Thursday, June 30, 2011

Apparently, I suck at riding a bike

Want to see something gross? Of course you do- gross is awesome, when it happens to someone else.

No, that’s not raw, butchered meat or ground up watermelon; that’s my knee. Or rather, what’s left of it after the concrete got through with it. Yes, Ms. Epitome of Grace and Style over here went flying headfirst off a bicycle on the side of a very busy road. Lots of gawkers. Lots and lots of gawkers.

I wish I could say I was swerving to avoid a car, or to save the life of a small, innocent child, but really, I just miscalculated the lip of a stupid curb. Honestly, I might have recovered, except I was wearing a fully-loaded backpack, and once I started to fall, the momentum of that thing coming up over my head just catapulted me face first into the ground.

It’s amazing how something can happen so fast, yet entirely in slow motion at the same time. I felt like I was watching my face smash into the concrete for a good solid 5 minutes, yet I didn’t even have a chance to get my hand up to protect my face.

My nose, which may or may not be broken – for the life of me, I cannot remember if that bump has always been there – and my right knee got the worst of it. Now I wish I wasn’t always so determined to be photographed with giant sunglasses that hide half my face – I have nothing to compare the current, swollen bridge of my nose to. Learn from my mistakes, people – make sure you know exactly what your nose looks like, just in case you ever decide to smash it against the ground.

My pain tolerance for injuries that involve mangled skin and bright red blood is apparently non-existent. When I fractured my neck at age 13 falling off a horse, I was straight up stoic- didn’t shed a single tear. The neck brace I wore for a couple months was badass. But show me a skinned knee and I’m sitting on the curb, blubbering, waiting for Boyfriend to come walk me the rest of the way home.

I think it’s because this is not a cool injury. Falling off a horse and breaking your neck, or having a horse fall on you and bust up your knee – those are pretty sick injuries. Even a dislocated rib from a car accident that wasn’t your fault is pretty awesome. People are like ‘wow, you’re so brave!’

No one thinks you’re brave if you can’t competently steer a bike.

Now I just have to decide if we can/should still go up to NYC this weekend. I’m really not relishing the thought of sitting on a crowded bus, feeling insanely car sick, and throbbing all over for 4 hours, then trying to walk all around the city for 3 days with a limp and a cut up face. Not to mention that my fashion choices are now limited to long dresses that cover the yards of gauze I’ve used to hide the battle wounds from sight.

Ugh… why do I have to be so freakin’ accident prone??

Wednesday, June 29, 2011

I got a twinkie in the mail

So I arrive home from work yesterday, out of breath (not because my 1.8 mile bike ride is particularly strenuous- more because I’m still kinda fat and out of shape), and find that someone has left me a package on top of my mailbox! I love packages!

I’m a little perplexed by it, since I haven’t ordered anything from my secret sale sites in a couple weeks (one day at a time, Heather, one day at a time…), and obviously it could be a bomb, because if the terrorists were going to single someone out, it would be me, but I take the thing inside anyway.
I finally work up the nerve to open the box, and there, nestled amidst pink crinkled confetti paper, is a single, plastic-wrapped twinkie.

I carefully remove the twinkie from the box, and proceed to photograph everything for evidence. In case it explodes later and my cell phone somehow survives the blast. The authorities will be able to identify what killed me. “Photographs of twinkies on her cell phone … she must have gone into processed-sugar overload and died of a heart attack. When will fat chicks ever learn…”
I’m still confused at this point, so I dismantle the entire box, and there, printed on the inside of the box – where you cant see it unless you take the whole thing apart – is this message:

That was almost a major marketing fail, Microsoft Expressions. What if I’d just gone ‘Eh, another twinkie bomb’ and thrown the whole thing away, without ever deconstructing the whole box to read your hidden message? Then I never would have known I was supposed to be designing a “tasty creative,” whatever that is.

Boyfriend finally arrived home about 15 minutes later to find me still perplexed and vaguely disconcerted over the twinkie. By this point, I’d hatched a theory that someone at Microsoft Expressions knew I was allergic to gluten and was trying to kill me. What better way to kill someone than with a terrorist-sent poison twinkie bomb?
Boyfriend didn’t buy into my theory.

