Some Blog

Four on the floor

Wednesday, June 28, 2006

I am feeling bad.

I can’t write (in case you haven’t noticed). Not even in my notebook to remember a phrase or idea. There’s just nothing there. If I were prone to depression I would be worried, and at the bottom of a black hole. Good thing I don’t get depressed. Right.

I am feeling crappy.

This would be the constantly inconsistent nausea. The doctor (really, nurse practitioner) ordered blood tests and wants to check my thyroid (it will be normal, my thyroid is always normal) as well as the series of bacteria that live in my stomach. She also wants to consider a different type of birth control (back off bitch, for the first time in years my uterus hasn’t tried to kick its way out of my body for the three days before my period and if you want to take my pills away you’re going to have to take them out of my cold dead hands), but I think that is a bad idea.

I am feeling low.

I seemed to have gained 4 pounds since I went to the doctor last, about 6 months ago. GAINED. The amount isn’t important, the fact that I gained is. This is an annoyance because I work out like motherfucker 3 to 4 times a week. I eat super healthy (I was teased for ordering a salad at a bar in Texas). I have cut out salt and refined sugar and most grains. For dinner last night I had a cup of rice, an ear of steamed corn, and steamed broccoli. Tonight I had a cup of rice and an avocado. I eat salad for lunch four days a week. I take fiber supplements and vitamins. HOW THE FUCK DID I GAIN WEIGHT? I have talked to health care people about this before and I am at a loss of what else I am suppose to do…I gave up juice, soda, caffeine, milk, and soy. There is not much else to give up which is why I am thinking of creating my own eating disorder.

I am frustrated.

At least if I had an eating disorder someone would pay attention when I said that something was wrong. They wouldn’t pat me on the head, and smile politely, while they say that there is nothing they can do, but let’s test my thyroid…again. I figure after this go round of tests, when they come up with nothing, again, I am going to pull the Shirley McLaine ala Terms of Endearment, when Debra Winger was all in pain and Shirley, as Aurora, goes ape shit on the nurses (“It’s past ten. My daughter is in pain. I don’t understand why she has to have this pain. All she has to do is hold out until ten, and IT’S PAST TEN! My daughter is in pain, can’t you understand that! GIVE MY DAUGHTER THE SHOT!”), except I will be all give me Orlistat (Xenical) or Valium, and probably the experience will be less yelly than Shirley. Either way I will feel better about myself.

I vote for Valium.

Way to ruin my day asshole (let’s make this all about me shall we?).

Thursday, June 22, 2006

An employee in my area did a big no-no.

The person went into our registration system to get the phone number of a co-worker and patient here.

The is the type of action for which we could be sued (not likely) or given a poor mark when we are judged by the accreditation groups (most likely), either way patient information is such a sensitive thing, we are regularly reminded about how to maintain patient confidentiality.

I overheard the conversation and said something to the effect that what my employee did was a direct violation of patient information regulations (we call this oral counseling). The person kept defending the actions and I suggested that we take up the matter with our manager. My manager was more emphatic than I’ve ever before seen. There will be some sort of corrective action.

I feel like shit.

To bad you can’t figure out the air quotes thingy.

Tuesday, June 20, 2006

Dear Britney Spears:

You are a hot mess.

But I still adore you.

Keep on keeping on…just maybe not so trashy, and maybe a lip liner, and one less accessory, and learn how to apply fake lashes, and brush those extensions.

The gum chomping, however, loving that!

SG

PS. Matt Lauer, put on some socks.

tickle my nausea

Monday, June 19, 2006

I am going blame the daily morning nausea on something different everyday.

Today, it is the fact that McDonalds used milk that was not refrigerated when making my coffee.

As such I will never stop there for coffee again.

Yes, let’s blame the milk that was on the counter.

Industrial Action

Thursday, June 15, 2006

I just read a blog post with the following statement:

That was fine by me until this morning…my son crawled in our bed sometime in the night. I woke up this morning to the strong stench of urine. Although my son is five, he still has to wear a “Good Night” to bed - he is one of the countless children who still pees every single night. It is a lot easier on me to have him wear the industrial size pull-up. My husband was a bed-wetter too, until he was about 7.

I no longer feel bad for people have been known to be peeved by things I drop into my posts (I am not so much with keeping things secret, but other people are still worried about what would happen if they want to run for an elected office and there is a post about their bad habits).

There is something romantic about being a slut

Wednesday, June 14, 2006

I thought of something that I wanted to write as I fell asleep recently. By the time I was so rudely woken by the upstairs boots wearer the words were gone, but the effect lingers.

