Nothing Notable

Merry Emotional Angst

2008-12-27T23:09:00.002-06:00

You know your parents have been in town too long (and getting way too comfortable driving their car around the Dallas highways) when you are zipping in and out of traffic, speeding with a capital "S" on your way home from a job (all so you can get to the last quality family time dinner before they roadtrip on home) and your phone rings and it is your mother, busting you for driving like a maniac, as they just happened to be five cars behind you when you pulled that last kamikaze stunt and now, instead of enjoying 10 minutes of sweet, peaceful alone time before the general chaos and guilt trips and all-around-mind-fucking-parent-child-dynamic, you get to spend 10 minutes listening to your mother tell you to slow down, you almost gave your father a heart attack, do you always drive like that, and wouldn't you really like to live to enjoy another slice of pumpkin pie with the family...

Hope everyone had a wonderful holiday!

Unpopular

2008-12-17T22:05:00.004-06:00

(I'm not cranky. Just tired of biting my tongue.)

1. Those skinny jeans do not look good on you. I know what you read. I know what the salespeople told you. But no. Take a better look in the mirror. Not a flattering look. On anyone. Okay, maybe one person looks decent in them. But honey, you're not that person.

2. Speaking of skinny... My father tells me for the hundredth time that he and my mother are worried about me. That I might be too thin. I might not be taking care of myself. I need to gain a few pounds. I offer the theory that perhaps I am in shape, everyone else is just fat. It does not seem to blow his mind like I thought it would.

3. Speaking of parents.... Are we over the mommyblog craze yet? Can we start idolizing some of the nonmommybloggers? A new blog movement perhaps? I mean, just for a change of pace.** Or have we all abandoned the blog thing in favor of Facebook and Twitter by now?

4. Lots of news stories and interviews on the radio with people who are losing their homes due to the economy. IS it the economy? Or is it that you bought more home than you should have, or that you didn't fully understand the terms of the (typically *un*fixed rate) mortgage loan before agreeing to it?

5. Was out of town for Thanksgiving. Saw my godparents. Noted the fridge was practically wallpapered with family photos. Probably too much to assume they would have, I don't know, just one photo of their godchild somewhere in there? Not that I have a photo of them hanging anywhere (but you can bet that after this visit I'm making sure I have one on hand. Just in case they ever come to Texas for a visit cuz, hoo boy! That sure would be awkward!).

6. Decided this year to stop all this holiday card obligation nonsense. Instead of compiling a giant list of everyone I know and should send a greeting to, I have no list. If a card comes in, I send one out. Which means Monk's corporate people and the relatives I don't keep in touch with will be receiving our warmest wishes for the holiday season. If you don't get a card from me, it probably means I care about you enough that I don't want to hang that holiday card obligation cloud above your head. Let's just text on the day(ish) and be done with it. THAT'S giving. THAT'S love.

**No, no, anyone I link to is not included in this Fatigue of the (Blog) Soul rant. YOU are still fabulous.

Hiatus

2008-09-23T12:18:00.002-05:00

Not to disappoint my giant readership of... five, but I figured I should let you know I'm taking a bit of a blogging break. No major reason, just haven't been feeling it lately. So, instead of posting a few boring same-old, same-old entries, I'm going to step back for a bit and wait for something interesting to happen, or at least for minor inspiration to kick me in the stomach and churn out a few words. I'll be reading and commenting, and probably updating some of my links on here, and hopefully I'll see you soon...

Point me towards the swim-up bar

2008-08-20T19:22:00.004-05:00

One of my massage playlists (okay, most- apologies to those clients with weak/easily-influenced bladders*) features the gentle sound of water accompanied by a slow (snail-like, really) plonking piano melody. It’s just a beat shy of aimless, actually, and when I say “plonking,” you’re just going to have to take my word for it. Alright, sometimes there are some “plinks” in there as well.

During an extended massage session Saturday, the water was trickling merrily along and the piano was steadily plonking away, when my zentality** was shattered by an acute awareness of each… hesitant… piano… note.

(In my book: "Good" massage music = something that can easily be ignored for 45-120 minutes at a time.)

Plonk! (pause) ploonk (pause) PLINK! (pause, pause) and out of nowhere comes this rage-filled (red-faced, throbbing-neck-vein) voice in my head roaring Just! Play! The DAMN! Note! Already! Play it! “Plink plink plink!” Play the FUCKING NOTE!

It was a good moment to make a mental note to switch out some of my massage music. And maybe calm the fuck down a little. I’m guessing unspecified homicidal urges/violent rages are probably not what one looks for in a massage therapist.

* Easily-influenced bladders! Set your boundaries! Stricter curfews! Monitor their interactions with questionable peer groups!

**zen mentality. (TM) Quinn, Nothing Notable, 2008

Bubbly

2008-08-12T11:17:00.002-05:00

Well, after much debate and mental/emotional angst, Monk and I decided it would be in everyone's best interest for my brother to move out of our house and into Sister's for the coming year. Since we'll still be attending support group meetings, having him over for the occasional dinner, going to the gym with him and seeing him in class (Monk and my brother are enrolled in the same Monday night class for the coming semester... OMG! Study buddies! BFF! Squee!), the main difference will be a) we get the guest room back and 2) no one will be standing in the middle of the kitchen staring at me as I make a sandwich in the afternoon or attempt to make conversation with my spouse. Oh, to live a scrutiny-free life again!

I could go into the details of the decision and what our concerns are, but I've declared a moratorium on the in-depth analysis of the situation for the time-being and would like to focus on the fact that, in less than a week, our "houseguest" will be no more. He plans to make the move on Friday (FRIDAY!) and a couple of weeks after that Monk and I will celebrate by changing the locks and leaving the country.

Okay, we won't be changing the locks.

But, Mexico, here we come! We've dug up our passports and booked a trip to a resort in Tulum that offers snorkeling, scuba, and tours of ancient ruins. At least, those are the highlights given to family and work colleagues.

Here's where I admit that the main selling point to our getaway is listed in the brochure as... "three swim-up bars." Three! Because we are not the kind of people to slum it at a place that would only offer one. A person has to have some standards, you know.

Is this irony?

2008-08-06T13:51:00.003-05:00

(or: Yes, When You're Living It, You Can Make Fun of It)

(rather: When You're Living It, You HAVE To Make Fun of It)

(If You Don't Want To End Up Losing It Completely)

Last night my brother and I attended his weekly mental illness support group meeting (dinner out, for a change of pace). I was struck by how far he's come in the last several months when, not only did he contribute to and initiate conversation, he actually challenged one of the members after listening to yet another (the same, recurring, lather, rinse, repeat) diatribe.

Just tell me honestly, who among you could actually keep a straight face when one schizophrenic waits for the other to stop ranting and, after a beat, calmly but firmly tells him: "You're paranoid."

Ah, life. Sometimes you are too good to me.

No lo comprendo pero me gusta mucho

2008-07-19T16:55:00.003-05:00

One of my massage appointments today was a woman who recently moved to Texas from Colombia, to spend two years studying English (immersion classes) in order to obtain her master’s in psychology. She was telling me (in halting English) how stressed she is this week because she needs to decide whether to move to Houston or Tampa for the second year of her studies. She would choose Houston, but she thought Tampa would be better for her young daughter. I (in rusty Spanish) debated the pros and cons of each city with her for a few minutes and talked about moving in general, travel, trying to communicate in a foreign country, etc.

The woman asked me if I had any children. I hesitated. Usually this is the moment my professional persona takes over and murmurs a vague (safe) “Not yet…” But for some reason (perhaps because I couldn’t in that second remember the word for “yet”) I simply replied “No.”

The woman fell silent for a few beats. Then, from somewhere deep in the face rest came the following response:

“If I did not have my daughter I would close my eyes and jump to Houston. But because I have my daughter I will be choosing Tampa. Life with no children is more free, sometimes more interesting, and maybe stress, but not the same stress. So. Maybe you will choose to live with no children and maybe you will have children. If you choose to live with no children I would say to you-“

And this is where I closed my eyes and braced myself for any or all of the following:
*You are missing out on the greatest achievement of your life.
*You HAVE to have kids! They're hard work but they are so, so worth it.
*You will regret it when you are old and there is no one to take care of you.
*That’s pretty selfish.

*But you'd make a great mother!
*Your life won’t have as much meaning without children in it.
*You’ll change your mind someday.

Instead, I heard “Congratulations.” And then she laughed and fell asleep before I could pick my jaw up off the floor.

I’m not even sure what she meant. Maybe the language barrier between us was larger than I thought and she actually meant to use a completely different word with a completely different meaning. I confuse ABOGADO (“lawyer”) with ABUELO (“grandpa”) all the time, so perhaps instead of “congratulations” she meant to say… “condoms?” And I was supposed to thank her for this advice on how to remain child-free? I don’t know. And there’s no point to this story except that I’m thinking of using “congratulations” as a standard response to people from now on, no matter what they tell me.

“Traffic’s a bitch!”
“Congratulations.”

“I have a headache.”
“Congratulations.”

“I think I’ll go with the toasted bagel, instead of the wheat toast.”
“Congratulations.”

Kind of refreshing, no?

Land of the Free

2008-07-04T10:06:00.002-05:00

So it seems I have this blog thing that I haven't updated recently but wahhh, I've been so busy doing... nothing. And "nothing" makes for a pretty boring post, let me tell you. This past week Monk and I have been riding the wild ride of not having my brother in our house for the first time in almost a year. (A YEAR, people. A year of essentially being the parents, caregivers, cheerleaders, physical therapists and mentors to a mentally ill, seriously unmotivated, messy, hygienically-challenged, completely dependent 23-year old with barely any life skills and the emotional maturity of a 15-year old. Whee! This was so not in the plan!) He's currently visiting my parents up north for a week and we are currently staying out all hours of the night, blowing off meal planning and the gym, running around the house naked (well, half-naked at least- do you have any idea how liberating it is to be able to run downstairs barely dressed to grab clothes out of the dryer without worrying about traumatizing your always-there roommate?), waving our arms and yelling things like "Look! We've been gone all day AND the kitchen's still CLEAN!" and "I had no idea how nice it was to come home and not have anyone staring at you expectantly or asking what's for dinner!" or "What is that smell? Oh, it must be the ABSENCE of smell coming from my brother's room! What a concept!" Also "I can take a shower WHENEVER I FEEL LIKE IT! AND DO LAUNDRY! AND NOT HELP ANYONE PLAN THEIR DAY!" There's also been a hold on attending mental illness support group meetings and stressful conversations with my family... Man, it's going to suck donkey balls when my brother returns Tuesday evening.

So, in the absence of 24/7 Brother Rehabilitation, there has been a return to the land of freedom and drama-free existence Monk and I have spent years creating. I've worked a little, played (climbed) a lot, and slacked off from the Responsible Life to my heart's content. The only serious conversation that occurred this week took place with a friend after climbing Tuesday night and it involved broad topics (auras, cosmic significance, pursuit of happiness) and shared stories of past tragedies; not once did I talk about my brother, the Situation, or the Stress. And, after an evening of beer-fueled conversation, my friend thanked me for my words, my empathy, eloquence and our friendship. I went home feeling flattered, content, emotionally full, and more like myself than I've felt in a long-ass time.

I worked a nearly 10-hour day yesterday, skipped out on a fireworks show, then relaxed outside with a book and a glass of wine while Monk enjoyed having the tv all to himself. I finished a chapter, set down my wineglass and tipped my head back, enjoying the muggy air, the distant booms from the next town over... when something WHIZZED past my head. Assuming it was yet another Texas beetle (that I have finally, after almost four years, figured out how to tolerate- Texas nights are very, very buggy) I was... surprised to see that it was instead a gigantic cockroach flying around in drunken, increasingly-larger circles, over the patio. And I thought (because I HATE cockroaches with a burning, seething, terror-tinged rage) "geez, that would really suck if the thing landed on my..." BOOK! It landed on my book right then! Which was on my lap! And then just perched there, waving it's huge, insolent antennae at me! So of course I calmly freaked out, swinging my book up and out from my body and with a grand flourish SHOOK the book to dislodge the beast, hitting my wineglass in the process which shattered all over the patio, spilling what had been a full glass of wine all over the concrete... And that damn cockroach just kept circling, circling... RIGHT INTO MY FACE!!! I shook my book (read: brandished it in front of my face like a battle shield) at the thing and exclaimed "Get the fuck OUT of here, you fucking... FUCK." And, perhaps impressed by the triple profanity, the cockroach got the fuck out of there.

I guess I'd already used up my propensity towards eloquence for the week.

On the upside, if a giant flying cockroach is the only drama I have to deal with this week, I'll take it. You fucking fuck.

Keep 'em coming

2008-06-08T18:57:00.011-05:00

TF and I are talking over margaritas about the day’s climbing, how he’s convinced I’m a “5.11” climber (respectably difficult route rating) but that I allow myself to get psyched out too easily. I tell him I don’t like to think of myself at a certain skill level with climbing because I hate to get the ego too involved (mostly true) and also, if I were to rate my skill level that high, wouldn’t that mean I’d have to be a little more ashamed on those days I go for all the easier climbs (more true, and more often these days)? Somehow this segues into a discussion about all the questions in life we make a conscious decision not to ask because we don’t really want to know the answer to them. He suggests this is why I've now gone several days at a time not asking my brother what is going on in his head, what his plans are beyond August, etc. I concede the point. I'm not actually ready to face that my brother hopes to live with us for another year, or indefinitely. That he has nowhere else to go, and no one else he feels safe with. Mature, no. But I'm getting really good at avoiding that conversation lately.

TF starts talking about this 20-year old “sex kitten” he has his eye on, a girl with an unusual name about which he has yet to ask. “I don’t want to know” he admits. “It’s so weird that I’ve made up this fantastic story in my head about her conception and naming while it’s probably more of the I Was Born in a Trailer Park and This Road Map Blew In From the Neighbor’s Garbage Can kind of thing. I don’t want to ruin the fantasy that she’s this fascinating person through and through. God I hate dating.”

I’m scrolling back through the past year or two, the relationships and life events, and thinking of various moments I could have asked certain questions (“Do you think of me even though we haven’t talked in a year?”... “Does your wife know how fun you think I am?”... "If you die in your flat across the ocean, how will I know?"... “Am I becoming a bore?”... “How often do you really think of ending it?”) and realizing that yes, I too swallow the questions that probably have answers I’m too tired/petty/scared to deal with. And I’m wondering how many of us do this in our day-to-day existence, take a deep breath and an extra-long blink, and change the subject- realizing in our maturity (self-absorption? self-awareness?) that we are better off keeping some things a mystery.

TF is telling me he doesn’t know what to make of this young hottie, that he is getting to the point of inviting her to climb with us so I can judge the situation and give him the inevitable feedback he (most likely) doesn’t want to hear. “But she’s so hot," he groans, "I can’t really give up on the whole idea yet. I mean, out of 10, she’s like an 11.” I dip a chip in the slowly-congealing queso and pause, trying not to drip all over my t-shirt. “To be honest,” I tell him, “I’m not sure I’m feeling up to being in the same room with a 20-year old sex kitten who rates an 11 on a scale of 10. I’m kind of feeling bruised and battered enough in general, my self-esteem is making a beeline for the toilet... I don’t know if I can deal with all the hotness. Sorry. I know that’s petty. Can we do like a phone interview or something to help you figure things out?”

[The truth is, things with my brother and my family are taking their toll- I think I’m under so much stress that it is no longer even registering on a conscious level, just manifesting in a general impatience towards everything; all I feel lately is that my emotional inbox? It is full. Please direct all inquires and issues elsewhere. I cannot deal with any additional/outside drama or attitude. I just want to be left alone. So that's... pleasant... Hello, Depression, long time no see! You haven’t changed a bit! Wanna go get a coffee or something?]

He looks at me and half-smiles. “I get it. That’s cool. But for what it’s worth, I think of you as a ten-and-a-half, and mostly the half point that keeps you from an 11 is that you’re married.” And because we’re friends I smile at his flattery and don’t ask if he’s just saying it to make me feel better. I don’t ask because I don’t really want to know the answer and it (really) doesn't matter. Sometimes you have to go on faith, acknowledge that dark mess inside of you and carry on regardless. Hold on to the fun moments, and stop thinking so hard about the Big Stuff.

Sometimes the best thing you can do is sit, order another margarita, accept a damn compliment already, and use a salt-and-peppered tortilla chip to get that queso off your t-shirt.

Things that don't make sense, but do

2008-05-29T17:47:00.003-05:00

1) Watched Across the Universe last week and fell in love with it, despite not really being able to follow the storyline (although this might have been due in part to the margaritas consumed earlier at happy hour after an afternoon of climbing, rather than any gaping plot holes) (no, I'm sure there were gaping plot holes). I don't care that the story was a bit contrived, it made me love the Beatles again. And I thought that was an impossibility at this point.

2) Spending maybe 20 minutes total on the Brazos River trying to figure out how to work a sit-on-top kayak, never falling in but still ending up soaked, and declaring it a successful kayak trip.

3) Seeing massage business dwindle for the summer and, instead of freaking out about the lack of income, celebrating all the days off to come. Feel free to come back and call me a fool when I write the Post Full of Panic, ETA: July.

4) Planning a 3-day (and very expensive) trip to Chicago mostly to spend a day at the Taste, something Monk and I used to sneer at when we actually lived there and could travel to it for the $3 subway fare it might have cost us. Also will be spending 2 of those days with my parents, despite not having actually spoken to either of them in about a month. Oh, the joys of family drama.

5) Going to the dentist after 5 years (FIVE YEARS! The shame!) of avoiding it, only to discover not only are my wisdom teeth staying in, but I still do not have any cavities... And spending the next couple of days being prouder of that accomplishment than my college degree.

Highly Recommended

2008-05-08T20:22:00.008-05:00

It may not seem like the brightest of ideas for someone with zero experience to embark on an un-mapped float route on an unknown body of water, in a two-seater kayak with a friend who reveals over dinner that he has, in fact, only been in a kayak twice before (and not once in a tandem boat).

But if you want to increase the Dumb Factor even more, you may want to add the condition that the kayak must enter the water well after the sun has set, only a sliver of moon shining down on you... and that you head for the nearest channel-masquerading-as-bayou (to which you have been cheerfully directed by what appears to be a homeless man fishing off the bank with a blue glo-stick pole) to spend the next three hours filled with mysterious splashes, dangling spider webs, birds posted like sentinels on half-submerged stumps, and other various things that go bump (against the boat) in the night.

But it can be a really great way to pass the time on a Wednesday night.

And the acoustics were... amazing

2008-05-05T15:14:00.004-05:00

I reported for duty the other day at a routine chair massage job. Despite the unpleasant surprise of a one hour drive each way (mmmm, increasing gas prices), I was in good spirits. Showed up early, greeted the job contact, and then was told they were short on private areas for the massages but the woman eagerly told me she’d come up with a solution. We rounded the corner and my steps slowed with dread as she assertively guided me towards a door, saying proudly “I think this will work just fine.”

I spent the next three hours in a tiny bathroom, door propped open to allow for some much-needed ventilation, stubbing my toes on the base of the toilet, with only a fax machine and copier for background music.

People, I tried, as a massage therapist, to be zen about the whole thing. I reached deep down for my sense of humor, less deep down for that bit that’s motivated by money, texted some friends to report the horror, and still ended up questioning whether this was a new low in my new-ish career, or just a one-off.

As I raced home to get to the gym with my brother I decided to take it as a life lesson, file the company name away in my head and just avoid another job there the next time it came up. Brother and I had a good workout, filled each other in on the events of our day so far, pounded out some of the aggravation, and headed down to the pool. Unfortunately when I met him poolside to prepare for some laps, it turned out he had forgotten to bring his suit with him.

“I can’t believe I did that. I SWEAR it was in my bag this morning,” he said in a small voice, and I could see him beginning to beat himself up about this minor mistake.

“No big deal,” I reassured him. As he turned around to go back into the locker room I walked over, patted him on the back, and added rather philosophically, “Hey, some days everything goes smoothly… other days you find yourself massaging next to the toilet.”

And you know, a shared smirk can be all the zen you need.

Too bad they don't allow camping

2008-04-28T22:42:00.008-05:00

Because I am very much into Being Out of Town, and Getting Out of the House, and Hand-feeding Giraffes (wait, what?), when a friend invited me to spend the day near Fossil Rim with him, I happily accepted. I thought we would hike around the countryside (yep, especially when you get lost), give a baby goat a bottle (not as easy it as it sounds, especially when all the baby goats are far more interested in... eating my shirt), and pet some horses (done and done). I hadn't realized that the person whose house he was sitting had an all-access pass to the wildlife refuge nearby and that we would in fact be going on safari in the middle of Texas.

According to the rules of the park, you should only enjoy the animals from your car.

Do not get out of your car to snap camera phone pics of the view.

Also, please only hand-feed the giraffes.

Do not hand-feed the other animals. Even if they stick their big fuzzy heads wayyyy inside the car and blink their greedy eyes at you.

And, should your friend's friend's (following that?) dog get into it with a skunk, you can earn extra karma credit if you stick around to help with the tomato juice bath (and, oh darn, not make it to the gym that evening). And it's ok to double-up on the latex gloves and then spend the next few hours paranoid that you still smell like wet dog and skunk.

[Sorry, no pics for that last one.]

In short, I still suck at climbing

2008-04-23T13:16:00.010-05:00

If you’re wondering, the drive from Dallas down to Hueco Tanks is LONG. 9 hours, give or take an extra 30 minutes here and there for a speeding ticket and an almost-border-crossing (TF’s car does not, unfortunately, have a compass in it, and sometimes? When you lose your only map and neither one of you has any sense of direction? You head to the border without realizing it). Accidentally going to Mexico would have been fine, I told TF, as long as he understood that it would absolutely require pounding tequila shots and a Mexican standoff before we headed back. He had more of a problem with the idea of slamming tequila at 10am.

The hikes to the climbing routes were alternatively interesting, exhilarating, and brutal. Some of them involved crossing ravines or shimmying up and down a rock face, either lugging the crash pads on our backs or throwing them down/up ahead of us, and no ropes. And I have the tiny pictures to prove it:

We camped at a deserted site and slept blissfully through two nights, interrupted a few times by 1) fierce winds that threatened to turn our tents into kites, 2) a roving pack of coyotes passing through with all the bluster and howling of a motorcycle gang, 3) finding a significant pool of water in the middle of his tent, exactly where he’d set his cell phone (Classic Desert Prank* Number One! Mysterious water in your tent! Joke’s on you, ha ha!) and 4) pulling prickly pear cactus needles out of my ass in the middle of the night (Classic Desert Prank Number Two! Needles in your sleeping bag!).

TF conquered about twice as many routes as I did, but I learned how to execute a double foot cam start which was pretty bad ass, if I do say so myself. It involves shoving your feet into the rock above your head, then pulling yourself up by your legs so your hands can latch onto the holds, then, you know, climbing around.

The trip was a much-needed escape, and I came back to town exhausted and content, and kind of missing the desert life. If Monk and the dogs had been there, I think I would’ve been happy to stay out there even longer.

Next on the list: Climbing in Oklahoma, possibly next month. I know, who would’ve thought Oklahoma had more than surrey with a fringe on top? Whatever the hell that means.

*We discovered 5 Classic Desert Pranks on this trip: #3 is a variation on #2, with cactus needles in your chalk bag- the bloody fingers certainly up the hilarity of this one; #4 involves stealing a tire off your friend's truck in the middle of the desert, after it's been overloaded with garbage for a trip to the dump (this is what we figured must have happened, after discovering an abandoned pickup truck being used as a dumpster at our campsite); #5 would be making someone hike a mile down the mountain with a crash pad on their back, all so you can get a photo of their Sponge Bob-esque appearance, only to tell them that's not actually the way we're headed, so, come on back, ha ha ha! Oh, the silliness!

Also, it's been unbelievably windy here which is making my brain shut down

2008-04-16T08:37:00.008-05:00

Oh hey. How's it going? Long time, no see and all that. Somehow this month I stumbled into a spa job and my own office within 24 hours of each other (literally stumbled into the office situation when a new client gave me the wrong suite number for his outcall appointment- 90 minutes later I had a chiropractor offering me a ridiculously low rent option for a massage room in his wellness clinic), not to mention an obscene amount of chair massage business, a handful of new outcall clients, so, um, I seem to have found myself a bit... over-scheduled lately. Also, I'm heading down to El Paso this weekend with TF to show off my lack of climbing skills ("hey kids, check out how I climb with my elbows! Wanna learn how to smash a kneecap?!"). So sometime in the next two days I have to figure out how to set up a flimsy tent I've never actually used, despite the fact that we've had it for about six years now (that means we've moved it... three times? Three times we've packed this thing among our belongings and lugged it to a new place, where it has sat in a new dark corner, gathering new layers of dust. I would not be surprised if I pulled it out of the pack tonight and watched it crumble away at my feet).

The spa job was initially supposed to be a way for me to pick up a little extra money on the occasional Saturday, but I'm pretty sure they bonked me on the head with a Music for Relaxation CD during the interview because I found myself committing to three days a week at the place, much to my post-interview, dear-god-what-have-I-done dismay. So now I get the bonus anxiety this week of trying to extricate myself from the scheduling mess I've created. Genius, me.

I had my first massage appointment at my new office space last night and, despite the room being a little on the small side ("oh! that clunking you just heard? That was just my ass hitting the wall, don't mind that, ha ha ha!") I think it's going to work out just fine. The only problem being I've been so pro-outcall with my existing clients I don't think any of them will be inclined to give up the convenience of in-home massage to trek to my new office. So now the marketing campaign for new business must begin. Should be a hoot.

I'd better get going here- lots to cram into my day, including several minutes of gazing in awe at the brand new sleeping bag I forced myself to buy yesterday. So shiny! So insulated! So.. Red! And no flannel lining, or sticky zipper issues! Welcome to the 21st century, kiddo! You will now know how it feels to actually remain DRY and WARM while camping, imagine that!

To add to the excitement of camping/climbing preparations, TF and I are having a rather heated debate about headlamps, the purchase and use thereof, and I should find out later today if my latest argument via text (I'm not wearing no goddamn headlamp. I am old school 4 realz. You will have to pry my FLASHLIGHT from my cold, dead hands. Fuckin headlamp nazi.) has finally put that shit to rest.

