When the alarm interrupted my slumber on Friday morning, I was hosting a fundraiser for birth control in Washington, DC. The train to DC left without me, but somehow I managed to get there on time. The catering was entirely ice cream sandwiches and ice cream filled bonbons. I hoovered down little ice cream sandwiches made with the mini chocolate chip cookies that come in those 100 Calorie Packs with chocolate ice cream, I ingested the traditional chocolate rectangle cookies with vanilla, and I inhaled peanut butter cookie ice cream sandwiches with strawberry ice cream. These were chased by the bonbons.
My western omelet sucked extra hard and was a sign of the day to come. I needed a drink more than ever, and I don't even like alcohol. When I finally arrived home, the weight of a crate of granola bars stooped me over. "Mercy!" I cried and ate a Soy Joy bar. It was no ice cream sandwich, but good enough.
If diabetes doesn't eventually kill me, the South Beach cravings will. Tomorrow, I'm not even going to resist. I'm already tasting the pie and cookies. In the meantime, I wonder what I will eat in my sleep tonight.
Friday, February 27, 2009
Wednesday, February 25, 2009
Satan Comes In Many Guises
Just as I prepared to hit the sheets last night, I noticed a message in a Facebook thread mentioning that so-and-so was not planning to hang out after class on Wednesday night because her class was canceled. Incidentally, her class is my class (let's sing it together, "This class was made for you and me..."), and I didn't know bupkes* about class being canceled. I spent the next hour or so clenching and unclenching my fists while inhaling and exhaling deeply. Long story short, this is the second class (out of two classes) where the administrators of the program don't have me on the list.
My tuition is $22,000 and change. I take a whopping two classes per week, and attend some literature readings and weekend seminars. For all that money, I expect that people could make some fucking effort to figure out who is in what classes. Since this is obviously not the case, I decided to attempt to transfer to another school in city that shall remain nameless but costs 1/4 of the price. Last week, a woman who blogs about how God dictated her stories to her and she writes for the glory of Jesus received a phone call admitting her to the program that my tax dollars support. I did not. (Fists clenching and unclenching, deep breath in, deep breath out...) No, I'm not bitter at all.
Once again, I had a restless night and on my way to the subway this morning I passed by a group of people tempting me with forbidden apples, if it is possible that the plaza in front of the 72nd St. subway station is Eden. Yes, that's right: they were giving out granola bars. Along with propaganda about the seven deadly sins. (Motto: "They may be deadly... but they sure are fun.") My cravings for granola bars are somewhat less this week than last, but still bad. Fucking religious nuts, screwing with me everywhere, I swear!!!
I took a granola bar. I decided that I would not eat it, but save it in my desk at work just in case I ever got snowed in or something and needed sustenance. (I also have a large bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate, distributed by the landlord of the building for Valentine's Day, stashed in my drawer. And an insulated container of 2% milk, the kind from Horzion that doesn't require refrigeration. It's almost enough to make me hope I get snowed in so I can chow down, but I digress.) Really, I took it because it was free, and I hate turning away free things. Also, I wanted to waste the crazy church's money. However, I am not so evil that I took two. God didn't give me that story to write.
Sigh.
*Yiddish: shit
My tuition is $22,000 and change. I take a whopping two classes per week, and attend some literature readings and weekend seminars. For all that money, I expect that people could make some fucking effort to figure out who is in what classes. Since this is obviously not the case, I decided to attempt to transfer to another school in city that shall remain nameless but costs 1/4 of the price. Last week, a woman who blogs about how God dictated her stories to her and she writes for the glory of Jesus received a phone call admitting her to the program that my tax dollars support. I did not. (Fists clenching and unclenching, deep breath in, deep breath out...) No, I'm not bitter at all.
Once again, I had a restless night and on my way to the subway this morning I passed by a group of people tempting me with forbidden apples, if it is possible that the plaza in front of the 72nd St. subway station is Eden. Yes, that's right: they were giving out granola bars. Along with propaganda about the seven deadly sins. (Motto: "They may be deadly... but they sure are fun.") My cravings for granola bars are somewhat less this week than last, but still bad. Fucking religious nuts, screwing with me everywhere, I swear!!!
I took a granola bar. I decided that I would not eat it, but save it in my desk at work just in case I ever got snowed in or something and needed sustenance. (I also have a large bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate, distributed by the landlord of the building for Valentine's Day, stashed in my drawer. And an insulated container of 2% milk, the kind from Horzion that doesn't require refrigeration. It's almost enough to make me hope I get snowed in so I can chow down, but I digress.) Really, I took it because it was free, and I hate turning away free things. Also, I wanted to waste the crazy church's money. However, I am not so evil that I took two. God didn't give me that story to write.
Sigh.
*Yiddish: shit
Tuesday, February 24, 2009
The Zodiac is Sort of Wrong
As a Capricorn, my best mates are Cancers. The goat and the crab - a natural pairing if there ever was one. (Incidentally, Husband is a Cancer.) I'm not one who puts much stock in astrology, but I do have many of the personality traits ascribed to my sign. In a way, I'm conservative (not politically of course, but I've never been the type to drink or do drugs or party or have one night stands, etc., not that I care if other people do, but I digress). Stubborn and tenacious, I'll plod along the rocky mountain path eating tin cans until I wind up somewhere with a tasty patch of grass.
Still, it's funny that Cancer is a crab, because I am one of the crabbiest bitches on the planet. At my Saturday research seminar, I wanted to slap some wench who waddled in 30 minutes late for the second week in a row, disrupting the class as she took off her coat, unzipped a back back to take out a notebook, then zipped it back up and unzipped a second backpack and fished around for a pen before zipping that bag up, then shifted around in her chair for a few minutes. Once she was settled, she raised her hand and asked, "Maybe this was covered already, but how do you cite a website as a source?"
"Get a fucking style manual!" I restrained myself from screaming. What the fuck? People, try to show up to class on time (she was the fourth person to waltz in late), and if you can't get your shit together to do so, at least don't open your fucking trap and when you have no idea what we discussed before you deigned to show up. Wait until the damn break or after class and ask then.
