I only had a BITE of that cake, thank you very much!
Tuesday, September 20, 2005
Sweat
I got up this morning at 6:10am. It was still dark outside, but I was there in my gym pants, sports bra and running shoes...bleary eyed, but present. And I went to the gymnasium. The gym and I have always SORT of gotten along. I did ok in the squatting weight class and I survived the "incident" with the treadmill with only moderate scarring...but I have a new problem.
When I went to Trevor, my new STYLIST (so fun to say that) last week, I was chastized for washing my hair everyday. This is a not news to me...I understand that it's supposed to be healthy for your hair to soak in their own greasy juices at least every other day. I get it. But just because I get it doesn't mean I have to like it or do it. Honestly, when I was a scary adolescent, I used to get in TROUBLE for not washing my hair. In fact, my mother still likes to point out that I had to be told to wash my long stringy hair...if only my mom had known that I was really not hygenically challenged...I was FASHION FORWARD!
Ok, so a lifetime of being told to wash your hair can not easily be reversed. But I'm trying. I've been promised by Those Who Wash Every Other Day that my hair will adjust and even out. I have faith in Their words. So I'm making it happen...but this coincides challengingly with my new gym schedule. I'm not sure if massive amounts of sweat is the same thing as normally occuring hair grease and I'm afraid that I'm moving into the realm of "just plain disgusting". Trevor suggested that I use baby powder to cut the grease on my "day off" but that seems so highschool dreadlock wannabe. Can healthy hair and a healthy body co-exist peacefully? I used to actually like sweat before it became a harbinger of bad hair. I guess we'll just have to wait and see which vanity wins out?
When I went to Trevor, my new STYLIST (so fun to say that) last week, I was chastized for washing my hair everyday. This is a not news to me...I understand that it's supposed to be healthy for your hair to soak in their own greasy juices at least every other day. I get it. But just because I get it doesn't mean I have to like it or do it. Honestly, when I was a scary adolescent, I used to get in TROUBLE for not washing my hair. In fact, my mother still likes to point out that I had to be told to wash my long stringy hair...if only my mom had known that I was really not hygenically challenged...I was FASHION FORWARD!
Ok, so a lifetime of being told to wash your hair can not easily be reversed. But I'm trying. I've been promised by Those Who Wash Every Other Day that my hair will adjust and even out. I have faith in Their words. So I'm making it happen...but this coincides challengingly with my new gym schedule. I'm not sure if massive amounts of sweat is the same thing as normally occuring hair grease and I'm afraid that I'm moving into the realm of "just plain disgusting". Trevor suggested that I use baby powder to cut the grease on my "day off" but that seems so highschool dreadlock wannabe. Can healthy hair and a healthy body co-exist peacefully? I used to actually like sweat before it became a harbinger of bad hair. I guess we'll just have to wait and see which vanity wins out?
Monday, September 19, 2005
I got a timebomb in my mind, Mom.
I've been listening to Timebomb by the Old 97's. I think this song is appropriate considering the fact that I am a genetic timebomb. Bad teeth, heart failure, scoliosis, arthritis, macular degeneration, diabetes, obesity, clinical depression, male pattern baldness. THe list goes on and on...I'm sadly reminded of my ancestral failings everytime I go to the doctor...and I realize that this is my anti-dowery.
In the good old days, fathers would bring gold, cases of expensive whisky and cows to the potential husbands of their daughters...in essence buying them a "good" match. What would my father have to offer? They would take one look at my medical history and run out of the room realizing that I can offer nothing more than pain and a future of waiting for the floor to drop out. They can expect to wake up one morning to a bald, blind hunchback, crying uncontrollably and going into convulsions from low blood sugar. Our children will be fat snaggle toothed cripples who can't play soccer because of their heart condition. Don't you want to marry me???
I realize this is a little over the top, but I blame it on my penchant for drama...oh, did I forget to add that to the list??? Honestly, it's going to take a strong man to get past my genetics and I wonder if that is possible. This is the hidden stuff...the quiet truths that have prompted men to say, "look at her mother if you want to see what the woman you marry will be like in 20 years". And you wonder why I'm NOT against genetic engineering?????
In the good old days, fathers would bring gold, cases of expensive whisky and cows to the potential husbands of their daughters...in essence buying them a "good" match. What would my father have to offer? They would take one look at my medical history and run out of the room realizing that I can offer nothing more than pain and a future of waiting for the floor to drop out. They can expect to wake up one morning to a bald, blind hunchback, crying uncontrollably and going into convulsions from low blood sugar. Our children will be fat snaggle toothed cripples who can't play soccer because of their heart condition. Don't you want to marry me???
