I'd Rather be at Work

I sat with my feet in the stirrups, knees up by my ears, clad only in one of those gowns they clearly give you to make you feel even smaller and more vulnerable than you're feeling in the first place. Well, and socks, of course.

She stuffed me full of cold metal implements, as I was paying her to do, and poked me with things I'd rather not be poked with. Then she asked, in an almost offhand way: "have you ever had abnormal results before?"

My mind raced frantically, remembering a flurry of doctors and tests and poking and prodding and fear and relief and anguish...and if I say 'yes', will she assume this one will be? Will it somehow bias the cosmos to make this one abnormal? and if I say 'no', will she not examine the results as quickly? Will she not see something that's there if I say 'no'? Will she see something that's not there if I say 'yes'? Does it matter what I say? What if they do it all again? Can I erase it by not bringing it up?

I compromised by stammering something about how I'd moved back on to yearly checkups, how nothing was ever definitive, how I was sure everything was Ok...
She rolled the chair back and looked at me appraisingly and emotionlessly. Exactly the way they look at you when they tell you that they're going to cut part of you out. Which, of course, it's far too soon for anyone to do. But I remember the expression.

And then it's over, and i slid my knees back together and scrambled for my panties, just as if I'd had a bad one night stand. And I left, feeling just as bruised and broken.

Conversation

Me: I can't believe you blogged that.
Sean: *Laughs*
Me: No, I really can't BELIEVE you blogged that. Now your mom's going to read it and know that I could feel your weenie. This is very traumatic.
Sean: *Laughs harder*
Me: YOUR MOM IS GOING TO READ ABOUT ME FEELING YOUR WEENIE!!!!
Sean: Honey, my mom doesn't care. She knows you feel my weenie. In fact, I think she's happy to have my weenie see some action.
Me: I can't believe you just called it a "weenie".

Marketing

On my bag of tasty Corn Nuts snack treats, I can't help but notice the slogan "Corn Gone WRONG", which is positioned cleverly next to a tuff-looking corn-on-the-cob character who is missing a kernal and has one of his corn-husk arms balled up into a fist.

This is silly.

Now, I realize that whoever is in the marketing department over at *looks on bag* Kraft (OHFUCKIDIDN'TKNOWTHEYWEREKRAFTNOWICANNEVEREATTHEM AGAINI'MPANICKINGBUTIGUESSTHAT'SANOTHERBLOGENTIRELY....) couldn't very well have made the slogan "Corn Gone BAD". I mean, you can't very well imply that a delicious snack treat has gone "bad", now can you? Of course not.

But "WRONG"? Now, that's just a stretch. Tuff as they may be, the vegetables that went into my tasty snack treat (which, apparently, I'll never eat again, since they're owned by Kraft the Anti-Christ....) just weren't "WRONG". Gimme a break. They're reaching.

Now, if you'll excuse me while I assume the fetal position and sob over the loss of Corn Nuts I've experienced through writing this blog....

What I've Learned Today. Just Now, in Fact.

It is not how smart you are. It is not how well you exhibit that intelligence.

It is not how well you express yourself, whether verbally or in print.

It is not how you present yourself--as a strong, capable, brilliant person.

It is not how well you work a room--your social skills, your people skills.

So, what is it, you ask?

Well, it's just this: you have to pick the right ass to kiss, and be lowly enough to kiss it convincingly. And show your piteous Gollum-face enough that they remember who you are.

That is all for today.

Mean!

My Mean Master's Project is sapping all the fun from my life! Dammit! There's all kinds of fun stuff coming up that I'm going to have to bow out of so I can string big words together in a convincing enough manner to warrant at least a grade of "B-". The sun might even come out some of those days.

I know, I know, I just have to schlog through it.

But GAK! It's long, it's miserable, and my self-confidence is completely shot. If you had asked me a couple weeks ago, I would have confidently stated, "Yeah, I'm graduating in May!", the same way I would have said "Yeah, I wear contact lenses!" or "Yeah, that's a picture of Sean dressed up like Popeye on my desk!" But now, after Professor Gung-Ho's less-than-kind words, I feel hopelessly inept and undeserving of such things. Suddenly, I'm incapable of writing such a paper. Suddenly, my semester-long project falls far short of what I probably should have done. Suddenly, I just plain suck and am going to be $65k in debt with no sheepskin to show for it.

Or so I feel.

I don't know what to do without the Master's degree. It's what I use to get through my days; to feel superior (in all my pseudo-intellectual snobbery) to everyone around me in my brainless drudgery-of-a-desk-job. It's the only thing I have going for me that I might possibly be able to spin into a decent-paying job. And before, I always assumed it was a sure thing, as soon as I'd done the work and signed the loan papers.

Now, I'm not so sure. I have my time off request sheet all filled out to take off the day of my graduation. But I'm afraid to turn it in, lest it jinx me somehow. I haven't bought the cap and gown yet.