The resulting memory is of weaving: the shuttle skimming back and forth with the weft as the warp mechanisms alternate. I can remember the visual I had conjured in my mind of the words. I know the lost point was pure genius, they always are.

Lately I have been preoccupied by rhythm. The posts of recent days have been drawing on this idea of back and forth. I don’t know if I am teasing something out or if this is something larger.

Whatever this is, it’s not about balance; it’s about imbalance.

There is just something.

Like a pig in shit

Monday, June 12, 2006

There is a strange wind blowing on the Internet: a lot of talk of politics, religion, and sexuality leading to angry rants.

I have been (gently) getting into it with another blogger. There are no flames, just views (very politely stated). It’s unusual for me, I normally stay out of it, but the “it” of this instance is fairly close to home (about 3 hours by car). We’re not actually discussing the politics of the situation, more the social constructs. I much prefer the conversation about social convention, because politics bore the hell out of me.

This whole silly 666 thing and the Biblical floodings of the Northeast may or may not have something to do with the trend. I had a great religious upbringing that included all the highlights: learning Hebrew, having a Bat Mitzvah, going to Poland and Israel. Great, I know my shit. Really I do. Okay, so maybe I know some of the stuff because of all the art course I took and those Renaissance guys really loved to use Biblical themes and all. But a lot of the stories I know are from the 10 years I spent getting all educated on why we are the chosen people.

These days my opinions are far different than the ones I use to hold so dear (I’m more of a I’m going to pray to god, any god, when I fall down a mountain), but I still have the far reaching mundania that wows and amazes in small bursts. I recently explained in great detail the myth of Lilith, she of hermaphroditic existence and redheaded stepchild to great and powerfully (blamed) Eve. My cat-like reflexes are equaled only by my pachyderm-like ability to reminiscence. That which makes me an excellent student makes me a terribly frustrating girlfriend, I remember things and then ten years later recall some stupid fact to make my point. (Bruce on the other hand is far more selective in that he recalls things he thinks may be of importance as he makes some sort of mental note like “This might be important, I should remember this.” He also answers many questions with: “I don’t know, I wasn’t really paying attention” Poor Bruce has no idea what he’s in for in a decade.)

Here a gay, there a gay, everywhere a gay gay. Let the gays get married, no don’t. Okay, enough. It’s going to happen, let it go. I think I might be tired of it because I live in Massachusetts. But, you there, gay person from another state, stop fucking chiming in on the debate about rights in MA, because if you want to move here and be legally wed, great, otherwise shut the fuck up and don’t talk about how you would move here except for the cost of living and the taxes. Taxes are high because we’re a bleeding liberal state that covers the cost of healthcare for people who can’t afford it and we like to fund things like education. We also are so bleeding liberal that we let the gays get married. See how that fucking works. And the cost of living, you don’t have to live in the city assholes, there are plenty of places outside of Boston that are perfectly acceptable places to live (I think they are called the suburbs, they have trees and shit) that don’t require a private loan to pay for food and utilities. Each state has the right to blah blah blah, so if you are all against the gay-love, coming to the State House of a state, in which you don’t live, to protest or hand out flowers or sing songs, thereby making me walk the long way to work, really pisses me off. And believe me when I say this: some of my best friends are gay (Hey Pussywillow! We have to plan some alone time when I go to London.) but I am tired of all the gayitude. Okay?

I know, I know, this is all very exciting, whether you believe gayness is a choice, genetic predetermination, disease, or lifestyle, but still there is really no more need for any more commentary. I don’t think anyone is all that surprised when Bush the younger is all, “Hey. I don’t want the gays to get married.” Why the sudden uprising of craziness on the Internet in response to something that we already know to be true? I mean if Baby Bush had said that he was hoping that Congress would pass a law dictating that all elementary-school aged children were to wear muzzles in public, I could understand the kind of resounding “Huh?” that would have swept across the land (except for those people who always complain about the loud children sitting next to them in restaurants and on planes. Those people would have been all: “Hell YEAH.” But I digress). Basically, I am requesting that people on the Internet stop being boring and stupid talking about boring and stupid things.

Also, I have come across some super disturbing shit on the Internet this past month. Bruce is probably tired of hearing about “WHAT I FOUND ON THE INTERNET TODAY!!!” (remember there was a bit on Sesame Street where the announcer would say something and it would be all loud and echoey like at the Monster Truck Rally, not that I’ve ever been to a Monster Truck Rally?).  The most notable thing I have found thus far, a blog that may or may not be entirely real. I was with the couple until they talked about diapering. Seems that he’s “Daddy” and his wife of sometime likes to be a baby. In a diaper. In which she defecates. Even though she has all of the physical capacity to walk herself to the bathroom. And flush. There was more, but unless you ask for it directly, I am going to refrain from presenting you with a mental image that requires bleach and copious amounts of vodka to scrub your brain clean.