I fucking hate people. Cleaning bat guano will be a small price to pay for the refuge of my future cave home. Grrrr...
Still, it's funny that Cancer is a crab, because I am one of the crabbiest bitches on the planet. At my Saturday research seminar, I wanted to slap some wench who waddled in 30 minutes late for the second week in a row, disrupting the class as she took off her coat, unzipped a back back to take out a notebook, then zipped it back up and unzipped a second backpack and fished around for a pen before zipping that bag up, then shifted around in her chair for a few minutes. Once she was settled, she raised her hand and asked, "Maybe this was covered already, but how do you cite a website as a source?"
"Get a fucking style manual!" I restrained myself from screaming. What the fuck? People, try to show up to class on time (she was the fourth person to waltz in late), and if you can't get your shit together to do so, at least don't open your fucking trap and when you have no idea what we discussed before you deigned to show up. Wait until the damn break or after class and ask then.
I fucking hate people. Cleaning bat guano will be a small price to pay for the refuge of my future cave home. Grrrr...
Monday, February 23, 2009
Names Changed to Protect the Formerly Young and Stupid
(With name changes, you know this will be a good one.) Facebook notified me that I received a message from Bob Gold. The subject read, "from someone long ago." "What? Who the fuck is that?" I wondered. This was not long after a girl with whom I had a Mean Girls-style friendship (I was the loser mean girl in the relationship, and the guilt has plagued me for years now) sent me a message on Facebook, so I was extra curious to see who else was crawling out of the woodwork.
Here's the message, typos included:
Nope, still no clue as to who the hell this is. I read on:
Oh my God! I totally know who this dude is. (If he hadn't referenced my friend Rachel and the other guy, though, I have to admit I would still not have the foggiest concept of who this person was.) This was when I was in 7th grade, and Bob and I were chatting on the phone a lot. I was supposed to go to a movie with him, but I backed out the night before. At the time, I freaked out for what seemed like no reason, but wizened 33 year old Suzanne knows that I was totally not ready to go on a date at the age of 12 or 13.
The mylar balloon, though? Zero recollection, although I laugh like a hyena every time I read that. Did I give him a balloon and he sent it to me to avenge his broken heart? I vaguely recollect receiving an envelope with a chopped up balloon in it, but I think that is due to the power of suggestion. It is equally likely that Bob gave me a balloon and, in a fit of pique, I chopped it up and sent it to him. I was totally dramatic like that. Oh, the hilarity of adolescent angst!
Anyway, the rest of the message was the usual, how are you, let's chat, blah blah blah. I messaged him back, but haven't heard anything yet. My lame little storied past is so amusing to recount. Not so much to live through at the time, but worth a good smile these days.
Here's the message, typos included:
i couldn't help the thought of seeing if you remembered me and to see how your life has been.
i'll take you back in time and see if you can piece it together if the name hasn't struck your memory already ... was 1988/89-ish ...
Nope, still no clue as to who the hell this is. I read on:
Rachel, David, phone dating, bad breakup over the phone, a small mylar baloon broken into a bunch of pieces and sent back via envelope.
Oh my God! I totally know who this dude is. (If he hadn't referenced my friend Rachel and the other guy, though, I have to admit I would still not have the foggiest concept of who this person was.) This was when I was in 7th grade, and Bob and I were chatting on the phone a lot. I was supposed to go to a movie with him, but I backed out the night before. At the time, I freaked out for what seemed like no reason, but wizened 33 year old Suzanne knows that I was totally not ready to go on a date at the age of 12 or 13.
The mylar balloon, though? Zero recollection, although I laugh like a hyena every time I read that. Did I give him a balloon and he sent it to me to avenge his broken heart? I vaguely recollect receiving an envelope with a chopped up balloon in it, but I think that is due to the power of suggestion. It is equally likely that Bob gave me a balloon and, in a fit of pique, I chopped it up and sent it to him. I was totally dramatic like that. Oh, the hilarity of adolescent angst!
Anyway, the rest of the message was the usual, how are you, let's chat, blah blah blah. I messaged him back, but haven't heard anything yet. My lame little storied past is so amusing to recount. Not so much to live through at the time, but worth a good smile these days.
Saturday, February 21, 2009
Friday, February 20, 2009
Carb Cravings
Until this week, I never lusted after a granola bar. Last night, I dreamed that I drank half of a glass of apple juice before realizing that it was not part of the South Beach Diet; I don't even like apple juice. (Later in the dream it dawned on the that the gallon of vanilla ice cream that I ate before freaking out about the juice was also verboten.) I might kill someone for a bite of a cookie. (Could I use the South Beach Diet Defense in court? "My restrictive diet made me do it, your Honor!")
The first phase of South Beach is the most restrictive because carb cravings generally come from eating carbs. In theory, if you only eat good ones (i.e. - vegetables) for a few weeks, then your body will no longer miss the baddies like granola bars. Clearly, I am driven by psychological and emotional food cravings. Or, the problem might be that I used too much artificial sweetener, which is allowed on the diet. It turns out that the latest research shows that the body produces insulin whenever someone consumes artificial sweetener as if the person ate regular sugar.
On the other hand, once I found out about the Equal/Sweet n Low/Splenda problem and smacked my head and sighed dramatically multiple times, I cut down the amount I used to two packets and tried to drink less than 12 ounces of diet pop a day. That's when the cravings intensified. Craziness.
The first phase of South Beach is the most restrictive because carb cravings generally come from eating carbs. In theory, if you only eat good ones (i.e. - vegetables) for a few weeks, then your body will no longer miss the baddies like granola bars. Clearly, I am driven by psychological and emotional food cravings. Or, the problem might be that I used too much artificial sweetener, which is allowed on the diet. It turns out that the latest research shows that the body produces insulin whenever someone consumes artificial sweetener as if the person ate regular sugar.
On the other hand, once I found out about the Equal/Sweet n Low/Splenda problem and smacked my head and sighed dramatically multiple times, I cut down the amount I used to two packets and tried to drink less than 12 ounces of diet pop a day. That's when the cravings intensified. Craziness.
Wednesday, February 18, 2009
If I Don't Laugh...
