiness were pure illusion. The reality was for every tiny happy moment, there were about 10 more where I was completely blindsided and kicked in the head. I was a punching bag for so many assholes, the sides of my face and back had dent marks.
It started with my parents, two people who absolutely should never have met, and it continued with cousins, teachers, and "friends"---DEAR GOD I USE THAT TERM LOOSELY--who showed their true colors. The big difference from then and now is that these people made me believe that I deserved no better than what I was getting. I was continually spoken down to as if I were chattel, pure idiotic trash. The moment I learned to expose these imps for what they were? Holy shit, what a power shift. I've learned it's good to have enemies, it teaches you who your friends are. By a certain age, you should only be able to count 5 true friends or less on one hand. The others? They're scenery. No better than a new table or curtains in your life.
I'm going to finish up the year with the situation I'm in and look to zoom ahead come January. I'm not going to be able to do much with the holidays arriving, so I'm going to enjoy candy, turkey, and tinsel trees without the added stress. I'm not thinking of it so much as a problem, rather than a transition. The people who can't keep up with me? Sorry, maybe you should have asked the hard questions. I didn't even want to, but that's the way the ball bounces.
And a wonderful announcement: yes, I'm getting the day after Christmas off. Someone is just going to have to drive in. I ain't got a family. This person does. One more day isn't going to hurt. I come from a news background. This person doesn't. Too fucking bad.
The folly of people who can't deal with change in any form is a topic that keeps popping up. My mother, friends, my redhead, and even someone from high school I ran into are bringing up this topic in myriad forms. It's incredible.
Go with the flow, people? Ok? It won't kill you. I'm losing my boss to an office in NJ in two weeks. All his stationery and biz cards are now useless, his job has been eliminated. You don't see him or me sweating it, do you? Why create insane situations just to keep holding onto the past? It's over, it's done, it's gone. Deal with it. Improve. Pick up, do your research and see how you can tailor the situation to your needs, not some outmoded concept someone else who isn't even around anymore told you how to do it. How many old tapes have to play in someone's head before you realize "this has nothing to do with me"?
And why all the disappointment? Old things go out so new ones can come in and make things better. I am so completely grateful that time moves forward and not backward. It's a blessing. Any fantasy I may have about going back in time disappears into thin air when I think of how much I was at the mercy of other people about 10-15 years ago. The fleeting moments of happiness were pure illusion. The reality was for every tiny happy moment, there were about 10 more where I was completely blindsided and kicked in the head. I was a punching bag for so many assholes, the sides of my face and back had dent marks.
It started with my parents, two people who absolutely should never have met, and it continued with cousins, teachers, and "friends"---DEAR GOD I USE THAT TERM LOOSELY--who showed their true colors. The big difference from then and now is that these people made me believe that I deserved no better than what I was getting. I was continually spoken down to as if I were chattel, pure idiotic trash. The moment I learned to expose these imps for what they were? Holy shit, what a power shift. I've learned it's good to have enemies, it teaches you who your friends are. By a certain age, you should only be able to count 5 true friends or less on one hand. The others? They're scenery. No better than a new table or curtains in your life.
I'm going to finish up the year with the situation I'm in and look to zoom ahead come January. I'm not going to be able to do much with the holidays arriving, so I'm going to enjoy candy, turkey, and tinsel trees without the added stress. I'm not thinking of it so much as a problem, rather than a transition. The people who can't keep up with me? Sorry, maybe you should have asked the hard questions. I didn't even want to, but that's the way the ball bounces.
And a wonderful announcement: yes, I'm getting the day after Christmas off. Someone is just going to have to drive in. I ain't got a family. This person does. One more day isn't going to hurt. I come from a news background. This person doesn't. Too fucking bad.
Thursday, October 9, 2003
Still barely alive
Yup, my arms and neck are still achy and horrible. A hot bath did not do anything for me. I dragged my ass outta bed, only to find that many people, including the drivers on the X27, also struggled to wake up. 3 crowded monsters crawled by me, so I was stuck at the stop till 8:25. Forget about being on time.