I realize this is a little over the top, but I blame it on my penchant for drama...oh, did I forget to add that to the list??? Honestly, it's going to take a strong man to get past my genetics and I wonder if that is possible. This is the hidden stuff...the quiet truths that have prompted men to say, "look at her mother if you want to see what the woman you marry will be like in 20 years". And you wonder why I'm NOT against genetic engineering?????
Friday, September 16, 2005
OH what a world...what a WORLD
I am a farmer. I farm. Or rather, I pick the fruits/vegetables of the farmer's labor...so I guess I'm more like a farm-vampire. Last Saturday, I went with my friend Lena to the Day Farms in Layton and we picked like 400 pounds of tomatoes and some eggplants and peppers. There is nothing more beautiful than washing your green stained hands and watching the dirt of real work circle down the drain of your inner-city sink.
Now some of you know that I hate the suburbs. You've heard my rendition of "welcome welcome suburban morning" and know that the versatility of the colors beige,eccru, eggshell and the like are a personal affront to my spirit. The truth is, that if I can't live IN the city, then I want to be as far out of it as I can. I think I'm a rare half-breed, part hipster, part hippy. Farms and ranches have always been intriguing to me...living on the land, sustainably, growing your own food, learning how to not kill all things green. Maybe a sheep or a goat or something that eats clothes on your clothesline. Simplicity. It seems like a quirky enough existence to keep you interested. And your kids would at least be unique...maybe a little weird but I can't decide if being a weird artist commune mom is worse or better than soccer mom. I don't know. All I know is that sometimes the idea of escaping the reality of societal living is so tempting.
After my faux farming day, we got in the car and listened to NPR all the way home...it was a current events quiz show called, "Wait, Wait...I know the answer" or something like that. Lena was rattling off answers and would certainly have won had she been on the show. I on the otherhand was abysmal. My complete lack of awareness of current events forced me to admit to Lena that I rarely pay attention to the news. I mean, I just don't read, listen to or watch it. I'm not ignorant and I'm certainly not stupid (uh, except when it comes to men, then I'm positively daft) but I think I'm too idealistic to handle the day to day traumas of politics, missing children and natural disasters. I'm consciously unconscious. What I mean to say is that I'd rather get to know the people that are living these news-worthy lives than read about it in the paper. I want to change the world one person at a time and if my optimism is to survive the barrage of horrifying images, then I will continue to stay away from the press.
This is exactly why I will never purposely live in the suburbs. The suburbs are the newspapers of america. THey are voyuers, the readers, the listeners. I want to be all or nothing. Far-away- from- it- all farmer or in-the-trenches city girl. But never anesthetized watching it all go down around me while I mow the front lawn. Maybe this is too much of a generalization and maybe I'm wrong to not read the paper. I certainly know more about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes Scientological relationship than I know about Hurricane Katrina...so maybe I am a hypocrite. And maybe you think I'm completely wrong. And maybe I will be sorry someday...but for right now, I'll eat my tomatoes in my 4th floor apartment overlooking downtown Salt Lake and try to think of ways to change the world without having to turn on the Television.
Now some of you know that I hate the suburbs. You've heard my rendition of "welcome welcome suburban morning" and know that the versatility of the colors beige,eccru, eggshell and the like are a personal affront to my spirit. The truth is, that if I can't live IN the city, then I want to be as far out of it as I can. I think I'm a rare half-breed, part hipster, part hippy. Farms and ranches have always been intriguing to me...living on the land, sustainably, growing your own food, learning how to not kill all things green. Maybe a sheep or a goat or something that eats clothes on your clothesline. Simplicity. It seems like a quirky enough existence to keep you interested. And your kids would at least be unique...maybe a little weird but I can't decide if being a weird artist commune mom is worse or better than soccer mom. I don't know. All I know is that sometimes the idea of escaping the reality of societal living is so tempting.