Get ready to rumble

2008-03-28T22:09:00.011-05:00

So. My parents came for a week. There was some yelling. There was jealousy directed at Monk and my brother for having too much on their schedule to enjoy my parents’ company nearly as much I did. My mother came up with the idea that my brother should try a career as a piano tuner. I suggested maybe he look into massage (or, why not professional cheese tasting? If we’re grasping at random straws here). My mother replied that he would probably need something more challenging and less routine. There was the taste of blood as I bit my tongue to keep from responding in howler monkey-like fashion re: how much I appreciated her belief in my career choice. But, best of all, there was this:

JERRY SPRINGER BARBIE

See the Princess Barbies sitting around, talking about their perfect little lives... Enchanted Barbie stands up to show off her new dress.

But hang on, Cinderella Barbie has suddenly noticed that Enchanted Barbie is wearing a dress that looks familiar.

“What the falafel?!” Shrieks Cinderella Barbie. “Tha’s mah dress, playah!” She throws herself across Snow White Barbie at Enchanted Barbie, who backs up into a beer bottle in terror.

“Gimme back mah dress!!! Gimme back MAH DRESS!!!”

Snow White Barbie blocks Cinderella Barbie from clawing out Enchanted Barbie’s painted eyes.

“Hold me back!” Cinderella roars, as the audience goes crazy, “HO' me BACK!”

More shrieking. Barbies flying through the air. Four year-old niece screaming with laughter almost tumbles out of her chair. Parents and sister less than amused.

Don't worry, the Barbies hugged and worked out a joint custody arrangement for the dress after bathtime. Except for Snow White Barbie. Somehow she fell off the table and died. But you'd have to ask a certain four year-old about that.

Oblivious, Awkward, Delicious

2008-03-26T10:06:00.006-05:00

Recently:

I'm sitting at dinner with a friend/massage contact I've known for over a year now, digging into the plate of fried pickles we've recklessly ordered to start the evening off (surprisingly good, by the way, if you can get past the fact that you're eating... well, fried pickles), listening as he regales me with stories of his latest fire-eating job, and wondering when the conversation will turn to inquiries about my brother, as all inevitably do these days.

Eventually, after the stuffed shrimp arrives, he asks me how things are at home and I attempt to sum up the situation without being too long-winded, trying to avoid being the conversational downer I fear I have become whenever I talk about my brother's status. I'm nervously gesturing, hunting for the appropriate descriptives, hoping I sound calm and mature, etc., my ring blinks in the bright light of the cajun-themed restaurant, and I hope I haven't just flung rice off my fork and into my lap. Fire Eater interrupts me:

"So, you live with your sister?"

I stop, confused. "No, my sister lives about 15 minutes away from us."

"Us. So, you live with...?"

"Right now it's my brother, me, Monk..."

"And Monk is...?"

Okay, this is getting a little weird. "My husband?"

If a facial expression could convey the image of a train derailing, that is what I would say flickers across Fire Eater's face. Just for a second- two, tops- before everything is as composed and bland as it has been. "And why haven't I met this husband of yours?"

"Um." More confusion. I laugh, unsure of what is happening. "You HAVE met him. I introduced you last year at [haunted theme park], remember?"

So. I guess the question now is: Who's the idiot here? Him, for not getting that I'm married, despite the ring-wearing, constant mention of Monk and a face-to-face introduction last October? Or me, for quite possibly dating this guy for the last year without realizing it?

I'm sorry, Monk. I'm sure you had no idea we were in an open relationship. But in my defense, neither did I.

Insert Foot

2008-03-19T14:14:00.007-05:00

My sister is cutting my hair (too short, ALWAYS too short. You'd think, in one's cosmetology class they'd teach you to LISTEN to your client, but whatever, a free haircut's a free haircut I suppose) and telling me about her marital problems. They've gotten to the point where a separation, and the logistics thereof, have been discussed. This is amazing timing, as our parents will be arriving Friday night for a week-long 'visit' that will be high-stress enough- appointments (read: confrontations) scheduled with my brother's counselor and psychiatrist, discussions re: his long-term plan, our role in his (lack of progress), etc. Everyone knows my sister's marriage is flailing, but she dreads the conversation (and parental judgment to follow) about how very bad it's become.

"He keeps telling me he just wants to get his passport and take off to another country" she tells me, outraged (snip, snip, snipping away).

"Hmmm," I reply mildly, thinking of pixie cuts and a recent post, "that thought has crossed my mind on occasion, too."

"Yeah, but YOU don't have KIDS" she declares, the trump card in every conversation of trial and tribulation.

"True," I agree, and then it just slips out: "Which would probably make the urge that much stronger."

Frankly, I'm surprised I escaped with any hair at all.

Free to Fall

2008-03-03T11:25:00.001-06:00

There’s a scene in “Keeping the Faith” where Ben Stiller’s character is coaching a soon-to-be-bar-mitzvahed boy on embracing his breaking, mid-puberty voice, sing out strong and proud the lines in the ceremony that will bring him into manhood, to revel in the process necessary to this coming-of-age ritual. He tells the boy to say to himself “I love that I suck.” For some reason, this scene has been running through my head quite a bit in the last month or so.

On a spur-of-the-moment-but-then-postponed-a-week whim, a friend and I drove down to Austin yesterday for a day of knee-scraping, tricep-taxing climbing that was just what the doctor ordered. The nice thing about climbing with this particular tree frog-like friend is that he has all the necessary gear, knows exactly where to go, and his car gets something insane like 40 mpg. Also, every time I climb with him my ego takes a beating, which I’ve heard is character-building. Nothing like going out of your way to get knocked down a peg or two, I always say.

As we hiked over to the climbing area I didn’t notice the blue river to our left and the rustling of small animals off the path, concentrating as I was on matching TF’s steps over stones and logs, trying not to slip and break my ass before we’d even set up the ropes and opened the trail mix. We spent over four hours finding routes, greeting fellow climbers and pressing our faces up against rock, clawing at near-invisible dents in the cliff surface and reminding each other to “breathe,” “stay with it,” and “be patient.”

TF talks a lot about honoring your body and your limits, where you are that day and the fact that sometimes you’re just going to get your butt kicked by your own (lack of) skills. He has been climbing for six years, has a fluid grace that should have landed him in a rock climbing guidebook by now, and is one of the most supportive, positive people I’ve ever met. I climb with him not only for the unofficial lessons, but for the intriguing combination of being humbled and inspired at the same time.

That is how I felt when, at the top of the last climb of the day, I finally remembered to pause and look out at the view spread out around and below me, take in the impossible hue of the river below, feel the wind blowing its hint of rain in my face, and applaud the fact that I had just completed a medium-grade climb, in a very clumsy, kind of ugly, way. The same way I’d attacked all the other routes that afternoon, in fact. But, as TF pointed out, at least this day trip didn’t include a fall into a tree branch-enema situation…

We hiked out to the car, quietly content with the day, passing climbers who are out every weekend displaying a skill level I can only hope to reach someday in the far off future, and spent the four hour drive home alternating between childhood confessions, bitch sessions about some of the more annoying characters we’d encountered earlier, depression, families, and, of course, climbing, climbing, climbing. I told TF that I feel I am actually at my worst when I climb with him, but that there is freedom in accepting that- I can explore this passion without my pride getting in the way, without having to be the best. I thanked my friend for showing me how to honor myself and my limits, remind me to breathe, and keep me humbled and inspired at the same time.

It wasn’t a day of unleashing my inner badass, proving I’ve earned the climbing tattoo in the middle of my back, or even learning a new technique or conquering a difficult route. But it was a much-needed escape from the recent, just-trying-to-keep-my-head-above-water tempo of daily life, a day to let go of frustration and bond with a new friend. A friend who helps me remember to pause, look around, celebrate my progress and my potential, who laughs because he gets it when I tell him, in a shared moment of contentment, that “I love that I suck.”

Let me tell you

2008-02-27T09:53:00.002-06:00

If any of you have been thinking about seeing the movie “Because I Said So,” let me offer some unsolicited advice: Don’t. Back away from the Blockbuster shelf. You’d be better off renting Macualey Culkin’s recent crapfest “Sex and Breakfast.” Maybe. Truly, with either train wreck you’ll find yourself wishing you had those two hours of your life back, feeling impatient and resentful and realizing that there isn’t enough wine in the world (or at least, in the house) to soften the blow.

Perhaps this was not the right time for me to sit through a movie about a ridiculously over-bearing and excessively emotional mother who meddles so much in her daughters’ lives she ends up placing a personal ad to find her youngest child a “mate.” And watching Diane Keaton try for wacky physical comedy, spending most of the movie shrieking and flailing around was, to put it mildly, excruciating. It’s likely the movie was made more torturous for me because I have been consciously ignoring my OWN mother for over a week now, ever since a meeting with my brother’s counselor and a rather depressing conversation with his psychiatrist left us with the more-serious and negative diagnosis, and an ever-expanding gray area where the future should be, of straight schizophrenia. There is yet to be a game plan or concrete prognosis for his potential and long-term care- the only thing we can be sure of is that there is no clear-cut way to Deal With This. Who knows how long we can take him living with us, who knows what he will be capable of in a few months, who knows whether he will be able to hold down his job from week to week, who knows who know who knows.

I sent an email to my sister and mother last week summarizing the new situation and have decided to take several days off from my role as family counselor, ignoring my mother’s insistent phone calls, not up to committing two hours each night to her ranting, grasping at straws, and thinly veiled accusations of the “what did you and Monk do (or not do) to bring this all about??? He was FINE before he moved to Texas!” My emotional inbox is full. As is my plate piled high with guilt sandwiches and your-shirking-your-responsibilities pot roast.

(As Pepe Le Pew would say:) L’sigh.

So perhaps sitting through two hours of overly-emotional maternal histrionics last night was not the best idea. Also, Mandy Moore is in it. So really, I should have known better.

I've grown accustomed to your Facebook (profile)

2008-02-14T10:36:00.003-06:00

I'll admit I do have a MySpace account. Unfortunately I lost interest in it about 5 minutes after its creation and now it has been so long since I've logged in that my login ID and password have been completely obscured from memory by about ten layers of mental dust; even if I could find them in the swiss cheese of my brain, I wouldn't want to pick them up. I keep waiting for the day when blogs and MySpace and Facebook and such fade out in an anticlimactic, the-times-they-are-a-changin death scene, but for now they still seem to have a tenacious grip on the 13-80 year old demographic. I've become quite adept at ignoring emails telling me that "SexyLexi has sent you an email!" or that "JoeCollegeAlum misses you!"

(Ignoring the impulse to post my frazzled, depressed musings on the pity party-inducing, unoriginal stresses in my small life, however, still needs a little work.)

An old friend (former friend?) (Someone who used to send a group email to everyone he knew, filled with paragraphs about his mundane life, but never seemed to have a moment to send a personal inquiry) (ok, there’s no easy label) (hi, Bitter? Party of one, thanks) sent me a generic Facebook invitation the other day. Not annoying enough with the “hey, come read all about my life and how fascinating I am on this website” message, or with the idea that I would have to create yet another random account for yet another website I would keep forgetting to visit, and then subsequently forget my login ID anyway, never to visit the site again, but the most annoying bit of the email was, drumroll please... My name? Was misspelled.

My FIRST name, people.

So, join Facebook? Yeah, I'll get right on that.

That's how it is, I'll see you later

2008-02-11T13:53:00.000-06:00

Alternative title considered for this post: "Cabin Fever." But I didn't want to get your brains stuck playing a Jimmy Buffet song all day. Also, I may have already used that title sometime last year (but am far too lazy today to go back through old posts to verify this).

Reasons I would like to just fuck off to another country for a bit:

*Tax season. Several months of massage income to report, of which every penny was relied on to get us through this transitional period. So, come April, Monk and I are looking at owing a terrifying amount to the good ol' US of A.

*My brother and his co-dependent, aimless ways are slowly but steadily driving me around the bend. The day I get the house back to myself for an afternoon is the day I fall down on my knees and weep great, joyful rivers of tears for this pseudo-parenting, emotionally-draining adventure finally coming to an end. Unfortunately, that day is so far away Monk and I have lost sight of it by now.

*Credit card bills. Don't get me started.

*Business is SLOOOOWWW. As in, non-existent, as far as the self-employed bit goes. Chair massage jobs are still trickling in, but still there have been far too many staring-at-the-wall, run-a-lot-of-personal-errand moments in the past few weeks. Probably thanks to the holiday scarring of wallets and that silly tax season thing. With little promise of significant money coming in anytime soon I'm starting to wonder if now would be a good time to take off for a while.

*The house. With the housing market in the toilet we decided to go ahead with a bathroom expansion (our "master bath" being the size of a shoebox, with a tiny shower we are unable to use thanks to a plumbing mishap last year), to make our immediate lives less hellish and perhaps increase the odds of actually selling this crapbag in the next year or so. Unfortunately, renovations cost money. Which we don't have. So we continue to enjoy sharing shower facilities with my brother, who has an eerie sense of timing and will decide to take one about 2 minutes before I can I get in there. Even minor repairs like fixing up all the other bits and pieces of this money pit are not feasible at the moment. Am I the only one who regularly fantasizes about simply taking a match to the place and walking away?

Not that I would leave Monk to deal with my brother or the dogs or what-have-you, not really, I swear (although I admit the thought of running out the door screaming "so long, suckers!" HAS crossed my mind once or twice) but I find myself visiting volunteer websites more and more frequently lately, trying to figure out if a two-week stint building houses in Guatemala or teaching English in Costa Rica might be on the agenda in the next few months. Unfortunately, you have to pay to volunteer, and $2500 is money that can't be found in the proverbial couch cushions right now. Sigh.

So, I'm stuck. Mentally climbing the walls. And stressed. And probably bumming you all out right about now so I'll just take my Debbie Downer ass out of here and come back when things are looking up, whenever that may be.

But really, who cares?

2008-02-01T08:30:00.000-06:00

I made the mistake of scheduling my national certification exam for a week when Monk would be out of town and my brother would be, well, around. All the time. Making noise and messes and just generally being in my space. Although since he has no idea what to do with himself when he isn't working (which is pretty much most of every day), the latter was inevitable.

For weeks I've been trying to focus and retain and not panic, etc. for the exam that would basically be the culmination of everything I've been doing over the past year. I thought for sure I'd be taking it at least twice. Which was really going to suck since a) I'd already told a bunch of people the exam date and geez how humiliating would it be to have to tell them I'd failed? along with b) we don't really have the money for me to be taking this test more than once. Oh, and c) wahhh, I just want to get this over with and behind me, wahhh, I miss drinking.

So anyway, as of 5 p.m. yesterday, just call me Nationally Certified. I'm not confident enough to say I made that test my bitch, but I'm pretty sure I could have gotten it to pay for a drink or two.

i luv txtng LOL

2008-01-21T21:40:00.001-06:00

I may have been the last person in the world to get on board with the whole texting thing but nowadays, with unlimited texting packages and the kind of daily existence that doesn't easily lend itself to making phone calls, I've fallen in love. Hard. And found others of my kind, those of the i-could-call-but-can't-be-bothered-to-actually-speak-so-here's-a-text-instead school. These people have no idea, whether it's texting between massage appointments, sneaking a reply before a corporate meeting, or passing time during a lecture, how much this modern day version of passing notes during class entertains me.

Last Friday, I stared out at the dreary, gray view during a particularly monotonous day of chair massage, forearms aching, wind rattling the windows of the building, wishing I were home or running errands or napping or... ANYTHING but standing/kneading/squeezing/leaning/etc. for hours. So the 40-odd text conversations that occurred that afternoon really helped take my mind off the tedium. Some highlights:

"I ripped a piece of skin off the top of my pinky yesterday – been massaging like an old lady daintily holding a teacup all day."

"Today is full of firsts! I had a lady whip her boob out of her shirt to show me a scar then my first classy transvestite! I had to look for the Adam’s apple to be sure."

"Can’t believe how many people still equate ‘force’ to ‘effectiveness.’ Some of these clients aren’t happy til my elbow goes through their kidney."

"I’m now The Original One-Legged Massage Therapist. Basically playing musical chairs with myself. Can you picture it?"
(I couldn't, and begged for a photo but alas, her self-portrait skills with the cell phone were lacking)

"So, a man in an electric wheelchair is sitting 3 floors down in the parking lot, facing away from the building. He was conducting an invisible orchestra earlier but has been absolutely still for over an hour now. He’s probably dead...

And instead of calling 911, I’m texting people, going for the ‘Unfinished Symphony’ joke, while Schubert spins in his grave…"

I love modern technology. I really do.

Going nowhere with this, but hey, Happy New Year by the way

2008-01-03T13:18:00.000-06:00

Have you ever been in line at the grocery store and, two customers up, there is a price dispute at the register? And then the already slow cashier pages an even slower store employee who meanders over, takes the item in question and then disappears on a molasses-paced quest to find the aisle with identical products, check the price and eventually find his way back to the register?

And you’re standing there, holding a case of bottled water and a box of cereal, telling yourself to just be patient, you have plenty of time, no big deal, breathe in, breathe out… and then you discover that the entire price check revolves around a 60-cent discrepancy? That you and the person in front of you have been waiting for a day and a half because the woman (who of course doesn’t even have her checkbook out in preparation to pay and move right along) (CHECKBOOK? Come on, people, are you really still paying with checks?) doesn’t want to pay 60 cents more than she has to for her stupid olive oil?

Meanwhile, your right bicep is crying and if only you could put the case of water down just for a second but there is nowhere to set it and oh no it’s starting to slip and boy, how embarrassing would it be to just drop everything and knock over the magazine display and hey, the elderly co-waiting person in front of you is in an electric wheelchair for god’s sake so really you with your able-bodied-though-precarious grip on the case of water? You don’t have it so bad.

But at least she gets to sit while she waits.

Yep, gonna get struck down for that one.

And then you take another deep breath and come to the zen realization that so what, so we wait. It’s fine. It’s a good chance to take a moment and fully appreciate the freedom that comes with being self-employed and not having the limited timeframe of a short break from the office in which to run your errands.

But good god, woman, I will GIVE you the 60 cents, nah, make it an even dollar, if you will just write your check (CHECK!) and move on already.

In a conversation on Sunday, as Monk and I sped along in the rental car that would take us from the St. Louis airport to Columbia, MO for a quick New Year’s visit, I declared Monk to be a Fun Vampire. There are many times I’ve witnessed him, instead of simply enjoying a moment or an event, feeling compelled to analyze it, break it down, and spread it over everyone’s lap- lugubrious details and theories pieced together in one un-fun, not-so-magical-anymore, nerd quilt. “It is your superpower- the ability to suck the fun out of ANYTHING!” I exclaimed. After giggling for a bit we decided that my superpower must be the ability to tear someone apart little by little, break them down verbally, and somehow make them laugh throughout the assault.

But today I was reminded that I have yet another, even less impressive superpower: The ability to (always) choose the wrong line at the store- price checks, lost wallets, impossible-to-locate packs of cigarettes, unreadable credit cards, the Slowest Woman in the World (and yes, I believe I met her yesterday in line at Wal-Mart and was tempted to ask for her autograph but was afraid I’d be there all night)… Whoever the bane of the checkout line’s existence is on any given day, I will somehow find that person and get in line behind them.

I mean, damn. 60 cents.

(And don't worry about me and the Fun Vampire- he sets his superpower aside quite frequently and we had a truly 3-F New Year's in Missouri- festive, fun and FREEZING.)

Happy New Year!

Reason #542 why I love my friends

2007-12-22T14:14:00.000-06:00

Voicemail messages that start with "Hey, I was driving by a local sex shop and thought of you- you know, cuz you used to work at one..." followed by a fun fact regarding butt plug usage in a suburb just north of Dallas.

"Thought you might be interested in knowing that. I'm sure you have some clients in [that suburb], so good luck trying to think of anything else during your next massage appointment."

On that note, I hope you all have a great holiday.

Air it out

2007-12-12T10:32:00.000-06:00

Let’s open up some windows and get some fresh air in here. Oops, something just came flying in through the window, what is that? Is that another problem? Oh, but this one’s light and fluffy and kind of cute, how refreshing! Let’s take a look:

Yesterday I had a brief but well-paid chair massage at a small office in North Dallas. I received rave reviews and a piece of baklava (this is actually not a rare occurrence- the free food bonus I mean) (um, neither are rave reviews by the way), and left my contact information with one of the people so he could book a 60-minute table session with me after the holidays. He seemed like a very cool guy, and as we talked I may have assumed a little about him; figured he would want to book back-to-back appointments for himself and his boyfriend and yay, more money for me, etc.

Before I’d completed the 30-minute drive home he had sent an email full of massage compliments, a mention of scheduling a table session, and then asked if I wanted to grab coffee sometime.

Now, I love “going for coffee” and I’ve often thought it’s a shame I don’t have anyone in the Dallas area to do this with more often, so of course meeting someone who suggests it should be aces. Except, the invitation was preceded by a “hope this isn’t too forward,” and normally that’s something that implies… more… Isn’t it? Or am I (gasp!) just that far out of the game that I'm reading something into nothing? It could just be a nod to how awkward it becomes for all of us, once we’re out of college and being all adultish to initiate new friendships. He could have been asking if I see my clients socially or if that was overstepping professional boundaries.

Or, he could have been asking me out.

I don’t claim to have a good “radar” or anything, but I would have put a LOT of money on this horse (liking other boy horses), folks. I guess I need to find out more about his intentions (oh hello, I must be channeling my grandfather right now) before I take him up on his invitation. Maybe I’ll just ask him if his boyfriend will be joining us (“oh, you’re not gay? Oh ha ha, my bad, I’m such an idiot I do stuff like that all the time, my HUSBAND will have such a laugh when I tell him, hee!”) and let the awkward chips fall where they may.

Mmm, awkward chips. Probably go well with the Make-An-Ass-of-Yourself dip.

PART 3 (Snippets from the Storm)

2007-12-03T09:52:00.000-06:00

I will always remember…

The first visit with my brother, twelve hours after he’d been transferred to the mental hospital. He was led into the cramped, chaotic visiting room so obviously still doped up, scared, subdued, confused… looking about twelve years old. It is the first of many times throughout the week that my heart will remind me it can break more than once…

Phone calls from the mental hospital, as my brother discovers the telephone in the common room and calls me every hour, begging me to come get him, he just wants to go home, what happened, why is he there and why won’t they let him leave?...

My sister taking over calls to the psychiatrist, social worker, our parents, interrupting their questions and answers, too stressed and scared herself to play anything but the part of the shrill, high-strung and easily-offended sister. I slip back into the familiar role of quiet, calm mediator/accommodator. And stay there…

My brother’s memory coming back slowly but surely, filling us in on what he thought was going on that Monday- delusions of a police state, heightened senses of smell and hearing, animals talking to him, signs everywhere, my sister as a wicked force controlling all the little children and his heart, Monk controlling all the cars… A twisted version of Ender’s Game going on in his head throughout the day… my relief (and misplaced, immature satisfaction) that despite the delusions and hallucinations he never once saw me as anything but an ally…

Tales of escape attempts, additional forced-sedation incidents, an isolation room, calls to 911 that shut down the phone system for the day… I grow tired of people telling me that it’s okay, this isn’t my brother, etc. because guess what?! Whether or not his perception of reality is accurate, his terror is real and doesn’t anyone get that? Doesn’t anyone get how scared I am for him, for all of us?! My heart is hurting, I’m not sleeping, and there is fear and stress every second, from every angle of this situation. And if one more person tells me how strong I’m being…

My sister and I becoming regulars at the mental hospital… Walking on the grounds towards my brother’s building, my sister freaking out because she’s plowed (headfirst, of course) into a giant (but invisible to everyone else) spider web, me shushing her and both of us breaking down into hysterical giggling as I tell her to cut it out, quit, they’ll want to keep you here…

My brother insisting each visit that he’s okay, he’s not crazy, he just had a bad day and how long does he have to stay here? And will he be here on his birthday? And, what happened? How did he end up here? My sister and I exchanging looks, unsure of how much to tell him, confused as to why his doctors and nurses haven’t reminded him of his diagnosis, haven’t given him any information…

My parents’ display of how spectacularly they can mishandle a situation, saying the wrong things, trying to blame this illness on something, someone. Monk seems to think I shouldn’t put up with some of the things that are being said, but I remind him it is all coming from a place of fear and frustration, and that eventually I will put my foot down. Eventually…

The 7-day marker arriving, the morning of my brother’s birthday, the one night I haven’t turned my phone back on, and the doctor of course trying to reach me, Monk calling, my sister practically breaking into the house to wake me up: They want to release him today! But they couldn’t reach you so maybe they’ll keep him longer now! But if it is between today and tomorrow I don’t see what good it will do to keep him overnight, how much more prepared we will all be in 24 hours. I suspect if anything, spending his birthday at the mental hospital will cause even more damage. There is a mad scramble to get in touch with the doctor, the social worker, anyone at the hospital that can reach anyone else who might be able to help us get my brother out that afternoon. And we do…

My brother has a laid-back 22 birthday- bowling, prescription filling, and early bedtime. He doesn’t want to talk to my parents and my mother cannot accept this- she calls me, hurt, crying, not understanding how he can be at a bowling alley and yet shy away from a happy birthday phone call from his parents, and my heart breaks yet again as I ask her to be patient and try to explain, unsuccessfully, why she is being shut out.

We keep Thanksgiving quiet and low-stress, we arrange for him to do the outpatient therapy program, we are hit in the face again and again with how much younger and even more restless he seems now, with a constant need to be entertained, to be doing something, our new roles of babysitters and activity planners not something we are used to. The behavior disorder should start to clear up immediately we are told, but the thinking disorder will take at least another month.

So now we wait, and watch, and try to adjust. Again. Carefully, hesitantly, we revise our concept of “normalcy,” our idea of what the day-to-day routine should be, attempt to make peace with finding ourselves in a situation so far from what we thought we were getting into back in August, so far from where we started.

PART 2 (Monday, 11/12/07)

2007-11-22T11:45:00.000-06:00

Monday morning I'm rushing around, surely on the verge of being late to a massage job. My brother is wandering aimlessly around the kitchen, having eaten a peculiar breakfast of a chicken breast and a protein drink. He stops me on my way out to the car to ask if I am really sure I want to go to work. I give him some smartass reply and grab my keys. He stops me again and asks for a ride over to my sister's house. I agree, despite the fact that this will most certainly make me late and put me at risk for getting fired from this contract, because he is acting strange, something is off, and I feel uneasy about leaving him alone for the day.