I am truly and utterly exhausted. My days off are scheduled with doctor's appointments to quell the headaches, hair loss, weight gain, acne, and general malaise that is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. My thyroid has also told me to take a hike, too, in no uncertain terms. The palpitations, the nausea, the brain fog is there. Exercise is killing me, and I just want to sleep. My shoulders and back are particularly feeling horrible. By the time I get a decent massage or shiatsu, it all goes away after I step back outside the door.
It's too much. Typical ACOA guilt about not saving the world, I guess. My European friends laugh in my face at the hours I work. And for what? Recent reports say my 401K won't be worth as much by the time I need it. What's the point? I can't seem to find one.
Yup, my arms and neck are still achy and horrible. A hot bath did not do anything for me. I dragged my ass outta bed, only to find that many people, including the drivers on the X27, also struggled to wake up. 3 crowded monsters crawled by me, so I was stuck at the stop till 8:25. Forget about being on time.
I am truly and utterly exhausted. My days off are scheduled with doctor's appointments to quell the headaches, hair loss, weight gain, acne, and general malaise that is Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome. My thyroid has also told me to take a hike, too, in no uncertain terms. The palpitations, the nausea, the brain fog is there. Exercise is killing me, and I just want to sleep. My shoulders and back are particularly feeling horrible. By the time I get a decent massage or shiatsu, it all goes away after I step back outside the door.
It's too much. Typical ACOA guilt about not saving the world, I guess. My European friends laugh in my face at the hours I work. And for what? Recent reports say my 401K won't be worth as much by the time I need it. What's the point? I can't seem to find one.
Tuesday, October 7, 2003
Update on Roy (this off AP's newsbatched wire)
Doctors Say It's a Miracle Horn Survived
LAS VEGAS (AP) _ It is ``all but miraculous'' that entertainer Roy Horn is
alive and able to communicate after being bitten in the neck by a 600-pound
tiger, his doctor said Tuesday. Horn, of the ``Siegfried & Roy'' show that
has thrilled Las Vegas tourists for years, was able to move his feet and
hands and is responding to treatment, Dr. Derek Duke said at a news
conference at University Medical Center where Horn was hospitalized after
Friday's attack.
Doctors Say It's a Miracle Horn Survived
LAS VEGAS (AP) _ It is ``all but miraculous'' that entertainer Roy Horn is
alive and able to communicate after being bitten in the neck by a 600-pound
tiger, his doctor said Tuesday. Horn, of the ``Siegfried & Roy'' show that
has thrilled Las Vegas tourists for years, was able to move his feet and
hands and is responding to treatment, Dr. Derek Duke said at a news
conference at University Medical Center where Horn was hospitalized after
Friday's attack.
Friday, October 3, 2003
Stuck again
I have a distinct memory that keeps popping through my head....During December 2000, I made my Light Trip back to my old neighborhood. A Light Trip is one in which I zig zag to watch Christmas displays from where I presently live to my childhood home, a now-decrepit house in the middle of Bensonhurst. I had been given a two-week break courtesy of the shithole where I worked, and my mother had gone off to Florida to be with her closeted nightmare. (The Light Trips had begun in 1998, during a rum-induced decision to deposit a bottle of Taylor champagne on someone's doorstep near 21st Ave. The bus never came, so I ended up walking a full 5 miles.) I snaked my way up and in and over 17th Avenue park and stopped for a scene of Disney characters, animated and nodding in time to a medley of Mickey Mouse tunes. The beauty of this window was indescribable. Snow pelted me. I thought about how far away I was, and how I didn't feel like moving. I didn't want to go home, but I had no where else to go. I was rooted to the spot. How I wished for a hole in time to suck me in. I wanted to live right on that block and ring their bell and say how wonderful their window was. It was almost 11 at night. My desperation, confusion, and utter frustration is something that can't really be described. I guess I'm thinking of this because this feeling has returned. It's familiar, too.
I felt it during the winter of 1988 when I was stuck in a high school I didn't want to attend, and the man I adored didn't return the attention.
I felt it on my 17th birthday, 4 days after my father was released from South Oaks Hospital. He would be hospitalized twice more in three years, to no avail.
I felt it in 1990, when I dated that monster who took everything except my sanity. A long illness ensued.
I felt it in 1995 when I met Borgia (yes, he's related to the infamous Lucretia Borgia, who poisoned people), and once again this past year when he got married on my birthday. I crashed the wedding just to see what this lie looked like. True to his name, it was all poisonous.