The Internet, there is strangeness.

PS. Turns out I have been Some Girl for a year and ten days.

PPS. Just in case you think I am mocking or in any way derogatory regarding the diapering couple, what you do with your own time and space is your business, and trust me I’ve got my own things, I just have a hard time with excrement. That shit grosses me out (see what I did there?).

Laughter and ejaculate

Friday, June 09, 2006

Wistful thoughts that bend don’t break bring me to a place of rest. Falling beams, sunlit stars, perch on the edge of blinking shadows where things, just and honest things, are dark.

Walking barefoot in a place where glass has shattered is less of a risk. Half moon to full moon and back again and again and again and…

remember those sagacious words that slipped by ears not ready to hear. Holding heaven in your hands gold flecks cut my throat. Truly, it tastes like olive juice delicately mixed with vodka and chilled to perfection. Around around we go, where we stop is entirely dependent on the fickle nature of that bitch.

There is bigness to come. A reign of something more, endless rain and rain, can we boycott Mother Nature?

Bored with the old ball and chain, the life emptied into a shallow plastic baggy, one more ride, ride once more. The highs and lows are much more fun when the fun is so expensive. Cost, determined by something other than Ben. The soul pays for it, I tell you, the soul.

The cadence is more the drive than the meaning at times and motion, emotion, is fraught with jagged edges. Don’t forget, rhythm is a dancer. No one can say an effort to participate was not made by all. Just because one did not see the fault of their selfish ways, there are wire hangers in this house. Don’t worry that at 25 you’ve seen you life ride by in a swirl of taffeta, settle down, settle up, just settle.

Work on the listening dear boy, because otherwise the drip drop of a patient girl is going to drip drop no more.

And the girl, she’ll turn out a shiny quarter for fresh linens.

Ant Flow

Thursday, June 08, 2006

Just to clarify:

I am neither engaged nor preggers.

That MAY happen one day, in the future, when I am old and boring and stuff like Bruce (I kid because it’s funny).

But for the time being, I am contentedly un-engaged and decidedly not knocked up.

Thank you for your concern.

More walking, less bleeding: hey la, hey la

Wednesday, June 07, 2006

Managing to reach the bottom of the hill without beating Bruce to death with a bloody napkin should have told me something. Unfortunately, Bruce was far too busy chattering about what a lovely day for a flesh wound it was and I was unable to process the goings on as such. He also ran ahead to make sure that all the declines were manageable, as “we know you have a problem with them.”

Bruce mothered around and pulled out the first-aid kit in his car and (chatter chatter chatter).

Back at the resort, I took off for an afternoon of massages and facials and left Bruce to some peace and quiet so that he could complete his resume (uh-oh). I fell asleep as my body was pummeled (and seriously, the guy who was my masseur totally felt me up, but my ass never felt better. Bruce can attest to how very super soft my skin was post massage: “Touch my ass! It’s so smooth!”) and awoke to the guy telling me to roll over. Remember when I fell down a mountain? Well the wound was totally oozy and I apologized a billion times for funkify-ing the table. Then I fell back asleep.

Then there was a steam room…and a facial…and a shower…and a limp back to the room. Bruce was patiently waiting for me (“I missed you” he said and I kind of missed him too, which…weird because for the previous 6 days we hadn’t been apart at all). He had wandered out to get supplies (bandages and Neosporin) and food. We went out and enjoyed (a thing) but I was totally limping and in some pain.

The next morning we woke up and our plans for a picnic brunch were canceled. Luckily Bruce intuited that walking was going to be kept to a minimum and thoughtfully picked up breakfast supplies the previous night. We lazed about and eventually moved out to town for a (radio edit). The (thingy) had a combination of wines and hors d’ovres. I drank (but not a lot I swear) and nibbled at the pickings. A few hours of that and we returned to our room for the final act.

Managing to make it to the (you can’t say that), we settled in for the evening’s show. Bruce was not so much about the first part and was all too willing to go off in search of Tylenol as my knee was throbbing. About this time I began to feel…unwell. Bruce, the trooper that he was returned and we wondered off to get dinner (conveniently packed in the trunk of the car). The unsteady walk, while bothersome, was the least of my problems. I began to feel extremely unwell. Bruce tried to force food on me and all I did was moan about how excited I was for (keeping the secret). At the same time, I was secretly worried that I was going to vomit in the car.