Halfway to my sister's house he tells me to turn around and take him home. I refuse, impatient with this mercurial behavior. As I pull out of my sister's driveway and speed into downtown Dallas, I feel relieved that he is someone else's problem for the day. My sister and grandmother are taking him and the children to the aquarium; we are all clueless as to how the day will unfold.

I'm in the middle of the chair massage job when the texts and emails start. My brother has left the aquarium to take a walk (the crowds and chaos were too much to handle) and is now missing somewhere in Dallas. My sister and Monk are going to call the police. I am working on someone's shoulders, peering out the fifth floor window of the company's conference room, as though I will be able to spot my brother wandering the streets.

He turns up. He's rambling on about the animals and children and wanting to go home. An emergency psychiatrist appointment is made and my sister takes everyone back to her house for lunch, in the middle of which my brother starts shouting at her to KNOCK IT OFF, KNOCK IT OFF, before going outside and performing some kind of dancing kung fu theater on her patio.

Somehow they get him in the car (after a strange confrontation between the two of them on her front lawn) to his psychiatrist's office. Monk and I, driving separately, pull into the parking lot 2 minutes apart, a few minutes before my sister. I manage to prevent my brother from mooning the receptionist, after he has raised his shirt at her and asked if it offends her. He has removed his shoes and socks, however, and we all have decided at this point to pick our battles. The appointment does not go well- my brother is unable or unwilling to answer the doctor's questions, choosing instead to ask his own or simply stare hostilely over the doctor's head. Monk ends up sitting outside on a curb with him, talking about physics or quantum mechanics or something (after preventing what was about to become an absent-minded striptease in the parking lot) while my sister and I remain with the psychiatrist and are informed brusquely that my brother seems to be in the middle of a major psychotic break; immediate hospitalization is recommended.

Monk is driving, my brother's in the passenger seat, my sister sits behind him, and I am behind Monk keeping a worried eye on my brother, as we speed towards the emergency room, trying to keep things nonchalant so my brother does not flip out and refuse to go along. The front windows are rolled all the way down and normally I would be bitching, but this seems to be another pick-your-battles moment. On the highway my brother becomes convinced he can somehow influence the cars around us. Most of his rambling is drowned out by the wind, but he tells us his heart is hurting, he is having difficulty breathing, he takes off his seatbelt and puts his hand on the door lock. Monk and I tell him to put his seatbelt back on, that we'll get a ticket if he doesn't, but logic is not working at this point. Suddenly my brother whips around in his seat and yells at the top of his lungs to my sister to STOP IT!!! KNOCK IT OFF!!! We tell him she is not doing anything.

We are finally near the hospital. My brother seems to sense something is going on and decides it is a good idea to try to climb out of the car window. We're all yelling at him to stay in the car. He reaches back to my sister's door and tries to unlock it, to get her out of the car. Then he tries to exit via the car window again and Monk tells him, with panic in his voice, to hold his hand. For some reason my brother agrees to this, and now Monk is holding my brother's hand tightly, while trying to drive a stick-shift, find the emergency room door and not have a stroke.

We get to the emergency room. We sign my brother in for an evaluation and then we wait. And while we wait my heart is continuing to beat in such a way that I am sure I'm going to pass out. My brother gets confrontational with the people in the ER waiting room. He practices his kung fu. He starts to walk off several times and I manage to convince him to come back. He becomes emotional and glues himself to my sister, hugging her and rubbing her back, and although she is mortified and uncomfortable, at least he isn't going anywhere so she hugs him right back.

They only let one of us into the triage room with him. So I sit there as my brother's heartrate is monitored, as the pretty triage nurse asks him questions that he occasionally answers, as he weirds her out with his random, acid-trip-like musings. He talks about infinity, about just wanting to walk in the sun with his sisters, starts feeling the walls behind him and making ecstatic noises. His eyes are closed, lids fluttering as though he is mid-seizure and my sister and Monk are right outside, wondering what is happening. The triage nurse tells me my brother can't be admitted to the psych ward until his heart rate slows down. But it shows no signs of slowing. She tells me we're going to have to take him back out to the waiting room and "make small talk" for a while to try to calm him down before someone from the psych ward arrives. I look her very calmly in the eye and shake my head to tell her no, we will stay here, you will put in the psych order, and we will all go wait somewhere else because- small talk? Out there? At this point? Right. She calls in the order.

We go to another room, my brother takes off his shirt and shoes. Monk is following behind him, picking his clothes up off the floor, I'm leading him to a desk hoping he'll sign the forms we need, my sister is looking around at everyone looking at us and I wish I could make her see that these people? Eyeing us and commenting to their companions and judging the situation (however incorrectly)? Just do not matter. I threw away any remaining self-consciousness the moment we all entered the ER and I wish she would do the same, as there is no time for that, it has no place here. After a slight confrontation with this new hospital form person, I tell my brother where to sign (Dog Whisperer-style, calm, cool and assertive) and he does.

Then he needs to leave us and get through a metal detector and go to the emergency psych ward but instead walks off and won't come back. The staff reluctantly allow me to accompany him to the psych ward. My brother and I walk the long hallway and enter yet another waiting room, where again, despite the sense of urgency implied in words like "psychotic break" and, I don't know, "EMERGENCY ROOM," no one seems in a hurry to talk to us. When they do, they send a 12-year old with a mustache masquerading as a nurse to interview my brother. Name, address, job, etc. My brother stands up and gets in the boy-man's face. I tell him to be nice. He apologizes. We sit again for what feels like ages. My brother reads a sign in Spanish about patient confidentiality to me, and lets me know that this sign? Is a SIGN. Very important.

Eventually he is invited to step through the door in front of us. He looks back at me to see if I am coming, a flicker of doubt in his eyes, but I am not allowed to go any further. This is where I get off. He is unsure but I smile encouragingly, hoping he doesn’t catch the false bravado in my face.

Now he is alone two doors and a hallway from me, in an evaluation room. Every time someone slips in and out of the room I catch a glimpse of his shoulders, the back of his head. Then someone lets themselves out of the room and he twists himself around, sticks both hands between the door and doorframe and is trying to pry open the door and lift himself up out of his chair at the same time. I see two large shadows fly in and a syringe being handed through and my brother is ripped off of the door, the door slams, he is yelling, panicking, I hear thuds, I see everyone at the nurses station gather at a far off window to watch, like kids swarming to witness a schoolyard fight. And then, silence. I sit in the waiting area for what feels like an eternity. No one comes out; I cannot get any information from the nurse at the window.

I’ve been texting Monk and my sister this whole time, despite being instructed very sternly at the metal detector to keep my cell phone off, letting them know I don’t know anything. Finally I catch a tech on his way in and beg him to have someone come out and at least tell me that my brother is physically okay, that other people there have not been hurt. The doctor comes out and gently informs me that, because my brother is 21, legally she cannot tell me anything about his status. But then she guides me into the outer hallway and tells me that I can tell her anything I want about my brother, to help her help him, and I give her his history, the day’s events, and ask her how long it usually takes to get someone calmed down. She takes my cell phone number and promises to contact me when that happens.

In the end, I meet up with my sister and Monk and we wait until almost 11, sitting outside the emergency entrance of the hospital, the sound of helicopter blades and ambulance sirens occasionally breaking up the cacophony of birds in the trees above us. We watch people come in an out, a grieving family member here, a head wound over there, and speculate on the day and what will happen next. When we don’t hear from the doctor we head back in, all three of us, and manage to conduct an entirely ‘hypothetical’ discussion with this young, empathetic doctor outside the psych ward, that at least lets us know what will happen tonight, who will be contacting us, and where my brother will end up, as he is obviously in no condition to be home for a while.

It is after midnight and the three of us are driving home in silence. My sister sits up front with Monk. I sit in the back again, numb, next to my brother’s backpack, watching the lights of Dallas and its late night traffic slide over the canvas, over and over, and with every stroke of light I think I’ve just committed my brother. I’ve just committed my BROTHER.

We drop my sister off at her house and I pick up my car to follow Monk home after a quick visit with my grandmother. He is already in bed when I pull up to the curb, exhausted. Devastated. I drag myself up the front walk, gazing at my brother’s bedroom windows, wishing he were fast asleep in his bed tonight. I unlock the door, walk into the kitchen and freeze, unsure of my next step, knowing I will not sleep tonight. In the dining room a sweatshirt is draped over one of the chairs and I pick it up to fold it as the image of my brother trying to get out of the evaluation room fills my head, followed immediately by the clear thought that he is spending the night in a hospital, confused, alone, and scared out of his mind. And within that second, the numbness cracks, I am doubled over, gasping for air, tears streaming down my face, clutching my stomach and unable to stop the oh god oh god oh god oh god what have we done from coming out.

My brother is 21 and we had him committed tonight. My brother will be on his way to a mental institution tomorrow morning, and his birthday is next week, and we don’t know how any of this will turn out. But we do know that nothing will ever be the same. Something has been completely shattered in the last 14 hours, and there is nothing to be done to fix it. I think about my irritation of the last few weeks, the broken furniture and general mess my brother left in his wake, the loss of alone time and resentment that grew from having an additional (and difficult) roommate. But I know I would happily take all the busted up furniture, ruined bedding, ripped rugs, destroyed peace and upended schedules… I would deal with the broken trust that now exists between my brother and me, the collection of broken hearts in this moment, if we could just undo THIS day, un-break my brother’s brain, and our innocence. But we can’t. This is real life. This is really happening.

PART 1 (Last Week)

2007-11-15T22:10:00.000-06:00

My brother has grown increasingly agitated as the week progresses following his diagnosis. It’s the first week of his new job and he has been putting himself under additional pressure by working overtime, to hopefully impress his new boss and earn extra money. Wednesday, Thursday and Friday nights he arrives home hours after he should have, getting lost on the highways of Dallas. Twice we’ve talked him through to finding his way home, one time our call gets cut off because he forgot to charge his phone; I spend the better part of three hours that night wondering if I should be driving around Dallas trying to locate him.

Throughout the week we have increasingly strange conversation topics, verbal retracings of high school events and college experiences, loud laughter in the bathroom when he should be sleeping, conflicting stories of his job and boss (one day they’re fantastic, the next they’re horrible); he also speaks of an overwhelming sense of appreciation and nostalgia for his childhood and our parents.

Saturday morning he loses his paycheck and after helping him search his car and his room he accuses me of stealing it. I tell him matter-of-factly that I did not, but he smirks and says it’s cool, he just wants me to know he knows. Later that morning he finds it and apologizes. We hug it out.

My sister’s in-laws and our grandmother are in town, and my nephew’s 1st birthday party is scheduled for that afternoon. The crowd and kids and chaos prove too much and my brother locks himself in her bathroom halfway through the party. I find him and we go for a walk. He rants and falls silent, again and again, sometimes tearing up at how much the world has changed and how overwhelmed he is by adulthood and love and children etc., at times he doesn’t make any sense and frequently he is unable to finish a sentence.

Saturday evening my brother opts out of the “family” dinner as we are on our way to my sister’s. Monk drops me off and turns around to get my brother home as he insists he just needs a break, a good dinner and early bedtime. Monk and I return that night to find him just starting to cook and obviously stressed about something. As the three of us talk (and talk, and talk) he informs us that my sister’s friend was messing with him earlier, he feels bad about how he handled the party, behaving (in his view) badly, how fucked-up my sister’s in-laws are... We dismiss most of it in good humor, but agree whole-heartedly on that last bit.

It is a long night (and has been a long week) and I’m growing impatient with the conversational loop, just wanting some downtime, a little peace and quiet and, honestly, a break from my brother and his constant presence (and neediness) in our house. I start to tune out here and there as the words continue falling down around us like snow knocked off a tree branch. Later that night my brother is still awake and too restless to stay in his room; finally he asks me for an Ambien so he can sleep. I give him one and eventually collapse into bed myself, exhausted, with a vague sense of unease.

Sunday I work (massage) most of the day while Monk and my brother visit with my sister and grandma. After another uneventful dinner the three of us go home where my brother has a complete and total meltdown. He insists my sister said something “really shitty” to him which has made his blood boil and his sense of betrayal is sharp (even though he can't remember exactly what she said). He tells us he's scared and doesn’t know what’s happening, why he accused me of stealing his money, how sorry he is about that, how lonely, how touch-deprived, he just needs someone to love, he’s fucked-up… There is sobbing and yelling and distrust and I’m holding and rocking and reassuring him and exchanging ‘oh my god holy shit’ glances over his head with Monk to acknowledge we have landed somewhere foreign and bigger and scarier than we might be able to handle. When he finally calms down my brother seems… different. Confrontational. Still restless. He comes downstairs twice while I am having a late night phone call with a friend, striding purposefully into my space, pointing a finger assertively at me and giving me (I know this sounds absurd) a very hostile thumbs-up gesture. I go upstairs for bed after this odd, semi-challenge thing and the dogs get into a fight on our bed. Short-lived but ugly just the same, an obvious result of the weird energy that is threading its way throughout the house. Monk and I end up sleeping with the bedroom door locked, for reasons we can’t quite (don’t want to) articulate.

Brief, Spotty

2007-11-07T14:48:00.000-06:00

I've been really slacking on keeping up with everyone else's posts, and obviously haven't been great at the updates on my own. Things have been a little hectic as usual, with Halloween parties (roller derby girl was a big hit), massage jobs, weekend classes, etc. I'd like to give a proper update here, today, but my mind is kind of reeling from the latest development in the twisted version of Three's Company going on in Quinnland.

Thanks to a visit with my brother's psychiatrist, we now have a somewhat solid, additional diagnosis that has shoved the ADD to the backseat and will now be riding shotgun with the depression. I'm still researching what this means for my brother and for the people around him, short- and long-term, socially, financially, etc., and the more I find out the less prepared I feel. For now I'll just tell you that an antipsychotic drug has been added to his daily prescription repertoire.

So, we're all still processing... The thing is, if I'M scared, I can't imagine how HE feels right now.

In other news

2007-10-26T16:44:00.000-05:00

Finally figured out my Halloween costume. Looking forward to sporting knee pads, a black eye, and some overly aggressive behavior... Now I just have to figure out how to create a fake pair of skates. A SUGGESTION of skates, if you will. Mostly because I believe the general rule of thumb, for me anyway, is: Wheels + Drinking = Bad Idea.

_ for effort

2007-10-15T21:40:00.000-05:00

My brother has wasted his entire weekend alternatively staring into space or playing a certain CD nineteen times in a row, instead of studying for a Physics test that has to make up for the one he failed two weeks ago.

Today he woke up early enough to blow off all his classes, then ate his way through the fridge out of boredom and nervousness.

It has been a shitty week-and-then-some, full of space/sharing issues, frustrations, medications seemingly not kicking in, a job on the verge of being lost, etc., and now it is 8 o’clock Monday night and we’re in the middle of a (nearly) full-blown anxiety attack. My brother’s voice is a steady crescendo as he recounts all the ways he thinks he has failed in life, especially over the last few weeks.

I am trying to calm him down, interject a little level-headednes amongst the panic, but he is having difficulty slowing down enough to hear me. I know procrastination, college misery, pressure from all sides, severe depression and anxiety, being 21 and feeling like you’re never going to be able to hop back on the merry-go-round… but I do not know what it is like to deal with all those things plus a serious lack of life skills, and ADD as the icing on the cake.

I’m trying, he groans, but it’s all so fucking hard and I don’t know how to study or what to do or how to do it and I wasted so much time and I’m going to fail, it’s like there’s no fucking point now to doing anything about it!

I know, I say, but you also keep telling me you can do this, so you need to start to believe that, and at least try.

But it’s too late! There’s NO WAY I’m going to pass the test now, I can’t motivate myself, I haven’t done any of the homework problems and there’s like FOUR CHAPTERS’ WORTH-

So, what? You’re going to keep crying about it for a few hours, and then not sleep tonight worrying about the test and fail it anyway? Go get your stuff, I’ll stay here with you until you get the homework done.

It’s too much! And it’s FOUR CHAPTERS! And it’s already 8 o’clock and-

And it’s 9 o’clock in New York, and 7 in New Mexico.

So?

Exactly. Go bring your stuff down here and get started.

But-

I’m sorry, Z, this is non-negotiable now. Go get your stuff, do at least one homework problem and we’ll take it from there.

(he sighs)

And then at least you can say you’ve tried.

He relents. Almost two hours later and he’s still at it, there’s a deep calm in the house when Monk gets home, and I am glad I decided to cancel my own study group tonight to be home with my brother. I don’t know if this last minute effort, though earnest, is going to earn my brother the grade he needs tomorrow, but I can tell he’s feeling more at peace and confident, which is good. I know he’s trying, and that has to count for something.

Monk is concerned by how drained I seem but I don’t feel like talking (ranting, who are we kidding) about the evening and cancelled plans, a consistent lack of energy and a running list of items we will need to replace whenever my brother moves out (the latest, as of today: The relatively new, white luxe comforter in our beautiful-guest-room (what used to be the room I used to, you know, get some sleep at night)-turned-brother’s-room, which now has pink highlighter all over it). He is ready to take over, to continue the patient instruction and tolerance he’s practicing daily, ever since my brother moved in with us in August. But I smile and tell him my brother’s doing his homework, preparing for his exam tomorrow, and let’s try to be quiet so he can focus. I tell him I’ll be staying up tonight until my brother finishes this, and that it’s okay, tonight it’s my turn.

Tomorrow will bring a host of different issues, I’m sure, and Monk and I will continue to deal with things as they come, holding fast to our patience and compassion, our tongues and our tempers, coping and hoping for the best in every moment. I don’t know if any of this is helping my brother, but dammit, we’re trying. And that has to count for something.

Find your inner [slutty] Grinch

2007-10-10T13:11:00.000-05:00

I was going to post about a little issue I'm having with Climbsalot's new(ish) bride not liking me, but after a brief discussion with Monk about how awesome I am (I love how delusional that dude is, even after nearly a decade), I realized it makes sense that she doesn't like me and probably won't ever come around. And even though it irks me, I need to cut her a little slack regarding her two-faced behavior when we are all, oh I don't know, sitting around having beers on a Monday night (Quinn tells a story, she barely pays attention, another friend starts talking and it's like a visit from the Pope). Either that or I should flirt with her husband more. Anyone want to vote on which way I will go with this?

Hmmm, crabby much?

I was talking to a friend last night about Halloween plans, and very nearly committed to stopping in at his party, before he let it slip that every year they hold their traditional contest for Sexiest Costume. "Oh my god!" I exclaimed, "and then after all the women have paraded around half naked, do we get to put on a wet t-shirt contest, or roll around in jello, or-" and at that point my eye-rolling became so emphatic and melodramatic that I almost toppled out of my barstool.

I'd go into the standard diatribe here about how every costume these days is a slutty version of its original ("I'm a [slutty] nurse!" or "Check out my [sexy] cat costume!" or "Don't you recognize a [whore-y] sanitation engineer when you see one?!") but it's a tired little ditty, and I'm a tired dame these days, so let's move on. Also, I kind of suspect I would have less of a problem with the whole scene if I only had bigger breasts (wouldn't that have been a great additional character/song in The Wizard of Oz, by the way? "I'd be bold and I'D get noticed, every guy would LOSE his focus, if I only had a rack..." Anywhooo).

I'm going a little Grinch-like on the whole holiday this year, and I'm not sure why. I used to like Halloween, I swear I did. Baby needs a nap.

Hands down, best costume I've ever heard of was worn by an acquaintance last year- she was attempting a play on a classic detective character, but spent the whole evening at a party with the wrong (and therefore cultural-icon-clueless) generation and was deemed "the girl in the inflatable penis" for the night. Now THAT'S what I'm talking about, people. I'd been trying to decide between something from Greek mythology, a biker chick, or something particularly ghoulish (not sure what, exactly, but anytime I can draw stitches and scars on my face I'm happy), but now I'm wondering if she still has that outfit and if it's available to rent.

I know! I'll figure out a way to way to be [SLUTTY] Inflatable Penis Girl! I bet Climbsalot's wife would feel better about him flirting with me in THAT. Or... not.

Transition

2007-09-26T20:53:00.000-05:00

I'd give you an update on the office-to-massage-therapy switchover, but I'd hate to return to posting with a big ol' bang o' boring. Let's just say it's... going. In less than a month I should be able to answer the "what do you do" question with one simple response: "I'm a massage therapist." Pretty exciting. And also? Totally frightening, since Monk and I are still housing a fugitive, ahem, my brother, and spending money like we're rock stars. Or at least like two people secure in the knowledge that another paycheck is just around the corner.

I know I just need to forge ahead, trusting that I've done as much preparation for this next chapter as possible, that Monk and I will weather whatever financial storm comes our way, that my client base will grow each week, and that this is what I'm meant to be doing, regardless of how very "performing without a net" it may feel some days. Anyway.

Last week I obtained my lead climbing certification at the rock climbing gym. This basically means I am now allowed to climb the routes while clipping the rope in as I go, instead of being attached and secured the whole way. It also means I am now risking a 10-30 foot fall as opposed to a 2-4 foot one should my sweaty little fingertips lose their grip on the edge of a handhold (or should my foot decide that it is indeed attached to a big clumsy ox and therefore has no business holding steady on a walnut-sized lump bolted into the wall).

Saturday Climbsalot and Co. invited me to meet up with them after my massage appointment for a lead climbing extravaganza. It was a lot of fun, a little humbling, and extremely sweaty. On one particular climb, I'd successfully reached the 120+ ft "summit" and gave the order to be lowered down. Nothing happened. I yelled again "okay, take me down!" Silence, and then, from somewhere down below I heard "uh oh. Um, hold on!"

You know what happens when you climb all the way up a 120+ ft route without anyone checking that you have enough rope to loop over the anchor and be lowered another 120+ feet down to the ground? Yeah.

Turns out the best way to get out of this jam would be to swing over and grab onto another route's top rope, tie it into my harness, untie the original rope from the harness, hope I've looped the second rope correctly and tied the second knot right (while hanging onto a wall), let go of the first rope, then cross my fingers and trust that I would be lowered down without incident.

Did you get all that? Don't worry, it took ME a couple 'wait, WHAT do you want me to do's before I sorted it all out, too. Basically I needed to be confident in my balance and strength, and not be afraid of the fact that I would be securing myself while clinging to the wall (120+ feet up!), without Climbsalot to doublecheck my ties and loops, etc. for safety.

I needed to trust my knot.

Would you like a visual? Here I am, right before the 'uh oh.'

Did I mention this was 120+ feet above the ground? I hate to over-emphasize it, but...

Once, back in my college days, a friend and I were driving 90 mph down an old farm road in Iowa over winter break and we decided to swap seats. While driving. Please don't ask me why this seemed like a better idea than actually stopping and switching places. Some sort of crazy Iowan logic is my guess.

Folks, tying in and out of a harness in a concrete silo, 120+ feet above the ground was every bit as awesome.

It made me realize: If I can do THAT without panicking, this career transition thing should be a snap. I've spent two years planning and studying and networking, etc., and as stressful as it might become at times, it's not impossible. I can do this.

I just have to trust my knot.

Sporadic

2007-09-11T15:33:00.000-05:00

So my replacement at the office is... not quick. Not quiet. And not Quinn. But hey, I'm outta here, so I'm working hard at finding the right balance between caring, and "not my problem, adios, suckers!"

Also, my assistant spent last week threatening to quit, so that was great. She's agreed to stay, for now, and I'm just hoping I get out before the proverbial dooky hits the oscillating blades, if you will.

A slightly worrisome development at the office is that I could swear my replacement smelled of smoke and booze this afternoon. Not sure how big of a deal to make of it, and will probably opt for the 'duck and cover' (or rather, 'keep your head down, keep going') strategy on this one as well.

This is my last full-time week at the office, and then I start the part-time, as needed, bill the company for my time (and possibly for anything even remotely resembling work time i.e., "oh! I just thought about the office at dinner... that'll be another hour's pay, please") phase of the transition. Which may take me through October after all, if the Not Me we're trying to train continues to Not Get It.

Meanwhile, I have no office and no computer (and no desk, and no place to put my stuff except the cardboard box sitting in the middle of my boss's office- woo!), and therefore (and most devastating) no internet access (priorities, people), so posting will be sporadic- please don't forget about me in the meantime. And I promise to put some sort of (boring) recap of our beach weekend up here soonish.

Still life

2007-08-28T15:33:00.000-05:00

Oh hey there. Did you know we've hired my replacement? And yet the boss still would like me to stay until October? And how there's no way in hell that's going to happen?

Also, did you know that I hate training people? And yet I still think I'll be a good massage teacher some day? And how difficult it is to bite your tongue all day to keep from yelling "Keep up! Keep up, stupid!!!!"

Anyway. (Still) too early to analyze the brother situation, and am (still) a little tired from Sunday, which basically involved waking up at 4:30 for a day of massage stuff that finally ended at 9 that night. Plus, I need to conserve my energy (and time!) so I can pack for our annual escape. We leave Thursday morning with two of the dogs- the foster devil will stay behind and help my brother destroy the house in our absence. Oh, I know I should think positively.

*Well, if the house burns down at least we won't have to pay thousands of dollars to fix the year-old plumbing issue we've been ignoring.*

How's that for positive?

Have a terrific Labor Day weekend. When I return there will be more complaining, only this time it will be in more of a god-i'm-getting-old-why-is-there-a-zero-at-the-end-of-my-age-now sort of way (hysterical sobbing to follow).

So we meet again

2007-08-23T11:11:00.000-05:00

The route had been dismantled months ago, an "incomplete climb" looming in the upper silo (which was fine with me since I haven't been in any hurry to reacquaint myself with that bitch). Last night upon my arrival, Climbsalot greeted me with guess what! It's finished! We went up to view the route, freshly reconfigured to present even bigger problems to climbers than ever before ("It's supposed to be more of a PROJECT climb now, rather than something you do all at once," a staff member explained), thereby prompting me to wish Climbsalot good luck with that.

But, because he believes in me (and refused to climb it himself if I wasn't going to try it), and also perhaps because I really, really needed some kind of success story this week, I reluctantly faced my old nemesis (now with more swearing!). And victory was mine.