This feeling is a combination of spinning-doubting-nausea-questioning-headachey fear with an extreme desire for aspirin, soup, books, bathtubs, sleep and a cat in my arms. There are more questions than answers, and I must continue to answer questions for others. They have no workable solutions to my questions. I get blank stares. Shameful that I have a mind that resists leaps of faith, or perhaps I could find some inner dialogue to quell this black muck in my head. I would truly kill for a distraction or some sense of hope.
I'm lost.
I have a distinct memory that keeps popping through my head....During December 2000, I made my Light Trip back to my old neighborhood. A Light Trip is one in which I zig zag to watch Christmas displays from where I presently live to my childhood home, a now-decrepit house in the middle of Bensonhurst. I had been given a two-week break courtesy of the shithole where I worked, and my mother had gone off to Florida to be with her closeted nightmare. (The Light Trips had begun in 1998, during a rum-induced decision to deposit a bottle of Taylor champagne on someone's doorstep near 21st Ave. The bus never came, so I ended up walking a full 5 miles.) I snaked my way up and in and over 17th Avenue park and stopped for a scene of Disney characters, animated and nodding in time to a medley of Mickey Mouse tunes. The beauty of this window was indescribable. Snow pelted me. I thought about how far away I was, and how I didn't feel like moving. I didn't want to go home, but I had no where else to go. I was rooted to the spot. How I wished for a hole in time to suck me in. I wanted to live right on that block and ring their bell and say how wonderful their window was. It was almost 11 at night. My desperation, confusion, and utter frustration is something that can't really be described. I guess I'm thinking of this because this feeling has returned. It's familiar, too.
I felt it during the winter of 1988 when I was stuck in a high school I didn't want to attend, and the man I adored didn't return the attention.
I felt it on my 17th birthday, 4 days after my father was released from South Oaks Hospital. He would be hospitalized twice more in three years, to no avail.
I felt it in 1990, when I dated that monster who took everything except my sanity. A long illness ensued.
I felt it in 1995 when I met Borgia (yes, he's related to the infamous Lucretia Borgia, who poisoned people), and once again this past year when he got married on my birthday. I crashed the wedding just to see what this lie looked like. True to his name, it was all poisonous.
This feeling is a combination of spinning-doubting-nausea-questioning-headachey fear with an extreme desire for aspirin, soup, books, bathtubs, sleep and a cat in my arms. There are more questions than answers, and I must continue to answer questions for others. They have no workable solutions to my questions. I get blank stares. Shameful that I have a mind that resists leaps of faith, or perhaps I could find some inner dialogue to quell this black muck in my head. I would truly kill for a distraction or some sense of hope.
I'm lost.
Thursday, October 2, 2003
Sleep is ILLEGAL
Once again, I find myself too wound up at nights so I can't really go to sleep. Phones, TV, answering machines, radios...all these might be off, but you couldn't tell my body to relax if you tried. I still feel sluggish, achey, and utterly exhausted. The hour commute to and from work doesn't help either. I think I would need an entire week of sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon to catch up. I even feel a stress cold coming on, which is only hastened by--SURPRISE!!!--lack of sleep.
So, instead, I will try to make myself feel better by playing my RealPlayer music thingie. I've downloaded a few good cd's into my PC (God I wish I had a Mac at work), so that will have to keep me amused. And as for pumpkin picking? Fuhgettaboutit!!! I hear my redhead's mother is going to be there. This is waaaaay too soon to be meeting parents, so forget that. His father made fascism a healthy-looking activity from what I hear. Yeeeesh, that's a little too close to what the men in my family were like. I hope "tendencies" aren't passed down through DNA or I'm running for my life. So, pumpkins with two siblings, a wife of 15 years, 2 kids, and "Mother", I really and truly don't belong there. A rather astute friend of mine commented that this meeting might simply be derived from their need to "feel me out". Hey, at least I know their curiosity might go along with deeper issues and behaviors. I've figured it out without the requisite doubtful headaches.