This is the disturbing yet hilarious card that Husband gave me for Valentine's Day (click on it to make it bigger, which I do not mean as a come on):
Inside it says, "There will be magic."
The card both impresses me and makes me want to take a shower to wash away the ookiness. Sort of like yesterday. It was just a shitty, crappy day, so I couldn't sleep, so I read something online which further upset me, so I couldn't sleep.
Then I remembered that laughter is the best medicine, which made me want to slap whoever said that, although it is so true. I chuckled over message Husband wrote in the card ("I briefly debated whether to purchase this card or purchase a top hat and recreate the scene with Tycho. For the sake of keeping magical rabbit turds out of our bed, I went for the card.") The near hysteria that gripped me reminded me how lucky I am to have Husband, and the horrid feeling of being trapped and unable to extract myself from multiple situations that I willingly entered dissipated and I went to bed, reassured. (Sorry for the sappy ending.)
Inside it says, "There will be magic."
The card both impresses me and makes me want to take a shower to wash away the ookiness. Sort of like yesterday. It was just a shitty, crappy day, so I couldn't sleep, so I read something online which further upset me, so I couldn't sleep.
Then I remembered that laughter is the best medicine, which made me want to slap whoever said that, although it is so true. I chuckled over message Husband wrote in the card ("I briefly debated whether to purchase this card or purchase a top hat and recreate the scene with Tycho. For the sake of keeping magical rabbit turds out of our bed, I went for the card.") The near hysteria that gripped me reminded me how lucky I am to have Husband, and the horrid feeling of being trapped and unable to extract myself from multiple situations that I willingly entered dissipated and I went to bed, reassured. (Sorry for the sappy ending.)
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Mini Disasters that Add Up to Laughs
Witness arrived in movie theaters when I was nine years old. I thought it looked like one of the scariest movies ever. If memory serves me correctly (and it usually doesn't), it also received complementary reviews as a suspenseful film.
Husband and I watched it on Saturday night. Let me just throw this aphorism out there: Any time there is a 20+ year build up to something, the odds are high that it will disappoint. Damn, that was one crappy movie. The plot makes almost no sense, the action is limited, the score involves some weird synth/organ droning, and there is about as much suspense as watching Jell-O set. Still, Harrison Ford is smoking hot in it. Holy shit, that made the movie almost worth it. (So as not to be sexist, I noticed that Kelly McGillis is gorgeous.)
Then on Sunday, Husband, my friend Sara #1, and I loaded ourselves into Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and headed to New Jersey. My goal was to return two shirts that I purchased on Nordstrom online to an actual store so that I could find replacements that fit. As we neared the luxury mall in Paramus, I thought it odd that the parking lot was empty. It was almost 2:00 in the afternoon - prime weekend shopping time. Was the recession really so bad that people didn't even hang out in malls in Jersey any more? Terrifying thought.
My economic fears were soon replaced by annoyance. Husband drove around some orange cones that blocked parts of the parking lot and pulled up to the doors of Nordstrom. "Sundays: Closed," I read aloud. So the whole freaking mall was closed. How fucking un-American is it to close a mall on Sunday? Seriously! We tried another nearby mall, only to find it closed as well. That's when we realized that Paramus, NJ is the most unpatriotic town in the US: no retail stores are open on Sundays, which we assumed is by law. The horror! The horror!
Husband and I watched it on Saturday night. Let me just throw this aphorism out there: Any time there is a 20+ year build up to something, the odds are high that it will disappoint. Damn, that was one crappy movie. The plot makes almost no sense, the action is limited, the score involves some weird synth/organ droning, and there is about as much suspense as watching Jell-O set. Still, Harrison Ford is smoking hot in it. Holy shit, that made the movie almost worth it. (So as not to be sexist, I noticed that Kelly McGillis is gorgeous.)
Then on Sunday, Husband, my friend Sara #1, and I loaded ourselves into Fred the Red, our PT Cruiser, and headed to New Jersey. My goal was to return two shirts that I purchased on Nordstrom online to an actual store so that I could find replacements that fit. As we neared the luxury mall in Paramus, I thought it odd that the parking lot was empty. It was almost 2:00 in the afternoon - prime weekend shopping time. Was the recession really so bad that people didn't even hang out in malls in Jersey any more? Terrifying thought.
My economic fears were soon replaced by annoyance. Husband drove around some orange cones that blocked parts of the parking lot and pulled up to the doors of Nordstrom. "Sundays: Closed," I read aloud. So the whole freaking mall was closed. How fucking un-American is it to close a mall on Sunday? Seriously! We tried another nearby mall, only to find it closed as well. That's when we realized that Paramus, NJ is the most unpatriotic town in the US: no retail stores are open on Sundays, which we assumed is by law. The horror! The horror!
Monday, February 16, 2009
Bird by Bird
One of the fellows at work heard that I was an aspiring writer, and he recommended (and more importantly, lent me) Bird by Bird: Some Instructions on Writing and Life by Anne Lamott. In the last few years, I've read a few books on writing (hated Reading Like a Writer by the ironically named Francine Prose) and literature interpretation (loved How to Read Literature Like a Professor by Thomas C. Foster), but this is by far the best I've ingested thus far. I think it has to do with the tone. Like Foster, Lamott has a light, confessional tone. I feel like a confidant and friend when I read the book, rather than an incompetent, bumbling fool.
"Oh, so everyone writes a shitty first draft," I smiled when I read the chapter called Shitty First Drafts. I mean, I knew that intellectually, but it was nice to see a successful writer commit it to print.
Lamott is funny and generous in sharing her experiences and lessons learned. Although I have a zillion other things I need to be doing, I am savoring every morsel of this book. Lamott offers up the goods. Just thought I'd share.
"Oh, so everyone writes a shitty first draft," I smiled when I read the chapter called Shitty First Drafts. I mean, I knew that intellectually, but it was nice to see a successful writer commit it to print.