After my faux farming day, we got in the car and listened to NPR all the way home...it was a current events quiz show called, "Wait, Wait...I know the answer" or something like that. Lena was rattling off answers and would certainly have won had she been on the show. I on the otherhand was abysmal. My complete lack of awareness of current events forced me to admit to Lena that I rarely pay attention to the news. I mean, I just don't read, listen to or watch it. I'm not ignorant and I'm certainly not stupid (uh, except when it comes to men, then I'm positively daft) but I think I'm too idealistic to handle the day to day traumas of politics, missing children and natural disasters. I'm consciously unconscious. What I mean to say is that I'd rather get to know the people that are living these news-worthy lives than read about it in the paper. I want to change the world one person at a time and if my optimism is to survive the barrage of horrifying images, then I will continue to stay away from the press.
This is exactly why I will never purposely live in the suburbs. The suburbs are the newspapers of america. THey are voyuers, the readers, the listeners. I want to be all or nothing. Far-away- from- it- all farmer or in-the-trenches city girl. But never anesthetized watching it all go down around me while I mow the front lawn. Maybe this is too much of a generalization and maybe I'm wrong to not read the paper. I certainly know more about Tom Cruise and Katie Holmes Scientological relationship than I know about Hurricane Katrina...so maybe I am a hypocrite. And maybe you think I'm completely wrong. And maybe I will be sorry someday...but for right now, I'll eat my tomatoes in my 4th floor apartment overlooking downtown Salt Lake and try to think of ways to change the world without having to turn on the Television.
Friday, September 09, 2005
Addictive Personalities Make Better Stalkers
THis is going to be my new bumper sticker....
I went to weight watchers last night and found out that I lost 2.2 pounds. Yay for me!!! There is something really cool about being in a room that looks like a jehovah's witness kingdom hall (no windows) with a bunch of chubby people all admitting that when the breadbasket gets passed to them, they CAN NOT say NO. No one gets up and says their first name. No one gets a keychain if they go 30 days without dessert, but the idea is the same. We're food junkies and we get together to support each other in our quest to be moderate in the face of Godiva Chocolates, 18 inch pizzas and all things fried.
I talked to my mom about the fact that I was really depressed lately, and she blamed it on my diet...excuse me, I mean...MY NEW HEALTHY LIFESTYLE. She pointed out that I use food to comfort me and now that I am counting every point, I no longer CAN use food as my reward or panacea for my emotional blah blah blah. I agree to some extent. It's all about finding substitutes, so instead of eating a canoli, I call people. I text them three or four times in a row. I take a drive to peer through their windows right at dusk when the blinds are still open and the lights are now on. JUST KIDDING, but the impetus behind it is true...I've found that without my food crutches, I need people more than before. I need distractions and I need support. I need to talk about food and no food and not having that piece of pozza that I really really just wanted to scarf even though it had been in someone's refrigerator for a month and was no longer even really edible. I need something to fill the hole left by 1/2 a cup of brown rice and steamed vegetables.
So this is why weight watchers is group therapy for fat people and why that is so freaking necessary. Last night in my meeting, I was talking about the lack of control I exhibited the last time I went out to eat with my friends. They ordered calamari. Fried Squid, people. I don't even love it. I like it, but I don't LLLLLLOOOOOVVVVEEEE it. And as I was eating my like 8th piece, I was chewing the rubbery circle of squid and thinking...why can't I just say no???? What should I have done???? The cute lady sitting behind me, a veteran in the food addiction war, said, "next time the calamari comes near you, tip your water into the basket, ruin it!!!!" I laughed and laughed and realized that this really is WAR and even my friends and their appetizers can not be spared.
I want to be healthy. I want to be moderate. I want to be happy about my body since it is the only one I'm getting and I won't be whole until I can accept it and love it. This morning I woke up and realized that 9.2 pounds of fat (which is the total amount I've lost thus far) is like heaving around a newborn baby all the time. A big newborn. I am feeling lighter. My heart can beat just a little slower. I can breathe just a little bit better. I can't guarantee that I'll stop filling my food need with people, so you might prepare yourself for a few extra texts and calls these next few months, but I promise it will be the best thing for all of us. I'm good at what I do.
I went to weight watchers last night and found out that I lost 2.2 pounds. Yay for me!!! There is something really cool about being in a room that looks like a jehovah's witness kingdom hall (no windows) with a bunch of chubby people all admitting that when the breadbasket gets passed to them, they CAN NOT say NO. No one gets up and says their first name. No one gets a keychain if they go 30 days without dessert, but the idea is the same. We're food junkies and we get together to support each other in our quest to be moderate in the face of Godiva Chocolates, 18 inch pizzas and all things fried.
