And Just Like That, I Got "Old"
Last Saturday, I was at a party for Someone's adorable 1-year-old's first birthday. (I say "Someone" because I don't like to mention people's names on my blog without their Ok. Except for people I have known for years and years and therefore own the rights to by default, like Brandy or Fady or Sarah...you guys I'll talk all kinds of smack about, ha ha!)
So, anyway, we were at Someone's house for Son of Someone's first birthday. It was, in all honesty, one of my very first Non-family Child's Birthday Celebrations. (My friends aren't much into the reproducin'.) Being that it was a family kind of celebration, there were kids of various age and descrip about. Some were youngish, some were old enough that if I really faced reality, I'd realize that they were spending their weekends at sleepovers discussing blowjobs and how they weren't sure if they wanted to do them one day or not. Really. But really, that is very odd to me--to think that I'm talking to peeople who have kids who are old enough to discuss blowjobs at sleepovers and it's not in the form of "So, how are you doing in school this year, young lady?".
I guess I still think of myself as young, or youngish. Or at least Not Older Yet.
It was a delightful party, catered superbly by Mother of Someone. Everyone seemed to have a good time celebrating Son of Someone's birthday, and Someone had had a great idea--she left out a Polaroid (yes, they still have those) camera and a memory book, so all party attendees could take their picture and leave a message for Son of Someone! Isn't that just the cutest?
Sean and I were hanging out in the room with the aforementioned memory book (and, not coincidentally, the food) when one of the youngish kids of the Old Enough to Talk about Blowjobs at Slumber Parties variety (Not to imply that she would ever do such a thing--oh, no. Just that she is of the age to do so. Oh, yes.) began flipping around a wet-with-newness Polaroid and singing "Shake it! Shake it! Shake it like a Polaroid Pictuah!"
Watching this transpire, I couldn't help but remember back to last year, when Hey Ya was at its heydey and a radio DJ called Polaroid to ask if it was, indeed, appropriate to "shake" a poloroid picture. "Oh, no!" the Polaroid representative had explained in mild horror, "Shaking a Polaroid can cause the colors to run and the picture to develop improperly. You should never shake a Polaroid picture."
So, with this knowledge in mind, I felt it was only fair to warn her that her actions could very well jeopardize the very picture she was clutching. "Hey," I began, "I wes listening to the radio one time, and the DJ called Polaroid, and--"
"It's a song!" Youngish interjected laughingly. "It's called Hey Ya!"
I got ready to interrupt and explain that I knew it was a song, that I was just trying to pass on some information about Proper Polaroid Procedure, but one look at her laughing face and I knew. I knew. It was futile.
Nevermind that I've been an OutKast fan since before Miss Jackson hit the airwaves almost 4 years ago, that I remember singing it on the way down to New Orleans for a spring break roadtrip. I was old. Grown-up old. Far too old to know anything about anything, obviously. At least, to a twelve-year-old.
Just like that.
Sean laughed at me. "You're old!"
"You're old, too." I replied dryly.
And so, it begins.
Friday, September 17, 2004
Thursday, September 16, 2004
Sickening
Let me explain something, as quickly and easily as possible.
If you have deep religious beliefs, or deep beliefs of any kind, that conflict with the requirements of a specific position and/or career choice; You have no goddamn right to be in that position.
Are you a vegetarian? Don't get a job in a slaughterhouse and then say that your morals are being compromised by your position. Do you go into epilectic seizures every time you see a Nintendo game? Don't apply for a job at Nintendo as a game tester. You don't believe in a woman's right to choose? Don't become a pharmacist, a doctor, a nurse, or any other health worker who works with women and the choices they make. (You know, like buying birth control?)
I have the utmost respect for anyone's right to his or her own beliefs. It stops at beliefs. Using your position (especially that of a trusted medical professional) to force your beliefs upon others is not acceptable under any circumstances.
What's next? A Christian Scientist ER doc who refuses to treat anyone walking through the door?
Let me explain something, as quickly and easily as possible.
If you have deep religious beliefs, or deep beliefs of any kind, that conflict with the requirements of a specific position and/or career choice; You have no goddamn right to be in that position.