Lamott is funny and generous in sharing her experiences and lessons learned. Although I have a zillion other things I need to be doing, I am savoring every morsel of this book. Lamott offers up the goods. Just thought I'd share.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Beware of VD and Important "Marxist Feminist Dialectic" T-Shirt Info
As an early Valentine's Day gift, the landlord of the office building in which I work gave every employee a full size bar of Jacques Torres milk chocolate on Thursday. This is a South Beach Diet eye poke if there ever was one. Does anyone ever dole out free, expensive chocolate when I can eat it? Of course not. I wanted to cry while everyone savored their chocolate, but I insisted that my cottage cheese and cherry tomatoes were delicious. (They were, but not as delicious as I am sure the chocolate was.)
It's not just this year that I feel like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulled the football away as he lifted his foot to kick it. I've always hated Valentine's Day. Like the other types of VD, I find it's treacly ookiness just infects everything. My freshman year of high school I griped about it so much that when sweet but decidedly odd Mark Weinberg (not Mark Weingarten, for those of you who know either of them and get confused, as my friends did when I later had a crush on Weingarten and had to clarify that Mark Weinberg was "the Wrong One" and Weingarten was "Not the Wrong One," but I digress) gave me what was probably the kindest card anyone has ever given me on VD, saying that he knew that I hated the holiday but he hoped I would have a good day, that I missed that he was interested in me. I don't know if I would have been interested in him, but man, did I waste that opportunity to thank someone for doing something really nice for me. (Fast forward to next VD when I was grounded and Mr. X [name removed at his request, 11/17/09] showed up at my house while I was doing laundry to give me a rose and I basically slammed the door in his face because I was a stupid insensitive fucking bitch and I will forever feel guilty about that because even if I didn't like him, I should have been nicer. But I digress again.)
The point is, VD annoys me and causes me to grouse and be even crabbier and more crotchety than usual. However, I hope that you are all having a lovely day.
More important, for those of you who like the t-shirt I got earlier this week - "My Marxist Feminist Dialectic Brings All the Boys to the Yard," it is still possible to order one at T-Shirt Hell, but only until Monday, Feb. 16. I am thinking of ordering another one just in case the one I got shrinks, as it is stretched to the max as it is. (For the record, the ringer t-shirts are a size smaller than the chart says.) This has been a public service announcement.
It's not just this year that I feel like Charlie Brown as Lucy pulled the football away as he lifted his foot to kick it. I've always hated Valentine's Day. Like the other types of VD, I find it's treacly ookiness just infects everything. My freshman year of high school I griped about it so much that when sweet but decidedly odd Mark Weinberg (not Mark Weingarten, for those of you who know either of them and get confused, as my friends did when I later had a crush on Weingarten and had to clarify that Mark Weinberg was "the Wrong One" and Weingarten was "Not the Wrong One," but I digress) gave me what was probably the kindest card anyone has ever given me on VD, saying that he knew that I hated the holiday but he hoped I would have a good day, that I missed that he was interested in me. I don't know if I would have been interested in him, but man, did I waste that opportunity to thank someone for doing something really nice for me. (Fast forward to next VD when I was grounded and Mr. X [name removed at his request, 11/17/09] showed up at my house while I was doing laundry to give me a rose and I basically slammed the door in his face because I was a stupid insensitive fucking bitch and I will forever feel guilty about that because even if I didn't like him, I should have been nicer. But I digress again.)
The point is, VD annoys me and causes me to grouse and be even crabbier and more crotchety than usual. However, I hope that you are all having a lovely day.
More important, for those of you who like the t-shirt I got earlier this week - "My Marxist Feminist Dialectic Brings All the Boys to the Yard," it is still possible to order one at T-Shirt Hell, but only until Monday, Feb. 16. I am thinking of ordering another one just in case the one I got shrinks, as it is stretched to the max as it is. (For the record, the ringer t-shirts are a size smaller than the chart says.) This has been a public service announcement.
Friday, February 13, 2009
What? Who Am I and How Did I Get Here?
My future is grim. Case in point: this morning I arrived at a doctor's appointment with a coat, scarf, hat, mittens, backpack, and bottle of water. Before leaving the exam room, I put on my coat and scarf, then attempted to grab my hat and mittens, but they were nowhere to be found.
"Shit, I hope they are in the waiting room," I muttered to myself. Then I headed over to check out. After paying, I ducked back into the lobby and sure enough, my hat and mittens were on the chair I used. Fine. I put them on and left for work.
As I walked to the subway, I noticed that my throat was dry. "Damn, I wish I had a drink," I thought. And that's when I realized that I left my water bottle in the bathroom at the doctor's office. Sigh.
I am only 33 and senile already. It's amazing that I remember the password to my blogging account. (I guess my brain knows what's really important.) I'm so fucked.
"Shit, I hope they are in the waiting room," I muttered to myself. Then I headed over to check out. After paying, I ducked back into the lobby and sure enough, my hat and mittens were on the chair I used. Fine. I put them on and left for work.
As I walked to the subway, I noticed that my throat was dry. "Damn, I wish I had a drink," I thought. And that's when I realized that I left my water bottle in the bathroom at the doctor's office. Sigh.
I am only 33 and senile already. It's amazing that I remember the password to my blogging account. (I guess my brain knows what's really important.) I'm so fucked.
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Good Deals
Although I swore I would never shop at Century 21 Department Store again after I read an article about the people who own it (they are Syrian Jews who look down on other Jews as unworthy), I found myself drawn in to their show store during lunch today as if it were a magnet and I were steel dust. (Or whatever they use in those little "games" they used to give out in goodie bags with a magnet that lets you put a beard on a 2-D drawing of a bald guy.) I found these amazing rain boots, with pink sock inserts to keep my icy feet warm, for only ten bucks!!!
The tag claims that they were originally $138 (they're Lilly Pulitzer, so I suppose that is possible), which Century 21 marked down to $49.99, then sold out of desperation for a mere ten smackers. For that price, I don't feel like I am giving my hard earned money over to people who will shun me - I feel like I am stealing from them. That makes me as gleeful as the hideous delightfulness of the boots themselves.