I talked to my mom about the fact that I was really depressed lately, and she blamed it on my diet...excuse me, I mean...MY NEW HEALTHY LIFESTYLE. She pointed out that I use food to comfort me and now that I am counting every point, I no longer CAN use food as my reward or panacea for my emotional blah blah blah. I agree to some extent. It's all about finding substitutes, so instead of eating a canoli, I call people. I text them three or four times in a row. I take a drive to peer through their windows right at dusk when the blinds are still open and the lights are now on. JUST KIDDING, but the impetus behind it is true...I've found that without my food crutches, I need people more than before. I need distractions and I need support. I need to talk about food and no food and not having that piece of pozza that I really really just wanted to scarf even though it had been in someone's refrigerator for a month and was no longer even really edible. I need something to fill the hole left by 1/2 a cup of brown rice and steamed vegetables.
So this is why weight watchers is group therapy for fat people and why that is so freaking necessary. Last night in my meeting, I was talking about the lack of control I exhibited the last time I went out to eat with my friends. They ordered calamari. Fried Squid, people. I don't even love it. I like it, but I don't LLLLLLOOOOOVVVVEEEE it. And as I was eating my like 8th piece, I was chewing the rubbery circle of squid and thinking...why can't I just say no???? What should I have done???? The cute lady sitting behind me, a veteran in the food addiction war, said, "next time the calamari comes near you, tip your water into the basket, ruin it!!!!" I laughed and laughed and realized that this really is WAR and even my friends and their appetizers can not be spared.
I want to be healthy. I want to be moderate. I want to be happy about my body since it is the only one I'm getting and I won't be whole until I can accept it and love it. This morning I woke up and realized that 9.2 pounds of fat (which is the total amount I've lost thus far) is like heaving around a newborn baby all the time. A big newborn. I am feeling lighter. My heart can beat just a little slower. I can breathe just a little bit better. I can't guarantee that I'll stop filling my food need with people, so you might prepare yourself for a few extra texts and calls these next few months, but I promise it will be the best thing for all of us. I'm good at what I do.
Thursday, September 08, 2005
another day, another dollar
My 28th year goal is to become more fiscally responsible. By the time I am thirty, I would like to be able to purchase a home. Saying this openly is supposed to be a motivation for me to stop dreaming about the ipod I will never have and stop coveting things that I want, but certainly don't need.
In the same vein, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to take steps toward my fiscal responsibility and goal of home ownership that are a little less than conventional. Necessity is the mother of invention. Therefore, this blog is dedicated to my continued search of a man willing to help me become the trophywife that I was born to be. I have the blond hair. I have the appreciation of small dogs and large diamonds. I am willing to acquire "altered" body parts if someone else is willing to pay for it. I am open to lazy afternoons of shopping with someone else's money, dropping the 2.5 children off at daycare while I get my manicure and running errands like telling the help to get a pint of ben and jerry's while they are out grabbing dinner. I don't mind being the one to suggest couples therapy and hypnotism when things aren't going so well. I think I would be amazing.
So if you are able to help me reach my goals, please email me. I can't promise much in return...just some arm candy to make your squash buddies jealous, countless opportunities to be told how to dress better and maybe if you're lucky, less than 3 crying/pouting freak-outs a week....
In the same vein, I don't think it's unreasonable for me to take steps toward my fiscal responsibility and goal of home ownership that are a little less than conventional. Necessity is the mother of invention. Therefore, this blog is dedicated to my continued search of a man willing to help me become the trophywife that I was born to be. I have the blond hair. I have the appreciation of small dogs and large diamonds. I am willing to acquire "altered" body parts if someone else is willing to pay for it. I am open to lazy afternoons of shopping with someone else's money, dropping the 2.5 children off at daycare while I get my manicure and running errands like telling the help to get a pint of ben and jerry's while they are out grabbing dinner. I don't mind being the one to suggest couples therapy and hypnotism when things aren't going so well. I think I would be amazing.
So if you are able to help me reach my goals, please email me. I can't promise much in return...just some arm candy to make your squash buddies jealous, countless opportunities to be told how to dress better and maybe if you're lucky, less than 3 crying/pouting freak-outs a week....