If you'd seen the overhang, the excessive sweating, and the lack of decent handholds, you'd be asking for my autograph right now. Trust me.

(I'd like to update you all on the brother-moving-in-with-us situation but I sense it's too early to start the complaining and wringing of the hands- bad form, truly. And if I start now, who's to say I'll be able to stop? And I don't think I want to begin a 4-12 month-long complaint. Plus, it's a little hard to concentrate today with all the badass in here.)

It's a boy!

2007-08-20T13:11:00.000-05:00

When I was eight years old, my parents threw some heart-crushing disappointment at me in the form of “you have a baby brother!” Being the little pessimist that I was, this is what I actually heard: “You DO NOT have a baby sister you can torment and take advantage of the same way your older sister does you, so, no twisted reaping of karmic rewards for you. Also, boys are dumb.” Of course by the time he was two, I was his biggest fan (still am).

I like to think we were pretty close while we lived in the same house, despite the age difference. When my brother was four, he started waking up several nights a week with what can only be described as night terrors- middle of the night shrieking, screaming, etc. coming from his room. More often than not I would be the one to get up and go to him, calm him down, get him back to sleep.

I was in wood shop that year (god I miss classes like that. Can I please be 12 again?) and had the idea to make some sort of… symbolic something my brother could keep by his bed, to help ward off the night terrors. So one day I came home from school and presented my brother with this hideous square wooden head on a stick with a bunch of smaller pieces of wood painted and glued all over it as the eyes, nose, mouth, etc. “This will keep the nightmares away,” I explained to my brother that night, and he nodded solemnly as he climbed into bed. I ceremoniously placed the Nightmare Chaser next to him and tapped its 'nose' firmly. “That should do it,” I announced, “You ready to try it? No more nightmares, starting tonight.” Again my brother nodded. I pulled the covers over him with a definitive “here we go.” And wouldn’t you know: no more night terrors.

My brother turned 21 last November and should be looking forward to graduating this coming year and going out into the “adult world,” yadda yadda. But. Last March he had a bit of a mental breakdown and dropped out of school. Now he’s been labeled with ADD and depression and has been living with (and scaring the bejeesus out of) my parents for the last 6 months. According to them, there are manic episodes, odd blank stares, rage issues… my mother cries every night and my father’s convinced his son is one block away from CrazyTown. They've put him on medications that may or may not be helping him (and we’d find out for sure if the doctor didn’t keep playing with the dosage), he can’t keep his days straight or figure out how to manage his time, and his self-confidence is non-existent. Frame of reference: When I was 21 I’d been living (and surviving) by myself for a few years, was planning an out-of-state move and had already dealt with some pretty serious issues of my own, on my own. Whereas my brother is 21 and my mother is his alarm clock.

Last week my parents took my brother back to his Indiana university to register for the new school year. Yesterday, he arrived in Texas and moved in with us. I don’t know how (if?) Monk and I can help him, but he’s hurting and scared of what's going on in his head, and can’t deal with my parents any longer. He’s too afraid to go back to school (to face certain people and academic issues), but knows that something has to change. Soon. He’ll be staying with us for at least a semester to try to get things back on track. And while I know we’re not in the same league as bad dreams and wood shop anymore, I can’t help wondering whatever happened to that Nightmare Chaser, and wishing I could use it to ward off his demons now. We've adjusted our schedule and our budget, cleaned out closets, bought last-minute items (like FURNITURE)... I've given up my room and my privacy and any remaining bit of potential alone time for the next few months (meanwhile I'm sure Monk laments the loss of spontaneous... you know, most of all). I don’t know how this is going to turn out, but I’m going to be there for my brother, middle of the night or not, for as long as he needs me.

Here we go.

Happy day

2007-08-17T15:33:00.000-05:00

You're the most handsome, most funny, most strange, most good, most perverted, most hairy, most hyper, most artistic, most supportive, most inspiring, most sexy, most generous, most wonderful best friend a girl could ask for and I'm awfully glad I married you. Five years, baby! Time flies when you're having fun. Happy Anniversary. Thank you for being my most.

This week, on the Learning Channel

2007-08-14T13:11:00.000-05:00

LESSON ONE: Never accept a job offer out of desperation (I could choke you, 3-years-ago-me).
Two staffing services are struggling to find us some quality candidates for my replacement. Apparently, the starting salary is "a little low." So now I'm beginning to wonder how much of a sucker I am for snapping this job up almost 3 years ago, when the starting salary was even lower, and the responsibilities were even more numerous/overwhelming. Go me. Way to practice good business sense.

LESSON TWO: Back up your cell phone address book if it happens to be the only place you have telephone numbers stored for friends, family and business contacts.
Because quite possibly, in between one massage appointment and another, you might get off the phone with someone in time to see your phone display go... blank. And even though the phone has been acting a little evil for a while, you figured you could get a few more months out of it before biting the bullet and getting a fancy shmancy one because you are stupid. And a procrastinator at heart. So for 3 days now you've been kind of blind-dialling when you use it, you can't see who's calling (which, frankly, is not a gamble I am comfortable with so guess who isn't answering their phone these days?), and text messages are coming in but too bad! You can't read them! Life is a magical mystery tour!

At first it was kind of liberating to be unplugged. That is, "liberating" in a throw-up-your-hands, laugh-like-a-crazy-person kind of way. My new phone should arrive tomorrow evening and if I can't get my address book transferred over we will all have a good laugh and toast the life lesson that keeps on giving.

LESSON THREE: To be determined
Tonight I head up to a new school to help out a former teacher with his basic class. Nope, not teaching it (but I could. I could teach the SHIT out of that class. Whoa. No more caffeine for me today). He needed a body on which to demonstrate a 60-minute massage. Since I like the sound of "free massage," I said I'd do it. But then I started thinking of 30 people watching the rubdown, in a classroom environment (complete with classroom lighting) and... Hmmm. A lesson in humility it will be. Hold me.

LESSON FOUR: Telling someone they have a place to stay if they really need it means they might actually take you up on that.
My brother may move in with us. Like, next week. For an indefinite period of time. Monk and I refuse to stress about this until we know for sure. And by "refuse to stress" I mean "Monk's being very cool" and I am quietly flipping out but keeping the mess contained to the rumpus room in my head.

We interrupt this program

2007-08-09T13:25:00.001-05:00

I wonder what part of "NO: my patio, MY SWING" the 70-lb foster dog does not understand?

All of it, apparently.

As long as she doesn't start turning the pages before I've finished reading I think we'll be okay.

(Hell, I'm just happy to be able to pick up a non-textbook book again. Also, how did I ever entertain myself before I owned a camera phone?)

In theory

2007-08-07T14:22:00.000-05:00

Every year, roughly 30 days before her birthday, Biff begins the countdown/reminder service: “My birthday’s next month!” “My birthday’s in 18 days!” “5 days until my birthday!” and so on. (Why yes- it is, in fact, incredibly annoying, thank you for asking.) I, on the other hand, have always preferred to drift quietly toward my birthday (next month if you're wondering, not that I’m telling you to mark your calendars or anything), sans PSAs to my loved ones, just looking forward to a day of doing whatever I please and tallying up who loves me enough to remember the big event on their own (and, conversely, who I can cross off my Christmas card list). Since I’m not a big gimme-presents type of gal, simply being remembered makes my day.

I think that’s why, Sunday evening when the texts and phone calls started trickling in (turning into a veritable flood by Monday afternoon), regarding my carefully-planned (nearly two loooong years, people) Take This Job & Shove It day, my tiny blackened heart was warmed and made fuzzy (hmmm, eww, I think) then grew to end-of-The-Grinch-story proportions, and will likely stay that way all week.

Or at least until the next asshole in a Lexus cuts me off trying to get into my lane because construction has shut down half the highway and where were you when the warning signs started 2 miles ago, asshole? Did you not think that applied to you, or do you simply go through life assuming the world will make way for you and your gigantic entitlement issues, huh? HUH?!!!

Ahem.

Boss Lady was shocked. And “devastated.” I think there were actual tears in her eyes. She asked me if a raise would convince me to stay (I said no- will I be kicking myself in 6 months?). She said a bunch of other things to me, the gist of which being that I am perfect and no one will ever come close to doing quite the job I’ve done for her, and the fashion world will suffer a great loss the day I officially desert my Executive Assistant post (forgive me for paraphrasing but trust in its accuracy). Which, duh. And this is perhaps why the company shouldn’t have combined that raise two years ago with a side helping of morale destruction but what’s done is done.

I do regret breaking the news to her after she’d come in and happily plunked a bunch of souvenirs from her travels down on my desk. That felt a little evil, even though I knew it would happen that way (Thanks for the gifts! Now I have something special for YOU!). And I do regret not cementing an official last day, but we’re negotiating an “if necessary” part-time, flexible schedule for September to ease the transition with my replacement. So I may not, in reality, be out of the corporate world by my birthday which was supposed to be my Milestone Hella Big Present to myself, but should at least be enjoying an easy schedule and a little extra cash for the month which will help to pay for all the cake. (And by “cake,” I mean “booze” of course.)

The light at the end of the tunnel is definitely visible. Perhaps a little farther away than I would like, but it’s there. Yesterday's big event PLUS the fact that my interview last week went about twenty times better than I’d hoped (more on that later, when I’m certain I won’t jinx anything), September will be a month of change, determination (that's code for Hard Work), opportunity, challenge, and finally, finally being able to pursue a career in something I love. Happy birthday to me.

Multiple Choice

2007-08-03T10:10:00.000-05:00

I'd love to write an interesting post today, but I have a few things on my mind at the moment. At the forefront is the interview I have in about an hour that, if all goes well (which is definitely an "if," as I don't tend to make a great first impression, especially when potential income is at stake, but hey you have to be good at something and I've made my peace with the fact that Making an Awkward First Impression is pretty much my superpower), could be a goldmine in massage jobs and contacts.

Then there's this weekend, which will be a babysitting extravaganza when Sister drops Niece and Nephew off for an overnight stay so she and Clod can have a nice anniversary dinner and go their separate ways for the rest of the night. Yes, I wondered about that too, but it seems there are quite a few ways to say Happy Anniversary around these parts.

And then on Monday the boss returns and I drop the Welcome Back, Guess What, I'm Quitting bomb. So that's great. Not losing sleep over that one at all.

Last week I thought I had a neat little party trick down with the left eye twitch, but this week? This week we are raising the stakes of this here circus act with the addition of a right eye twitch. Woo! You didn't think I could take it the next level, did you? Just wait until the hand trembling starts.

Lethal Weapon

2007-07-30T15:33:00.000-05:00

Tonight will be the final class of the advanced program that has taken up my Monday and Tuesday nights for the last eight months. There will be a final exam tonight, for which I am not nearly as prepared as I’d like to be and also for which I should be studying. As in, right now. But I’m feeling particularly Over Everything with a little Let’s Just Get This Over With thrown in there, plus I heard a rumor today that the test won’t determine whether or not we get credit for this program and frankly? I’m putting all my money on that horse.

----------------------------------------------------

This morning’s training session went fairly well, despite not getting enough sleep and feeling kind of gross from all the pizza I stuffed down my throat last night. But then, right at the end we had An Incident.

There is one particular “total body” exercise from the Personal Trainer Repertoire that Muscle Man is hell bent on getting me to perfect: It involves keeping one leg raised while you lift two dumbbells through a bicep-curl-to-shoulder-press-and-lower-them-back-down sort of thing. Then you switch legs and do another set. (Ever since the first day, when I almost took Muscle Man out with a full body check as I lost my balance, I’ve been trying to improve my form.) This morning MM picked up two 15-lb dumbbells off the rack for the exercise. “Too heavy?” he asked. “Nah,” I replied, “but I may quit halfway through the set.” So he exchanged them for the 12.5ers. “If these are too easy, we’ll switch ‘em out for the fifteens” he promised.

So. I’m smoothly (if I do say so myself) taking the weights through the motions, balancing on one leg, feeling The Burn and wondering how I should price the tickets to the gun show when it starts to get difficult. Suddenly these 12.5-pounders are getting HEAVY. I try to increase the speed of the exercise (to get it over with) and am told to slow down. I feel like my arms are going to fall off. Each time I lower the weights back down to my sides the movement is less and less controlled. MM is standing next to me, murmuring words of encouragement in my ear. I only have 7 more to do. I can do this. If I can just. not. let. the weights. fall. too quickly, and… FWOP. MM doubles over, almost falling to the floor. I look over my shoulder in confusion which quickly changes to mortification as I realize that I had clumsily let the weight in my right hand drop down too quickly, inadvertently delivering a swift metal punch to my trainer’s … special equipment.

“Oh my god!” I exclaim, “Are you okay?”

He’s bending, crouched in a self-protective stance, eyes closed, turning away from me. “Uhhhh, I felt that one all the way up into my stomach…”

And I tried to stay mortified (and concerned), I did. But out of nowhere I, too, was doubled over, gasping for breath. I just couldn’t get the apology out around the hysterical laughter. People on the elliptical machines were starting to look over at us. MM and I, engaged in this weird, half-crouching dance, circling each other (I’m pretty sure he didn’t want to get near me ever again), unable to talk.

“Well,” he was finally able to say, “I’ve never had THAT happen before.”

I apologized profusely. And then again. And again.

Five apologies later he was able to stand upright and at that point we both decided the workout was pretty much over. This conclusion was brought about most likely from the dull throbbing in his nether regions, as well as the fact that I couldn’t continue the exercise due to uncontrollable bouts of giggling.

I’m fairly certain that when I see him next, he’ll be wearing a cup.

It’s probably a good thing we didn’t use the fifteens.

Plug

2007-07-25T14:02:00.000-05:00

PEZ is my co-pilot.

OR I'll make millions as a famous artist

2007-07-18T14:22:00.000-05:00

Hi! Did you know there are starving children in Africa? And people who don't know how to read, right here in the States? And others who routinely mispronounce words like "sorry" and "about" up there in Canada? Just to illustrate that yes, I do realize there are plenty of people who have it worse. And I'm not really complaining about my stress level and full plate, etc. Not really. But I am, unfortunately, at maximum mental capacity these days, so (speaking of illustrating) instead of a proper post full of slightly-entertaining words, I've drawn you some pictures to clue you in on the current state of affairs here in Quinnland.

********************************************

Here I am, going over the agenda for the week (I kept trying to draw bags under my eyes, but it just made me look like a weird, girly football player or something. So from now on, let's just assume extreme fatigue goes without saying/drawing):

Now here I am, realizing that it's actually a 3-day work week because we are leaving at an ungodly hour tomorrow morning to visit my family in Chicago, which is guaranteed to be stressful what with all the parent/brother breakdown drama (seriously a bad scene that's had my stomach in knots for weeks now) and oh no I haven't even packed yet!

After a brief conversation with the parents yesterday, in which I was told:

1) we probably won't be visiting my favorite pizzeria in the whole world while we're in Chicago, because, despite the fact that it is proving impossible to find decent pizza in Dallas, my parents "just had pizza last week." Heaven forbid you have pizza again this month, guys! Don't want to get you into a food rut or anything!

2) Regarding my brother: "well, as long as he still acts like an idiot, I'll still call him one."

3) Regarding our change of plans to actually spend MORE time with my parents, instead of staying overnight in the city which is fun and escapist for Monk and me but (apparently) heart-crushing for my parents: "Your mother's going to be really unhappy with all these last-minute changes."

4) Also: "Oh, great, so now that you're coming directly to the house you're going to need a ride during rush hour?" (Monk and I now plan to just take the train out to their 'burb from the airport. Wouldn't want to put anyone out.)

Um, wait, what day is it? And WHEN am I giving my notice, finishing class, studying for the national exam, having no money, scrabbling around for pocket change in the couch cushions, etc. Holy hell, is that only 3 weeks away?

Anyway. Not to be all cliffhanger about it, but this story can end in two ways here- either the stress causes my brain to spontaneously combust in the next few weeks,

Or: I quickly gain success and fortune as a massage therapist, spreading the power of touch and a few other granola-y philosophies throughout the world. Guess which one I'm crossing my fingers for...

My body is my (old, busted up) temple

2007-07-13T11:11:00.000-05:00

You know how you can just be sailing along in life, thinking you’re actually in pretty decent shape, all things considered, slapping high fives with yourself for taking 12 flights of stairs a few times a week and calling it “cardio,” and then you’re at the gym playing contortionist, or hopping up and down and around this step thingy, or slowwwwly lifting your leg up then raaaaising your arms to the sky while clutching little dumbbells, all the while thinking pshaw, this is kid stuff. I am in terrific shape. An athlete, yes, that is what I am. Core, shmore, stability exercises, shmability… you get the point.

And then, an hour later as you step out of the shower and reach for your towel your body kind of hiccups out a FUCK YOU? And you can barely hoist yourself into your car to drive to work? And you start fantasizing about calling in ‘out of shape?’

I’ve joined a gym and signed on with a personal trainer. Pssst, this is because I will eventually be pursuing a personal trainer certification and not only should I see what it's all about firsthand (can I write the sessions off next year as “research?” Anyone?), I’ve heard you kind of have to be in decent shape if you want to have any credibility in the field (I mean, if I really wanted to be out of shape and yell at people as they exercise, I suppose I could get a job as a middle school P.E. teacher). Oh, AND because I do not have enough going on right now, and also we are rich (the last two reasons might be lies. You decide).

Three sessions down, a million to go. Luckily the guy I’m paying to kick my ass (what a world we live in, eh?) really knows his stuff, shares the same hometown, is a pit bull advocate and doesn’t hesitate to shower me with compliments throughout the session. Really, getting up extra extra early to be tortured is a little easier when you know you’re going to be hearing things like “good job! You look great! Excellent form! Perfect, you’re perfect” for an hour. A girl could get used to this.

But, um, ouch. All over.

Mood Swingy

2007-07-11T10:10:00.000-05:00

Too many things in the works to write a proper post, sorry. And I may be losing it a little bit, if the following "art project" is any indication (click to enlarge, of course).

Okay, where were we?

Ominous:

Paranoid:

Confused:

Petty:

Happiness is...

2007-07-06T16:44:00.000-05:00

*The sun is out. At first I didn't know what was going on, what was this unexpected brightness, this lack of moisture, this, this, BLUE SKY? But then I remembered. If only I could scoop all the sunshine and blue sky and NO GODDAMN RAIN up into my hands and fill my pockets with the glory... I might need a little in storage considering the forecast for the next month will be clouds, scattered storms, and general depression. Oops, that last part was an editorial addition.

*So the new tattoo that somehow appeared on my back over the weekend may not be healing as well as I'd like it to be, but it gives me an excuse to not only go back to the tattoo place Monk and I actually like for a re-inking/embellishment, as well as start the brainstorming process for the four-design totem-like thing I plan to have running along either side of my spine... eventually. For now, I get to call myself "a walking work of art," which is a) awesomely arrogant and b) a line from Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, which happens to be one of my favorite musicals of all time, mostly because when I saw it Donny Osmond was starring in it and he floated over the audience and looked ME in the eye and waved at ME (yes, that is the story I'm sticking to) and SWOON! Donny! Donny! Oh my god, Donny! I never realized how cute you are and oh boy am I ashamed right now!

*Speaking of musicals: Monk and I are going to the theater this evening. I've heard good things about Spamalot, specifically that it is "pee your pants funny." This is nice, because it has been a long time since I've peed my pants. That I know of. Moving on...

*I went climbing two days in a row this week, and I have the scrapes, bruises, calluses and sore forearms to prove it. Wonder when I started to view day-after pain as an indicator of a good time?

*And maybe best of all: Climbsalot got into med school. His first choice (not a big surprise considering he's a smarty pants), which happens to be right here in Dallas. Which means he is NOT moving 6 hours away like we thought he might. Which means I won't be losing my climbing partner at the end of July. I mean sure, yay for the med school admission, but bigger yay for ME and my climbing addiction.

Go away

2007-06-28T10:10:00.000-05:00

Have I mentioned the rain? The raaaaaaaaaaainnnnnnnn, people, it will not stop. Rather, it stops, for about an hour, and then it pours again. And maybe you're driving home all bummed out because rock climbing's been cancelled, thinking "hmmm, perhaps I will go check out the other climbing gym after dinner, thank goodness it's stopped raining" when the sky opens up and shits all over you.

Sorry. Too graphic? My brain is shutting down, tactful areas first, in preparation for the Great Flood we are about to have here in Texas. God seems to be hosing off the end of his bible belt, but good. You know what, God? Whatever schmutz was on there? I think you got it. We're all about to float away over here, so (if you do in fact exist, mister): Please to cut it out in a most immediate fashion.

Rain rain rain rain rain -5 seconds of sun!- rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain -flooded kitchen!- rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain rain -Mmmm, mosquitoes!- rain rain rain rain rain rain rain

At first I was all, yay, poor man's car wash! But now I think I may shoot someone. Did you know "rain" is only two letters' difference from "rage?" What may have been an unimportant coincidence a month ago now carries significant -nay, profound- implications. I have cabin fever re: this whole soggy plane of existence here in Texas. I'm climbing the walls (ha ha not really cuz lame ol' Climbsalot did indeed bail on me last night, the jerk). The walls of my LIFE here, people. The weather, it tortures me. We will look back on this summer as the Summer of Nonstop Rain.

Lest you think I'm exaggerating, let me tell you of the traffic sign I read approximately 32 times as it blinked its message down to all the poor saps (yours truly included of course) parked on the highway this morning, while the rain (RAIN!) gushed down on us. Usually this sign is lit up to warn us of an accident, advise us of travel times, or report a missing child. This morning, however, the sign simply stated:

IF WATER ON ROAD

TURN AROUND

DON'T DROWN

Yeah, thanks, sign, that's kind of what we're all trying to avoid around here, during this SUMMER OF NONSTOP GODDAMN RAIN RAIN RAIN.

I don't know if this qualifies as a "problem"

2007-06-25T11:11:00.000-05:00

Hi. How was your weekend. Good, good. Yes, mine was okay, thanks. Saturday, you ask? Well. Remember those drinks Monk and I enjoyed before Operation Baby Bird Rescue blew up in our faces? We thought it would be a lot of fun to have some of those drinks again, then walk over to the movie theater near our house and take in a film. Luckily we opted to see Blades of Glory; by the time we reached the theater it was pretty obvious that our rum-and-Corona-soaked brains wouldn’t be able to comprehend anything more… cerebral.

The movie was awesome. Please don’t ask me to quote any lines or describe a scene from it or anything, just take my word for it that it was great. How would I sum it up, you ask? Hmmm… Will Ferrell (hysterical), something something, GOB from Arrested Development (damn I miss that show), ice skating, less-than-subtle homo-erotic insinuations, the girl from The Office (she’s so pretty when she’s not wearing a cardigan), oh god I’m buzzing, but hard. Whoa. Oh, is it over already? Cool. Can you help me out of my seat?

We left the theater, stumbled over to the store for sustenance (just FYI- “sustenance” apparently meant two big bags of Doritos. That would be our dinner. Which we never tore into. Totally worth the walk). On the walk back we climbed a mountain.

Back home, back to drinking, and oh! Let’s dance! Yay for iTunes! Let’s make a dance playlist (initially titled “Drunk Dance Playlist,” later re-titled “Dance, dammit”) and burn a CD and THEN dance, fuck yeah!

Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance Dance

(If this were the kind of blog where I share too much information I’d probably let you know that after the dancing there followed some hanky panky that could only be described later as “questionable,” and that Monk calmly and quietly threw up a few times afterwards.

I’ve since been told the two events were not related.)

Sunday I was lucky enough to have an extra long day at the massage clinic. I’m pretty sure that hell = having to give a 90-minute deep tissue massage while extremely hungover. The fatigue and nausea were bad enough, but the rolling hot flashes almost took me out of the game.

When exactly is this “growing up” thing supposed to happen?

Obliteration

2007-06-22T14:22:00.000-05:00

I would really hate that last Lifetime-Television-for-Women Original-Movie-esque post except that I have, on occasion, actually caught parts of certain Lifetime-Television-for-Women Original Movies* and, while there is much suckage and sappage, somehow I get drawn into the story, unable to turn away, quietly rooting for the average-looking woman with bright red lipstick, stretched out cardigan sweater, mom jeans, 80s hair and sad, sad eyes.

So yes, that dream of mine was a bit heavy on the fuzzy lens, gag-factor, but I have to give props to my subconscious for making up such a character + background story and coloring in the vivid details the way it did- I'd say it was at least... marginally better than a Lifetime-Television-for-Women Original Movie. And there are people actually getting paid to write those scripts, you know.

I don't get paid to have dreams with somewhat-involved plotlines and then write about them later. And some of you might think I would eventually get the hint and at least stop writing about them. But some of you would be wrong. I don't do hints. Well, I do, but only in create-your-own-hint situations, when it is something I've taken so far out of context and assigned a colorful, terrible implication to it, then stabbed it through my heart for the best take-it-personally impact, all so I can begin screeching "what the HELL do you mean by THAT?!" at my unsuspecting victims.

Where was I? Something about not getting paid to be so Original Movie with my dreams? Oh hell, I don't know and I'm actually boring myself now (which, considering my little hamster brain, is not surprising). Have a good weekend and remember: It's okay, the sad-eyed lady will triumph in the end. Or she'll die and leave her baby to your care. Which would probably suck in real life, but is actually pretty inspiring and empowering and happy tears beautiful on Lifetime-Television-for-Women.

*Accidentally! When I was trying to catch an episode of Golden Girls! Huh, that doesn't make it any cooler, does it?

I remember

2007-06-21T11:11:00.000-05:00

He had a silver ID bracelet with his initials in fancy font and some nonsensical phrase I can’t remember etched on the other side- a tribute to bands, behaviors, a decade of his life and a personal motto I never knew.

Persevering through several moves was a beat-up old bookshelf. On the top of that bookshelf always sat (always) a cheap silver frame of two boys, best friends, possibly 8 years old. The frame was autographed ("Richard James Tyler") by his friend (on the right, goofy grin) in permanent black marker that had begun to rub off years ago.

His best, childhood friend (on the right, goofy grin) actually died Over There, after receiving a medal, and the medal had been sent to him by the parents, according to special instructions thoughtfully (morbidly?) made before the friend shipped out.

Three possessions lending peace and permanence to an ever-changing life, shaping his identity, guarding his heart.