It's a good thing that I bought them, because the temperature dropped dramatically and a cold wind kicked up (it nearly blew the bag out of my clutching hands as I walked out of the store, and later propelled me across a street that I didn't want to cross it was so strong) over the course of the day, so they kept my legs nice and toasty on my way home from work. At home, I discovered Good Deal II:
OK, the t-shirt cost $20 (after a 20% discount, even!), which is not a good deal at all, and the assholes size chart was wrong, so it is absurdly tight, but it is possible the most awesome shirt ever. (In case it is not clear, it reads: "My marxist feminist dialectic brings all the boys to the yard," which for those who are somehow less culturally tuned in than I am, is a take off on this horribly catchy Kellis song, "Milkshake," in which her "milkshake," brings all the boys to the yard, "milkshake" meaning her boobs.) Just totally awesome. I can't wait to wear it somewhere.
The tag claims that they were originally $138 (they're Lilly Pulitzer, so I suppose that is possible), which Century 21 marked down to $49.99, then sold out of desperation for a mere ten smackers. For that price, I don't feel like I am giving my hard earned money over to people who will shun me - I feel like I am stealing from them. That makes me as gleeful as the hideous delightfulness of the boots themselves.
It's a good thing that I bought them, because the temperature dropped dramatically and a cold wind kicked up (it nearly blew the bag out of my clutching hands as I walked out of the store, and later propelled me across a street that I didn't want to cross it was so strong) over the course of the day, so they kept my legs nice and toasty on my way home from work. At home, I discovered Good Deal II:
OK, the t-shirt cost $20 (after a 20% discount, even!), which is not a good deal at all, and the assholes size chart was wrong, so it is absurdly tight, but it is possible the most awesome shirt ever. (In case it is not clear, it reads: "My marxist feminist dialectic brings all the boys to the yard," which for those who are somehow less culturally tuned in than I am, is a take off on this horribly catchy Kellis song, "Milkshake," in which her "milkshake," brings all the boys to the yard, "milkshake" meaning her boobs.) Just totally awesome. I can't wait to wear it somewhere.
Tuesday, February 10, 2009
The "C" Word
Sunday was not a relaxing day. I spent a good portion of the day ensconced in the kitchen engaging in the "c" word. That's right, I cooked.
There is almost no chore I hate more than cooking. I'd rather do laundry, vacuum, mop, change Tycho the Giant Rabbit's litter, and wash the dishes than cook. Cooking stresses me. There's measuring things and timing them, and if I fuck up, then I wasted untold dollars worth of food and still have nothing to eat. I know that many people enjoy cooking and find it relaxing and fun, but II think they are insane, especially if they share all that good food with me when I've done nothing but watch them toil and slave. When it comes to preparing food for myself, I am very happy with toasting an multi-grain English muffin and smearing some non-salmonella organic peanut butter (made at my local grocery store) on it. Yum. I even cook eggs for myself without hating it too much. That's my limit.
I found myself sweating it up in the kitchen on Sunday because I decided to try the South Beach Diet. In November 2006, I was diagnosed with insulin resistance and told to control my carbs to prevent diabetes. Since my dad and bubbe have type 2 diabetes, and I would prefer to avoid the disease for as long as possible, I followed a strict diet for a month, then fell off the wagon and ate poorly for two years or so. This led not only to me looking like I shoplift turkeys in my work pants, but also probably to a worsened prediabetic stage, if that makes any sense.
Overall, South Beach seems fairly easy to follow and is a good way to control carbs. I thought I would try some of the recipes, and of course I forgot that I didn't have some of the ingredients (like shredded cheese), so I spent 30 minutes chopping pieces of string cheese into cheese shreds so that my crustless veggie quiche cups would come out. Then I made balsamic vinaigrette, but the need for a jar led me to open a jar of salsa in the fridge that had bubbly mold. Finally, I sauteed some chicken in olive oil, added onions, garlic, and chicken broth, and worried that the chicken was not cooked enough.
Tonight, mahi mahi with garlic made in the broiler. I think that any weight loss from this diet will be from all the work I am doing to fucking make something to eat. Jesus, I don't know how people do this all the time for their families!
There is almost no chore I hate more than cooking. I'd rather do laundry, vacuum, mop, change Tycho the Giant Rabbit's litter, and wash the dishes than cook. Cooking stresses me. There's measuring things and timing them, and if I fuck up, then I wasted untold dollars worth of food and still have nothing to eat. I know that many people enjoy cooking and find it relaxing and fun, but II think they are insane, especially if they share all that good food with me when I've done nothing but watch them toil and slave. When it comes to preparing food for myself, I am very happy with toasting an multi-grain English muffin and smearing some non-salmonella organic peanut butter (made at my local grocery store) on it. Yum. I even cook eggs for myself without hating it too much. That's my limit.
I found myself sweating it up in the kitchen on Sunday because I decided to try the South Beach Diet. In November 2006, I was diagnosed with insulin resistance and told to control my carbs to prevent diabetes. Since my dad and bubbe have type 2 diabetes, and I would prefer to avoid the disease for as long as possible, I followed a strict diet for a month, then fell off the wagon and ate poorly for two years or so. This led not only to me looking like I shoplift turkeys in my work pants, but also probably to a worsened prediabetic stage, if that makes any sense.
Overall, South Beach seems fairly easy to follow and is a good way to control carbs. I thought I would try some of the recipes, and of course I forgot that I didn't have some of the ingredients (like shredded cheese), so I spent 30 minutes chopping pieces of string cheese into cheese shreds so that my crustless veggie quiche cups would come out. Then I made balsamic vinaigrette, but the need for a jar led me to open a jar of salsa in the fridge that had bubbly mold. Finally, I sauteed some chicken in olive oil, added onions, garlic, and chicken broth, and worried that the chicken was not cooked enough.
Tonight, mahi mahi with garlic made in the broiler. I think that any weight loss from this diet will be from all the work I am doing to fucking make something to eat. Jesus, I don't know how people do this all the time for their families!
Monday, February 9, 2009
Turkey in the Pants
As per the heeelarious Shonda's request, here is evidence of my fear that I will be stopped at a grocery store for attempting to shoplift a turkey by stuffing it down the front of my pants:
Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.
Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."
For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.