Wednesday, September 07, 2005
Lady bug, Lady bug
Last night I was doing dishes after a flurry of weight watchers cookbook creativity and I noticed a lady bug, legs up, flailing around in the dish water. I don't know what made me do it, since normally, I am a little less than altruistic to bugs, but I grabbed a spoon and scooped her (it's a "LADY" bug afterall) up and set her rightside down on the sink. I tried to blow on her to dry her off since I was not sure if bug wings retain water like people-hair...but I didn't want her to die. I watched her kind of twitch around a little, waterlogged and tenuous. I felt a little guilty for several reasons. 1. I didn't actually stop doing dishes. 2. I didn't think, if I had just had a near death experience that I would like to have someone leaning over me watching my life struggle. 3. I probably could have done more. I think she died, I havne't gone back to the sink since the dishes were done. I don't want to know.
I have a sort of sick affinity for lady bugs ever since I lived in South Carolina and had an existential moment in my attic bedroom watching what seemed like thousands of red and black dotted wings flying around the ceiling trying fruitlessly to mate with the bare lighbulb. I got their futility. I understood that feeling of bareness. I felt that heat that kills eminating from a need or a want that will never be filled. In short, I felt connected to their mating dance aimed at a false idea. That's me.
So you might be able to see why I had such a bizarre reaction to a drowning bug. Maybe this is a repetitive metaphor...lady bug death as a representation of my emotional state. Today I am drowning, flailing in soapy water that is supposed to clean not kill. Once again taken in by shiny objects only to find myself face down and stuck. I want flight. Everyone else is moving...London, New York, St Louis (ok, the list gets progressively less exotic, but it doesn't matter, it's movement, damnit!!!)...I'm in a pool of dishwater, trying to make my wings work.
When I moved to Salt Lake City, it was a miracle...things conspiring, congealing in a way that I didn't think possible to make me believe this was meant to be. Maybe it was childlike, but I could not escape the hand of God everywhere I looked. I think I need to rediscover that wonder. I have purpose here...it's not like my life is completely shiftless...I just don't have the wide eyes of amazement right now. And maybe there is a hand with a spoon willing to scoop me out of the dishwater if I just stop struggling long enough to allow that sort of salvation.
I have a sort of sick affinity for lady bugs ever since I lived in South Carolina and had an existential moment in my attic bedroom watching what seemed like thousands of red and black dotted wings flying around the ceiling trying fruitlessly to mate with the bare lighbulb. I got their futility. I understood that feeling of bareness. I felt that heat that kills eminating from a need or a want that will never be filled. In short, I felt connected to their mating dance aimed at a false idea. That's me.
So you might be able to see why I had such a bizarre reaction to a drowning bug. Maybe this is a repetitive metaphor...lady bug death as a representation of my emotional state. Today I am drowning, flailing in soapy water that is supposed to clean not kill. Once again taken in by shiny objects only to find myself face down and stuck. I want flight. Everyone else is moving...London, New York, St Louis (ok, the list gets progressively less exotic, but it doesn't matter, it's movement, damnit!!!)...I'm in a pool of dishwater, trying to make my wings work.
When I moved to Salt Lake City, it was a miracle...things conspiring, congealing in a way that I didn't think possible to make me believe this was meant to be. Maybe it was childlike, but I could not escape the hand of God everywhere I looked. I think I need to rediscover that wonder. I have purpose here...it's not like my life is completely shiftless...I just don't have the wide eyes of amazement right now. And maybe there is a hand with a spoon willing to scoop me out of the dishwater if I just stop struggling long enough to allow that sort of salvation.
Wednesday, August 31, 2005
Here's How Tired I Am...
I can't wake up in the mornings.
I can't concentrate on anything longer than 5 minutes.
I have a headache all the time.
I almost crashed my stupid car like 8 times this week, thus cementing my status as the 2nd worst driver in Utah.
I am mean to every person who works at department stores except that one cool lady at dillards who tried on the new shoes I accidently bought.
I accidently buy shoes.
I fall asleep in movies that I really enjoy.
I can't read my scriptures or say a prayer that lasts longer than 10.2 seconds.
Walking is a task beyond me and I'm thinking of acquiring a rascal as a walking replacement.
I almost dislike my job which normally I like.
I get parking tickets because I am just too tired to go put money in the meter.
I eat frozen dinners at 9:30 at night because I am too tired to cook and really too tired to eat, but damnit I paid in advance for weight watchers and I WILL succeed.
I honestly think Diet Coke is water.
I honestly think water is Diet Coke.
I don't even want to go to the library to pick up book 4 of my naughty highland romance series.
wiping down the counter is too much work.