He just thought it was tasty.

Monday, June 27, 2011

Being a materialistic clotheswhore isnt so bad after all...

So I definitely have a shopping problem. Not like a “oh I’m a girl and I love to shop” problem, but a real, I’m going to New York on Saturday, I need to save some cash and I still couldn’t refrain from buying clothes for a full week kind of problem. But the J. Crew top was on sale, and I already have it in another color, so I know I'll love it/wear it all the time, and Boyfriend broke the strap on my old umbrella, so I really need to replace it and oh look! Coach just happens to have their umbrellas on sale. Plus an extra 30% off? My mom would be disappointed in me if I DIDN’T buy one…

I also organize my day based on when my online secret sales start. ‘Oh you want to have a meeting? Let’s meet at 1, since Gilt Groupe starts at 12.’ I resent Mondays because we have a long-standing weekly 11am meeting, and I miss all the good stuff on Rue La La and Ideeli. I get mad at Beyond the Rack when the uber-designer sales don’t start until 4pm, because I don’t want to wait that long. And yes, Neiman Marcus, how did you know that a Midday Dash was JUST what I needed?

I rush to get home before Boyfriend on days I'm expecting packages so I can quietly assimilate the New Thing into my overflowing closet and hope he doesn’t notice.

He totally caught me/called me out with the Miu Miu purse, though. He was all ‘Did you really think I wouldn’t notice the BRIGHT ORANGE purse hanging on the laundry room door?’ To be honest, yeah, I kind of did.

This burning need to shop probably stems from my immediate post-college days, when I was so poor I participated in psych studies/surveys to earn an extra $5 - $10 here and there so I could eat. Being able to afford a bag of day-old bagels from Brueggers’ instead of slinking through Harris Teeter, trying to hide the fact that I was only buying Ramen Noodles, was a major treat.

To be fair, my parents probably would have helped out more post-college if I’d asked, but I was embarrassed and more than a little guilty-feeling. Despite my grant money, loans and part time job(s), my mom still struggled to pay a couple thousand a year while I was in college, and my dad sent me a little extra spending money here and there. My parents were recently divorced at this point, and my mom was a single parent supporting my younger brother, and I hated HATED the thought of being an ongoing burden. I always got that awful, I don’t deserve this, stomach-gnawing feeling anytime I thought about maybe asking for a little more money.

In my smallish circle of friends, whenever a friends’ parents would come into town while we were in school, they would take their child plus a group of us (4-6 usually) out to dinner. She willingly agreed, but I cried for 3 days after asking my mom to do that when she came into town. We couldn’t afford that kind of excess, but I wanted so desperately to be like everyone else.

I graduated with honors from one of the top 20 universities in the country, and I couldn’t get a job making more than $6.25 an hour. By the time I finished paying rent ($325/mo) and board for my horse ($200/mo, and no, I couldn’t have just sold him. So shut it.), I generally had about $50 for gas, food and assorted expenses for the month. The MONTH. It wasn’t pretty.

At the end of one month, I was down to just under $1.50 in my bank account, and ended up living off of a McDonalds dollar menu double cheeseburger for 2 days, until my next pay check. I remember sitting in my car, my stomach trying to eat itself from the inside out, staring at that yellow wrapper, and seriously considering panhandling on the street corner. With a degree from Vanderbilt. I cut the burger into quarters so it would last through 2 lunches and 2 dinners. Misery tastes exactly like a cold, tear-salted, day-old McDonalds cheeseburger. I don’t eat McDonalds anymore.

Then I got a job working straight commission, doing door-to-door sales, and man did that ever screw with my already-failing sense of self-worth. Because commission sales are all about how hard you work, right? And since I was putting in 60-70 hours per WEEK (why on earth Boyfriend stuck with me through this time is still beyond me), and still not always quite making ends meet, it was my failure. I’m sure I’ll discuss this shitshow of a job more in the future, but for now, if anyone ever asks you to work on straight commission, punch them in the face, then run. You’re worth more than straight commission could ever pay.