Please keep in mind that I was even wearing a girdle when I snapped this fine self-portrait (yes, I resorted to Assets, a Spanx spin-off undergarment that I bought at Target for $10 hoping for miracles), so it generally looks a bit bulkier. Also, I do not think that I look like I am shoplifting a turkey in my pants when I wearing jeans. There is just something extra unflattering about "work" pants. Ugh.
Incidentally, the title of this post reminds me of a song that my sister and I listened to when we jumped on my bed pretending that we were gymnastics teachers, "Turkey in the Straw." The song was on the awesome Goin' Quackers album, featuring Donald Duck. It also had classics like "I'm in Love with the Big Blue Frog" and "Throw It Out the Window."
For the record (heh heh), we preferred "Disco Mickey Mouse" when we did bad things like jump on the bed. (The title track was excellently paced, as was "Watch Out for Goofy," a song warning women that he would dance on their feet.) I think "Sesame Street Fever" came in third. Damn, you gotta love the early '80s for bringing disco to kids.
Saturday, February 7, 2009
Adventure at the Pharmacy
Wednesday night (really, Thursday morning as it was after midnight), I left the 24 hour walk-in clinic, clinging to a prescription for an antibiotic in my gloved hand as the cold wind whipped around me. The doctor at the clinic had guided me to a 24 hour pharmacy that was an avenue west and a block north of the clinic. (Gotta love New York City!) As I walked over, I prayed that the wait would not be too long.
At the pharmacy, it took me a few minutes to get the pharmacist's attention. He told me that he was finishing a prescription for some other people, so it would be about 25 minutes. Said other people were waiting on the only two chairs available, so I plopped myself down on the floor in front of a display of reading glasses.
Not only was I exhausted, but I was also a little bit hungry. I didn't finish the tuna sandwich I had purchased for dinner, so I pulled the remaining half out of my bag and chowed down. It's been taking me an extra long time to eat because I am so stuffed up that I cannot chew and breathe at the same time. As I gasped between bites, it occurred to me that I looked like a deranged homeless person. I was wearing my hat, hood, and scarf, sitting on the floor of a CVS in the middle of the night,snot dripping down my face, coughing, eating a tuna sandwich as if everyone eats tuna sandwiches on the floor of CVS at 12:30 AM.
Fortunately, no one said anything to me about it, and the couple waiting for their prescription moved away from the chairs after a few minutes so he could verbally abuse her without me witnessing it, but that's another story. Man, that was one crazy night.
At the pharmacy, it took me a few minutes to get the pharmacist's attention. He told me that he was finishing a prescription for some other people, so it would be about 25 minutes. Said other people were waiting on the only two chairs available, so I plopped myself down on the floor in front of a display of reading glasses.
Not only was I exhausted, but I was also a little bit hungry. I didn't finish the tuna sandwich I had purchased for dinner, so I pulled the remaining half out of my bag and chowed down. It's been taking me an extra long time to eat because I am so stuffed up that I cannot chew and breathe at the same time. As I gasped between bites, it occurred to me that I looked like a deranged homeless person. I was wearing my hat, hood, and scarf, sitting on the floor of a CVS in the middle of the night,snot dripping down my face, coughing, eating a tuna sandwich as if everyone eats tuna sandwiches on the floor of CVS at 12:30 AM.
Fortunately, no one said anything to me about it, and the couple waiting for their prescription moved away from the chairs after a few minutes so he could verbally abuse her without me witnessing it, but that's another story. Man, that was one crazy night.
Friday, February 6, 2009
It's Me or Them
Yesterday I woke up on the verge of tears. Although I had not slept well over the course of the night (repeatedly woke up coughing, to blow nose, or with parched mouth and throat), I still was unconscious enough to dream vividly. In my dream, I had stayed home from work that day and was sick and lonely. (Not so unrealistic.) When Husband arrived home from work, I said something about watching TV together or whatever.
"Oh no," he replied. "I'm going out tonight."
"What? Please stay home with me. I'm sick! And lonely! (I'm paraphrasing here.)
"Not a chance. I have tickets to see the Harlem Globe Trotters! I've been looking forward to it for weeks!"
"No, please don't go." The water works were starting.
"It's the Harlem Globe Trotters! No way I'm missing this. Good luck!" he said as he took off.
Antibiotics lead to weird dreams.
"Oh no," he replied. "I'm going out tonight."
"What? Please stay home with me. I'm sick! And lonely! (I'm paraphrasing here.)
"Not a chance. I have tickets to see the Harlem Globe Trotters! I've been looking forward to it for weeks!"
"No, please don't go." The water works were starting.
"It's the Harlem Globe Trotters! No way I'm missing this. Good luck!" he said as he took off.
Antibiotics lead to weird dreams.
Thursday, February 5, 2009
Infallible, But Only Human
This is what I hate about people with God complexes (and yes, I was cracking up as I wrote that, which led to a bit of a coughing jag - divine punishment, perhaps?) - they tell us commoners that we need to do what they say because they are infallible, but then when they are wrong, we are supposed to look the other way because they are only human. Hey buddies - you can't have it both ways.
Personally, I think that this is why doctors are sued for malpractice so often. Many fine upstanding members of the medical community exist and are perfectly delightful people whose company I enjoy, but their colleagues tend to be fucking assholes. They act as though they know everything, are enraged when you question something they told you, and then when they fuck up, they don't understand why people get upset. "I'm only human." Fine. Then get off your pedestal and don't pretend you are all-knowing and all powerful in the first place and I'll accept your all too human mistakes. Otherwise, suck my dick.
The medical profession aside, what provoked my rant today is an article I saw in The New York Times about Pope Benedict XVI and the scandal with accepting a bishop who denies the Holocaust back into the Vatican bosom. Infallible means you are never wrong. Ever. But according to the article, "The Vatican says that Benedict had been unaware of a cleric's offensive comments." Really? Well, shit, if the Pope can't figure out who is an anti-Semetic crazy despite numerous public statements from said crazy, I sure as fuck don't believe he's receiving the proper messages about birth control and other issues that the Pope supposedly has more authority on than mere mortals like me. If you are going to claim infallibility, you better never, ever get caught claiming that you don't know what you are doing. I wish I could sue him for faith malpractice.