After what seemed like hours, but was surely more like minutes I turned to Bruce and said with authority: “I have to go now.” Bruce, looking far more worried than that time I fell down a mountain (remember that time I fell down a mountain?) packed up all quick and off we went.

And now, ladies and gentlemen, I get to tell you all about how on the first time Bruce and I had quality time together, I bleed and vomited (profusely) in front of him. There were chunks of salad coming out of my nose.

Okay, that was a bit of exaggeration; I did not vomit in front of him.

Thankfully, I made it to the bathroom in time, and make no mistake; I shut Bruce out and locked the door. There is nothing worse than vomiting…except vomiting up red wine. You will be happy to know that all the wine remained well nestled inside my so sad stomach; it was just all the food I had nibbled. Remember the food I was nibbling…let’s see, the (event) started at 2 PM, on a lovely and sunny afternoon, I was eating goat cheese at 4:30 PM…hmmm I wonder what on earth this could be. Warm cheese.

Bruce knocked on the door; I moaned (“Go. Away.”), and he respected my need for time and space. I slumped out of the bathroom in kind of a daze, having violently expelled every last piece of food from my body and Bruce ushered me to the couch. Some time passed and there was a room service delivery of Ginger Ale and a bath (made for two…and you can watch TV from it!) and then an early bedtime where I promptly fell asleep (no action for Bruce that night).

The next morning we checked out and drove back to (somewhere else). I caught a plane home that evening and spent the following week recovering. My knee has just about fully healed.

The whole point of this post is this: as I laid on the couch, bemoaning how I bled and vomited in front of Bruce, a mere three months into the relationship, and he played with my hair, Bruce replied: “It’s okay, I’m your boyfriend.”

Guess I have to cross that off my To Do list.

PS. Didn’t I tell you that the mythical Good Guy status would be proven?

It occurs to me

Hey, we’re okay.

Really we are. The pieces that you all don’t read or know would make it impossible for you to, well, know.

We’re fine.

Really.

I’ll try to finish the rest of the Bruce and Some Girl on vacation today, because we still haven’t gotten to the most awesome part.

The rest of it, um, everyone has to have fights now and then.

The chill explained: put up or shut up

Monday, June 05, 2006

The reason why I need this completed is because I need to know that Bruce can be responsible. I am giving up a lot to move so that he and I can build a life together and for some reason, this has become a thing. I’m fine with the idea that I am going to make a sacrifice or two for this, but I am not fine with having to be the sole responsible party here.  I need to know that he is going to do what he says he’s going to do and that I can depend on him.

I was talking to Willis tonight and she, being the best friend from forever and a day, knows things and can verbalize what is bugging me better than I can. What came of the conversation was the point that for the past 6 months Bruce has been rather vocal in his dislike for his job. He still says that he might stay, but to hear him speak, he’s already gone. Except, he has to do his resume. For 6 months. He has been saying. The. Same. Things.

When I went to go visit him he had almost no work to do except this one thing. And nothing.

We went away for the long weekend and he brought his laptop. I went on a three hour tour of a spa, leaving him with explicit instructions. And still nothing.

We returned to the city with both of us stating that he still really needed to do this one thing. And still nothing.

His co-workers have threatened to call me to goad, shame, and/or coerce him into doing this one thing. And still nothing.

So here I sit, knowing that he was totally aware of what I said. He knew I was entirely serious. And still nothing.

Maybe Bruce was all full of shit, the men, they occasionally are full of shit. Maybe he was just being whiny about his job, but if that is so, then there needs to be someone else to whom he moans, because the Girl, she has reached her breaking point.

Let’s have a lesson in how women think: I stated that I would refuse to speak to him until this was done and I had proof of it. He failed to meet my request. He clearly has no desire to speak to me. Considering that we speak three times a day, maybe what he’s really trying to say is that he’s just not that into me.

Whether my hypothesis is correct or not, is not really the point (just illustrating why girls are crazy) . The point is that Bruce needs to make up his mind…and he’s still in time-out.

More walking, less bleeding: It is as it should be

Landing in (the place to be named) was a thing. Being the people that we are, both Bruce and I were working like mad in preparation for our time away from our respective offices and by the time I was in his arms, both Bruce and I were hungry and tired. So we ate and slept. Hard. Saturday saw us blinking awake and kind of shyly introducing ourselves to each other.

We filled our days with touristy things and couply things. It was like we were normal. It was nice. Nice seems so bland, I know. I’ve been searching for the right superlatives, but honestly, it was just nice.

The verbal closeness was soon matched by something else. The something else that was a concern (not mine). I tend to live my life worry free. You can’t control so many things so why worry about them. Everything else, just try to mitigate the pain by looking both ways when you cross the street.

