I've been tagged by Age is all in the mind. In my year+ of blogging, no one has ever tagged me before. I am very honored. *Swoon.*
THE RULES (which I copied directly from DeeJay): Each player of this game starts with the "six weird things about you" blog post. People who get tagged need to write their own six weird things post and state the rules clearly. At the end of the post tag six more people and don’t forget to leave a comment on their blog to tell them they have been tagged and tell them to read your blog.)
Six Weird Things about Me (many of which have already been revealed over time)
1. I am a genetic mutant. Sure that seems obvious to anyone who has read anything here. But I really mean it. I don’t have a full set of adult teeth. No second molars ever developed on my lower jaw, which caused my upper second molars to continue growing and growing and growing, until they were many times the size of normal molars and tore up my gums where teeth should have been. Thus I had the upper molars removed. That’s when the periodontist (who did work on most of the Seinfeld cast, incidentally) discovered that instead of wisdom teeth, I had regular teeth developing all the way in the back of my top jaw. Craziness.
2. I am 31 years old and married and still sleep with my bear companion (and aspiring but neglected model), Theo. (Maybe this is less weird than sad and pathetic, but he is very comfy, dammit!)
3. I am fascinated by scars, bruises, and what my internal organs look like.
4. Jizz is one of my favorite words. So few words even have one in them, and yet jizz has not one z, but two! Two zs!!! Plus, the combination of the letter j and double – double! - z is oddly irresistible. It just is pleasing to say aloud. Especially when inappropriate. And, in Scrabble, the word can rack up a jillion points if you can get the other players to accept it. Each z is worth 10 points, and the j is eight. Throw that on a triple word score, and you will scorch the other players! Really, what is not to love about the word jizz?
5. Despite all of the semi-revealing and insane things that I share on my blog and in person, I am sort of shy. It is really hard for me to deal with large groups when I don’t know anyone. Networking? Utter failure. Conferences? I wind up standing alone in the corner eating large quantities of cheese and oozing nervous discomfort.
6. I hate standing out. Not always, but if I go to a wedding or conference or something else along those lines involving a gathering of strangers, it upsets me to no end if I am over- or under-dressed for the occasion. I don’t know why this is, especially since I used to dress like a freak when I was younger and somehow never noticed the hordes of people staring at me while my family cowered in shame. You are supposed to get more confident and comfortable with yourself as you age. This is exactly the opposite for me.
OK, now you know a bit more about little old me. (The list could go on forever.) Wasn’t that fun? I thought it was. Seriously! I am supposed to tag six people, but I am not going to fully follow the rules. I am tagging anyone who reads this post, but only if they want to write on this topic. There you have it.
Tuesday, January 9, 2007
Come One, Come All!
If you are in New York (or will be on Thursday night), and support the slaughter of innocent unborn children as strongly I do, I hereby invite you to an exciting event at NARAL NY. I’ll be speaking on a panel about how lack of access to abortion (89% of counties in the US do not have any abortion services available) forces women into either more expensive, later procedures or very dangerous situations. Having a legal right to something is utterly useless if one can’t actually take action on it.
I’m sure I’ll want to grab a bite afterward because nothing works up an appetite like talking about the right to kill babies. I think it has to do with my Jewish heritage. It is common knowledge in some communities that the blood of Christian babies is a key ingredient in matzos. Thus thinking about abortion clearly triggers a link in my head to traditional Jewish cooking, which obviously makes me hungry.*
Regardless of my need for specialty foods, I hope to see you there.
*Forget that I actually immensely dislike matzos or actual murder. It is of no consequence to my point here.
I’m sure I’ll want to grab a bite afterward because nothing works up an appetite like talking about the right to kill babies. I think it has to do with my Jewish heritage. It is common knowledge in some communities that the blood of Christian babies is a key ingredient in matzos. Thus thinking about abortion clearly triggers a link in my head to traditional Jewish cooking, which obviously makes me hungry.*
Regardless of my need for specialty foods, I hope to see you there.
*Forget that I actually immensely dislike matzos or actual murder. It is of no consequence to my point here.
Monday, January 8, 2007
Get Your Mean On
So I accomplished pretty much nothing thus far today. In my search for a low carb crock pot cook book,* I did verify that it seems impossible to follow a low carb diet that is also low in fat. This is a wee problem (unless you are near me when I have gas, then it is a very large and unfortunate problem) because my mysterious digestive ailment requires me to restrict my fat intake. I suppose the solution to all this is to eat salad for the rest of my miserable, cupcake-loving life. Although even some fruits and veggies are restricted in low carb diets. Insanity, I tell you.