Sorry, you can't have it both ways.
Personally, I think that this is why doctors are sued for malpractice so often. Many fine upstanding members of the medical community exist and are perfectly delightful people whose company I enjoy, but their colleagues tend to be fucking assholes. They act as though they know everything, are enraged when you question something they told you, and then when they fuck up, they don't understand why people get upset. "I'm only human." Fine. Then get off your pedestal and don't pretend you are all-knowing and all powerful in the first place and I'll accept your all too human mistakes. Otherwise, suck my dick.
The medical profession aside, what provoked my rant today is an article I saw in The New York Times about Pope Benedict XVI and the scandal with accepting a bishop who denies the Holocaust back into the Vatican bosom. Infallible means you are never wrong. Ever. But according to the article, "The Vatican says that Benedict had been unaware of a cleric's offensive comments." Really? Well, shit, if the Pope can't figure out who is an anti-Semetic crazy despite numerous public statements from said crazy, I sure as fuck don't believe he's receiving the proper messages about birth control and other issues that the Pope supposedly has more authority on than mere mortals like me. If you are going to claim infallibility, you better never, ever get caught claiming that you don't know what you are doing. I wish I could sue him for faith malpractice.
Sorry, you can't have it both ways.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Note to Self: Listen toBlog Readers,* Not Allergist
There's a first for everything. Once I had a sinus infection that was so bad I developed pink eye and laryngitis before it was properly diagnosed.** Another time in college I had a urinary tract infection that I somehow did not notice until it became so bad that it made me vomit.*** Today, I discovered that a sinus infection can get so bad that it gives a person a toothache.
On Saturday, I called my allergist to tell him that I had a lot of yellow mucus that reminded me of the slime that they used to dump on the kids on You Can't Do that on Television. He told me that I should wait until I was sick for a week before he would consider antibiotics. Now, although this is the same doctor who insisted that I take Singular pills (I do not and never have) when I called him to get a refill for my inhaler, this sounded OK to me since I worry about the overuse of antibiotics and the super bugs they create. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, dammit, so I went about my business.
I swear I even started to feel better. "I see the light at the end of the tunnel," I told a co-worker today at lunchtime after hacking up four pounds of neon mucus into a Kleenex at my desk. She looked a bit skeptical, but said that was great. Then around 3:00, I noticed a dull throbbing in my upper left molar. This eventually spread to my lower left molar. By the time I got out of class at 10:20, I had to hold my face in my hand.
Fortunately, the 24 hour walk-in clinic is not far from school, so I headed over there. I won't go into the hour long wait I experienced although I was the only person there (the doctor apologized profusely and said that no one should have to wait when she's sick; I am easy to mollify), but when she asked me if I had tooth pain, I felt a little less insane. "How did you know?" I asked. "Oh, it means that there's an infection," she smiled. As an experienced sinus infection sufferer, I've never had this before, but hey, first time for everything.
Now I am on some sort of super antibiotic which will hopefully clear up my head infection, but also wreak havoc on the rest of me. (Other good reasons to steer clear of antibiotics if they are unnecessary: 1. disruption of birth control pill; 2. potential for explosive diarrhea; 3. potential for massive vaginal yeast infection. When the doctor said that I had to use condoms for six week and then mentioned the diarrhea and yeast infection, I asked her who would want to have sex under those conditions any way?)
Time for a new allergist. And thanks everyone for wishing me well! Now I am finally on the way. I hope.
*Especially when one reader is an excellent ass surgeon.
**Thank you, NYU student health center for administering pregnancy tests and insisting that I did not have a sinus infection every time I went in to get help for my congestion.
***Seriously, I'm not sure how the fiery burn when I pissed - and constant need to go - didn't tip me off.
On Saturday, I called my allergist to tell him that I had a lot of yellow mucus that reminded me of the slime that they used to dump on the kids on You Can't Do that on Television. He told me that I should wait until I was sick for a week before he would consider antibiotics. Now, although this is the same doctor who insisted that I take Singular pills (I do not and never have) when I called him to get a refill for my inhaler, this sounded OK to me since I worry about the overuse of antibiotics and the super bugs they create. I want to be part of the solution, not the problem, dammit, so I went about my business.
I swear I even started to feel better. "I see the light at the end of the tunnel," I told a co-worker today at lunchtime after hacking up four pounds of neon mucus into a Kleenex at my desk. She looked a bit skeptical, but said that was great. Then around 3:00, I noticed a dull throbbing in my upper left molar. This eventually spread to my lower left molar. By the time I got out of class at 10:20, I had to hold my face in my hand.
Fortunately, the 24 hour walk-in clinic is not far from school, so I headed over there. I won't go into the hour long wait I experienced although I was the only person there (the doctor apologized profusely and said that no one should have to wait when she's sick; I am easy to mollify), but when she asked me if I had tooth pain, I felt a little less insane. "How did you know?" I asked. "Oh, it means that there's an infection," she smiled. As an experienced sinus infection sufferer, I've never had this before, but hey, first time for everything.
Now I am on some sort of super antibiotic which will hopefully clear up my head infection, but also wreak havoc on the rest of me. (Other good reasons to steer clear of antibiotics if they are unnecessary: 1. disruption of birth control pill; 2. potential for explosive diarrhea; 3. potential for massive vaginal yeast infection. When the doctor said that I had to use condoms for six week and then mentioned the diarrhea and yeast infection, I asked her who would want to have sex under those conditions any way?)
Time for a new allergist. And thanks everyone for wishing me well! Now I am finally on the way. I hope.
*Especially when one reader is an excellent ass surgeon.
**Thank you, NYU student health center for administering pregnancy tests and insisting that I did not have a sinus infection every time I went in to get help for my congestion.
***Seriously, I'm not sure how the fiery burn when I pissed - and constant need to go - didn't tip me off.
Tuesday, February 3, 2009
Buy Stock in Kleenex (or Puffs - Whatever)
The small mound of flesh between my upper lip and the bottom of my nose is raw and red. I work near the American Stock Exchange, and I think if the economy weren't so bad, people would assume I'm a cokehead as I walk to and from work. Or do coke addicts not have red streaks coming out of their noses? (I only know one coke fiend, and I always forget that she is a cokehead because she looks so normal and I like her a lot, but I digress...)