My Master's Project has to be turned in in exactly 12 days.

Fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck

Strange Form of Self-punishment

It is Easter today. It is supposed to be a nice, sunny day. I would like to spend it with Sean and his fam at the Cape. Eatin' stuff. Enjoying the spring weather at long last.

I will not be doing this.

You see, my friends, I have elected to NOT write my final Master's Project paper. Till now. It's due May 5th. Well, officially noon on May 6th, actually; but the presentation is the night of May 5th, so I'll just turn it in then. (Gotta work, you know?)

I had (mistakenly, it would appear) assumed the paper and the frills that go along with it were some sort of formality. The "real" grade was the project itself, right? The whole capstone course was just a chance to "show off" all we'd learned, right? Right?

Apparently NOT. The new director of the program is wicked gung-ho, and I'm just not feelin' it. Gak.

I turned in a kind of literature review/rough draft beginnings earlier in the semester, for which I just received feedback. According to Professor Gung Ho, it's "well-written", but "lacks focus". It "read like a textbook, but had no definitive direction". Now, I'd find this all much more discouraging if I hadn't banged out the lit review in less than 2 hours flat, occasionally flipping through some articles for direct quotes. Not to mention that the damn thing was only 6 or so pages long.

So, time to build and improve on that. I've got a little over 2 weeks to bang out a good 15 pages (give or take!) of Grade-A Bullshit. My laptop is on strike, so I'm planning to take up semi-permanent residence in front of one of Sean's systems.

If you're looking for me, I'll be there--bleary-eyed, frizzy-haired; and spouting off miscellaneous drivel about health behavior change theories, marketing planbooks, and targeting children with health campaigns. If I seem hungry, feel free to throw me a peanut. I've already asked Sean to squirt me with Febreeze if the smell becomes overwhelming.

With a little luck, I'll be walking the walk on May 19th, clutching my sheepskin in hand and beaming.

I just have to get from here to there, first.....*sigh*

My Life as a Fat Girl

I have lived my life as a Fat Girl. This has only recently begun to strike me as amusing.

At points, it's made sense. I did a stint of 2 years (give or take) at about 80 pounds more than I weigh now. That's not thin. That's not 'overweight'. That's fucking FAT. But after that was up, I returned to my previous weight (give or take). The super-behemoth-lard-butt stage was over. And I won't ever be there again. It takes a special sort of misery to make a person gain that kind of weight in so short a time, and I'll never allow myself to be that miserable again.

But, I digress. I first began to define myself as a Fat Girl in grade school. I was the girl who grew before all the rest; who grew the breasts and the hips and shot up in height and began to look more woman and less girl far sooner than some did. The boys did NOT grow then. So, they were drawn to the itty-bitty petite girls (there were 2 of them in my little parochial school class--they were the ones who "got" all the boys). We won't get into my 10-year gawky geeky stage. That's fodder for another blog entirely.

So, here I was, wearing a bra in the third grade. Towering over the boys in the seventh and eighth grades, and squeezing my C (or more!) cup breasts into little girl bras that just didn't do the trick. I didn't look the way I was "supposed" to. The boys didn't like me. I was a Fat Girl, clearly.

Mom always said that the boys would grow up and be drawn to me one day. And hell, the older ones were. Brandy and I were just reminiscing this past weekend about how grown men would hit on us in our Catholic School uniforms. Or our regular clothes. They never believed we were 12, 13, 16....

But again, I digress. So after grade school, there was high school. I remember very clearly these two teenie freshmen boys in my homeroom calling me "fat". It was just them, no one else did. Whenever I mentioned I was trying to lose weight, I was hit with a barrage of "Why?!?"'s and "You don't NEED to!"'s. I was about 5'9" then. I weighed about 135 pounds. I was a Fat Girl. The 5'1", 98-pound boys had said so.

And I've lived my life that way. Doctors have never told me to lose weight. If I ask about it, they shrug and say "maybe you could stand to lose 15 or 20 pounds". I look at them strangely. Can't they see that I'm obese? Morbidly obese? In need of a Wal-Mart cart to get around obese?

I've lived my life that way. Plagued by eating disorder after eating disorder; subsisting on diet coke and pretzels, and never, ever thin enough. Running every day, in great shape, hit on constantly by men...not thin enough.

I realized the other day that I will never be thin enough. So I decided to stop trying. I'm sick of it. I've wasted my life trying to hide my thighs, my stomach, my butt from people who would probably rather have focused on the person inside the fleshy shell. I've given up things I've loved, I've pushed away people who loved me. All because I wasn't thin enough. All because I was a Fat Girl.

Well, I'm over it. Officially over it. Sure, I could stand to lose 15 or 20 pounds. And I probably will. Whatever. Do you think I'm Fat? A Fat Girl? Well, fuck you.

You're not worthy of sharing my oxygen. :)

Get Outta My Dreams.....