Another thing that I did that does not count as accomplishing anything is catch up on my favorite really awful blogger. In the past, before I had any netiquette at all, I complained about her blog here. I also left some less-than-considerate comments (I believe the term “hack” was thrown down) on her site, which was not the right thing to do, even if it is true. I also described about it as like “a gruesome car accident” which I could not stop staring at. Then I realized that I had the wrong mindset about the whole thing, and that her blog was, in fact, utterly hilarious in its pretentiousness and observations about New York. Hence I read big chunks of it once in a while to chuckle.
Anyway, this all led me to the brilliant site Trainwrecks. Yessss, it is evil and mean and highly entertaining. Hee hee. Oh, how it appeals to my hideous bitch side. These people are brilliant. Truly, I am jealous.
*Crock pot cooking is about all I can handle other than making eggs in various styles.
Another thing that I did that does not count as accomplishing anything is catch up on my favorite really awful blogger. In the past, before I had any netiquette at all, I complained about her blog here. I also left some less-than-considerate comments (I believe the term “hack” was thrown down) on her site, which was not the right thing to do, even if it is true. I also described about it as like “a gruesome car accident” which I could not stop staring at. Then I realized that I had the wrong mindset about the whole thing, and that her blog was, in fact, utterly hilarious in its pretentiousness and observations about New York. Hence I read big chunks of it once in a while to chuckle.
Anyway, this all led me to the brilliant site Trainwrecks. Yessss, it is evil and mean and highly entertaining. Hee hee. Oh, how it appeals to my hideous bitch side. These people are brilliant. Truly, I am jealous.
*Crock pot cooking is about all I can handle other than making eggs in various styles.
New Year's Resignation #1
The world is full of oxymorons. For example, did last week seem to simultaneously drag on forever and yet be over instantly? I’m not sure how that manages to happen.
Since the first week of the new year is done and gone, I thought reflect upon my new year’s resignations. I didn’t make any resolutions because I’m not resolved to make changes in my life; I’m resigned to them. At the end of last year, I finally received an official diagnosis on one of my mystery ailments, which is polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is a lot like Iraq right now: the rat bastard cyst insurgents have control of my ovaries, and from there are occupying parts of my adrenal system. Hence I am in need of excess insulin to properly process sugars, which means that eventually my pancreas is going to throw its hands up in disgust, refuse to take any more abuse, and just stop working. To help the overtaxed pancreas continue to do the right thing for as long as possible, I need to switch to a low carb diet. That’s my resignation.
So far, I have been very carefully watching what I eat. Yes, I watch as I stuff all sorts of food in my gullet. Sure, I am reducing carbs, but somehow replacing them (almost) solely with cheese. I do love cheese. My ass, both literally and figuratively, does not. It has been smelly new year thus far.
Since the first week of the new year is done and gone, I thought reflect upon my new year’s resignations. I didn’t make any resolutions because I’m not resolved to make changes in my life; I’m resigned to them. At the end of last year, I finally received an official diagnosis on one of my mystery ailments, which is polycystic ovarian syndrome (PCOS). PCOS is a lot like Iraq right now: the rat bastard cyst insurgents have control of my ovaries, and from there are occupying parts of my adrenal system. Hence I am in need of excess insulin to properly process sugars, which means that eventually my pancreas is going to throw its hands up in disgust, refuse to take any more abuse, and just stop working. To help the overtaxed pancreas continue to do the right thing for as long as possible, I need to switch to a low carb diet. That’s my resignation.
So far, I have been very carefully watching what I eat. Yes, I watch as I stuff all sorts of food in my gullet. Sure, I am reducing carbs, but somehow replacing them (almost) solely with cheese. I do love cheese. My ass, both literally and figuratively, does not. It has been smelly new year thus far.
Sunday, January 7, 2007
The First Sat. of 2007: My Hole is Filled
Saturday morning I had the hole in my tooth filled. My new dentist was referred to me by a friend from grad school. I figured it would be excruciatingly painful, as the staff already showed their tendency towards sadism by offering me an appointment at 8 AM when I called on Tuesday to say I needed a dentist. Yes, you read that correctly - Saturday at 8 AM. What freak dentist gets up to start drilling holes in people’s mouths at that ungodly hour?!?! Also, let me mention that this practice is in Brooklyn, which while conveniently located off the express subway line that is near by apartment, is still in Brooklyn.
Despite arising from a deep slumber at 6:45 to take the subway to go to the fucking dentist!, I actually was in a good mood. It was absurdly warm out already, the subway came right away, was empty, and moved fast (oddly, no one was waiting on the platforms at each stop so early on a Sat. morning), and the neighborhood the office is located in is lovely. I walked around a bit, appreciating the quiet and the old charm of the apartments and buildings.
Even more surprising, when I arrived at the dentist’s office, I discovered that he was rather easy on the eyes. My friend told me that this was a father-son practice, but not that the son (who she sees) has such a nice face to stare at while he drills holes in your teeth. Fortunately, I did not need Novocain. (The needle in my gum kills me, and although the dental technician insisted that this doctor is especially skilled at shooting people up with the numbing agent, which I found somewhat creepy, I declined to use it right off the bat.)