Coming back from detour-tangent land, now that I have a steady (for 3 months at a time, at least) job and a respectable salary, being able to buy things for myself is downright life-affirming. Maybe I don’t need yet another long dress that I’ll end up not wearing after the first wash, because how the hell did the damned thing shrink 3 INCHES, but being able to buy it because I WANT it- that makes me feel whole. Materialistic? Maybe. But finally being able to feel independent is all I’ve ever really wanted. I can (mostly) indulge my shopping whims, because my hard work, my guilt, my misery and my years of making do with a whole lot less are finally paying off. I’m not rich by any means, but my soul feels a whole lot less poor.

I’m having sushi for lunch today, and I’ll probably have it again at least 2 or 3 more times this week, because even if it weren’t for the gluten allergy, it feels good knowing I don’t have to eat off the dollar menu anymore.

Friday, June 24, 2011

Port-a-potties and dignity do not go hand in hand

So anyone who knows me in person knows I’m totally horse crazy. Like, horse posters all over my walls, absurd collection of My Little Ponies, went to see Spirit, Stallion of the Cimmaron and cried even though I was 18 at the time horse crazy. At 10 years old, decided I wanted to be a jockey. Unfortunately, about 7 inches and a few many pounds later, the jockey thing didn’t quite pan out, but I still love horses/riding.

I finally got my own horse when I was 16. I worked a part time job at the mall to pay for his board, and spent the first 6 months or so I owned him being mostly scared shitless of him.

I was mounting one day, and standing on a plastic crate (like an idiot) because my bumper was already half falling off the car from being stood on (sorry, mom), when the stupid crate made this awful cracking noise and completely splintered apart. I was mid-mounting motion, so my right foot went through the crate, and my left went through the stirrup and kicked Windsor in the shoulder area.

I felt him shudder/start to bolt, and in that split second, I was pretty sure I was about to end up a vegetable, or dead. If he’d flipped out and run, with the way my foot was caught, I would have been dragged over rocks/concrete, which would have scared him more, which would have started a vicious cycle, etc. etc.

But for some reason, as he was about to lose his shit, he glanced back toward me and we made eye contact. I know my face was all panicky/please don’t kill me, and for whatever reason, he knew it, and just stopped. He froze. All 1200 lbs of terrified big horse was like ‘I’m pretty sure someone just fired a gun under my belly and holyshiti’mscared, but I’m going to just stand here and be brave because you’re in danger.’ Horses are not brave animals. They’re half ton weenies. But he sucked it up and saved my life. Our relationship changed in that instant- it's hard to be afraid of an animal that will set aside its own fear to save your life.

Now that he’s about 30, Windy is pretty chill. Most of the time, he thinks he’s an overgrown puppy dog, complete with face/hand/clothes/anything-he-can-reach licking. He also lets me paint him (water-based paints) with ghosts, pumpkins, witches and the word BOO! down his nose for Halloween, despite the indignity of it all.

Mostly, I trust this horse with my life. Since the whole bonding-over-me-almost-getting-killed experience, he's been pretty freaking awesome. We were reserve champion at the 2001 USDF Region 1 Jr/YR team championship, and have won many, many other ribbons together.

But every once in a while, he can be a real shit. In one case, pretty much literally.

For about 2 years, I boarded him at a horrible farm in Nashville (I won’t call them out here, just in case, but I probably should). Windy lived in the farthest back field, so I would drive my car down to the field and tack him up at my car, rather than walking down, getting him, and trekking back up to the barn.

I had just finished tacking him up one afternoon when I realized I seriously needed the little girls’ room. I wasn’t sure I was going to make it all the way back up to the barn, and even if I did, I’d still have to find something to do with Windy (all stalls were full, lots of kids running around getting ready for lessons, etc.), so I decided to use the Port-a-Potty.

In endurance trail riding, people stop and use Port-a-Potties while holding their horses through the doors all the time (at least I think they do- I’m pretty sure I saw a picture of that once, anyway). So I decided I could, as well.

At this point, I’m pretty much duck-walking as I lead/drag Windy to the Port-a-Potty. I pull the reins over his head, and close the door as much as possible, with two narrow-ish pieces of leather sticking through, and go about doing my thing ASAP. I drop my breeches, and everything is going according to plan, when suddenly Windsor BOLTS.