Are you a vegetarian? Don't get a job in a slaughterhouse and then say that your morals are being compromised by your position. Do you go into epilectic seizures every time you see a Nintendo game? Don't apply for a job at Nintendo as a game tester. You don't believe in a woman's right to choose? Don't become a pharmacist, a doctor, a nurse, or any other health worker who works with women and the choices they make. (You know, like buying birth control?)
I have the utmost respect for anyone's right to his or her own beliefs. It stops at beliefs. Using your position (especially that of a trusted medical professional) to force your beliefs upon others is not acceptable under any circumstances.
What's next? A Christian Scientist ER doc who refuses to treat anyone walking through the door?
Sunday, September 12, 2004
Friday, September 10, 2004
Now, That's a Big Cat!
We had been having some troubles with Tivy (who answers to Tivy, Septivious Kittious, Mr. C., Mr. Cat, Mr. Large, Mr. Large Cat, Cat, You Are A Cat, Large; and finally, You Are A Large Cat) peeing on the bathroom floor. Not this-is-my-motherfucking-bathroom spraying, but more of a I-have-to-PEE-NOW puddling. The entire thing was a bit baffling, frankly, because the cat litter box is not 4 feet from the chosen pee-puddling locale. So clearly, it was not a matter of having to PEE NOW. Otherwise, I like to think that Mr. Large Cat would take the extra 12 cat-steps and pee IN THE LITTER BOX.
Well, we mused, perhaps we are not changing the litter often enough. We began scooping a couple times a day, practically waiting behind the cats with a scoop when they disappeared into the Booda Dome.
This did not improve matters any.
Ok, we further mused, perhaps he has decided he no longer is a fan of the Feline Pine litter. Maybe we should go back to scoopable stuff? So we bought a special recycled scoopable flushable litter.
Again, the pee puddle fairy kept leaving gifts.
Fine, we mused. Our cat is an asshole. But what if we try the scoopable clay litter? Could that help matters?
We were at PetSmart, perusing the contents of the Cat Poo Defense department, when Sean raised his finger in the manner of a mad scientist and said "Egads!" (Well, no, he really didn't say that. But I've always wanted to be around someone who said "Egads!".) "Do you suppose that he is too bigfor the litter box?"
"Nah. No way!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "We have a Booda Dome. It's freakin' HUGE!"
"He's a big cat, honey." Sean replied dubiously.
This was an assertion I couldn't find fault with. We selected a litter box roughly the size of a 1984 Buick, a covered model with a plastic door flap; and made our way to the front of the store.
Cut to present times. We have not, (*knocking on any and all available wood-like substances*) as of yet, experienced any more floor puddling incidents. All pee seems to now be safely contained within the litter box.
And last night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I spied something I had never seen before. A bit of black and white fur that could only be Tivy was visible within the litter box, the door flap propped up against him because he was so big it stayed on top of him rather than fall back down.
Now, that's a big cat.
We had been having some troubles with Tivy (who answers to Tivy, Septivious Kittious, Mr. C., Mr. Cat, Mr. Large, Mr. Large Cat, Cat, You Are A Cat, Large; and finally, You Are A Large Cat) peeing on the bathroom floor. Not this-is-my-motherfucking-bathroom spraying, but more of a I-have-to-PEE-NOW puddling. The entire thing was a bit baffling, frankly, because the cat litter box is not 4 feet from the chosen pee-puddling locale. So clearly, it was not a matter of having to PEE NOW. Otherwise, I like to think that Mr. Large Cat would take the extra 12 cat-steps and pee IN THE LITTER BOX.
Well, we mused, perhaps we are not changing the litter often enough. We began scooping a couple times a day, practically waiting behind the cats with a scoop when they disappeared into the Booda Dome.
This did not improve matters any.
Ok, we further mused, perhaps he has decided he no longer is a fan of the Feline Pine litter. Maybe we should go back to scoopable stuff? So we bought a special recycled scoopable flushable litter.
Again, the pee puddle fairy kept leaving gifts.
Fine, we mused. Our cat is an asshole. But what if we try the scoopable clay litter? Could that help matters?
We were at PetSmart, perusing the contents of the Cat Poo Defense department, when Sean raised his finger in the manner of a mad scientist and said "Egads!" (Well, no, he really didn't say that. But I've always wanted to be around someone who said "Egads!".) "Do you suppose that he is too bigfor the litter box?"