If I'm not mistaken for an avid consumer of white powder, the other alternative is a victim of advanced stage syphilis. OK, I don't know anyone with this condition either, but I have read that it can lead to the suffer's nose rotting off. Parts of my nose look like they could slough off my face at any moment. The irritation is so bad that regular lotion or moisturizer does nothing; I smear Vaseline on my face. The shininess does not help the overall appearance.
The good news is that although I look like a coke addled syphilitic person who shoplifted a Butterball turkey by shoving it down the front of my pants,* I believe that the end if in sight. Only a few more nights of the toxic shot of NyQuil, and I'm on my way back to whatever passes for normal for me. At any rate, I've probably used 400,000 Kleenexes throughout this week-plus ailment, so I'm thinking that a decent investment these days is in soft tissue products. At this point, anything not soft is like rubbing sandpaper on my face, and I figure that all the zillions of other people who are sick right now are coughing up (heh heh) to buy the good stuff.
*This has nothing to do with being ill, and everything to do with looking bad in the nice work pants I am forced to wear to work every day. Oh flattering jeans! How I miss thee!
If I'm not mistaken for an avid consumer of white powder, the other alternative is a victim of advanced stage syphilis. OK, I don't know anyone with this condition either, but I have read that it can lead to the suffer's nose rotting off. Parts of my nose look like they could slough off my face at any moment. The irritation is so bad that regular lotion or moisturizer does nothing; I smear Vaseline on my face. The shininess does not help the overall appearance.
The good news is that although I look like a coke addled syphilitic person who shoplifted a Butterball turkey by shoving it down the front of my pants,* I believe that the end if in sight. Only a few more nights of the toxic shot of NyQuil, and I'm on my way back to whatever passes for normal for me. At any rate, I've probably used 400,000 Kleenexes throughout this week-plus ailment, so I'm thinking that a decent investment these days is in soft tissue products. At this point, anything not soft is like rubbing sandpaper on my face, and I figure that all the zillions of other people who are sick right now are coughing up (heh heh) to buy the good stuff.
*This has nothing to do with being ill, and everything to do with looking bad in the nice work pants I am forced to wear to work every day. Oh flattering jeans! How I miss thee!
Sunday, February 1, 2009
Stats
The year is 1/12 (8.4%) over already. For some reason, I find that reassuring.
I have completed four full work weeks (20 work days) already. I missed one (Friday) due to illness.
Thanks to a debacle* that had me spazzing for an hour on Friday while I was supposed to be convalescing, I finally discovered that from 8/1/08 to 11/1/08, I sold 960 copies of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. I don't know if that is considered good or not, but I'm pleased anyway. (BIG THANK YOU to all of you nice people who bought a copy or, in some cases, as many as fifteen - which is 1.5% of all sales. I'm lucky to have such supportive friends.)
I called my doctor yesterday to report my ailing condition. He said I should wait at least another 7-10 days before considering antibiotics. I'm at the point where I'm blowing out all the really yellow, thick, sometimes bloody (it's dry in here) mucus, so I suspect I'll be better by then.
Today is the second day in a month in which the temperature is expected to go above 35 degrees. (Although it is 30 now, it is supposed to get up to 45.) I have not left the house in 2 days. I'm debating whether I should go to a "porkapalooza" Super Bowl party catered by the infamous chow hound restaurant Momofuku or continue my self-imposed house arrest.
Regardless, happy first day of February and enjoy the 32nd day of 2009!
*Oh, the debacle is that my publisher is out of business. My agent received a letter on Jan. 30 that was dated Dec. 24 and had been sent to the wrong address informing us that most of the catalog was sold to another publisher, they didn't pick up my book. Hence, all copies were now remaindered (i.e. - unavailable for distribution) and my contract granted the rights back to me and the option to purchase them for $1.88 per copy to find a new distributor. FREAK OUT!!! I didn't even know how many copies sold. (And I still don't know how many were printed.) An hour later, my agent called back. He tracked the publisher down and was told "to disregard the letter. That deal fell through, and we sold the catalog to another company, which did pick up Susan's [sic] book." My heart began beating at a more regular pace again.
I have completed four full work weeks (20 work days) already. I missed one (Friday) due to illness.
Thanks to a debacle* that had me spazzing for an hour on Friday while I was supposed to be convalescing, I finally discovered that from 8/1/08 to 11/1/08, I sold 960 copies of my book, Off the Beaten (Subway) Track. I don't know if that is considered good or not, but I'm pleased anyway. (BIG THANK YOU to all of you nice people who bought a copy or, in some cases, as many as fifteen - which is 1.5% of all sales. I'm lucky to have such supportive friends.)
I called my doctor yesterday to report my ailing condition. He said I should wait at least another 7-10 days before considering antibiotics. I'm at the point where I'm blowing out all the really yellow, thick, sometimes bloody (it's dry in here) mucus, so I suspect I'll be better by then.
Today is the second day in a month in which the temperature is expected to go above 35 degrees. (Although it is 30 now, it is supposed to get up to 45.) I have not left the house in 2 days. I'm debating whether I should go to a "porkapalooza" Super Bowl party catered by the infamous chow hound restaurant Momofuku or continue my self-imposed house arrest.
Regardless, happy first day of February and enjoy the 32nd day of 2009!
*Oh, the debacle is that my publisher is out of business. My agent received a letter on Jan. 30 that was dated Dec. 24 and had been sent to the wrong address informing us that most of the catalog was sold to another publisher, they didn't pick up my book. Hence, all copies were now remaindered (i.e. - unavailable for distribution) and my contract granted the rights back to me and the option to purchase them for $1.88 per copy to find a new distributor. FREAK OUT!!! I didn't even know how many copies sold. (And I still don't know how many were printed.) An hour later, my agent called back. He tracked the publisher down and was told "to disregard the letter. That deal fell through, and we sold the catalog to another company, which did pick up Susan's [sic] book." My heart began beating at a more regular pace again.
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