So all’s well that ends well. I had my hole crammed up with filling, and another small cavity taken care of also. I took the subway home, arrived around 10 am, ate a small snack, and went back to sleep. Then I had bonding time with Future-Sister-in-Law, and after that walked around with Husband and purchased items with gift cards we received during the holidays. Can’t beat that.
Despite arising from a deep slumber at 6:45 to take the subway to go to the fucking dentist!, I actually was in a good mood. It was absurdly warm out already, the subway came right away, was empty, and moved fast (oddly, no one was waiting on the platforms at each stop so early on a Sat. morning), and the neighborhood the office is located in is lovely. I walked around a bit, appreciating the quiet and the old charm of the apartments and buildings.
Even more surprising, when I arrived at the dentist’s office, I discovered that he was rather easy on the eyes. My friend told me that this was a father-son practice, but not that the son (who she sees) has such a nice face to stare at while he drills holes in your teeth. Fortunately, I did not need Novocain. (The needle in my gum kills me, and although the dental technician insisted that this doctor is especially skilled at shooting people up with the numbing agent, which I found somewhat creepy, I declined to use it right off the bat.)
So all’s well that ends well. I had my hole crammed up with filling, and another small cavity taken care of also. I took the subway home, arrived around 10 am, ate a small snack, and went back to sleep. Then I had bonding time with Future-Sister-in-Law, and after that walked around with Husband and purchased items with gift cards we received during the holidays. Can’t beat that.
Friday, January 5, 2007
Douche Bags Get the Juices Flowing
A fellow BlogHer contributing editor brought this article to my attention: Why (Most) Women Should Not Run. The douche bag who wrote the article claims that because of physics, women who try to run just end up "hurt and saggy instead of cute and little," among other obnoxious statements. Well then. Although I run a few times a week and have never been hurt, I guess I should stop. Physics dictates it, right?
This ridiculous argument did get my brain juices flowing, though. When I was in first grade, I was diagnosed with bronchitis. During that time, I woke up one night gasping for breath. No matter what I did, I could not breathe. It was terrifying. The next day, the doctor said, "Ooops, did I say she had bronchitis. I meant asthma." I was in the hospital for a week, taking oxygen through a mask at times.
My family and I tried not let asthma get in my way. Although laughing hard could bring on a severe asthma attack sometimes, and every fall and spring I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night when I couldn't breathe, I remained an active normal kid. I took my inhaler when I was supposed to, sometimes other steroid medicines like prednisone, and moved on.
Then in third grade during gym class, I ran the 880 yard dash. I was the third person to finish, and pleased. I was a bit out of breath, so I followed my kind gym teacher's suggestion and sat down to try and control my breathing. After a few minutes, I was not getting better, so I asked him if I could go to the nurse for my medicine. Of course, he said sure, and off I went down the halls of my small elementary school.
I don't know what happened, but at some point in the hallway, things got much, much worse. I couldn't even walk it was so hard to breathe. I crawled. By the time I made it into the nurse's office, I was blue. Long story short, my mom and an ambulance were called, and I was carted away on a stretcher to the ER for the usual treatment: an adrenaline shot.
Clearly, I lived. But the incident has long term implications for me, my health, and my overall fitness and happiness. I was literally banned from running and other strenuous exercise. That was fine with me - I was terrified of having another asthma attack. However, the next year when puberty began its cruel grip on me, I really could have used a fitness regime. I gained weight. I used my asthma as a crutch to enable my adolescent laziness. I gained more weight. I also had my first bouts of depression. Exercise could have helped me through all of this - helping my moods with endorphins, control my weight, and increase my self-esteem. But I stayed sedentary.
Fast forward to January 1998: I was overweight and depressed. I wanted to make big changes in my health and fitness, so I forced myself to join a gym. A first, I just walked on a treadmill or rode the exercise bike. I was still scared to do more, and used it as an excuse to hold back at the gym. But over time, my interest in exercise increased and I found that for the first time in years, I wanted to run. I started jogging and to my surprise, I found that I loved it. My asthma, in fact, could handle it. Over the last few years, I kept increasing the speed and time on the treadmill and felt great.
Yesterday, I ran 5 miles. Sure, it took me 54 minutes and 10 seconds to do it, but I don't care. I will never win races or (probably) run a marathon. I am proud of myself, and I will continue to pace myself and run for as long as I am mobile. I hope no other women read this asshole's article and become discouraged.
This ridiculous argument did get my brain juices flowing, though. When I was in first grade, I was diagnosed with bronchitis. During that time, I woke up one night gasping for breath. No matter what I did, I could not breathe. It was terrifying. The next day, the doctor said, "Ooops, did I say she had bronchitis. I meant asthma." I was in the hospital for a week, taking oxygen through a mask at times.