In other news, my holiday teas will soon be making an appearance in Duane Reade. Sugar Plum Spice and Nutcracker Sweet are two of my favorite blends that are only available from mid-October to January. They are decorated with Christmas scenes and are truly delicious. Sugar Plum is a blend of berries and cinnamon spice, Nutcracker is a vanilla-hazelnut infused black leaf tea. Both are scrumptious. I can feel the baking bugs biting me, I looked at my loaf pans the other day. A giant batch of carrot cake or banana bread is coming on, kiddies. My redhead brought me a box of Mallomars and I yelped with joy--straight into the freezer they went. They will stay in exile until tonight when I will sneak a few.
The ice is going down in Rockefeller Center, always a sign of the seasons. Tickets for Radio City are on sale now, and I'm going to refer back to my Amazon recommendations for new cookbooks. Looks like I'm spending Thanksgiving at home this year so I can go to work the next day. I'm still taking the day after Christmas off. After all, it's my astute friend's birthday. Old Navy, anyone?
Once again, I find myself too wound up at nights so I can't really go to sleep. Phones, TV, answering machines, radios...all these might be off, but you couldn't tell my body to relax if you tried. I still feel sluggish, achey, and utterly exhausted. The hour commute to and from work doesn't help either. I think I would need an entire week of sleeping until 2 or 3 in the afternoon to catch up. I even feel a stress cold coming on, which is only hastened by--SURPRISE!!!--lack of sleep.
So, instead, I will try to make myself feel better by playing my RealPlayer music thingie. I've downloaded a few good cd's into my PC (God I wish I had a Mac at work), so that will have to keep me amused. And as for pumpkin picking? Fuhgettaboutit!!! I hear my redhead's mother is going to be there. This is waaaaay too soon to be meeting parents, so forget that. His father made fascism a healthy-looking activity from what I hear. Yeeeesh, that's a little too close to what the men in my family were like. I hope "tendencies" aren't passed down through DNA or I'm running for my life. So, pumpkins with two siblings, a wife of 15 years, 2 kids, and "Mother", I really and truly don't belong there. A rather astute friend of mine commented that this meeting might simply be derived from their need to "feel me out". Hey, at least I know their curiosity might go along with deeper issues and behaviors. I've figured it out without the requisite doubtful headaches.
In other news, my holiday teas will soon be making an appearance in Duane Reade. Sugar Plum Spice and Nutcracker Sweet are two of my favorite blends that are only available from mid-October to January. They are decorated with Christmas scenes and are truly delicious. Sugar Plum is a blend of berries and cinnamon spice, Nutcracker is a vanilla-hazelnut infused black leaf tea. Both are scrumptious. I can feel the baking bugs biting me, I looked at my loaf pans the other day. A giant batch of carrot cake or banana bread is coming on, kiddies. My redhead brought me a box of Mallomars and I yelped with joy--straight into the freezer they went. They will stay in exile until tonight when I will sneak a few.
The ice is going down in Rockefeller Center, always a sign of the seasons. Tickets for Radio City are on sale now, and I'm going to refer back to my Amazon recommendations for new cookbooks. Looks like I'm spending Thanksgiving at home this year so I can go to work the next day. I'm still taking the day after Christmas off. After all, it's my astute friend's birthday. Old Navy, anyone?
Wednesday, October 1, 2003
I feel like I got hit by a truck...
Yup, it's the hormonal headache today, kiddies. It lasts 2-3 days and feels like my head is in a vice. It's so nice when your own body doesn't produce progesterone! I love it. All these medications are not only contributing to my ever-growing sense of bankruptcy, but my conspirator's mentality: they ARE out to get me, and they WILL watch me DIE. Then I get more pills and the hell starts all over again next month.
In other news, the pressure is on: I got an invitation from my redhead's brother to go pumpkin picking this coming Sunday. Strangers, their children, my period, and giant orange vegetables? This does NOT sound pretty. Not to mention the 3 hour car trip it's going to take to get out there. We haven't even hit the 2 month mark yet, this sounds loaded with mucky emotional waters. Let him see his nieces and nephews, I'll stay home and do the laundry, thank you very much. I've got a truckload of magazines I want to load on ebay, anyway. Taking money from strangers doesn't bother me at all, particularly when they enjoy my scanned photos on a slammin' website. Big orange vegetables? That's another matter entirely. HA HA HA
Monster paw piglets are burrowing under my blankets, since the heat in my apartment hasn't come on yet. Master P (Dexter) found it in his fuzzy heart to nuzzle near my pillow last night and DIDN'T stick his wet nose on me. The calico princesses found refuge on the couch away from the window. When my heat comes up, it will be a mad dash for my bed, which barely has room for me. My heating pad from 1980 finally died a quiet death. The coils simply don't work anymore, so I tossed it. Alas, poor coils! Bad for my knee though, it's killing me with the change in weather.