Rips the reins out of my hand, door goes flying open, and he just leaves me crouched there, breeches around my knees, trying to finish my business and locate my dignity.

Amid threats of Elmers glue factories and dog food plants, I caught him, but to this day, I still keep one hand on the Port-a-Potty door, even if it’s locked. Just in case.

Wednesday, June 22, 2011

When Boyfriends have female friends who cross the line...

So I’m having a really hard time with something, and I’m hoping that blindly sending it out into the interwebs will somehow make it better/go away.

Let me start off by saying that Boyfriend is a wonderful guy; he’s smart, he’s easy to talk to, he’s charming in a not-an-arrogant-prick-at-all kind of way. I mean, I’ve been dating the guy for 6 ½ years for a reason. Of course, the things I love about him, other girls love about him as well. And I am the jealous type like nobody’s business.

I once flipped out at a casual hookup/not-a-boyfriend-because-he-was-moving-to-effing-SIBERIA guy because he left AIM chat for like, 10 minutes to go do laundry in the dorm basement and I was all insecure and ‘you don’t even care enough to talk to me!’ about it. Lame, I know, but for some reason I can’t help it.

Anyway, Boyfriend, being the very sweet, very approachable guy he is, has lots of female friends. He has close male friends, too, but lots of female friends. Boyfriend has always been honest with me (he told me about the time that slut in Miami – let’s call her Slutty S– tried to crawl in his lap and lick his ear. She didn’t succeed), but he’s incredibly naïve. He never realizes a chick is flirting with him until he’s prying her hands off his chest.

Even writing this, I’m like, ‘oh God, my hypothetical readers are going to think I’M so naïve; clearly this guy is a playa.’ (Woohoo. White Jewish girl catching up on slang from 10 years ago, FTW). But he’s really, really not. He really thinks these girls are ‘just friends.’

I know some people feel differently about the whole male-female friendship thing, but I’m telling you straight up, a single girl does not want to be ‘just friends’ with an attractive guy who is in a relationship. She’s biding her time and waiting for her chance. She’s being the cool one-of-the-guys types, in hopes that the guy will get tired of his high-maintenance, not-as-much-fun-when-you-compare-her-to-ME, girlfriend. No two ways about it.

So the point of all this background is, he’s casual long-distance friends with a girl whom he practically grew up with. Their dads are best friends, and their families always went on trips together and such when they were younger. We’ll call this chick Jerky J. So he hadn’t seen Jerky J for a while, when Jerky J facebook messaged him out of the blue back around October of last year and said she was taking a hiatus from her job to drive across the country (she lives in California) and take pictures, and could she photograph him and his brother when she got to DC. The photographing thing didn’t pan out, but she still wanted to meet up with them for dinner. I had class that night, so Boyfriend and his brother went. No big deal. Forgotten about.

Then she messages him again, around the beginning of June. She sends him this long ramble-y facebook message about how she has this great idea, and who better to share/experience it with than her travel buddy from forever ago, and he should travel to Antarctica with her!

She seriously expected him to spend $8000+ (well over half of what he’s saved for his part of the down payment on our new house, not to mention an engagement ring…) and spend a month traveling/cruising around the world with her, while I just sat at home and *hoped* they weren’t sleeping together? Also, she wants to go next November, when I’ll be finishing up my degree/Master’s portfolio. Because he should totally skip out on providing moral support and attending my graduation to satisfy her stupid, expensive whim.

Then I saw he responded to her message. Telling her he was still considering it.

Boyfriend and I went out to dinner that night, and he knew I was pissed about something, but I didn’t want to tell him I’d been facebook-spying on him, so I just kept giving him opportunities to bring it up. “So… I saw you were on facebook the other day…”

He finally ‘brought it up’ and was all ‘oh, yeah, Jerky J sent me this crazy message about how she wants me and you to travel to Antarctica with her…’

I’ve read the message about 7 times now – I was NEVER mentioned or implied. But he did admit (mostly on his own) that it was completely crazy, expensive, ridiculous, etc. I asked him if he’d told HER that yet, and he had the good sense to at least look embarrassed and be like “well… sort of… I told her I had to talk to you about it…” Also, completely not true. I was never mentioned in his response, either.