We hadn’t spoken for years when we ran into each other at the pub. Conversation stumbled, smoothed out, was bathed in the relief of finding our old familiar rhythm. Hours passed, affectionate gestures were exchanged, it was assumed we’d see each other the next evening. Where was this going? Was the connection just as solid as it had been? Would a life-altering decision once again be placed on the table?

The next morning a cardboard box was delivered- small, white, with folded-in flaps like the steamed rice containers from the local Chinese place. I opened the box and pulled back a layer of robin's egg blue tissue paper to reveal a silver ID bracelet with his initials etched in fancy font. Another layer of tissue paper shielded a silver picture frame of two boys, best friends, possibly 8 years old. As I pulled away the last layer of blue paper and recognized the medal it became clear that he was Serious, this was a Big Deal, and I had a Major Decision to Make. I held the bracelet, the frame and the medal out in front of me and realized: by making his three most prized possessions mine, he was handing me his long-guarded heart, the keys to everything he held dear. The decision? A no-brainer.

Whew, dreams are funny, aren't they?

My Day Off

2007-06-18T15:33:00.000-05:00

Sunday, 4 p.m.
Still raining. Raining all day. Rain rain rain.
Q: So, are you ready to start drinking? And watch another movie?
Monk: Sure!

This is where I should warn you kiddos that pouring hard liquor INTO your beer before drinking it probably indicates consuming said beer with at least a small measure of caution. Certainly not quickly and thirstily and soon-to-be-wasted-ly.

Sunday, 5:20 p.m.
Monk (hurrying back into the kitchen from the backyard): There’s a baby bird out in the grass, don’t let the dogs out. It’s not moving.
Q (not usually a bird sympathizer, yet after a few strong drinks cannot help but become wringing-of-the-hands sympathetic to the baby bird’s flight. Emphasis on “pathetic”): Oh god, oh no, is it dead? (thinking please don’t ask me to help clean it up. Pleeease don’t ask me. I don’t want to have to get the shovel.)
Monk (URGENTLY!): No, but it can’t fly and it needs to get out of the yard.

Sunday, 5:30 p.m.
Monk mentally prepares himself to save the day and (Drunken) Operation Baby Bird Rescue is underway. This involves putting on heavy work gloves, a semi-threatening waddle-like chase of the baby bird, and a lot of shooing gestures.

Also (apparently) involves yelling at his wife to “Cover me! COVER ME!!!” I don’t know, in case the mama bird comes screeching and careening out of the neighbor’s tree in a terrifying, dive-bomb type of maneuver, just pulling up at the last possible moment to latch onto the bridge of his nose with her tiny bird claws and go all Woody Woodpecker apeshit-crazy on his eyeballs with her pointy little beak???

Sunday, 5:35 p.m.
Perhaps you kiddos should also be informed that a good buzz + an over-dramatic spouse yelling shit like “COVER ME!” while lumbering after a baby bird in the backyard = uncontrollable laughing fit = buzzed bird whisperer spouse becoming a leeeetle bit angry at laughing hyena woman taking pictures with her camera = more yelling = laughter turning into pouting because when we drink we like to take things personally…

It’s all okay. I know you were worried there for a minute. Monk and I worked it out without needing any couples' counseling (I ask you, how can a person stay angry when there is more rum to consume and a Sponge Bob cookie to distract her?), the baby bird is (presumably) okay, the Chinese food came quickly, and only one of the three movies viewed sucked royally.

Hope everyone else’s Father’s Day was just as drama-filled and delinquent as ours. But that maybe you were spared the one sucky movie.

Threesome

2007-06-13T11:11:00.000-05:00

File under Massage Class > Random Thoughts

It's kind of depressing when the guy you and a female classmate have paired up with for the night looks at the two of you, then down at his chest and says "I think I have more of a rack than the two of you, combined."

Depressing for everyone involved, that is. But kind of hysterical, too.

Worth the time

2007-06-08T13:11:00.000-05:00

Wednesday evening I showed up at the climbing gym, eager to get started after taking the previous week off. Climbsalot greeted me with a gleeful I know which route you’re climbing today. We trekked over to one of the “silos” and I eyed the route suspiciously. That looks… a little rough I said. Nah, it’s fun, it’s a blue he replied (green routes are the easiest, blues are intermediate, black routes are expert stuff. Of course, this is all relative to your skill, fatigue level, sweat output, missing handholds, etc. We’ve been exclusively climbing the intermediate routes for a few weeks now. "Intermediate" also means "wow-this-is-challenging-but-i-ain’t-goin’-back-to-the-beginner-stuff-dammit.")

Climbsalot went first, and after much huffing and puffing and grunting and swearing (all his), I called up to him That doesn’t sound like "fun." He ignored me. Eventually (and inevitably) he conquered the route, I lowered him down, then spent some time squinting up the wall at the handholds. My turn. More huffing and puffing and grunting and swearing (all mine this time, natch). I may have done the splits a couple of times, bracing myself against the adjacent walls. And slipped once or twice. And scrabbled a little. Not the best-looking climb, but when I finally reached the top I looked down (holy hell was I up there) and thought damn, that WAS fun. Once Climbsalot lowered me to the floor and I’d disgusted him with the rivers of sweat pouring off of me, he took me around the corner to show me the route rating. I’d just completed my first black. I grinned at him - but if I had any remaining strength I’d smack you.

After the Big Deceit, we had a few light climbs and some bouldering, then Climbsalot raised an eyebrow and said So, wanna go up to the roof? We ducked under and around a false wall and slipped through a mini-doorway into a dark space (you're not claustrophobic, are you?) where he pointed to the metal rungs bolted into the wall, laddering all the way up what used to be an elevator shaft. Climbsalot jumped up to the first rung of the ladder and started the ascent; I quietly followed, concentrating on deliberately grasping each rung, noting the occasional clink of our carabiners swinging against the wall behind us. Every now and then Climbsalot would drop some information down the shaft at me: The elevator is about mid-way up, watch your head! Look how the elevator rail is actually made of wood- crazy, huh? There’s a bent rung right here, be careful. Halfway up the elevator shaft it struck me: I'm climbing all the way up a fucking elevator shaft in the semi-dark, to stand on the top of this building for a while. For no good reason whatsoever. Sometimes life is pretty awesome.

Out on the roof of the building, Climbsalot kicked some debris out of my path, pointed out some landmarks, and then we fell into an easy, sporadic conversation. The wind threatened to blow us off the top of the silo a few times so we agreed it was not the day to walk around the edge to the other side. We talked about watching fireworks from this vantage point, my career change uncertainty, and partying long enough to catch the sunrise.

After we made our descent and removed our gear, Climbsalot suggested we grab some dinner. Over spur-of-the-moment gyro plates and what was quite possibly the smoothest hummus ever, we discussed trips to Europe, apartment hunting, how much we like climbing together, and relationships. He dropped me off in the parking lot of the climbing gym tired, full, and exhilarated. We agreed it would be tough to miss next week’s climbing session but that he’d call when he got back to town- maybe next time we’d tackle another black route.

Later that night, after describing the evening to Biff, she exclaimed "Okay, you just had, like, the best. date. ever!" I laughed: "I know! If you ignore the fact that I’m happily married and that he’s getting hitched this weekend, it would've been freakin’ magical. Like one of Hollywood’s great Movie Moments."

But then I thought of the magic involved in forging a friendship, unleashing your inner badass, having a little adventure, sharing a fantastic meal, and going home to tell the coolest spouse in the world all about it, knowing he'll share your enthusiasm 100% (and agree that it was probably the best. date. ever). Forget the Hollywood spin, I like this movie.

Sometimes life is pretty awesome.

How to Impress the Owner of Your School

2007-06-06T10:10:00.000-05:00

(a character who is pretty much a mix of the Sheriff from that animated Robin Hood movie, and Chris Farley. But louder, and crankier.)

1) Get caught absolutely NOT paying attention during the class he is teaching.

2) Lose it hysterically when your classmate catches your eye, after the eightieth mispronounced/made-up word makes it into the lecture (I'm sorry, but, "discriminative?!").

3) Have the following exchange with him:

Owner: WHY ARE YOU ALWAYS SO COLD?

Q: Because you always keep the classroom at sub-zero temperatures.

Owner: WELL, WE KNOW WHO WOULD SURVIVE IF WE WERE STUCK ON AN ISLAND!*

Q: ...I would, cuz I'd eat you.

*Um, what?

Also? Arizona is HOT

2007-05-31T12:39:00.000-05:00

Traveling for work always sounds a bit more glamorous than it truly is. This is the last national meeting I will have to attend (I hope). Because it is the last national meeting I will have to attend (I hope), I am able to ignore the shoe talk, the brand namedropping, the comments about someone’s husband being too good-looking for her... I don’t care that my hard work isn’t being acknowledged, that I am reduced to being a note-taker and snack-coordinator most of the time, that the Events Planner I’m supposed to be helping is once again playing the martyr. And this not-worrying thing? Is liberating.

I’m in Scottsdale (near Phoenix) at a gigantic resort (so gigantic, in fact, that I’ve gotten lost on the property about three times now- very professional, Q!). Yesterday morning I exited the hotel around 6 o’clock and began to walk/jog a path parallel to the mountains. I passed a lizard as big as a kitten, and several well-fed rabbits that weren’t very scared of my presence (or of the huffing and puffing). It was full sun at 6 in the morning, the breeze was crisp, the temperature was mild, and I realized a few things: 1) 6 a.m. is always too early to be awake no matter which time zone you’re in 2) boy do I hate running and 3) the itch to change my scenery has come back with a vengeance.

I ran on, passing the occasional retiree with his dog (random thought 1: I could run with Boomba every morning like this, the other dogs too, and huh, isn’t this kind of what I imagined living in New Mexico would be like?) (random thought 2: an imagined life is ALWAYS far different from the reality, isn't it?), keeping my gaze on the mountains to my left (random thought 3: boy do I miss walking out the door and seeing the foothills), thinking of the missed sunrise that morning (random thought 4: nothing compares to a Southwest sunrise/sunset), and reveling in how un-humid, un-heavy, un-TEXAS my existence felt at the moment. I remembered waking up on Sunday mornings and gearing up to hike the foothills. I recalled the 5 minute motorcycle commute to the office. I took a deep breath and grew nostalgic for the fresh mountain air we spent a year and a half taking for granted. The brown backdrop, the cacti, the sunshine… I indulged in the fantasy, as I pretended to be a Serious Jogger, of packing up our things and driving into the desert sunset to live happily ever after in Phoenix, Arizona.

But then I remembered DYING to be near a body of water when we lived in New Mexico, and how the Gulf is currently just a few hours’ drive from Dallas. I thought of the friends I’ve finally acquired, 9 years and three major moves out of college. And I realized how much I love the weight of a humid Texas morning, especially in the summer, when the air is heavy with the smell of grass and bugs and summer camp. It feels solid, substantial, the way Home should feel, I think.

I arrived back at the hotel sweaty, winded and proud of myself for the effort. Felt a little homesick, felt a little wistful for the move we won’t be making. Sure, the itch may be scratched... eventually, but meanwhile I’m content with the rose-colored Someday daydream of making another unknown city Home. For now, I’m quite happy to be heading back to the one we already have.

Tomorrow will be the last day of the last national meeting I will have to attend (I hope). Someone pop the damn champagne already.

Fitting in the Fun (and run-on sentences)

2007-05-21T15:33:00.000-05:00

Late Friday afternoon I drove into the “city” to meet Monk for drinks at a fairly happening place near his office. We sat out back and enjoyed the semi-sunny, mild weather, caught a buzz and waited for PhotoGirl and her ol’ ball and chain to arrive for dinner. Monk and I have been catching up with each other maybe once a week these days (which admittedly is a bit strange when you’re married and inhabiting the same house) and it had been months (months?! Is that right?!) since we’d hung out with PhotoGirl and Co., so the laidback afternoon/evening outing was just a fantastic way to start the weekend.

(I could have done without the table next to us blowing smoke directly on our heads, or the somewhat slow and inattentive service, but I'm sure everyone else could have done without my half-assed attempt at dressing myself and my less-than-sophisticated Scotch-tasting feedback: "It tastes like deodorant. And bandaids." So, even Stevens I guess.)

(Can't take me anywhere.)

That same night I threw on a pair of drawstring pants and a t-shirt and headed back out to to meet Climbsalot and his crew for a little late night climbing session. While having a few (several!) drinks, eating a ton of food, then sobering up and getting sleepy isn’t the best recipe for a successful climbing excursion, I was ready to tackle some wall. I admit to feeling a bit Ocean’s Eleven as we all pulled up one by one in the dark parking lot, waited for the paying members to exit the climbing gym, silently stepped past the front desk and began to suit up. Something about the clinking of the carabiners and the clicking of the harnesses, then someone putting in a (nearly) heavy metal mix as we got down to business… Okay, maybe not Ocean’s Eleven. But something like that, if they all worked at the casino during the day and snuck in at night to play, and if the casino was actually a rock climbing gym. And they didn't talk very much except for things like "climbing!" then "climb on!" And they were all much younger with things like "meeting on the quad" and "final exams" to worry about. And no one was really stealing anything. Except like a bottle of water but whatever I left a dollar at the front desk for that.

I came home a little before 2 in the morning, sweaty and bruised and feeling like I’d just successfully completed my initiation into the Badass Club. And despite waking up Saturday morning and feeling like some unidentifiable crap you try in vain to scrape off the bottom of your shoe that you’re pretty sure came out of someone else’s body at some point and it’s really grossing you out and you could probably just change shoes but dammit you really like these flip flops… ahem. It was totally worth it. (I did end up cancelling tentative plans with another friend for Saturday, but we’ve rescheduled for Thursday- such a relief since I wasn’t sure how I’d fuel my drinking problem that evening).

Really, what the hell did I do with myself when I wasn’t triple-booking my Friday nights?

Fo' rizzle

2007-05-17T16:44:00.000-05:00

I'd love to do a proper post, but I've just discovered this site (is this old news to you all? We all know I'm a little slow to catch up to what the hip crowd is doing), and have been reading the alternizzle version of my pizzle; pretty sure I've peed myself enough that it's now time to go change my pants. Plug in your own url and go soil yourself. That's an order, bust it.

A week later and she's still not making any sense

2007-05-16T09:09:00.000-05:00

Last night I had a dream in which Monk and I were hanging out with some friends (in the movie credits they would be listed as Cool Crowd Members 1-5) and someone started smoking these full flavor, menthol cigarettes. I’m fairly certain they were the dream-version of Camels (and if you’ve ever smoked a Camel, I’m sure you remember how solid of a cig it is) (do you suppose someone –perhaps a desert dweller with internet access- is making disappointed faces at their computer right now because their Google search for “smoke a camel” brought them to this site?) . Where was I? Oh yes, smoking. Mmmmm, smoking. In the dream, Cool Crowd Member #1 offered a smoke to Monk who actually accepted, which kind of blew my mind since we’ve been completely smoke-free since January 1st (you may now praise me). So of course I took one too, feeling kind of guilty and just-this-once, and just-one-doesn’t-count-does-it about it all. We stood around someone’s car (Cool Crowd! Standing around a car, smoking! How terribly early-90s-angst-filled-movie-esque!) for a bit and I was feeling very conflicted about the whole situation; halfway through the smoke (mmm, smoking, I’ll never forget you) I somehow dropped the whole cigarrette into a puddle. And I thought well, that’s fine, I shouldn’t have been doing that anyway, so it’s better this way, no I’m not going to ask for another one, but damn I was not ready to be finished with that, etc.

I woke up this morning and told my subconscious off for being so utterly uncreative and almost literal in its dream-weaving (yes, Subconscious, I get it. In fact, I got it BEFORE your half-assed, not-quite-metaphorical presentation, thank you, that was quite a waste of REM), then felt a little bad for me, for having a subconscious so stressed out and exhausted that it can’t even muster the strength for a more inventive night’s sleep. Which overall was completely unsatisfying and far too short, if you’re wondering. Despite not going out after class for the first time in months and actually getting to bed at a decent hour. Which just goes to show you it’s far better to go out drinking until 2 in the morning on a Tuesday, rather than be responsible and get to bed before midnight: The next-day fatigue factor is the same, but there’s less of a chance of anyone’s subconscious getting bullied.

Lesson learned.

Weekend (Part 2)

2007-05-08T15:33:00.000-05:00

Saturday night I had a date with Skyhawk, after which we planned to go to a club in Deep Ellum to flaunt our passion in Monk’s face while he remained trapped behind a drumset for an hour or so.

Er, I mean, Skyhawk and I met for dinner on Saturday* and then headed to a Latin club in Deep Ellum to watch Monk play a gig with his new band, Asacamola. Okay, that’s not really the name of the band, but I couldn’t hear a damn word anyone said into the microphone –which makes it very difficult to translate from Spanish to English in your head, by the way- and after a while I just started making up things I thought the lead singer should say. The first band was decent, mostly due to their Shakira-esque singer (vocally, not, um, appearance-ly or dancing-ly, to my dismay) and between songs she’d shout something garbled and Spanish into the microphone. “Muchisimas gracias a ...” In my head she was saying “This totally rocks and I am an awesome singer but you’re right, you’re right, I should probably lay off the hair-tossing and weird body-spasming just a little bit because boy is that not working for me, and I’m sorry.”

Monk’s band was also decent, although the lead singer ("Gracias y..." = "Have you noticed how I jump up and down in a threatening yet smurf-like manner?") had this baggy jeans/man jewelry/thugitude thing going for him, and it kinda made me want to poke him in the eye. And then he started “singing” and it kinda made me want to put some duct tape over his mouth. But Monk rocked the drums as usual (I mean ROCKED. You have no idea how much of a badass drummer my husband is, and that is a damn shame), which always makes me feel proud and amazed and happy and a little funny in my naughty place, so overall it was a good time.

Oh hey! You know what’s awkward? When your spouse’s bandmates all get together and are speaking in Spanish and apparently there’s a photo op thing to do, so they have everyone sit on or around a couch, grab a Playboy magazine (yes, the club had Playboys laying around the lofted seating area. Because sometimes, when you are waiting to hear some music or possibly there’s a lull in the conversation, it’s a good time to thumb through a gently-used adult magazine) open it up, and LOOK AT IT while the gaggle of girlfriends take a few pictures. Perhaps this photo will be the one that makes the album cover. So Monk is attempting a bold “sure I’m looking at dirty pictures with a bunch of other men but I’m also kind of bored” pose for the camera, while his wife watches from 3 feet away. Judging from the crumpled look of embarrassment on his face, and the This-Is-What-I-Look-Like-When-I’m-Being-A-Good-Sport expression on mine, it was clear that we had finally (finally! Because we were wondering when it would happen!) reached the Absolute Apex of Awkwardness in that moment- a goal we never knew we’d been striving for but the sense of accomplishment remains the same. (TO THE BAND: Gracias, hombres. Perhaps next time we can blow the lid off this awkward mutha by ordering him up a lap dance. I will bring the dollar bills.)

I also did stuff on Friday and Sunday that included even more booze, staying up too late, class stuff, massage stuff, and consuming twice my monthly quota of sodium and (probably) msg, but this post has gone on long enough, and you didn't really ask about my weekend in the first place.

*to which I was late. LATE, people, laaaaaaate. And all because half the highway was shut down for construction and I had to get off of it and find my way into North Dallas and I called Skyhawk and he was all “that’s cool, no problem, I’m a laidback dude and I’ve changed our reservation time” but then later informed me that if we HAD been out on a date? I would have lost serious points for being FORTY MINUTES tardy. And then I think I lost more points for being (my usual) obnoxious (self) during dinner, but I think we’re both trying to move on, so I won't get into the details.

Weekend (Part 1)

2007-05-07T10:10:00.000-05:00

I painted the guest bedroom on Saturday. This is what happens when I have a day off, people- I decide to execute a total room makeover. Heaven forbid I actually relax, sleep in, read a book (a “book?” What is this thing called a “book?”)… The room, which used to be this stomach-churning pastel baby blue color (it is slowly dawning on me that, while I am in active hate of all the pastels, pale blue is the one that really makes me violent) is now a hint of gray, with white trim, white flow-y drapes fluttering around the windows, and is topped off with a nice white bed. Yes, the bed is all white. White pillows, white comforter, more white pillows. White! And gray! Hello, world, we’re the Borings! Nice to meet you! Also, should you be a guest staying at Chez Q, have fun trying to sleep without dirtying up all that white! Yes, you are welcome for the hospitality and what the hell are you doing bringing your soda upstairs with you? I don’t think so mister, nothing but clear liquids allowed in the guest bedroom (and even then it’s on a case-by-case basis) but yes, welcome! Make yourself at home! Mi casa es su casa WIPEYOURFEETGODDAMMIT.

Halfway through all the painting, which wasn’t really that much painting since the guest bedroom is the smallest one in the house (again: You’re welcome! Try not to bump your elbows on the wall while you’re closing the door!), I was thinking boy, I forgot I’m not such a fan of the painting. This is pretty tedious. And also shit, I just dripped paint on the carpet. And damn! I splattered paint on the bed! Along with crap! I just stepped in the paint! Why didn’t I bring any wet rags in here with me! So, no more painting for a while. Too much work, too much clean-up, too much bull-in-a-china-shop action.

Except, I do have another day off this weekend, and the guest bathroom could really use a different hue (currently burn-your-retinas-orange). Also, that newly-painted bedroom? Is really not quite… gray enough. Maybe I should re-do it Saturday and go a shade darker. Hmmm…

This is not a "My Dog Died" post, don't worry.

2007-04-30T13:11:00.000-05:00

Roughly eight years ago I was living in CollegeTown, Missouri and decided it was Time to Get a Dog. I drove a handful of hours down to Missouri'sMiniVegas and helped Biff’s parents out with their canine overpopulation problem. That is to say, I spent some time in a dark, hay-strewn basement and fell in love with the tiny black puppy (stamped with a white upside-down heart on her chest) calmly hanging back from the bunch and waiting for me to take her home. So I did. I scooped her up, buckled on a little green collar, and popped her into the crate in the back seat of my Chevy Nova. Whatever you do, do not take her out of the crate, even if she cries, Biff’s mom warned me.

Well. One hour into the return trip and there was much crying and wailing and throwing up from the crate in the back. I stopped at a gas station, squatted down beside the car, opened the crate door and looked this little black monster in the eye. This does not mean anything, little one, and we are never going to tell anyone I broke the Rule. And then I drove the next three hours with a snoozing little black ball of fur on my lap.

Boomba and I had some good times in CollegeTown, MO. She originally slept in a beanbag chair next to my bed (until the night of Puppy's First Thunderstorm), and used to enjoy laying sprawled out in my arms while I watched tv. I’d get home from bartending at 4 in the morning and we’d go racing through town, down the sidewalk of the main street, and around and around the roof of the parking garage near my apartment. Some days we would hike (and get lost) in the woods (no leash necessary), stroll through town, or hang out at the bar while I prepared to open it for the evening. Despite long work hours, a neglectful (but thankfully very temporary) roommate, and all the housetraining issues, Boomba and I were a team- she was my heart and soul, and the Best Dog in the World.

There was a move, and a depression cloud, a relationship that turned into a marriage, a Bad Experience with a bulldog, another move, a second dog added to the mix, fewer walks, less time, dog fights, food issues, another move, another dog came to live with us (R.I.P. little buddy), more work, more long hours, more hectic schedules, less attention, ANOTHER dog added to the family… Now the Best Dog in the World is older, crankier, and tends to get into things she shouldn’t, more often than she should.

But. This past weekend Monk took a break from reality and went out of town to visit a friend. Blockhead and BabyGirl went to the kennel. And Boomba and I rattled around the house together in quiet, blissful companionship. The difference in attitude, temperament and atmosphere in the house all weekend was just unbelievable. We cuddled, we walked, we threw the ball, had a few long talks, shared some laughs… and even though she didn’t help me clean the house yesterday, I almost couldn’t breathe at how amazing it was to just be a girl and her dog again. Time rewound and simplified itself for a couple of (too-short) days. No one to explain myself to, no pack to mediate and stress over, no food/aggression issues, not being woken up at an ungodly hour because someone else is getting up or Blockhead’s complaining that it’s time for breakfast… I’d keep going, but I think I might start to cry, y’all.

I opened my eyes yesterday morning and as my gaze landed on 75 pounds of black lab on her back next to me, paws folded in the air, dozing with a crooked little smile on her (now grayer and filled-out) face I thought this is perfection. This little bit of peace in a quiet space, the sunlight slipping through the blinds, the Decent Hour on the clock, me and the Best Dog in the World.

Now if we could only do something about the dog breath (gag) and the Guinness Book amounts of shedding (hello, Dyson).

What does TGIF mean anymore, anyway?

2007-04-27T15:33:00.000-05:00

Spoke too soon, folks, as it turns out I do have a massage appointment tonight. Vent and you shall receive, apparently.

(Okay, if that is actually true to my reality right now: BOY DOES IT PISS ME OFF THAT I DO NOT HAVE A MILLION DOLLARS IN MY BANK ACCOUNT RIGHT NOW.)

Managed to talk this client out of a hot stone session and into a heat pack session (and then promptly hung up the phone and yelled "Shit! Better go buy some heat packs!"), and while this will be slightly less money it will also be less effort on my part (and on my back) (I think I'm quickly getting over this whole “Traveling Massage Therapist” thing), which appeals to the ever-growing lazy side of my personality. Unfortunately, I now get to stress over a) getting home from the office in time to heat up the packs, b) bagging up said packs well enough to retain the heat between my town and the client’s and c) hoping I time the drive correctly so that I don’t end up at her house insanely early, or 10 minutes late.

It may be time to start looking into my very own massage office. Not that I do enough business to justify that right now. Not that I have enough time to be drumming up new business right now. Not that I have the availability, what with the full-time office job and the class and the other job (is anyone else getting tired of hearing about how gawd-ridiculously-busy I am, by the way?) (on second thought, how about you don’t answer that), for all the hypothetical new business right now.

(SERIOUSLY: MILLION DOLLARS. ANYONE?)

(ALSO: COULD MAYBE USE A NAP AND A VALIUM.)

Listless

2007-04-25T11:11:00.000-05:00

Things I have NOT done in the last 5 days:
*Edited video or practiced technique for class

*Revised business plan for the office-to-massage-therapy transition

*Purchased Reflexology book for next week’s class

*Maintained semi-healthy eating routine

*Scheduled any outcall appointment (not one! Wooo!)