This is also the one year mark for the weekend I discovered Olive's cancer. It was the night of October 6, and she came to me in the bathroom. She flipped over so I could rub her belly--something she was not known for---and I was aghast to find these angry red gnarls that looked like the Evil Dead from her lower chest straight down to her tail. Mammary adenocarcinoma, which is the feline equivalent of Stage III breast cancer, was the diagnosis. Just like a woman would choose, all the breast tissue they could find was removed. It filled 3 mason jars from what Dr. Dontchik told me. Turns out the disreputable butcher that called himself a veterinarian left a piece of her fallopian tube inside her when they "fixed" her. Unlike women, cats still secrete estrogen unless all uterine cavity portions have been removed. It took 8 1/2 years for that hormone to kill her. I had no idea. It was a rainy day when I brought her in for surgery and it was a rainy day when I put her to sleep, May 31 of this year. Olive was really a special kitty.
And my dad's would-have-been birthday is October 10. The old goat would have been 68. I wonder if he's laughing with my former boss, who looked just like him. He would have been 67 on October 24. I've always hated September, but I'll be damned if I ever understand October.
Yup, it's the hormonal headache today, kiddies. It lasts 2-3 days and feels like my head is in a vice. It's so nice when your own body doesn't produce progesterone! I love it. All these medications are not only contributing to my ever-growing sense of bankruptcy, but my conspirator's mentality: they ARE out to get me, and they WILL watch me DIE. Then I get more pills and the hell starts all over again next month.
In other news, the pressure is on: I got an invitation from my redhead's brother to go pumpkin picking this coming Sunday. Strangers, their children, my period, and giant orange vegetables? This does NOT sound pretty. Not to mention the 3 hour car trip it's going to take to get out there. We haven't even hit the 2 month mark yet, this sounds loaded with mucky emotional waters. Let him see his nieces and nephews, I'll stay home and do the laundry, thank you very much. I've got a truckload of magazines I want to load on ebay, anyway. Taking money from strangers doesn't bother me at all, particularly when they enjoy my scanned photos on a slammin' website. Big orange vegetables? That's another matter entirely. HA HA HA
Monster paw piglets are burrowing under my blankets, since the heat in my apartment hasn't come on yet. Master P (Dexter) found it in his fuzzy heart to nuzzle near my pillow last night and DIDN'T stick his wet nose on me. The calico princesses found refuge on the couch away from the window. When my heat comes up, it will be a mad dash for my bed, which barely has room for me. My heating pad from 1980 finally died a quiet death. The coils simply don't work anymore, so I tossed it. Alas, poor coils! Bad for my knee though, it's killing me with the change in weather.
This is also the one year mark for the weekend I discovered Olive's cancer. It was the night of October 6, and she came to me in the bathroom. She flipped over so I could rub her belly--something she was not known for---and I was aghast to find these angry red gnarls that looked like the Evil Dead from her lower chest straight down to her tail. Mammary adenocarcinoma, which is the feline equivalent of Stage III breast cancer, was the diagnosis. Just like a woman would choose, all the breast tissue they could find was removed. It filled 3 mason jars from what Dr. Dontchik told me. Turns out the disreputable butcher that called himself a veterinarian left a piece of her fallopian tube inside her when they "fixed" her. Unlike women, cats still secrete estrogen unless all uterine cavity portions have been removed. It took 8 1/2 years for that hormone to kill her. I had no idea. It was a rainy day when I brought her in for surgery and it was a rainy day when I put her to sleep, May 31 of this year. Olive was really a special kitty.
And my dad's would-have-been birthday is October 10. The old goat would have been 68. I wonder if he's laughing with my former boss, who looked just like him. He would have been 67 on October 24. I've always hated September, but I'll be damned if I ever understand October.
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