So … basically, I’m still really annoyed about the whole situation, and about how he doesn’t seem to recognize how completely inappropriate and unacceptable her message and plan are. I don’t care if you knew her when you were 6; you’re 26 now, with a live-in girlfriend, and you don’t get to blow your down payment on a house to go on a month-long honeymoon with a female ‘friend.’ You don’t even get to consider it.

I don’t know if Boyfriend and I need to have more of a long talk about this, or if it’s a non-issue now, or if I should fly to California and punch this chick in the face. What do you think, oh great imaginary readers?

Monday, June 20, 2011

Not all Jews can cook. Or all Boyfriends.

I’ve never been much of a cook. In fact, I probably owe my family members a few therapy sessions for the “tuna casserole” I forced them to eat when I was about 11 or 12. Forty five minutes (give or take a few episodes of Singled Out) seemed like a perfectly reasonable amount of time to bake macaroni and cheese with mayonnaise, tuna and celery. I thought the toothpick was supposed to come out dry?

And I’ve had a few more recent *ahem* snafus in the kitchen. Like the first time I tried to make chocolate lava cakes. Note to self: Do not insert handheld mixer into dry cocoa powder. Apparently, dry, whirling powder ends up everywhere. EVERY. WHERE.

And the time I accidentally left the brown sugar out of my gluten-free chocolate brownies. Boyfriend made horrible faces and likened them to “chocolate cornbread.” (It should be noted, though, that he then proceeded to eat three. I had to take them away.)

'This is horrible! Disgusting! Wait, I wasn't done with those...'


But Boyfriend … Boyfriend puts me to shame sometimes with his complete lack of cooking know-how. Now that’s not to say that all of his concoctions are inedible. He makes really good stir-fry and he can work magic with a grill (It might actually be magic, for all I know, since I’m not even sure how to start one of those things). But Boyfriend watches a lot of Top Chef/Iron Chef in his spare time, and fancies himself the next Morimoto (minus the whole being Japanese and a trained chef thing).

My mom used to make awesome brisket/stews in the crock-pot growing up. Now, my stomach curdles and I get numb, tingly feelings in my left hand when Boyfriend mentions trying to cook in a crock-pot again. One time in Austin, he tried to make some sort of beer-braised meat (it was indeterminate by the time I got to it) with vegetables. The recipe called for dark beer, but I don’t think we had any, so he used Sam Adams or something. And also, we don’t have a real crock-pot.

So he threw all these ingredients into an electric dutch oven and burned the crap out of them for several hours. It smelled like moldering, rotten dog food. I normally try to be supportive of Boyfriend’s culinary endeavors, but there was no way I was putting that mess in my mouth.

Now I try to supervise a little more carefully, but for some reason, Boyfriend seems to lack an understanding of what certain kitchen things are.

One night, we were making some sort of breaded chicken, and in the two seconds I turned my back, he had broken several eggs into the bottom of one of my glass casserole dishes. So he could roll the raw chicken and salmonella around in my brownie pan. Then, the other day, he decided to melt butter in my favorite Taz coffee mug.

Taz is ANGRY about this improper usage of his mug.


He also likes to serve sauces in my parfait bowls. I think I need to have a serious discussion with Boyfriend about proper bowl-usage. And I’m not even going to make a pot-smoking joke here, because neither of us smoke pot because we’re dorks better than that.

The other day we went to the grocery store to load up on stuff for the week. While trying to dodge the guy with the clicker thing who kept following us (Yeah? One minute you’re scanning bread, the next minute you realize you forgot to scan the sleepy drugs? I’m not buying it, dude. I may be hot, but I’m not actually a celebrity, so quit following me! *cough* I’m not stealing, either.) Wow, that was a long parenthetical tangent. I forgot where the rest of the sentence was supposed to go.

Anyway, the point of that paragraph was to introduce the fact that I let Boyfriend talk me into buying the “on sale” Grouper. Bargain hunting is great – bargain hunting for seafood: not so great. Boyfriend was all “but the regular Grouper is $12.99- this Grouper is only $2.99! What a great deal!”