"Nah. No way!" I exclaimed in disbelief. "We have a Booda Dome. It's freakin' HUGE!"
"He's a big cat, honey." Sean replied dubiously.
This was an assertion I couldn't find fault with. We selected a litter box roughly the size of a 1984 Buick, a covered model with a plastic door flap; and made our way to the front of the store.
Cut to present times. We have not, (*knocking on any and all available wood-like substances*) as of yet, experienced any more floor puddling incidents. All pee seems to now be safely contained within the litter box.
And last night, when I went into the bathroom to wash my face, I spied something I had never seen before. A bit of black and white fur that could only be Tivy was visible within the litter box, the door flap propped up against him because he was so big it stayed on top of him rather than fall back down.
Now, that's a big cat.
Thursday, September 09, 2004
Good Things
There just aren't enough good things in the world. Or maybe I'm just greedy for 'em.
Sean and I have been getting organic produce delivered to us for the last couple of months! Boston Organics delivers to your home or office, every week or every other week. You select if you would like a $25 or $35 box (we find the $25 to be an abundance), what percentage of fruits v/s veggies you would like, and anything you DON'T want in your box. Then you sit back and wait. Ahh. They have taught me that roasted beets can be yummy. Who knew?
The Boston Film Festival starts this weekend. I'm a mad sucker for those shorts presentations. Check 'em out!
I bought some lovely glass rings for myself and a couple of near and dear friends recently. I love mine, the smoothness and weight against my finger. I loved theirs, too, almost to the point where I had some trouble sending them off. Luckily, I managed to do so. Props to the Carrot Box!
Barbados is still there, as far as I know. I'll let you know for sure (*knocking furtively against all available wood*) when we head out there in 24 days. Leave it to me to plan a Caribbean vacation in the WORST hurricane season EVER. Bah.
There just aren't enough good things in the world. Or maybe I'm just greedy for 'em.
Sean and I have been getting organic produce delivered to us for the last couple of months! Boston Organics delivers to your home or office, every week or every other week. You select if you would like a $25 or $35 box (we find the $25 to be an abundance), what percentage of fruits v/s veggies you would like, and anything you DON'T want in your box. Then you sit back and wait. Ahh. They have taught me that roasted beets can be yummy. Who knew?
The Boston Film Festival starts this weekend. I'm a mad sucker for those shorts presentations. Check 'em out!
I bought some lovely glass rings for myself and a couple of near and dear friends recently. I love mine, the smoothness and weight against my finger. I loved theirs, too, almost to the point where I had some trouble sending them off. Luckily, I managed to do so. Props to the Carrot Box!
Barbados is still there, as far as I know. I'll let you know for sure (*knocking furtively against all available wood*) when we head out there in 24 days. Leave it to me to plan a Caribbean vacation in the WORST hurricane season EVER. Bah.
Wednesday, September 08, 2004
The Problem With Furrowing
I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.
The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.
I fear that this is imminent.
The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.
In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.
After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.
(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)
The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.
But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.
Perhaps there's a lotion.
I am one of those expressively-faced people. This is a good thing, in that it makes me endlessly amusing and endearing. But it's a bad thing in that it can A) Get me into Trouble, and B) Give me Permanent Brow Furrows.
The getting into Trouble has been an issue all my life, but I'm only recently becoming aware of the Permanent Brow Furrows. I fear that they will only deepen and deepen until I resemble a Neanderthal (the "h" is silent, people!) woman. Especially if they get to be so deep that I can no longer fit any pair of tweezers in existence into the vast gaping cleft that will have taken up residence on my forehead. The sweetly shaped eyebrows that I am currently in possession of will become singular in nature, and I will begin to grunt, wear animal skins, and celebrate the burial of my dead with primitive religious ceremonies.
I fear that this is imminent.
The expressions getting me into trouble thing just waxes and wanes seemingly of its own volition. I can remember getting a "check" next to my name in grade school with my teacher's explanation written beside it in neat, flowing cursive: Rolled eyes at me. Yeah, and I'd do it again in a heartbeat, bitch. It was totally worth it. Even though I didn't get to watch The Golden Child with my class that month because of the fateful check.