*Celebrated Monk’s good news (work related, yay for him!)

*Called my brother

*Come up with a decent blawg post

Things I HAVE done in the last 5 days:
*Stayed out wayyy too late drinking and bullshitting

*Caught up (somewhat) with our (fake)TIVO recordings (plus drinking!)

*Told my mother what I think of how she is handling my brother’s breakdown

*Consumed enough caffeine to give an elephant a heart attack

*Vowed to wean myself off the Ambien (eventually) (and no, I wouldn’t say it's totally helping)

*Freaked out because oh-shit-I'm-giving-my-notice-in-6-weeks-and-oh-my-god-we-are-going-to-be-so-poor

*Got tattooed with Monk on Saturday (had the existing one redone- is absolutely punch-you-in-the-sternum, knock-over-your-granny awesome now) (and wow, I forgot how getting tattooed over/near the vertebrae causes pain to radiate up and down your spine…)

*Come up with an it’ll-do-for-now blawg post

And it tasted good

2007-04-20T11:11:00.000-05:00

Well folks, I didn't so much make that wall from last week my bitch as I... avoided it completely. However, I did beat up its older, more difficult brother (huh?). But before you all start calling me a badass again, I should own up to the fact that, at the end of the climbing session, well, I was humbled once more.

[SIDENOTE: On one of the climbs I accused Climbsalot of "helping" me- basically pulling me up the route with his big, strong arm muscles instead of letting me reach each hold on my own merit/strength- he denied it vehemently, then declared that on the next route he'd show me "helping," dammit. Well. Turns out I really have been doing it all on my own, as being PULLED STRAIGHT UP A WALL feels very different from actually climbing it. Also? Swoon.]

So Climbsalot and I were playing a bouldering (climbing without ropes, along a wall, instead of up it) game which is similar to playing H-O-R-S-E on the basketball court (except, not really like that at all, but I see your eyes glazing over already so I will not even begin to explain it, and you're welcome). My turn: I was supposed to be getting to the next handhold by crossing a rather wide archway. Climbsalot made it look easy, but I suspect he spends his nights web-slinging and leaping between buildings, so whatever. Long story short: My toe, which had been precariously supporting my body via a tiny bastard knob, decided it had had enough and let go. I imagine what happened as my body slammed into the wall and down towards the floor closely resembled the antics of a beyond-wasted sorority chick attempting to kick a building in the nuts.

Oh my god, are you okay? asked Climbsalot. Sure, that felt really good, let's move on, I muttered. Alright, where were we? he smirked. You mean, before or after I tried to eat the wall, I grimaced.

So I think I actually bruised the bone, if the goose egg rising off my kneecap is any indication. And I'm pretty sure my title was immediately changed from "badass" back to "just plain clumsy." Fantastic.

Sheep-like

2007-04-18T16:44:00.000-05:00

Everybody and their mother is posting about this (or about that other thing) but, seeing as how I seem to be incapable of formulating an original thought today...

Maybe you live under a rock and somehow missed the Will Ferrell NSFW (consider that a warning, all you worker bees) action:

Watch this.

"I'm not doing so good Pearl."

Hee!

Sore forearms, wounded pride

2007-04-12T11:11:00.000-05:00

Last night’s climbing session didn’t go as well as I would have liked. On the first route I attempted, I came to a bit that was missing a handhold and despite using all my grit and determination (which was, admittedly, a bit lacking from being out late the night before and then suffering through another long day at the office), couldn’t quite make the tips of my fingers (all ten) hold my weight on the two-inch square blob anchored above my head. Not enough to be able to leap up to the next handle and get myself to the overhang, at least. And also? The sweat did not help. After an eternity of grappling with the wall, the rope, and a deflating ego I had had enough. Take me down, this isn’t going to happen, I called to Climbsalot. Are you sure? He replied. Yeah, it’s getting ridiculous up here.

So he lowered me down, we switched places and, like the strong, agile monkey that he is, Climbsalot scaled the wall, conquered the faulty part of the route, and slithered up the overhang and out of sight. Um, you’re supposed to be saying things like “oh my, this is really difficult” so I don’t get too depressed I yelled. WOW THIS IS REALLY HARD he shouted down from the clouds. For some reason, I doubted his sincerity.

When he was finished making it all look so. damn. easy, I lowered him down quickly (and have the rope burn to prove it, rowr!) as he tried to raise my (weak, puny, no good) spirits. We moved on to another climb which went considerably better than the first one (it was also a lower rating, so go figure) and I wish I could say I left feeling every inch the “badass” he deemed me last week, but, not so much.

Last night I dreamed about the incomplete climb. I woke up thinking about it. I wanted to call Climbsalot this morning and analyze it, plan the next attempt, and make him promise to give me the chalk bag before I start climbing next time to combat all the Clammy (because yes, that is exactly what the problem was- not my wimpiness, but a devastating chalk shortage). It is threatening to haunt me all weekend. In fact, if my parents weren’t in town this week (see how I slipped that in but am not talking about it? Especially not the family drama that is going on concerning my brother and his breakdown? And how hard it is not to just come out and tell my parents how badly they’ve fucked up their children? But that it’s okay, because that is what parents do? And that is a big reason why Monk and I are not going to become parents? Because if I’m going to fuck anyone up -and that’s pretty much guaranteed- I’d rather it be a consenting adult? But all this is another post for another day and isn’t it good that I’m not talking about it?) I’d be at the climbing gym this week, trying to master that damned (faulty!) route.

Unfortunately for my now-consumed-by-the-climb state of being, I have family dinners, children’s theater, a birthday party, several uncomfortable conversations, work (office), work (massage) and two nights of class to get through before I can try again. Meanwhile, I will be plotting and obsessing (and possibly cackling maniacally) and next Wednesday evening I will make that wall my bitch.

(Although “my bitch” might possibly also mean “strip away my last remaining shreds of dignity and self-esteem and leave me crying in the corner.”)

Clean slate

2007-04-09T11:11:00.000-05:00

Confidential to the ladies: I've just discovered the most effective way to wake yourself up on a Monday morning. Better than green tea, coffee, or a big breakfast. Even better than sitting in traffic for an hour with ABBA blasting over the speakers and then you take a second to look in your rearview mirror and holy shit someone's about to hit you and your NEW CAR! OH MY GOD NOT THE NEW CAR! But they don't, and your racing heart will figure out that everyone's safe in just a second. Phew, that was close.

Yes, more effective than that. I'm sorry the men won't be able to employ this wake-up call to start their work week off with a bang, but that's life. So ladies, one word for you:

Brazilian.

Another word: Yowza. And also, hey there! And, top o' the mornin' to ya.

(Well, I guess the menfolk could look into this -or some version of it, at least- for themselves, but I'm thinking they wouldn't be able to take it.)

Nothing like pushing the boundaries of your own comfort level to start the week off right.

Stays crunchy in milk

2007-04-05T14:22:00.000-05:00

Next week in class we begin another Deep Tissue section, this time for the hip and pelvis. This should be interesting, as there is nothing I wish for more after a long day at the office than for someone to jam their elbow into my uterus. But first! We have to get through another four-hour Pathology class. It will be the third out of… a million of these advanced Pathology lectures that make up part of the never-ending curriculum for national certification. I don’t have much good to say about the Pathology class except that we finally were given permission to swap out the metal folding chairs with cushioned, lumbar-support-blessed seats from heaven and I’m really not sure when my spine and ass have been more grateful.

Pathology lectures consist of the teacher picking one of the body systems and then listing all the ways in which it can become disease-ridden, damaged or otherwise busted up. We get the problem, the demographics, the symptoms, the treatment, prognosis and then, of course, whether we as massage therapists should work on the poor lesion-sporting leper in the first place. There is so much excruciating detail that we find ourselves looking around at our classmates, then down at our skin, sometimes scratching a phantom itch or frowning the frown of the condemned, each of us convinced we are suffering from The Herpes/IBS/Ringworm/Scabies/Hepatitis C.

Power of Suggestion, meet the class of 2007.

Always there is some horrible disease that, once it’s found, has an even worse prognosis. The teacher, a delightfully deadpan woman with a thick southern accent, describes the disease in detail, then mirthlessly states that once it’s finally been diagnosed it’s usually too late, that “at thaaat point, yer… gunn dah.” And every time she makes this morbid declaration, I swallow a giggle. And then immediately feel guilty for laughing at death, and then am convinced that I probably have whatever life-threatening condition has just been described because that would just serve me right, and that therefore I, too, am… gunn dah.

Pathology- now with more paranoia! But less ass numbing!

Because he likes it when I post

2007-04-02T13:11:00.000-05:00

In an attempt to combat the “I hate Wednesdays” negative attitude around here, I 've decided to make the most out of these fatigue-filled days by going directly from the office to certain humiliation at the climbing gym. (Hey, a girl's gotta have her flawed logic, let's move on.) Last week I had my first private lesson which went pretty well, all things considered (“all things” being the fact that I haven’t rock climbed in years, I’m about as coordinated as a 3-legged water buffalo and that for me, “upper body strength” = “are those your arms or two pieces of spaghetti flailing around”).

My instructor, Sir Climbsalot, had me demonstrate my (non)existent skills before we started. This was great, since it let me get started right away on all the humiliation. Humiliation? Cannot get to it fast enough. Let's roll up our sleeves and dig right in to all the humiliation. Mmm, humiliation, it's what's for dinner. (Okay, stopping now.) He showed me how to make like Spiderman and cling to an overhang, twist my hips around and leap up to another handhold. I showed him how I could spin away from the wall and land on his chalk bag with my right ass cheek, puffing a cloud of white dust up in the air like the grand finale of a magic show. Abracadabra, there’s a Quinn-shaped dent in your floor mat now.

Towards the end of the lesson, Climbsalot and I were competing in the local Sweat and Body Odor Competition, I had successfully completed three (beginner) climbs up the sides of their silo walls (only fell once), and he had been treated to a hundred grunts (I’m such a lady), a handful of sighs, three f-bombs (lady!) and quite a few blank looks (Climbsalot: “Now just bring your leg back, like when you’re doing a leg curl.” Me: *blink blink*).

Last week I went directly from the lesson to a massage appointment and was patting myself on the back for not having too many sore muscles or tired hands. Until, that is, Thursday morning when I was forced to contemplate just how many muscles are actually used when you shampoo your hair. And whether or not I could get away with just leaving the half-lather on my head and calling it a Look for the day.

The soreness has almost completely gone away, just in time to do it all over again Wednesday evening. Muscle abuse and mortification! Now that’s what I call living! I can’t wait for Wednesday.

What I am not over

2007-03-28T11:11:00.000-05:00

I’ve been feeling pretty moody and clammed up lately, like I’m following that old lesson of keeping my mouth shut for want of something nice to say. My life is getting split into two halves: What I am so, like, totally for sure over, and what I would like to coat in cornflakes, batter-fry and eat by the plateful.

Wait, what?

Tuesdays have become the best days of my week. Every Tuesday night after class, a small group of us go down the street for drinks, massage talk, and dirty jokes. The bar kicks us out early (if you call 12:30 or 1 in the morning “early”) so their only bartender can get up with her kids in the morning. I get home, creep into the bedroom to bump around in the dark getting ready for bed, slip under the covers and glance at the clock, knowing I’m going to hate waking up in -sigh- four hours.

Wednesdays are my worst days. Wednesday mornings I’m guaranteed sloth-like movement, a traffic jam, not enough caffeine, a boss that seems just a bit more demanding than usual, mood swings, fluorescent lights that need a dimmer switch, a grumbly stomach and a bad hair day. And most of the time I’ve made an appointment or a phone date or both for Wednesday evening (despite knowing better by now), and by the time I collapse into bed that night I want to cry from the sweet, sweet relief that finally, this Wednesday, this Satan-spawned Wednesday, it is over and good god I am too old for this shit.

(I bring it on myself. I do recognize this. And I’m not really complaining. Too much.)

Wednesdays are the days I feel, at every step, that I am over this reality, this life, this tedium (this one, right here). Tuesdays are hectic and long and exciting (and the office even seems tolerable), learning a ton at night and laughing until you think you might throw up. And Wednesdays are a body slam back to reality.

I don’t have much of a point, except that today? The big W? So over it. There are not enough Tuesdays in my life, and far too many Wednesdays.

And the hair needs serious help, people. I'm scaring small children in the elevators.

Scattered

2007-03-22T16:44:00.000-05:00

I've just set the "snooze" feature on an email reminder to go off again, 1080 minutes from now.

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Q: So I’m thinking of getting back into rock climbing. I’ve scheduled a private climbing lesson for next week, and this weekend I take the preliminary safety course.

Biff: Because you don’t have enough going on as it is?

Q: Why can't you just support me?

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Boomba the black lab has been such a scrounge lately. She’s started taking things off the kitchen table while we’re at work that she thinks might be tasty. The other day it was a container of my (somewhat expensive) massage cream. The dog ate my lotion. You think that excuse might get me out of the technique lesson next week?

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I love my new car so much that I now feel an extreme sense of disappointment when I arrive at my destination. Many times now I’ve actually voiced this dismay to the empty passenger seat (“oh my damn, here we are already.”). Now, the office, I understand that. But a dinner out with friends? Or class? Or the bar? What the hell people, what the hell.

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I’m having an identity crisis. Only it feels like I’m finally waking up after a 5-year coma. Or just breaking the surface after being stuck underwater. Or (because we cannot have enough analogies here!) like everything that looked just fine (or so I thought) in color on an old 27” t.v. is now rocking (my eyeballs) out (with its cock out) (sorry, couldn’t resist) in HD on a 52” flat screen. I think I should be worried about the implications of this, but I’m not. And that, in itself, is worrying. And yes, I would like a side of cryptic with this blog post, thank you.

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My boss presented me with a box of chocolates she purchased during her European vacation. The gift was given with great glee, and received with grand grace (if I do say so myself). Inside, however, I was yelling “Chocolate don’t pay the bills, yo!”

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Whenever I see "scattered storms" in the forecast I imagine these anthropomorphized storm clouds wandering around in a frenzy, patting their fluffy gray pockets repeatedly and saying things like "where did I put that lightning?" and "I know I had a rain shower a moment ago. Sigh... Honey? Have you seen my rain?" And then the storm spouse is all "Why must I always help you find these weather systems? HOW in the HEAVENS do you cope when I'm not around?! Jesus!"

Please explain. Please.

2007-03-19T16:44:00.000-05:00

Last night Monk and I met up with Skyhawk at our favorite restaurant. We split a bottle of wine, caught up with each other, and were laughed at by the busboy. Okay, I. I was laughed at by the busboy. Couldn’t tell whether he was laughing at the fact that I made up a word in English then translated it to Spanish, or just at the fact that the gringa tried to communicate with him at all. Whatever dude, just give me my cappuccino and walk away, before you get beaned by a cod fritter.

Skyhawk started educating us on cars and engines and… other... stuff having to do with automobiles and their insides. Can’t really remember the specifics because at a certain point in the lesson all I heard was “…dual exhaust and now you would like to have your dirty way with me.” Man, is there anything sexier than a guy who knows what he’s talking about and can relay it intelligently, but doesn’t display any arrogance or condescension while doing it? (Okay, I should definitely clarify: this rule applies to certain topics only. You start explaining the breakdown between the Star Trek crew and their job qualifications and I’ll probably just want to kick you in the shins and steal your backpack.) For a while there, I wasn’t sure which boy I’d be taking home, if you know what I mean.

(Of course you have no idea what I mean. Because that was so subtle.)

Give me a glass (or three) of red wine, fantastic food, then start telling me about my engine and I’m putty in your hands, apparently. After dinner we walked out to the new car to get Skyhawk’s seal of approval. Good to know we picked a decent vehicle (not that I care too much, since I’m still all about the “Look how shiny!” and “Yay! Sunroof!”). Monk popped the hood (oh baby) and Skyhawk helpfully showed us the different components, so we might eventually be able to shake this Car Moron image we’ve each perfected over the years. At about the same moment that Skyhawk pointed out the brake fluid container thing, I had to physically take a step back to stop myself from humping his leg a little bit.

So thanks, Skyhawk, that was very helpful (and hot) last night. And dinner was great as always. But you know, I’m not sure I remember everything you showed us, so perhaps you and I can meet up sometime and, you know, go over it again. Maybe next time we can take the engine cover off and really get in there.

God I need help.

So sexy it hurts

2007-03-13T13:11:00.000-05:00

As mentioned previously, Monk and I have been car shopping. Used, new, Honda, Toyota, Nissan, Kia, Hyundai… If anyone reading this sells cars for a living, first of all? I’m so sorry. What a terrible job. You must be hitting the bong on a daily basis. Second of all: Here are a few key phrases to avoid (for future reference), when dealing with potential customers:

“They don’t pay me to guess your budget. They pay me to sell you a car.”

And, paired with that:
“They pay me to tell you what you need.” (Can I pay you to take a punch to the throat?)

“I’m an honest guy, I mean, I’m a Christian.” (I may have actually snorted in response to that one.)

“What is the most you’d want your monthly payment to be?” (Because we’re obviously dumb enough to show our cards right off the bat.)

“Your legs are really long. Are you a model?” (Yep, good logic, buddy. By that rationale, I am also a basketball player, a hella good runner, and a giraffe.)

Folks, Monk actually laughed pretty hard at that last one. Because the very! idea! of me! as a MODEL! It is to laugh! Great hairy chortling at the ridiculousness! Oh my goodness, like I could be a MODEL. Oh that is rich!

(Hang on, trying to compose myself.)

Whew! That was hysterical. Anyway, Saturday evening found us paying a repeat visit to the Hyundai dealership, mostly due to the fact that the car salesman working with us was about as intimidating and smooth-talking as a baby panda. Opie was awfully glad to see us again, helped us with another test drive, and happily bonded with us as we spent the next 3 hours signing up for some brand-new debt. Hey, anything to help a rookie make his first sale, you know? It’s only money, after all. And I can always earn more from my next fabulous modeling shoot.

(Ha HA! You thought that joke was over? Never! It is far too kick-you-in-the-head, pee-in-your-boxer-briefs uproarious!)

We sort of knew on Friday that we’d be going back to the dealership Saturday evening, but didn’t want to seem too eager. I’m pretty sure our number was up as soon as I started humping the tire. But the new car! It is joy! And purity! And has a sun roof! And a weird-looking (“so, this is what the insides look like on this side of the year 2000”) extremely clean engine! And, since the CD player reads MP3 files, it is now the most expensive stereo I’ve ever enjoyed!

Exclamation points!

However, I do have a little problem now: I’m so in love with this new car that I don’t really want to go to work or class or… basically do anything that doesn’t involve opening/closing the sunroof, rearranging my miscellaneous possessions to take full advantage of the excellent cargo space, buff smudges off the door handle with my sleeve, and tool around Dallas with a goofy grin on my face, while the speaker system beats my sense of hearing into oblivion. Or simply standing next to it, drooling in awe. Really, if I weren’t a model, I’d be intimidated by how pretty this car is.

(Oh, the mirth! The earth-shaking humor of it all! When will it stop?!)

Of course, this honeymoon phase will end somewhere around April, when we send off that first payment. Until then, you can find me blissfully skipping through the daisies, hand-in-hand with my shiny new car.

(P.S. Holy. Shit. We bought a NEW CAR!)

Nothing says SEXY like duct tape on an antenna

2007-03-09T13:11:00.000-06:00

Our mechanic screwed us over a month ago when the P.O.S. started hemorrhaging oil and he charged us several hundred dollars to… look under the hood quizzically? Keep the car parked in his lot for a few days? Use the vehicle as an example of People Who Are Too Cheap to Know When It is Time to Buy a New Car? Whatever he charged us for, it certainly wasn’t to FIX THE LEAK as the oil? Still gushing two weeks later.

We brought the car back to the (damn) mechanic and, under Monk’s orders, I did not go in and start raving like a mad woman and foaming at the mouth and putting a hex on the mechanic, his family, and any future children he might spawn. I did not, in fact, say much at all, except to make it clear that the car? STILL leaking. Not leaking again. Still. And lo, because we are who we are, we did not catch a break. People! He was going to charge us! More! To fix it again! A re-fix! And therefore a re-charge! Instead of bending over (again), we took the car back home, applied a bandaid method to slow the leak for a few weeks, and decided it was time to go car shopping.

This is where I laugh hysterically because: Time, which we do not have. And Car shopping, which, ack and gag, and what-is-this-thing-called-a-car-payment?

(And please don’t get me started on how Monk really needs to work on his Assertiveness With People Who Are Trying to Screw Us. Please. Don’t get me started.)

(But seriously, next time I will not be clenching my teeth and biting my tongue. No, next time I will be screaming give me the goddamn phone and I will deal with that piece of crap bastard crook mechanic! Or something like that.)

It should be mentioned that technically? The P.O.S. is more Monk’s car than mine. My car is an old Isuzu Rodeo which, while not much sexier, has plenty of cargo room and sports a manual transmission, a 12-disc changer and a great sound system. I bought the car when we lived in Chicago and it has been through a lot with us. When we moved out here and I landed a job on the other side of the world that involved commuting during peak rush hours, it made more sense for me to drive the P.O.S. with its better gas mileage and (as we later found out) superb ability to survive a few rear end collisions. So I graciously (and metaphorically because hello, we had two sets) handed the Rodeo keys over to Monk and wished him well. I didn’t mean it (“don’t break my car! Have some respect! What is that empty Gatorade bottle doing in here?!”), but I was trying to Be an Adult.

But my god, I hated driving the P.O.S. For two and a half years I’d dive into the lowland of its burgundy interior and curse the contortions being forced on my spine. I’d floor the gas in an effort to merge with the other Dallas Road Crazies, only to have it lag mid-acceleration and cause me to think so this is how I’m going to die. I’d try to turn the volume up for a particularly interesting story on NPR (no CD player in the P.O.S. of course) and hate hate HATE the static and ineffectiveness of the completely shot “sound system.” And yadda yadda, on and on, and it’s white and rusty on the outside and embarrassing and just, ick.

After the mechanic nightmare, I took the Rodeo (MY car, remember?) back from Monk who has been commuting with it (and going to band practice with it, and cutting people off on the highway with it, and hauling Skyhawk’s bike around in it…) for the last two and a half years. I replaced a few of his CDs with mine, programmed the radio and started to fill up a brand new trash bag. And the last two weeks of driving have been pretty great. It’s amazing how much better (and shorter) a commute can seem, when you have a choice of music and can see ahead in traffic to find out why, for the love of Pete, is everyone hitting the brakes?!

But I have to admit, our time in Dallas seems to have been a bit rough on the Rodeo. There’s a hole worn clear through to the floor right about where Monk’s heel must have been resting for the last two and a half years. Some of the interior plastic has popped off and not been re-attached. The back window in the hatch won’t stay open on its own. I removed a skate sticker from the back the other day, and the rear seat is always folded down, and let’s not even talk about the big dent in the front of the car that is too expensive to repair (okay, that happened in New Mexico but I was not the one who drove into a little old lady who was apparently confused by the color yellow).

It’s nice, but it just doesn’t feel like My Car anymore. And as sad as that makes me, I have to admit I was a little excited when Monk and I managed to squeeze in Round 1 of car shopping last night and I was faced with back hatches that worked, shiny new cargo spaces, and better gas mileage. Round 2 takes place tomorrow, after my 8-hour chair massage gig. If all goes well, by Round 3 (because we’re attempting to be semi-responsible and take our time) (although last night I may have almost hugged a Jeep Wrangler and begged Monk to let me take it home, despite it being out of our price range with no room for my massage equipment) we may be able to bid farewell to the P.O.S., secure a car payment that doesn’t break the bank, and then I can wish Monk and the Rodeo a very happy life together. And mean it this time. Mostly.

Comfort Zone

2007-03-06T11:11:00.000-06:00

I’ve been meaning to talk about being a massage therapist in a group of massage therapists, and how that translates to an experience of quick and natural intimacy with each other, quite frequently: It’s not unusual to be in the middle of a conversation while someone rubs your lower back or kneads your thigh. The mere mention of a long day at the office, and a classmate is holding my hand, working the kinks out of my palm, thumb and wrist.

It’s great to be in an environment where touch is offered easily and accepted whole-heartedly, without any sort of innuendo or ulterior motive attached ("Here, honey, I'll give you a massage." "Oh, thank you, that feels great." I am soooo gonna get laid).

But perhaps you’ve become a little too comfortable with your classmates when it takes you a couple of minutes to realize that the guy nonchalantly resting his hand on your ass during the lecture should maybe… remove it. And then later when the exact same scenario happens again. With the other guy in the group.

After a few hours of beating and shaking and jostling the hell out of our classmates' bodies (Sports Massage rocks), we had all become practice blobs to each other, tissue and muscle without body shape or self-consciousness, and a fine place to rest a hand or two (apparently). I’m just glad they don’t serve refreshments in class- probably wouldn’t have appreciated someone setting their drink on my ass. At least, not without a coaster.

Because I can

2007-03-01T11:11:00.000-06:00

I dreamt I caught a bus in a rainstorm in a college town, after showering quickly and throwing on a long shirt with a jacket, and somehow getting lost in someone's backyard.

On the bus I met an ex who'd been looking for me all day. I knew he had something of import to show me, but still I walked on past his seat, pretending not to notice him. He reached out a finger and lightly traced my kneecap to get my attention.

I peered around the plastic at him, noticing the stack of papers in his hands a second before he put them in mine. A fifty-page marriage proposal to his current girlfriend. I resented the need for my approval (not of the girl, clearly, but of the words and the rationale) yet was flattered to matter again. Didn't want to blurt out "why" and break the spell.

We ended up at his apartment- he on a broken futon with an overflowing ashtray at his feet, while I curled up under the covers in his bed, my wet hair slowly dampening his pillow. As I sorted through his notes, I shifted around in the bed, put the pages in order. Tried to get my thoughts in order.

Fifty pages of a marriage proposal. An analysis of him, of her, the set up, the proclamation and the question. I wanted to ask him if he was sure, explain how big this decision really is, but it was pretty obvious how sure he was. I wanted to cry, but it wasn't obvious I wouldn't be crying for a missed opportunity.