Bruce lives life very differently and what ifs everything to death until he’s satisfied that all angles have been appropriately investigated.

Spending the extended time together eased some worried minds (a worried mind that didn’t belong to me) and by the last few days the decisions about a (our) future had been solidified.

We were happy and joyous. We were having our season in the sun. Life was good and fate smiled upon us.

This is where I say: we went to a museum and did errands; we wandered about a chic shopping area, did errands, took a hike (with me wearing heels) without a map or cell phones (do what I say, not what I do); we went into a major metropolitan area a bit north and site saw (including a ferry ride and I LOVE ferry rides); we went to a not so major town and saw some fish in enclosed spaces; we went back to the major metropolitan area and saw some animals in enclosed spaces; we drove much further north to a resort type area where we drank wine and listened to jazz type music (during which time we decided to picnic at a lake at the top of a mountain) and everything was very relaxing.

Until I fell down the mountain. And bled. Profusely.

Bruce turned into Rainman and wouldn’t shut the hell up. I recognized that he was nervous that I was really hurt (just a skinned knee and a few deep cuts that have almost healed over now). He was also betraying his ability to be in control when the children get hurt. Seriously, if you fall down, do not call upon Bruce to save you. However, if you need some entertainment after you fall and would enjoy seeing someone run in circles, call Bruce.

In a moment of seriousness, Bruce turned to me and said, “What we need here is more walking and less bleeding.”

Great, I get the fucking comedian.

But there’s more…

On Ice: we interrupt this program to bring you breaking news

Today is day one of the anti-Bruce campaign. Fucker didn’t do his shit and even though last night we spoke and he assured me that he was going home and doing what needed to be done, he still hasn’t done what he was suppose to do.

Last night I reminded him that there would be no IM’ing and emails in addition to no phone calls. This is around the time when I normally call him in the morning, and it pains me to not call him. However, I am more than a little disappointed in him right now, so I guess it’s probably better that I am not going to call him now.

I’ve told Bruce that he should comment if he wishes, because he tells me what he thinks of the posts, but never leaves any comments. He says that a comment by him will interrupt my narrative, I said I think he should either comment on the blog or refrain from reading the blog entirely. The more I think of that, the more I am sure that is what should be done.

Also, Bruce (who should have left this in a comment, hence my point) would like everyone to know the story about his employment status and why he needs to do his resume, but I am not going to explain that story because Bruce is in time-out for being a fuck-wit (Bruce, it’s up to you to let people know why you are tasked with your resume).

More Walking, less bleeding: How Bruce became my almost-boyfriend

Friday, June 02, 2006

After several months of listening to my grievances regarding some [fuckhead] boy and other sundry bad dates, I realized that Bruce was something of a thing (I believe oft referred to as potential). Bruce was a Good Guy. Before you mock me and laugh at the idea that the mythological Good Guy truly exists, trust me, Good Guy status will be irrefutably proven shortly.

So the months role on and I finally have the moment of clarity when I jump from my bed and run down the streets crying “Eureka!” I hemmed and hawed and listened to advice from her. Eventually I wrote Bruce a thinly veiled email. Bruce’s first response was…I’m busy. His second one was…don’t trust anything/anyone on the Internet. I responded rather coolly and received a concerned email back from Bruce asking if I was offended by something. I dug down deep into my bag of tricks and lied. I told him that I was just having a bad day and that my emotions had nothing to do with a stranger that I met on the Internet who I clearly couldn’t trust. I verbally bitch slapped Bruce.

Bruce, finally wise enough to see the error in his ways, replied with an apology for being terribly obtuse. He also laid out a three point ordered list as to what he thought was going on and why he thought it was terribly unwise to continue (needless to say, that email will live on in infamy for being totally wrong and will be the cornerstone of every time I want to be right).

Thusly began the endless hours of phone calls. Bruce and I are now on the same cell phone service because of a shockingly high phone bill ($198.17). Over the first month Bruce and I discussed the realities of our relationship. Someone is going to have to move for this to work and by someone, I mean me. Plans (big and small) slowly were made and I was booked on a flight to (a destination to be later named).

Bruce quickly earned the title of almost-boyfriend and he carried that moniker like a hair-shirt. He disliked the connotations, but there was no real way to argue the point. I am far too pragmatic to believe that I can consider someone my boyfriend if we had yet to meet.

As the second month evolved into the third the discussions that were held in act one reappeared. Now the statements that were made about marriage, children and futures were no longer just feelers to see if there was a something upon which we could erect our altar to Psyche . We started to realize that as different as we are (and boy are we different) the deeper pieces of our pieces we quite well matched.

Now, we just had to meet…