My family and I tried not let asthma get in my way. Although laughing hard could bring on a severe asthma attack sometimes, and every fall and spring I was rushed to the ER in the middle of the night when I couldn't breathe, I remained an active normal kid. I took my inhaler when I was supposed to, sometimes other steroid medicines like prednisone, and moved on.
Then in third grade during gym class, I ran the 880 yard dash. I was the third person to finish, and pleased. I was a bit out of breath, so I followed my kind gym teacher's suggestion and sat down to try and control my breathing. After a few minutes, I was not getting better, so I asked him if I could go to the nurse for my medicine. Of course, he said sure, and off I went down the halls of my small elementary school.
I don't know what happened, but at some point in the hallway, things got much, much worse. I couldn't even walk it was so hard to breathe. I crawled. By the time I made it into the nurse's office, I was blue. Long story short, my mom and an ambulance were called, and I was carted away on a stretcher to the ER for the usual treatment: an adrenaline shot.
Clearly, I lived. But the incident has long term implications for me, my health, and my overall fitness and happiness. I was literally banned from running and other strenuous exercise. That was fine with me - I was terrified of having another asthma attack. However, the next year when puberty began its cruel grip on me, I really could have used a fitness regime. I gained weight. I used my asthma as a crutch to enable my adolescent laziness. I gained more weight. I also had my first bouts of depression. Exercise could have helped me through all of this - helping my moods with endorphins, control my weight, and increase my self-esteem. But I stayed sedentary.
Fast forward to January 1998: I was overweight and depressed. I wanted to make big changes in my health and fitness, so I forced myself to join a gym. A first, I just walked on a treadmill or rode the exercise bike. I was still scared to do more, and used it as an excuse to hold back at the gym. But over time, my interest in exercise increased and I found that for the first time in years, I wanted to run. I started jogging and to my surprise, I found that I loved it. My asthma, in fact, could handle it. Over the last few years, I kept increasing the speed and time on the treadmill and felt great.
Yesterday, I ran 5 miles. Sure, it took me 54 minutes and 10 seconds to do it, but I don't care. I will never win races or (probably) run a marathon. I am proud of myself, and I will continue to pace myself and run for as long as I am mobile. I hope no other women read this asshole's article and become discouraged.
He's a Genius
E.B. White was years ahead of his time. Not only did he foresee the future with his book Here is New York, but I discovered his knack for predicting the ways of Hollywood. This occurred to me while talking to Rebecca a few minutes ago about sequels.
She was reading a review of The Descent in Entertainment Weekly and mentioned that the American version has a different ending than the British version, in which no one emerges alive. Rebecca pointed out that American audiences can’t deal with the death of a movie hero(ine), and the studios will not let that happen anyway because they need profitable sequels, which brings me to E.B. White and Charlotte’s Web.
I read Charlotte’s Web one summer, maybe before 3rd or 4th grade. I was utterly inconsolable when Charlotte died. We were supposed to go to my grandparents’ house to celebrate my grandpa’s birthday, but I refused to leave my bed because I could not stop crying. (Incidentally, this is also the reaction I have every time I read that damn tearjerker Where the Red Fern Grows. I actually ruined a page in the book because I cried so hard it became soaked.) My mom eventually got me in a semi-presentable condition by reminding me that Charlotte’s daughters were there to carry on her legacies.
Before I get too choked up (and the lump is definitely forming in my throat), my point is that E.B. White gave the studios lots of spin-off movies by making sure that the book ended with Charlotte’s daughters. Mark my words: if the latest Charlotte movie makes money, we’ll be seeing more of those eight-legged critters.
She was reading a review of The Descent in Entertainment Weekly and mentioned that the American version has a different ending than the British version, in which no one emerges alive. Rebecca pointed out that American audiences can’t deal with the death of a movie hero(ine), and the studios will not let that happen anyway because they need profitable sequels, which brings me to E.B. White and Charlotte’s Web.
I read Charlotte’s Web one summer, maybe before 3rd or 4th grade. I was utterly inconsolable when Charlotte died. We were supposed to go to my grandparents’ house to celebrate my grandpa’s birthday, but I refused to leave my bed because I could not stop crying. (Incidentally, this is also the reaction I have every time I read that damn tearjerker Where the Red Fern Grows. I actually ruined a page in the book because I cried so hard it became soaked.) My mom eventually got me in a semi-presentable condition by reminding me that Charlotte’s daughters were there to carry on her legacies.
Before I get too choked up (and the lump is definitely forming in my throat), my point is that E.B. White gave the studios lots of spin-off movies by making sure that the book ended with Charlotte’s daughters. Mark my words: if the latest Charlotte movie makes money, we’ll be seeing more of those eight-legged critters.
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