Get into my car!!!!

God help me, I will sing this song alllllll daaaay loooooong.

Help.....

Happy Birthday!!!

To my Birthday Buddies, Moglia and Stumpy!!! Send 'em some love today!

My Anime Boobies

Apparently, they'd look like this:


JUST FOR SHOW


(results contain pictures) What kind of ANIME BOOBS do you have?
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Want to try?

Reasons to Be Happy. Reasons to Be Sad.

First, the sad ones:
1. Life can be unbearably cruel and awful.
2. Reasons to despise holidays keep popping up.
3. The people you love will always let you down, one way or another.
4. Dunkin Donuts will never get the coffee-to-sugar-and-cream ratio right.
5. My professor is being a raging pain in the hiney.
6. He's being that way because I'm a raging flake.
7. I'm being that way because I'm completely dispassionate about my $45k master's degree program.
8. I'll probably never have all the people I love in close proximity to me.
9. My incorrectly-ratioed coffee is now GONE.
10. I can't find half of my stuff! I don't know if it's at my place or Sean's!

And now, some reasons to be happy:

1. Brandy and Robb are coming out this weekend!
2. People that you don't expect will surprise you with how much they do care.
3. IT WILL STOP SNOWING. I FIRMLY BELIEVE THIS.
4. Going to a Dirty Three show tonight! Love that chaotic, beautiful music.
5. Being in love is great. Really, really great.
6. Although you'll move away from some and some will move away from you, you'll continue to accumulate people whom you love and who love you throughout your life.
7. People have given me the nicest compliments this week!
8. Puppies will lick your face.
9. I can listen to the same song 20 times in a row if I want--I have headphones on!
10. Things always fall into place. Eventually.

A Meaty Issue

Six years ago, I read an online article that someone had written about why he chose to live a "vegetarian lifestyle". I stopped eating meat that day.

For the next couple of years, I was a complete ovo-lacto-veggie. Meaning I still consumed eggs and dairy, but no actual "flesh". (As I so charmingly referred to it!)

Eventually, I began occasionally eating fish and seafood as well. Eating seafood still fit in with the reasons I had chosen to become a vegetarian, and that way I could take advantage of the many health benefits that fish provide. Such as omega-3 fatty acids!

When I moved to Boston a year and a half ago, I would suffer the VERRRRY occasional lapse into chicken consumption. My weakness? General Tso's Chicken from a local Chinese takeout place. Oh God, that stuff's good.

That was my downfall. I went from JUST General Tso's, to occasionally eating a bite of someone's chicken, to occasionally eating a chicken sandwich, to maybe I'll have a burger this once, to let me try a steak tip, to I forgot what bacon tastes like, to I'd like my steak medium rare, to the place I am today. Which is rampant, no-holds-barred meat eating. I beat Sean into submission just last night and forced him to accompany me to the local 99 for a steak tip fix. Oh God, that's good, baby...

I've been saying for some time now that I'd like to get back to the occasional meat-eating. I felt so much better when I wasn't eating meat. The problem? I like it. A lot. I get sausage link cravings. I have dreams about Whiskey's chicken sandwiches. And those dollar burgers you can get at Bukowski's during Happy Hour? Supreme.

Is there a meat-eater's anonymous? Maybe I should start one up?

Wooty Wooty Wooty!

My "best friend since birth" Brandy and her illustrious better half Robb are coming to Beantown this very weekend! Yay!

Now, of course, being the creative soul I am, I've got all sorts of ideas for fun stuff we can do. But I'd welcome more! (Ok, I'm pleading for more....) What do all you yocals think I should take 'em to? What would YOU want to see, do, eat, drink?

C'mon, help a brother out!

Happy Birthday, Layne!

To the girl whose life I hang on and discuss like it's an HBO drama (and maybe it should be...), happy 26th birthday!

Homesick

I am homesick.

For where? Hmm. Well, that's complicated. I guess in a way, everywhere I've lived. Not that I'd necessarily live there again.

I'm homesick for strange things. Like the gas station by the grocery and hardware stores in my teenie-speck-on-the map hometown. That's a silly thing to be homesick for. If I had said that I missed the way the greens there are lusher and brighter than they are anywhere else, or the way the sun is brilliant and piercing, or the smell of clover and apples at my grandparents' farm, or the sound of spring peepers on warm spring and summer nights, or the crunchy-fried soft-crab sandwiches you can get at Captain Leonard's; that would have made more sense.

I miss those things too.

And I miss my family. My oft-nagging mom, my bear of a dad, my countless fiercely protective yet hopelessly goofy cousins, the aunts and uncles who stood in for my parents; buying me parakeets and ice cream.
I only really see them a couple times a year, now. And I do miss them terribly--with a quiet, burning ache that I squelch down as far as I possibly can. Because you see, this is the way it has to be.

In my head, I can always revisit the spring peepers. Not to mention the fireflies.