In grad school, we were taking a break from class (the classes were, like, FOUR. HOURS. LONG.) when one of my friends pointed at me and laughed maniacly. "You look SOOO pissed off during class! And I was like, I know she's happy, why does she look so mad? I know she's not mad. She's happy! I was, indeed, "happy". It was then that I came to a realization--my "thoughtful" look, complete with deep brow furrowing, translates as pissed-offed-ness. Oops. Now when I'm doing things like sitting in boring-ass meetings or going on job interviews, I make a concerted effort to hold my eyebrows aloft in perfectly groomed little St. Louis Arches, all the while nodding thoughtfully.
After one of those aforementioned boring-ass meetings last week, a co-worker-slash-friend informed me that she was no longer going to be able to sit either anywhere near me or anywhere it was possible to see my facial expressions. (This, I think, limits her meeting seating choices quite severely.) Apparently, unbeknownst to me, when something stupid is said or done, my right eyebrow raises almost imperceptibly in a miniscule expression of aghast disdain. Oops.
(In my defense, at the last boring-ass meeting, my boss's boss unveiled our "department's New Mascot!" that she "couldn't leave in the store!" because "he was too cute!!!". This was a bug. A stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug. A giant stuffed bug in a rainbow of garish neon colors. A giant stuffed but in a rainbow of garish neon colors that makes me feel like I'm working at a freaking CARNIVAL. Now, can one's eyebrow really be expected to remain in a position of non-disdain when faced with events such as this?)
The bug is really deserving of a blog all his own, but at this point I don't think I have the energy to get into how there can possibly be a giant stuffed bug flopped atop a cubicle in the middle of the room. Really, it's just too much.
But, back to the brow furrowing. I can combat the encroachment of Neanderthal-dom with Burt's Bees slathered liberally across my already greasy T-zone, but I'm not really sure how to combat the disdain. Most especially the aghast disdain, which is the worst kind of disdain of all.
Perhaps there's a lotion.
Wednesday, September 01, 2004
Bloodletting #2
I was scheduled to give blood again today, so I once again found myself questioning every little item on the questionnaire When was that acupuncture treatment? How close is "close relationship"?.
It takes soooo very long to get through the whole process. You have to be called up by number and counseled countless times, by the end of which you are so frazzled you're likely to accidentally stick the For the Love of God Don't Use My Blood sticker on the form instead of its Please Use My Healthy Delicious Blood cousin. This has happened to me before.
While you wait, people wheel Igloo brand coolers full of blood past. This is endlessly creepy.
After I was bled today, (and can we talk about how fast I bled? I am the Fastest! Bleeder! Ever!) a different nurse from the one who had put the bloodsucking tube into my arm came over to staunch the bleeding. She is my new best friend. This is because when I sat up, she gave me a backrub and told me I should have "double food for the rest of the week" and "no heavy lifting or strenuous activities, like doing dishes, cleaning, or laundry".
At this last tidbit of information, the very joy within my being thrust me up and airborne, so I floated gracefully over to the folding table where Famous Amos cookies and cranberry juice were being handed out. Two times one is TWO!!! TWO COOKIES FOR MEEEEEE!!!!!!
I was scheduled to give blood again today, so I once again found myself questioning every little item on the questionnaire When was that acupuncture treatment? How close is "close relationship"?.
It takes soooo very long to get through the whole process. You have to be called up by number and counseled countless times, by the end of which you are so frazzled you're likely to accidentally stick the For the Love of God Don't Use My Blood sticker on the form instead of its Please Use My Healthy Delicious Blood cousin. This has happened to me before.
While you wait, people wheel Igloo brand coolers full of blood past. This is endlessly creepy.
After I was bled today, (and can we talk about how fast I bled? I am the Fastest! Bleeder! Ever!) a different nurse from the one who had put the bloodsucking tube into my arm came over to staunch the bleeding. She is my new best friend. This is because when I sat up, she gave me a backrub and told me I should have "double food for the rest of the week" and "no heavy lifting or strenuous activities, like doing dishes, cleaning, or laundry".
At this last tidbit of information, the very joy within my being thrust me up and airborne, so I floated gracefully over to the folding table where Famous Amos cookies and cranberry juice were being handed out. Two times one is TWO!!! TWO COOKIES FOR MEEEEEE!!!!!!
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