The pouring rain turned into static against his window as I marveled at how comfortably we were existing in the same space, in this situation- it had been years since our last serious conversation. I swatted at the BNL lyrics tumbling over and over in my brain (am I the only one that gets to make you laugh until you cry... am I the only one who asks you to go on without me... and who do you think I'll be without you...). I rolled my eyes and hid my wounded pride as I read how much he loved this girl. Then raised my eyebrows when I read how much he hated her best friend, flagged it to later point out the folly of mentioning this is in a marriage proposal.

Sometimes I feel the only way we confirm our existence is when there are others in the world who remember the same event, or relationship, or place, in the same light. Breadcrumbs and validation showing us we (have) matter(ed). Life does not have nearly enough dimension to be able to explore every path not taken, find out the alternative to every quick decision made in the moment. I plod on, hoping I've meant something to someone, that I'm remembered with the same weight I give to my own memories. That whether or not a decision can be proven "right," it will still lead to (eventual) happiness.

In the dream I struggled to climb out from under the blankets, papers cascading over the edge of the bed. Whether my ex needed my approval, my opinion, or needed to see me flinch at his feelings for another woman spelled out and underlined (in 50 pages!), I didn't ask. I pulled on my jacket, hugged him and wished him well, and left the manufactured melancholy of the bedroom to the natural melodrama of the storm. As the rain re-soaked my head, I thought of him going to sleep that evening on a pillow still damp from my hair, maybe causing a memory or two of me to play (however briefly) on his consciousness, before drifting off to sleep and waking again in his current reality. It would be enough.

And now, I’d kill for a cup of coffee and a way to get this damn song out of my head.

Same old, same old

2007-02-27T09:09:00.000-06:00

So... what did YOU do over the weekend?

Sometimes I'm awfully grateful to have a boss that doesn't take an interest in my personal life.

Randomly yours

2007-02-23T12:12:00.000-06:00

So you know how I took this chair massage job that starts tomorrow? I didn't mention that I hung up the phone after accepting the job and said "well crap, I'd better get online and buy a massage chair!" Against my better judgment I gambled with the shipping method (since 2-Day Air would have been about $100) and... It hasn't arrived yet, people. We have less than four hours before I go into full panic mode.

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I sent an email to someone several weeks ago and have not had a response. This means a) something in my email was so utterly offensive that No Response is the only response or b) my friend is dead. Or perhaps c) my sense of time lately is so effed up that it hasn't, in fact, been several weeks but instead just a couple of days and I need to settle down already.

(Although I'm pretty sure it has been several weeks. And, in my not-so-humble opinion, it was a perfectly nice email with decent Response Potential.)

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Monk came down with something this week that has my germophobic tendencies screaming and gnashing their teeth. I've Cloroxed the doorknobs and the t.v. remote, wouldn't let him prepare our dinner last night, and have been frantically waving away at the air when we're within two feet of each other. Heaven forbid he be allowed to breathe freely in his own home. Yes sir, I certainly know how to make a guy feel special.

(I'm also being the asshole who keeps saying "I'm sorry, but I just cannot afford to get sick right now." Like anyone can ever "afford" to get sick. As though anyone has ever woken up and thought "you know, today would be a great day to come down with the flu. Screw the To Do list. My coworkers would love to have my workload dumped on them, and hopefully we'll lose some clients, too. Hey, maybe I'll throw some money down the toilet later. Just for fun.")

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At class on Tuesday night I astounded my technique partner with the fact that I always have my sheets, lotion, etc. in the car with me. Because I'm prepared to massage at a moment's notice. At the drop of a hat. Right after I leave the office. I think he got the idea. Unfortunately (for him) I went off on some tangent about a massaging superhero, making jokes about changing in phone booths and responding to the Hand Signal shining up in the sky, while my partner was 5 minutes past being finished with our exchange.

(The "at a moment's notice" thing is kind of a lie, anyway, since I leave my table at home all the time. But I can lend you some sheets or lotion at a moment's notice. Just let me know. I'm on it.)

Shut up, Alanis

2007-02-20T10:10:00.000-06:00

Sunday morning the clinic called to see if I'd be able to come in the next day for a 2-hour spa package. As luck would have it, I had the day off work (thank you, Mr. Presidents) and was therefore able to make some extra money early yesterday morning. The woman was so happy with the session she plans to come back one Monday a month, to start the week off right. I hope whichever massage therapist ends up with her as a regular thanks me, at least. Because I'll be here, at the office, not massaging. But I swear I get just as much joy out of spreadsheets and approvals-in-triplicate. I swear.

(I'm swearing right now in fact- can't you hear me?)

Sunday evening I received a call about a chair massage job. For a few hours on each of the next four Saturdays, I'll be earning a decent amount of money from what appears to be a fairly easy gig. I couldn't bring myself to commit to the weekends beyond these upcoming four, as Saturday is technically my ONE DAY OFF and a girl needs her down time. If I didn't have a full-time job already, I would have committed to the next two months and laughed all the way to the bank.

(Has anyone ever seen someone laughing all the way to the bank? I've never heard of this actually happening in real life. Or maybe it happens all the time and we just mistake jolly old kings of fortune for crazies.)

(Excuse me, I mean "the mentally ill.")

Yesterday after my spa appointment, the owner offered me a massage therapy job on the spot. For Saturdays. Which won't work, even if it weren't my ONE DAY OFF, since (in case you skipped a paragraph) I've just committed to this chair massage job.

Last night one of my classmates asked me if I'd be interested in sharing an office in Dallas with him, which would not only give me a great location for my (potential) clientele, but would save us both a lot of money. Obviously, when you're just starting out it's hard to swing a monthly rent payment in the nicer Dallas areas. Unfortunately, when your credit card balance is bigger than your mortgage payment, and you've just spent a good chunk of change on car repairs and vet bills and a massage chair and besides, if-we're-going-to-commit-to-a-monthly-payment-it'll-be-for-a-new-car-for-pete's-sake, renting a massage therapy office cannot be a priority at the moment. Toiling away at your salaried position with paid time-off remains the Responsible Thing To Do. Sometimes I hate being a Grown-up.

It just figures, doesn't it? What's funny* is that in six months I'll be sitting around, twiddling my thumbs and wondering where all the clients, affordable office space and job offers are. And panicking. And possibly stocking up on Ramen** for the first time in my life.

*Actually, that's not so much "funny" as it is "incredibly distressing."

**Although I've heard that urban legend of the dehyrdrated mouse carcass found in someone's carton of Ramen, so maybe not.

Quitter

2007-02-15T17:55:00.000-06:00

So the event monitor is being returned. I just can’t do it, folks, no matter how lazy and unconcerned-about-my-heart that makes me look. I put it on the other night, read the instructions, talked to the customer service people, and found out that not only is this thing bulkier and more difficult to wear than I thought it would be (but how much fun was it to hear "line it up with your left nipple..." five times? Oh that's right, NOT fun. Quite UNCOMFORTABLE in fact), it also mandates that I make a call every. damn. time I have an episode. Since I cannot make these calls from a cell phone, I’ll have to find a landline each time- something that is hard to do when one is in class, running errands, or racing around headless-chicken-style at work.

The cardiologist's nurse who explained everything to me last week told me I’d only have to call after every five episodes, and also that “it looks like an iPod.” Hardly. The thing is so big and cumbersome it clunks against my hip and won’t even stay clipped to my waistband like it’s supposed to. So... iPod, sure. Maybe the iPod Fred Flintstone might have. No sign of a smart-ass talking bird turning levers inside of it, however.

Today I called my doctor (primary, not cardiologist) and explained (in a tone meant to sound firm and calm but that ended up all whiney and pouty) that this Six Weeks of Event Monitoring is Not Happening. That my flutters MUST be due to stress (I’m sure doctors appreciate when their patients call them with the diagnosis- saves a lot of time for the doctor, you’re welcome!) since now they’re consistently happening when I have stressful thoughts. Watch:

Car’s in the shop for an oil leak, I wonder how much this is going to cost us. Flutter.

New section of massage class starts soon. Will we get a new teacher? Flutter.

Quitting my job. Flutter.

Making it as a massage therapist, not a massage-therapist-slash-office-drone. Flutter.

It’s like a magic trick! That no one can see and that nobody cares about!

Back to the whine-whine-pout-pout. I emphasized my lack of sleep and lack of quality sleep and declared my certainty that, should I be able to actually get a good night’s sleep (it's been several years since that has happened, if you can believe it), I might not get these flutters and constantly feel like punching someone in the throat or crying. After much debate with the doctor’s nurse and being on hold for 10 minutes while she called the doctor (which reminded me very much of the Car Salesman “let me go talk to my manager” Schtick), I now have a prescription for Ambien. I’m a little nervous, as I’ve recently heard about some pretty scary side effects with Ambien: Sleep-walking, sleep-eating and sleep-suiciding. I was really hoping to play Pick Your Pill with the doctor, but I guess beggars can’t be choosers.

So we’ll see how this works out. I’ll be stacking a pile of empty cans by the bedroom door tonight in case Monk needs to be jolted awake in time to rescue me from falling down the stairs, eating all our Ziploc bags, or offing myself with the cheese slicer.

A cardiologist and a massage therapist walk into a bar...

2007-02-12T13:11:00.000-06:00

Friday's appointment with the cardiologist was surreal and anticlimactic. Surreal because I was the youngest person in the waiting room, by about 50 years. Anticlimactic because this cardiologist is probably the most apathetic doctor I've ever met.

(Although, "most" can't really describe "apathetic," can it? I mean, you either are or you aren't, right? What do you mean you don't care?)

(Now that's apathetic.)

The only time he showed any emotion whatsoever was when he judged me for having about 5 drinks per week. He even shook his finger at me! And called me bad! Like I have a problem or something! I don't have a problem, just because I enjoy an alcoholic beverage or 5 throughout the week. Five! In seven days! I almost laughed and told him he should have seen me in my glory days, er, college, but he was glaring at me and I was a little scared. It's not like I get smashed every night when I get home (as much as I'd like to, sometimes). Frankly, I don't have time to have a drinking problem: I'm hardly ever home and I'm definitely not drinking when I'm out and about, as I still don't have a pretty silver flask with my intials engraved on it, no matter how cool I've always thought that would be. I certainly don't believe I have an alcohol dependancy or anything. Healthy love of, sure. Dependancy, no. Why are you looking at me like I'm getting defensive? I'm not getting defensive. Fuck you.

Except for the bit where he essentially called me a Heavy Drinker Headed for Nothing Good, most of the time he talked past the tip of my nose and out the window. Zero eye contact, even as he skimmed through my paperwork, looked me up and down, held a stethoscope to my fully-clothed chest and had me take two of the quickest deep breaths I've ever taken, half-heartedly rubbed my stomach while asking if I'd had any issues there, shook my hand, and flew out of the room and on to the next cardiac case.

His much more personable nurse came in to explain how the event monitor works. I guess I thought it would be smaller. With less obvious wires. That wouldn't need to remain attached to me 99.9% of the time. The thought of wearing this thing at the office is no big deal (and should even help with some Boss Reconditioning), but I have no idea how this is going to work for my class. Walking around with this thing is a bit... melodramatic, don't you think? Woo hoo, look at me! Ask me about my possible heart condition! And everyone will just shake their heads and roll their eyes like, What's up, drama queen.

Once I receive the event monitor (via U.S. mail, so, whenever) and hook myself up, I'll have to call every few days and download the event reports to reset the thing. And sometimes the nurse will call and ask me what was going on during a certain event so they know I wasn't actually having a heart attack at the time my heart rate spiked.

"I was exercising."

"I was breaking up a dog fight."

"Um, we were- yeah."

"I was drinking! Heavily and over-excitedly! Two beers in four hours on a Saturday! Wooooo!"

Define "eustress"

2007-02-08T13:11:00.000-06:00

Men: Do you think you’re good in bed?

I assume most of you answered “yeah, I think I’m good in bed.” Some of you had more of an ellipsis instead of a comma in there, but still. One of you answered “fuck if I know,” and two of you just thought “who cares?” Oh, and possibly three of you are all “what is this ‘sex’ that you speak of?” and some woman just yelled “hell, they all THINK they’re good in bed!” and all the other women just laughed really hard.

Except that one woman in the corner who really hates generalizations as a rule and gender stereotypes in particular and was just told she must be into interior decorating “because you’re a lady” so kind of has a chip on her shoulder and a bad taste in her mouth but she’s kind of annoying anyway so everyone’s ignoring her.

Anyway. Just wondering.

(Or maybe this morning I started one of the four books I’ve been writing in my head for the last 5 years and this issue came up –no pun intended- and has since been running around and around in my mind like a mouse getting chased by a broom in a very small, confined space, all Tom-and-Jerry-like.)

(I’m not really going anywhere with this, which is coincidentally how these writing projects usually play out, if the two unfinished screenplays -call me Schubert!- are any indication.)

(And call me if you get the Schubert reference.)

(I have recently been reunited with my two old loves: Vague ideas and run-on sentences.)

(And parentheses!)

(But yay for a new project! With class and work and big home improvement plans, this is clearly the best time for it!)

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Per the doctor’s suggestion Monday, I was treated to a tetanus shot. This resulted in my arm feeling bruised and achy for a few days. What made the whole bruised and achy thing even better was going to my Deep Tissue class Monday and Tuesday nights and having my arm brutalized over and over.

I also felt achy and flu-ish all over which concerned me, so of course I looked up “Tetanus Shot Side Effects” online (because I never learn!) and check it out:

“Such reactions include crying for three hours or more”
'Laughing uncontrollably' was not listed, however I believe that was a more a side effect of someone in class saying "if you use the right amount of lube, you can go in even deeper..."

Also (back to the side effects, perverts):
“More serious adverse reactions include the rare cases of anaphylaxis (an allergic reaction involving difficulty in breathing or swallowing and facial swelling that can be fatal) and possibly Guillain-Barré syndrome, a nerve inflammation. People who have had a severe reaction to the vaccine should not receive further doses.”
Well no shit, Sherlock.

But I think I’m in the clear. Tomorrow is my cardiologist appointment. True to the irony of life, my heart flutters have gone into hiding. Perhaps I can skip the consultation altogether? Although I kind of like the idea of carrying around my little machine, telling the boss that I have to wear it at all times to measure my stress levels, then pushing the button over and over frantically every time she talks to me.

So. The cardiologist tomorrow. I really hope he doesn’t give me a stress test. Or, if he does, maybe it will only involve someone jumping out from behind the door and yelling BOO! at me. That would be okay. Not Okay would be if the stress test involved a treadmill. Because the only thing worse than having to run on command would be having someone watch me while I run on command. This is also the main reason I never joined the army.

Wait, I just thought of something worse than being watched while I run: Being watched while I run... in that horrible paper gown.

Crap.

And Monday is EKG Day

2007-02-05T14:22:00.000-06:00

Friday
Chair massage class. Taught by some dude from Transylvania or thereabouts, who fancied up his lecture with magic tricks and boasts about his Halloween-themed adventure park outside of Dallas. Kept offering me a job as a corpse for September and October. I would have been offended that instead of massage jobs getting passed my way, I was being aggressively recruited to play a dead woman, but the man had a certain charm, an intriguing accent and honestly? He had me at “where’d my finger go?”

Saturday
Ah, Saturday, my ONE DAY OFF each week. Thanks to dumb luck and a foggy morning back in December, I got to spend my ONE DAY OFF at a defensive driving class. And not just any defensive driving class, a COMEDY defensive driving class. I tried to psyche myself up that morning by charging down the stairs yelling “who’s ready for some comedy?!” and “Things are about to get…. ZANY!” to no avail.

The class wasn’t so bad if you can ignore, for 6 hours, jokes of the anti-gay and anti-Hispanic variety. If you can’t, you write something illegible down in your notebook then bitch vaguely about it in your blog.

Also, I’m not going to say that the cartoon we watched about senior citizens getting drunk and driving around, smashing up light posts and groping statues, etc. was worth losing 6 hours out of my ONE DAY OFF, but come on: Cartoon senior citizens having cocktails and doing the Snoopy dance? Awesome.

Also Saturday
Went out to dinner to a little (okay, big) Lebanese restaurant in Dallas. The black light was a little disconcerting (hey everyone, check out the lint I brought!), the French martini was delish, and the belly dancer was the icing on the cake. My restaurant pick was a big hit, leading me to think about maybe possibly adding a little restaurant recommendation list to my sidebar (if only to prove to some of you out-of-towners that yes, Dallas can be a cool place to visit. If you steer clear of defensive driving "comedians" and the Republicans).

Sunday
Relatively full day at the clinic. Splitting the money with the clinic is starting to hurt. If you live in the Dallas area and you’re not passing my information out to everyone you know so I can get my business off the ground? All I can say is shame, shame, shame on you.

Monday
So I’ve been experiencing a bit of a heart flutter for the past couple of months. I call it a heart flutter because that sounds cuter than the Google/WebMD ohmygodyou’regoingtodie palpitation that it probably is. When you call the doctor’s office about heart trouble but you sound relatively calm, they assume you’re not going to die that day and schedule your appointment for Not Anytime Soon.

This morning I went in (finally) and after the routine bits of the visit and a long conversation with the doc, I was treated to my very first EKG experience. If you ever find yourself in a situation where there’s even a remote possibility you’ll need an EKG, skip the lotion that morning. Otherwise the process takes even longer than it should, and your dignity is even more compromised than when you first put on the paper gown.

Since the EKG didn’t reveal much except how relaxed I remain while being groped and alcohol-swabbed and having stickers applied all over my chest and legs, the doctor told me she suspected stress, and would like to hook me up with an event monitor. At first, I was thrilled. When I realized I would not, in fact, be getting a little person following me around all day barking mandates like “no, no, tomorrow won’t work at all for her, you’ll have to pencil in next Tuesday,” and “okay, now here’s the moment you thank her for all her hard work” at the boss, the husband, the teacher, etc., I wasn’t so thrilled.

I’ll be carrying a little pedometer-like machine around with me, and will have to remember to press a little button every time I experience one of my heart flutters. Several weeks down the line I’ll check back in with the doc to confirm that I am not going to die of a heart attack and that I am, as all have suspected for years, just plain crazy. It just stinks that I have to wait so long for my meds.

Mr. Fix It

2007-01-31T11:11:00.000-06:00

Monk has been in Vegas for a few days, acting as Guest Judge for the Miss America pageant.

Not really, but the real reason he's been in Vegas has to with his job, and we all know by now that I don't pay attention to what he does for a living, so one guess as to how much I know about why he went to Vegas, and what he's been doing there. The sad thing is, he explained it to me about three times before he left, and once yesterday. Something to do with a convention center, limo rides to fancy dinners, and drinking expensive scotch on the company dime.

Monk's Vegas Vacation concludes today, which is terrific. We can return to our regularly scheduled program. I've missed having him here in Dallas (not that we see each other during the week these days), especially when I've been feeding the dogs, taking out the trash, folding the laundry, picking up the yard... It's like having your pool boy go on strike- suddenly there's too much to do, no time to do it yourself and worst of all, no hot guy to look at while lying in the sun and sipping iced tea.

(I’d really like to be the kind of person to whom this analogy would make sense. “Oh! Yes! I know exactly what you’re talking about! In fact, just last summer Volari decided to take some classes and left us in the lurch for a whole month! You can’t imagine how inconvenienced we were to find leaves in the deep end every morning.” Also, I don’t like iced tea. But I wasn’t sure how to keep that scenario fluid and realistic at the same time. Is it the norm to lie around the pool drinking orange Fanta with a bendy straw?)

More important than the day-to-day tasks: There is a rather large hole in our kitchen ceiling that needs a patch and a light fixture. Monk and I spent nearly four hours last Saturday on a mission to replace a few lights around the house. The mission was successful in that we discovered exactly how little we know about light fixtures and electricity in general. Unsuccessful in terms of the big hole in the ceiling where a light should be. With wires coming out of it.

It’s great that Monk returns this evening, as I haven’t had the time (or the inclination) in the past four days to attack said hole with tape and plaster, and instead have been pointedly ignoring the horror every time I enter the kitchen.

Kind of like I’ve been pointedly ignoring the fact that it just doesn’t feel like Home without the huzz.

But mostly I'm excited about getting the ceiling patched up.

And I moved faster than a speeding bullet.

2007-01-26T15:33:00.000-06:00

3:30 in the morning, and I wake to Blockhead-the-dog shifting position on the bed. The room is dim, calm and toasty, the air purifier hums a soothing white noise lullaby. I reach out to Blockhead, motioning her to come over and give me a cuddle. I have just clumsily raised my outstretched hand towards her when she vomits into it. And over it. Gushing. Onto the bed. And my pillow.

The only way I would have leapt from the bed any more quickly? If the vomit had been cold. Which it wasn't. Because it was vomit.

I'll give you all a minute here to clean yours off the computer screen.

Monk went to get a towel to, I don't know, dab daintily at the ocean of puke, but I vetoed his plan and started tearing the covers off the bed. Then the sheets. Then my pillowcase. Monk groaned at having to change the sheets in the middle of the night. And groaned some more when I started removing the mattress pad from the bed. If he'd had his way, we would have gone back to sleep on top of a bare mattress. "But I'm tired!" he whined. He looked longingly at his side of the bed, the side that had conveniently escaped the regurgitation. I held my ground, the new sheets went on (with a little pouting and a refusal to change his un-ralphed-on pillowcase), and we tried valiantly to return to dreamland.

So that is how my day began. In case you were wondering: Yes, I'm quite ready for this week to be over.

January's killing me, but we'll talk about that later

2007-01-24T12:12:00.000-06:00

So. Deep Tissue is interesting. The Head & Neck section is almost over, and you should all take the following message to heart: Please tip your massage therapist as he probably knows how to kill you.

We also know how to hurt you, make you nauseous, make you pass out, make your sinuses clear up, and make your headache go away. I’m guessing the last two will be the massage effects I will advertise.

Each evening we enter the classroom and have to pair up with someone new. Seems like a decent group of LMTs so far (that’s “Licensed Massage Therapists” to you civilians), except for the guy that brags about being a player and makes lasciviously-intended comments to every female in the class, at every opportunity. Nothing specific or clever, mind you. Most of the remarks are along the lines of “you get up here, girrrrl, you know you want to” with a wink and a tongue click; one wonders if he’s ever actually scored with this ghettofied Benny Hill routine.

There’s also a somewhat freaky woman who I thought was hitting on me, until I realized that she’s just one of those people who will hug and stroke and smooch and climb on top of and straddle (as they lie on the massage table) anyone. Still, when the time came last night to put on our rubber gloves (streeeetch... SNAP!!!) and stick our fingers in our partner’s mouth, I was quite happy to be paired up with someone on the other side of the room.

In conclusion, some thoughts from the first few classes:
1) So, good thing we weren’t given a syllabus or ever told what reading we should be doing outside of class, or what to bring each evening, or anything, really, to prepare us for this course. This will surely help me work on my control freak issues.

2) Hmmm. I’ve never had someone relieve a headache and then give it back to me at twice the intensity in a 10-minute period.

3) Too much! Too much! Why aren’t these moves in the class handouts? Why isn’t someone recording all of this?!

4) Okay, I definitely need to work on my memory retention.

5) Oh good, I wasn’t the only one feeling overwhelmed (as evidenced by the 3 video cameras and the digital voice recorder that appeared the next evening).

6) I may also need to work on my trust issues (crossed my mind as my partner batted my trachea around).

Next week we start on the shoulder. If the beatings inflicted on my face, neck and mouth are any indication of the good times to come... Wish me luck.

Oh, hey there

2007-01-22T16:44:00.000-06:00

Wow, time flies when you're buried in work. And two ice storms. And one of the dogs having surgery (she's okay, thanks for asking). And more work. And spending two hours at Home Depot knocking $1600 off your flooring estimate. And then there was work. And a new class starting with an asshole of a teacher (it's too bad he's so obviously a pro, or I'd feel free to hate him with a fiery passion). And a hot stone class (which is making me rethink adding this service to my repertoire- lugging 55 stones around? Not so much fun, in case you were wondering).

And.... work.

So. When I can see my desk again, I'll post something more substantial. I'm thinking that'll be Wednesday.

I am not my hair

2007-01-15T15:33:00.000-06:00

I’m sure you’re wondering how my little happy hour outing went, so I will skip over the other details of the weekend (like how a class was canceled Saturday due to an ice storm that never showed, and how the clinic shut down yesterday due to another ice storm that –you guessed it- never showed) and just give a summary of Friday night.

In fact, let’s rate it in Cool Points, shall we? 100 being ohmygod-so-fabulous-I-can-hardly-stand-it and 0 being ohmygod-somebody-tell-that-freak’s-keeper-that-it’s-escaped-from-the-basement-again.

The venue:

+100 points for being 10 minutes away from my office, which unfortunately, due to the storm, turned into about 25 minutes of stop-and-go, the rain coming down so hard it was like being in a car wash.

-20 points for having valet parking with the valet spaces reserved in front, the public spaces in the back, forcing people who chose to park themselves to run around the rather large building in the freezing rain trying to find the entrance before their already unfashionable hair morphed into “uh, excuse me, miss, I think something crawled out of the sewer and died on top of your head.”

-10 points for not-so-hot service (not sure why it would take 20 minutes to pour a glass of wine. You don’t have to let it breathe, folks, it’s the house red. Just unscrew the cap and dump it in a glass.)

-10 points for the extra long table reserved in the front of the establishment. Not conducive to having one big conversation, and a little too easy for the drunken 50-year-olds to zero in on the table full o’ladies.

+15 points for the soft pretzel basket. Even though the queso tasted like someone had dipped their bacon in it, it rocked.

Venue total: 75 Cool Points. Not bad!

The group:

+100 points for 15 people (ish) showing up despite the weather being determined to shit on everyone.

-15 points for the event host bailing at the last minute.

+15 points for the majority of the group making an effort to meet everyone else.

-20 for the girl who disappeared halfway through the evening and was later spotted playing pool with some random Former (as in, now balding and beer-bellied) Frat Boy type.

+15 points for the conversation that went quickly from the weather to Real Life topics.

-10 points for two women ditching the conversation to humor ol’ Slurry McPoolPlayer for an hour.

Group total: 85 Cool Points. Great!

(Sigh.) Me:

+100 points for showing up to an unknown venue to meet a bunch of new people all by my lonesome.