So we get this “on sale” Grouper, bread it with butter and Chex Mix (repeat: never been much of a cook), proceed to almost set it on fire under the broiler, and then attempt to eat it. Even with a lemon garlic sauce made almost entirely of melted butter, it was awful. Really, truly awful. And now my whole outdoor garage area smells like that tuna casserole from all those years ago tasted. I think it’s time for me and Boyfriend to lay off the fish…

Wednesday, June 15, 2011

Rubber duckie, you’re the one … you make work time, lots of fun!

I want to start off by saying that on most days, I really do genuinely like my job. Since graduating from college, I’ve had some pretty god-awful make-you-want-to-run-headfirst-into-oncoming-traffic jobs. With a degree from a Tier 1 Top 20 University, I did door-to-door sales and even sold cars for 9 months. I was desperate. (And damned good at selling cars, surprisingly).

So landing this job was almost as good as the first time Boyfriend said "engagement ring" without flinching. I handle the bi-monthly e-newsletter and web content management for a major non-profit. It’s a pretty cool gig. And it sounds really kinda fancy, which is always important.

Side note: I’ve noticed I do this arrogant-but-faking-modest little tuck-the-hair-behind-the-ear-thing whenever I tell someone what I do. It’s kinda funny.

But anyway, I’m working with well-educated people, and for the most part, I’m doing (at least to some extent) what I want to be doing for the rest of my career. And with the insane death-spiral-down-the-world’s-largest-toilet our economy has been doing lately, I can’t really complain about having a great job.

That being said, I can totally find a way to complain about having a (mostly) great job.

Microsoft Word is NOTTHATHARD, people. I had to teach both of my bosses –on two separate occasions- how to use edit-> undo in Word. Yes, really. The conversation with my immediate supervisor went something like this:

Supervisor [panicked voice]: I need your help! I messed up … I just lost a bunch of text from an article!

Me: What happened? Did you close without saving?

Supervisor: No, I still have the article, but I deleted a whole paragraph that I shouldn’t have deleted.

Me: … so you need to undo your deletion?

Supervisor: Yes! Can you do that?

Me: [head hits desk] See on the very top left hand corner of the Word document, next to the Save icon, there’s a little blue arrow that points backwards?

Supervisor: …ummmm…… yes! Got it! Now what?

Me: [Discard 80 bajillion sarcastic responses] Click it.

And I’m still a temp with no benefits.

Also, I wanted to create a slideshow for a few pictures we were posting. I created a presentation in powerpoint and uploaded it to SlideShare.net. I even gave our web services people the embed code. This is what they came up with. Seriously? Are we still using GeoCities?

Also, my boss once dropped a Three Musketeers bar on the floor, and then offered it to me. "Here, this will totally make up for the all the benefits, holiday pay, and paid time off we're screwing you out of..."

I have my own office, though, which is fabulous. And two rubber duckies of appreciation, and a happy crab (not that kind) from Boyfriend, so it’s all good.

Wonder Duckie looks rather scared of Grabby Crabby from this angle...



Monday, June 13, 2011

Vanity (and a live fish) get the best of me

So I love LivingSocial, Groupon, HomeRun, and any other daily deals-type website (and lets not forget to mention my shopping addiction on sites like ideeli, rue la la, haute look, one king's lane, fab, swirl, where in god's name does my paycheck go...).

A couple weeks ago, I bought a HomeRun deal (after carefully researching reading Yelp reviews of the Center) for laser leg vein removal. Thanks to some extra post-college weight and the joys of genetics, I've got some 50 year old woman spider veins - including a particularly bad patch behind my left knee, and IWANTTHEMGONE.

I often sit and fantasize about what I would change about my body if I had a magic wand and could just sculpt away. A few inches off the waistline here, add a cup size or two there... but leg vein removal seemed like an actual tangible thing I could fix right now, and for only $199, instead of the regular $999! (Now would be a good time to start asking 'how did you not know this was a bad idea...?')

The description of the procedure on the Center's website states that "The treatment is not painful. Patients describe the feeling as similar to a rubber band snapping against the skin."