-30 points for showing up with The Haircut.

+10 points for not calling attention to The Haircut by touching it, mocking it, or desperately yelling “Make no mistake! I’m much cooler than this I swear! I am not my haircut!”

+10 points for controlling myself, in general, meaning: Not making too many bizarre jokes or blunt comments. But!

-10 points for not controlling myself enough: During the conversation in which the group agreed that remaining friends with exes (the important ones, not the ones from the 23-day “relationships") is no good. I seem to remember a rather authoritative tone of voice coming from me, declaring “the only way you can truly be friends with an ex is if (drumroll, please) the sex was really bad.” Have you heard crickets in a bar before? No? Hang out with me sometime.

+5 points for getting a laugh after making fun of myself for the above comment. However:

-10 points for talking about C.H.U.D. You’d think I’d know better by now. I should keep a reminder card in my wallet about this. No one else has seen this movie, and I am one big loser for being so scarred by it that I can still tell you, nearly 20 years later, what the acronym stands for.

+15 points for leaving on a high note, and getting a few “good to meet you” emails the next day.

-30 points for The Haircut. Second verse, same as the first. Coming or going, the shame remains the same.

Total for me: 60 Cool Points. I call that a passing grade.

Meeting Anxiety

2007-01-11T11:11:00.000-06:00

Remember how I applied to that women's group a while ago? (No? Just go with it.) Turns out my application was accepted, leading me to conclude that apparently they'll let anyone join. Tomorrow evening the group is hosting a happy hour near my office, and I will therefore be introducing myself to 20-30 women from the Dallas area.

This is where I mention that 1) I'm not the most social person, and 2) I don't think I make a very good first impression. Especially with women. Monk and I were watching a movie earlier in the week (Shopgirl- highly recommend it by the way) and there's a scene in which (I don't think I'm ruining the film by describing this, but if you're some kind of a purist who needs to be surprised by every second of a film, you may want to skip ahead. And also, steer clear of any movie with Ryan Reynolds, just a heads-up) the girl says to the guy "Are you the kind of person that takes time to get to know, and then once you get to know them... they're fabulous?"

That would be me. Once you get to know me, I can be a pretty cool person. Until then? Totally painful to be in the same room with me. So. These women are in for a real treat tomorrow!

The two aforementioned issues tend to produce a cloud of Meeting Anxiety that settles over me for several days before any meet-a-bunch-of-strangers event. And while I know all the stress is completely pointless, since these things usually turn out okay (and sometimes better than okay), it happens every time. But still I (sporadically) force myself to participate in the social side of life because I know it is Good For Me. And I'm hoping if I cast my net wide enough, I'm bound to trick at least a couple of people into liking me enough to hang out a few times a year. And that would be good because I think Monk would like some peace and quiet every now and then. Hence meeting strangers for happy hour.

So naturally I was more freaked out than I should have been when the trim I was getting from Sister last night turned into a massacre. It's mostly my bangs. My bangs, they are ridiculous. I'd always wondered if I could pull fringe like this off; now I know definitively that I cannot. Normally this wouldn't be a big deal- hair grows, life goes on and all that. But the timing could have been better. The hair will not be helping the first impression tomorrow night. The hair, in fact, will probably run in ahead of me, arms a-flappin', and announce to the group that I am a dickweed.

It's going to be great.

Smile and nod

2007-01-08T15:33:00.000-06:00

Yesterday at the clinic, when my first client arrived, I noticed they had scheduled a 90-minute Deep Tissue session with Yours Truly. Being foolishly ethical and all that, I told the receptionist there had been a mix-up: I haven't been trained in DT yet (but talk to me in a month), so I shouldn't have been scheduled to give a (more expensive) Deep-Tissue-specific massage. Instead of opening up a dialogue with the client as to whether she actually wanted DT, or perhaps she just needed a therapeutic session with deep pressure, the receptionist must have said something like "moron over here can't do deep tissue so you can piss off." Because that is just what the now-ex-client did.

This is where I take a Public Service moment to tell you that a lot of the time a client thinks they want Deep Tissue work, but once it starts? They realize that is not what they wanted at all and holy god would you please stop fucking with my muscles what have they ever done to YOU thankyouverymuch.

Seeing as how I now had about 2 hours to kill before my next appointment, I sat down to stare at the walls and kick myself for being honest. What a dope! As I waited (and waited. and waited. oh, and waited.) for the next client, I decided this honesty thing had to go. Hence, when the next client came in and started talking about Deep Tissue work on his back and neck, I smiled and nodded and promised to fix him right up.

Quinn says: "No problem, we'll definitely focus on your lumbar region and rhomboids with that, just let me know if anything becomes too uncomfortable or painful."

Quinn thinks: You have no idea what 'Deep Tissue' really means, do you?

And of course he emerged from his session feeling great, took my card, tipped me well, yadda yadda.

My next client came in for a 30-minute session and told me she only wanted me to work on her head. Not comprehending, I asked a few questions until I learned she was there for headache relief: "I asked them to schedule me with someone who did scalp massage and they told me you were the one to see for that." So I smiled and nodded and put on my Scalp Whisperer* hat (who the hell is scheduling these people with me, and why are they making up skill sets and head-rubbing reputations?), and we began the session. She spent half the time probing my so-called expertise to figure out the cause of her tension headaches and what could be done to relieve them in the future.

Quinn says: "I've, um, actually heard that Excedrin Tension Headache is pretty effective."

Quinn thinks: Because the commercial tells me so.

The client complimented my technique and asked if I knew anyone else, if I had any friends who experience chronic tension headaches.

Quinn says: "Oh absolutely, it's a pretty common problem, really."

Quinn thinks: So apparently I'm just blatantly lying now? I don't talk to my friends about tension headaches. I'm not even sure the three of them get regular headaches.

The woman left the session feeling much better and extremely grateful that I-with-the-magic-fingers had graced the clinic with my presence that afternoon.

I can't wait to start the advanced program next week- I don't think I want to include "Bullshit Artist" on my business cards.

Happy New Year and all that

2007-01-03T11:11:00.000-06:00

To be honest, New Year's Eve was a bit of a letdown. We turned down PhotoGirl's invitation to a poker night since we'd already accepted an invitation to another party (yes, we fancied ourselves quite popular, for about 5 minutes), and last year's party-hopping had been a little too frantic for our tastes. This year we lost our designated driver, thanks to snowstorms in Albuquerque which caused a re-strategizing (a revised strategery, if you will) of the night ahead. Monk's bold idea was to "play it by ear. We'll stop drinking at midnight and then we'll be good to go by 2 or so." I had a couple of objections to this plan: 1) "play it by ear?" Texas is not the state in which you want to risk a DWI. If you're one of those idiots that drinks and drives in the first place. Which I am not. Anymore. 2) "by 2 or so?" How young do you think I am, sir? Gone are the days when staying out past 3 in the morning was a cakewalk. And without a drink in my hand, it's safe to say I'd be ready to leave shortly after midnight.

And no, I don't think I have much of a problem.

After a full day at the massage clinic Sunday, I came home to an equally-exhausted Monk. We dragged our asses through a meal, a shower, and the drive over to the party's location. Monk was proudly wearing a new once-a-year shirt. What's a once-a-year shirt, you ask? It has become a New Year's Eve tradition for Monk to wear the one t-shirt in his wardrobe that, on any other day of the year, I refuse to stand next to in public. I'm not normally the type of person who tells her spouse what he should and should not wear. Ripped? Whatever. Crude humor? More fun for everyone. So old it's practically transparent? Hey, they're not my nipples poking through. But this:

is where I draw the line. That, my friends, was the shirt that created the once-a-year shirt category, and Monk wore it with great enthusiasm on last New Year's Eve.

You'd think he wouldn't be able to top that, and maybe he shouldn't try. Maybe he shouldn't go out and spend money on more wince-inducing prints. You'd think he'd be happy enough with the infamous horse shirt. You'd think wrong:

Can't wait to see what he finds for next year.

In terms of making fun of people's crazy, drunken resolutions from last year, I don't have much to offer. Some were mildly entertaining, some were tragic, but most were downright boring (what's up with setting reasonable goals, people?).

Speaking of boring, most of the revelers were related to the hosts. In fact, it is safe to say that 3/4 of the guests were the parents of the host and hostess. And, with the exception of Monk, Clod, Host and Host's Cousin leaving to shoot fireworks off in a field (then in front of some houses, under a streetlamp, and into a port-o-potty), they were all quite happy to sit and play cards for hours.

I had instructed Monk earlier in the day that this year we'd be more proactive with our camera at the party (this is when we still thought the party would get wild), since last year we came home with only a handful of very tame photos, plus some horrific self-portraits (people need to tell me when my hair is making a Nike swoosh on my forehead, dammit). Monk tried to get busy with the camera as the evening wore on, but... Let's just say he is not the best of photographers, even without the vodka tonics and a penchant for turning the flash off.

After ringing in the New Year, three calls to Skyhawk in Albuquerque (11pm: Happy New Year! Oops, sorry, got the time difference wrong! 12am: Okay, Happy New Year for real! Oh, I know, but it's midnight for us. 1am: Happy New Year for you, now! Me, 2 minutes after 1am: Damn, Monk, quit calling your boyfriend.) and nearly 2 hours of watching people play cards, we decided to call it a night, having captured most of the merriment already, vague and fuzzy though it might have been.

Maybe next year we'll make some more friends (to bring us up to... 7 seems like a good number) and try our hand at hosting the party, or perhaps we'll ring in 2008 on a beach somewhere warm and quiet. For now though, I'm looking forward to 2007- a few classes, more travel (we hope), major home improvement, and a new...areercay (how smooth am I?).

And how does your 2007 look so far?

First Class, the new love of my life

2006-12-28T11:11:00.000-06:00

[First, a clarification on yesterday’s blomit: Sigh. This is what happens when I type and post without checking for coherency. Just need to state for the record that Mimi Smartypants was linked as an example of a blog-to-book writer worth reading- she is witty, smart, and as far as I know, not pretending her blog book is anything but a compilation of posts printed out and published (mmm, alliteration). I actually kind of sort of want to be her new best friend, not only because she resides in my home town, but also because she and her husband adopted their daughter, seemingly just because they could and why bother with the reproducing thing when there are plenty of kids out there already that need a family? (Okay, that may not actually be why they did it, but from what I’ve read we do seem to be on the same page re: the whole parenting shebang) The book-from-blog thing I read last weekend that I thought was such crap is by a blogger whose name I am withholding. For reasons having to do with discretion, politeness and not getting my ass kicked, virtually or otherwise.]

Now, on to the First Class experience. Thanks to Clod-the-brother-in-law's upgrade points I have tasted heaven, and it tastes like free booze and fantastic customer service. We pulled up to the airport with a toddler, a baby, and what seemed to be 400 pieces of luggage. As a childless traveler, I had no idea it was necessary to bring the entire contents of your house with you when you leave town. We breezed past the check-in line to the First Class counter, skipped through security, and ducked into the Admiral’s Club, a.k.a. the Golden World I Never Knew Existed. I’d always imagined the First Class lounge at airports as a separate, plain room where the wealthy could sit and have a drink without being forced to hear and see the common folk. As soon as the glass doors swooshed closed behind us and we stepped into the polished granite reception area however, I knew it was much, much more than that. We took the elevator up to the general Club area (who knew there was a whole second floor at the DFW Airport?!), and walked along the glowing corridor, admiring the fancy flooring and glistening blond wood accents, with Clod scampering ahead yelling over his shoulder “Free cookies! The drinks are cheap! Have you seen the showers?” We settled into one of the sectioned-off lounges, had some complimentary coffee and snacks, explored the place for a bit (“you can get online over there! Go look at the bathroom! Do you want something to drink?!”), then I somehow turned into Traveling Nanny as Clod and Monk left the group to play on the internet. The Niece was crabby, Baby Nephew wouldn’t nap, I was bored out of my mind. After a while, Monk, Clod, the Niece and I went on a reconnaissance mission for muffins and cookies. I admit I felt a little like a rock star as we spilled out through the glass doors and into the airport chaos. Albeit a rock star in ratty jeans, fleece jacket and sneakers.

Later, after a last-minute, 2-hour delay, we finally boarded. I don’t know the correct airplane mumbo jumbo, so let's just say that a 777 is one of those big honkin’ planes that fly to Europe all the time. That means that the First Class cabin was actually a separate area of the plane, with fully-reclining seats (including an adjustable foot rest!), wonderfully thick, quilted-comforter-like blankets, and your own personal television. None of this barely-bigger-seats-and-no-divider-between-you-and-the-common-folk nonsense. The baby had finally fallen asleep so I offered to keep him for the flight, rather than wake him up by shifting him over to Sister (and by the way, the looks on our fellow First Classers' faces when we walked in with a toddler and a baby? Awesome.) We were offered drinks (in real glasses! No plastic in First Class!) while we waited for the plane to take off. One very strong vodka tonic later and we were in the air. The flight attendants came around with warm bowls of mixed nuts for everyone. They refreshed our drinks. They cast many grateful looks my way when they saw the baby still quietly sleeping away. We were given hot towels (I daintily wiped my hands, Monk eagerly gave himself the First Class version of a sponge bath).

Did you know that on flights over two hours, First Class passengers are served a meal? The Niece chose the three mushroom pizza, while Monk and I enjoyed the salmon (with rice pilaf, a side salad, and another glass of wine). With a sleeping baby keeping me warm, a glass of wine beside me, and a book in my hand, I was more than willing to continue on to London from Chicago. But of course that is not my life.

After three days of family (felt more like ten) during which Clod disappeared at every opportunity (to go back to sleep, grab some lunch for himself, or simply “just drive around”), Monk, Clod and my brother managed to get my just-turned-21 cousin absolutely sloppy slurry drunk (paired a billiards game with shots of Crown), my mother showered everyone with guilt about the Christmas Eve service (“SOME of us are going to CHURCH.” Monk and I, heathens that we are, stayed home with the Niece and Nephew), Sister yelled at her husband, my father yelled at everyone else, six people shared one bathroom… I was more than ready to sink back into the inner sanctum of the First Class world.

The return flight was similar to the first, except that 1) with no sleeping baby on my lap I was free to drink twice as much as I had before, 2) I read a terrible book (I think I’ve mentioned this already?), and 3) my dinner was cheese tortellini in a roasted red pepper cream sauce. Oh, and 4) one of the flight attendants took quite a shine to Monk, flirting (subtly, but shamelessly) and chatting every time he walked by. Towards the end of the trip, Flight Attendant Boy asked Monk about the book he was reading, then asked to borrow it for a minute so he could write down the title. I was convinced Monk would later open up the book and find Flight Attendant Boy’s number written in one of the margins. Alas, no such move was made (but keep that idea in mind boys and girls, it’s pretty smooth, no?) and I don’t think I’d be lying if I told you that Monk was a little disappointed. Not that he would have acted on it of course, but it’s nice to feel pretty sometimes.

So here we are, back in Dallas, looking forward to raging it up on New Year’s, and ruined for air travel forevermore. Flying Coach from now on will be a real kick in the teeth- sharing the armrest, paying for my snacks, mixing with the little people… I’m thinking 2007 would be a great year to come into some serious money.

Have a safe and stellar New Year’s Eve, everyone.

Bloggity Blog Blog Blog

2006-12-26T14:22:00.000-06:00

I will get the holiday recap post up this week, if for nothing else but to reveal the secrets of Flying First Class on a 777, but today I’m floating around in Snoozeville so that post will have to wait. Hey, let’s talk a little about blogging, shall we? And just so we’re clear, any time I type the word “blog,” I break into a self-mocking little sneer.

--I’m catching up on blogs today, and I have to say I’m glad I put my holiday letter post up before leaving town. It’s a good feeling, like leaving work 30 minutes early to beat rush hour traffic, sailing along the highway and glancing in your rearview mirror to glimpse the nest of barely-moving traffic in your wake. But I loved reading all the holiday letters everyone posted. Too. damn. funny.

--On the flight home last night (I’m such a tease, I know), I read most of a book written by a blogger-turned-author. I’m not sure why I added the book to my stack at Borders before the trip, especially considering the fact that I’ve read this person’s blog and didn’t think much of her writing. Or maybe the writing was okay, but her online personality was a little hard to take. Whatever, I’d read a few weeks’ worth of posts then never clicked over to her site again. So of course I bought her book. I should say right off the bat that I’m not that enthusiastic about this current trend of gathering blog posts together and calling it a book. I think this only works when the book makes no pretense of being just a compilation of past blog posts on paper. And I think this only works well when the blogger is exceptionally smart and witty, and never takes him/herself or the book project seriously from the beginning, and certainly never presumes that this published compilation makes him/her A Writer. And also? One should not slam fellow bloggers’ writing skills (or lack thereof) in said book, when those very same virtual people are the reason anyone found the blog-to-one-day-be-a-book in the first place. It’s nice to link those who link to you, but then publishing your thoughts that those contributors to your fame are “boring,” or that their “writing [is] bad,” may not be the best career move and is probably not an integral part of the plot anyway. Then, when the “author” of one of these blog-into-book projects also decides to intersperse those recycled posts with more diary-ish writing, changes her own character’s name, then calls it a memoir… I hadn’t realized I could be confused and bored simultaneously. Is it fiction? Is it a memoir? Is it a thinly-veiled (and angry and bitter) venue in which to get back at your ex-boyfriend? Anyway. Four hours of my life I’ll never get back. But because I always root for those with big, beautiful dreams of drawing an income from their creativity, I’m going to stop this rant/review before it gets specific and libelous and move on.

--If someone doesn’t update their blog more than once a month, do you lose interest and stop checking? Would you take the link to their page down? Or would you just shrug your shoulders and tell yourself to get a grip, that this blogging thing is a personal (usually non-paying) venture, so there shouldn’t be any frequent-posting expectations and really, these bloggers don’t owe your ass anything anyway?

--I kinda sorta started a pit bull debate in the comments section of a pseudo-news blog last week. I'm afraid this is another non-specific rant, as I'd rather the Big, Glaring Non-Facts receive as little exposure as possible. Basically, I commented on the article unnecessarily mentioning the breed of a dog where it wasn't relevant to the story, then someone replied with an ignorant remark revealing that she actually knew nothing about the bully breeds but had clearly bought into (and was now a spouter-offer of) the hype and misinformation from the media. So I scooted back in to enlighten her. Then I realized that my stomach was clenched up, anger ball style, and I thought it might be better off to back slowly out of the post and just let it die. I was in no hurry to continue an inappropriate debate in a comment section when the original post was not at fault for the breed-specific vilifying in the first place (following me so far?). Besides, ignorant people will die or be killed off eventually... The natural selection thing, right? (either that or they'll continue on with the over-population of the planet, anti-gay, pro-life and breed-specific legislation, littering our streets and highways with burger wrappers and fried chicken buckets, and running the country. Fingers crossed!) Unfortunately I couldn't resist this morning and checked the comments section again, only to see an additional non-fact posted there. People, before you begin a debate, pick up a damn book. Click on one of the informative links I've so helpfully posted over to the right. And most importantly, get your head out of your ass. I ask you to please, if nothing else this holiday season, pass the following fact on to your neighbors and family: Pit bulls do not have locking jaws. Where the hell did this myth get started, anyway?

Less of this, more on First Class air transportation later this week.

Oof.

2006-12-19T11:11:00.000-06:00

Okay, so... between taking the niece to the ice sculpture show, reconnecting with friends (bliss!), working at the clinic, having dinner with Sister's in-laws (don't ask), all the usual blah blah blah of grown-up life, end of season work deadlines, my assistant threatening to quit, my assistant not quitting, bowing out of the guaranteed-to-be awkward holiday party at Boss Lady's house, gearing up for the guaranteed-to-be-awkward holiday lunch the three of us are having tomorrow (a grab bag gift for the first person to show me three people with LESS in common having a long, fancy lunch tomorrow), Monk telling me he will indeed be out of town for work tomorrow (just tomorrow and sure, of course I remember him mentioning this last week), my appointment to officially enroll in the advanced program Thursday afternoon, figuring out what to pack to leave town, wondering how we will survive at my parents' with all 6 of us guests sharing one bathroom, watching the checking account balance plunge farther and farther below comfort level, and actually getting on the plane Friday morning showered, dressed and with all proper forms of identification in hand... I give up. Too much to babble about, too little time. So, have a great holiday (if you're into that sort of thing), and I'll catch you sometime next week (all three of you). Right now I'm going to go have a heart attack.

It does help a little that we'll be flying First Class this weekend. Bring on the free booze.

About face

2006-12-14T11:11:00.000-06:00

I've scheduled an appointment for a facial this evening. I'll just come out and say it: My face is in bad shape and it's high time I started doing something about it. You boys don't understand this because somehow you (bastards!) all age gently, handsomely, charmingly, while we women stare despairingly into the mirror as the wrinkles and sags and loss of elasticity! grow more pronounced each year. Sure, a small percentage of women don't seem to have this problem (at least, not yet- cue maniacal laughter). But I don't want to talk about those women. In fact, let's just consider those women dead to me, shall we? And let's hope they don't run into me on the street. Really. Because I look bad enough, without having to stand next to them.

A month ago, I paid a lot of money (well, a handful of money plus a rather substantial Saks gift card) for some miracle serum for my face. The only miracle it's produced so far is to prove that yes, actually, it is possible for me to spend more time getting ready for bed than I already do. Or the miracle of my feet carrying me into Saks Fifth Avenue in the first place. Either way, not the miracle I was hoping for.

For the last two years or so, I've come close to being violently ill when I see myself in photos. I doubt this is due entirely to the picture-taker (usually my mother or father-in-law) shouting "smile!" and then fumbling around for a few additional agonizing seconds before snapping the shot, enough time for smiles to waver and gazes to dart distractedly off-center.

No, I blame the stress of the last few years, a consistent lack of sleep, my old nemesis (then part-time lover) Smoking, and of course Jolly Old Age, all showing up unannounced and having a party on my face. It hit me yesterday that some women of a certain age (i.e., over 25) do more than the minimum at-home skincare. These women eat well! Drink a lot of water! And pay someone else to care for their skin on a regular basis! And since I generally do two out of the three already (and no, I don't feel the need to mention the large amounts of candy consumed by moi, as of late), sign me up! It might actually be time to let the experts take over.

I will spend a lovely hour after work today getting my face scrubbed, prodded, de-toxed, [uh, whatever the nicer word for ~shudder~ "clogged pore extraction" might be], and moisturized. I'm sure the experience will come with a scathing critique of my skin and its years of neglect (along with the hefty bill) but if I leave the place looking younger and more alive than I have looked in the past two years, I'll be happy. It may be the beginning of something really beautiful- having an esthetician on speed dial.

If not, I'll have to move some money from the Boob Job Eventually account and open a Botox Now! account.

In-laws are awesome

2006-12-12T11:11:00.000-06:00

Back to the grind, after a short and sweet weekend with Monk’s family (the “short” part causing the “sweet” descriptive).

Since we had to pack the Christmas gifts in our bags-to-be-checked, I wanted to make sure they would arrive unscathed. But how? By writing a little note to the people in charge of pawing through our unmentionables, of course. And then praying a little bit.

Our hotel was much nicer, much cleaner and just plain normal this time- who knew those qualities would actually become huge selling points for us? I would have taken pictures to illustrate the normalcy, but just imagine a clean room, no odd stains or markings, complementary happy hour for the guests, and a comforting absence of strange smells and you’ll get the idea.

The visit was filled with the usual parental orgasms over the pure brilliance and beauty their sons cause just by breathing (Monk: Turn left here, dad. Monk’s Dad: Well said my boy, well said!). Monk’s mother made a big fat deal over the few gray hairs on his head (My baby! Is getting older!), and the traditional hour spent discussing some neighbor's grown-up daughter who clearly has over-achiever issues (she's a lawyer! and a doctor! and a mother! and she plays soccer! we may not know much at all about our own grown children and their lives, but look how much we know about this person you've never met/haven't seen since you were 12/couldn't give a shit about even if we paid you!).

I employed my new In-law Tolerance Strategy this time, with grand success. In the past, I’ve come away from visits with the in-laws feeling ignored, shut out or dismissed, mostly because my conversational contributions are talked over, interrupted or simply unacknowledged, as Monk’s parents deftly steer each topic back to themselves. This visit I decided I’d keep my speech to a minimum and just do a lot of Smiling and Nodding. And the one time I broke my rule, Monk’s dad interrupted me and changed the subject (surprise!), but Monk valiantly brought him back to reality so I could finish my thought. Nice guy, that Monk. Overall the new strategy kept my feelings intact, and the conversation flowing (and hoo boy, Monk’s parents sure can talk about themselves: At lunch on Sunday the pair of them took turns speaking for about 25 minutes or so. A glance around the table revealed the resigned faces of Monk, his brother and our 4-year-old St. Louis niece; obviously they’d caught on to the Tolerance Strategy long ago and were just going with the flow at this point).

Monk’s dad also gave me a photography lesson over the weekend! 5 minutes after I’d already snapped a picture with his camera, he gave me tips on finding the shutter button, and then suggested where I should sit to ensure the best angle at which to capture the family for all eternity (FYI, "the family" = "two parents, two sons, one granddaughter, and... not you, Q.") Monk’s dad fancies himself quite the photographer , especially of candid, feel good moments, which inevitably produces many pictures (sometimes blurry, sometimes backlit) of people with strange expressions on their faces, often mid-sentence or gesture. I don’t think anyone has told my father-in-law that "candid" does not always have to mean "unflattering." At least most of the pictures were of his wife, granddaughter or his sons. The few photos with me from the weekend are, as every single photo he’s ever taken of me has been, pretty hideous (I refuse to believe that I have become that un-photogenic).

Spekaing of candid, wow, what an action shot!

I'm the third ass from the left.

Every time we visit each other’s parents, Monk and I remind ourselves that it could be much, much worse. There are people in this world with such nightmarish in-laws that marriages are torn apart. Estrangements are born. Murders are committed! We don’t have that, and we do consider ourselves lucky. Plus, traveling during the busiest time of the year to deal with each other’s in-laws has the added (odd, twisted) benefit of making both of us more grateful for our own families, which is something to keep in mind this holiday season (when I’m holding on to the table’s edge to keep from leaping over it and strangling my mother).

And in two weeks, Monk gets to keep that in mind while dealing with my parents.