These people must have known some seriously sadistic rubber-band snappers in their day.

Let me back up a step. I had Boyfriend drive me to the center, which would have been impossible to locate without a garmin and some dumb luck. When we got there, there was all kinds of construction going on, and the building looked almost abandoned. We rode up to the second floor in a freight elevator (Why didn't I run screaming from the building like a sane person, you ask?), though once we found the suite, the office itself was nice, clean, well-furnished, etc.

So I check in, and get offered numbing cream. Finally, my blasted internal alarm warning bells (which had apparently been on mute?) start going off, but alas, too little, too late. Boyfriend is making panicked I-may-never-see-you-again faces at me at this point, but I cheerfully follow Technician With An Accent Lady (never did catch her name) into the back.

There's an extra chair in the room, obviously for my much-loved Miu Miu purse, because Boyfriend was not allowed to accompany me. I hop up on the towel-covered gyno bed, and Technician With An Accent Lady starts rubbing gel on my legs. Then stops to inform me that this will be $15. Then proceeds.

HI alarm bells, nice to hear from you.

So I fill out some forms containing dire warnings about the procedure, which I willfully and blithely ignore, and wait 20 more minutes for the gel to take effect, while staring longingly at my purse containing my cell phone and the stack of magazines, both placed conveniently just out of my reach. I do not do well with mind-numbing boredness.

Technician With An Accent Lady comes back in, hands me some laser-proof goggles, and pulls over the laser shooting machine (Im 99% sure this is the official name). She casually mentions that this will hurt.

Cue anxiety, racing heart, and those infernal too-late warning bells.

Aight. Have at it. Price of beauty, right?

Oh holy hell. I have a tattoo on my lower back, so I know that special kind of agony that comes with having a needle burning through several layers of skin. That tattoo was a CAKEWALK compared to this shit.

So apparently the laser goes through the skin, down into the blood vessel, and explodes the vein so that it gets reabsorbed into the body. I was given a stress ball after I nearly separated the arm rests from the bed. On a side note, I still love the feel of the gooey stuff inside stress balls that you can feel when you RIP THROUGH the outside layer…

I wouldn’t let Technician With An Accent Lady finish the back of my left knee. Even with the bullshit numbing gel and icing the area before and after the laser, I was still writhing in agony. And I almost kicked her when she went for my ankle. I think ankle veins and I are going to be friends for a long, long time, because they’re not going anywhere anytime soon.

So Technician With An Accent Lady ace wraps my legs ($5 per wrap!) and advises me to take some pain killers.

800 mg of ibuprofen later, I’m walking around a mall, climbing really narrow stairs, having dinner, and hiking near the Billy Goat trail. Wait, what?

Yeah, because instead of just planning to go home and relax afterwards, genius here seriously underestimated the severity of this procedure and scheduled a full day of fun. Followed by a 2 hour fly fishing trip on Sunday.

Because having a panic attack when a fish gets loose on the boat and jumping around on sore, swollen legs is the best way to heal. I am desperately, desperately afraid of fish. And butterflies, but that's a story for another day.

The sunglasses hide the abject fear in my eyes...


Screw you, vanity. …Although I am still keeping an eye out for a Groupon for discounted breast implants. Let me know if you see one, k?

Tuesday, June 7, 2011

Where it all starts

So the title of this blog comes from a favorite song of mine: "Back there all the time" by the Drew Davis Band. The rest of that lyric is "We were desperate for something/more than seventeen years of innocence." That line always makes me sad/nostalgic for those late high school years when I was getting ready to leave my little full-of-Jewish-busybodies hometown, and I really thought I was going to DO.SOMETHING.BIG.

I figured it was fitting, since this blog is going to be a messy, sort of stream-of-conscious attempt to figure out where I went wrong and just what exactly it is I think I'm doing with this life of mine...

I don't promise it will be pretty, or happy, or even coherent (although even when I'm a sobbing mess, my little inner grammar-demons still claw their way to the surface and make sure 'teh' never appears in my writing), but I'm hoping it will be a cathartic and sometimes funny (probably in a point-and-laugh kind of way) venue to rant, whine and share too much.