Dishes are piling up and getting kind of smelly and I just don't give a ....well, you get it.
I can't even be nice to small children.
This is how tired I am.
I AM SO TIRED.
I can't concentrate on anything longer than 5 minutes.
I have a headache all the time.
I almost crashed my stupid car like 8 times this week, thus cementing my status as the 2nd worst driver in Utah.
I am mean to every person who works at department stores except that one cool lady at dillards who tried on the new shoes I accidently bought.
I accidently buy shoes.
I fall asleep in movies that I really enjoy.
I can't read my scriptures or say a prayer that lasts longer than 10.2 seconds.
Walking is a task beyond me and I'm thinking of acquiring a rascal as a walking replacement.
I almost dislike my job which normally I like.
I get parking tickets because I am just too tired to go put money in the meter.
I eat frozen dinners at 9:30 at night because I am too tired to cook and really too tired to eat, but damnit I paid in advance for weight watchers and I WILL succeed.
I honestly think Diet Coke is water.
I honestly think water is Diet Coke.
I don't even want to go to the library to pick up book 4 of my naughty highland romance series.
wiping down the counter is too much work.
Dishes are piling up and getting kind of smelly and I just don't give a ....well, you get it.
I can't even be nice to small children.
This is how tired I am.
I AM SO TIRED.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Hello McFly?????Anybody Home????
Yes, I admit it. This post is completely gratuitous and all about me. Do you read this blog regularly? PLEASE POST A COMMENT to let me know. It can be anonymous!!!! I don't know if anyone is reading and I know it shouldn't make a difference, but I just got to thinkin' that it would be nice to know if I'm babbling to myself. If no one is reading this, I will continue anyway. It's a good writing exercise and seeing as how I ain't in the mood to write no poetry right now, I'll keep up the faux personal essays contained here-in. But if you are reading, give a girl a holla.
Friday, August 19, 2005
I have the pox
I've got a disease (well, maybe not a DISEASE so much as a temporary condition). It's called Iritis and lest you think that I made it up, google it...it's real! I know it's real because it makes my left eye feel like small cocktail swords are being poked into the retina everytime I look ANYWHERE. This is especially torturous when I look at the sun.
So I've been banished by the eye doctor (The real kind, not the eyeglasses guy) to the confines of my home which is currently being refered to as the BAT CAVE. I can not go outside during daylight hours until the heavy steroids start to do their magic. If I do, my left eye will get all puffy and start to water like my goldfish just died and I will be gripped with the sort of sharp shooting pain headache that only ex-boyfriends deserve. Ok, maybe the mandate to stay inside is my own interpretation of the doctors orders, but the pain part is true. My only salvation for the next two days is a pair of cataract sunglasses. You know, the kind that old men and women wear over their bi-focals after visiting the eye doctor? Yep, I have a pair. I can't wear my contacts for at least 3 more days and if I want to drive without hitting someone in a crosswalk, I'll have to donn the glasses once more. I did it once to get home this morning, and I promise you I will do it again if necessary. I finished book three of the Outlander series with one eye shut and I just completed the first disc of season one of "Six Feet Under" so I'm getting a little stircrazy. I can only calculate the weight watchers points on all my food items so many times before I get REALLY REALLY BORED.
To make it all worse, my roommate is at Lake Powell this weekend and I am home alone. Alone with the Iritis. Me and the Iritis. And I'm not talking to it because it's making me miss the Salt Lake County Fair. I suppose things will get better at some point this weekend. I will probably have to venture out to go to church. God will not let Iritis be an adequate excuse for my spiritual delinquency...cramps, yes...iritis, no. I may try to walk to blockbuster after the sun goes down...I think I should rent a vampire movie. It might comfort me to know that I am not alone in this.
So I've been banished by the eye doctor (The real kind, not the eyeglasses guy) to the confines of my home which is currently being refered to as the BAT CAVE. I can not go outside during daylight hours until the heavy steroids start to do their magic. If I do, my left eye will get all puffy and start to water like my goldfish just died and I will be gripped with the sort of sharp shooting pain headache that only ex-boyfriends deserve. Ok, maybe the mandate to stay inside is my own interpretation of the doctors orders, but the pain part is true. My only salvation for the next two days is a pair of cataract sunglasses. You know, the kind that old men and women wear over their bi-focals after visiting the eye doctor? Yep, I have a pair. I can't wear my contacts for at least 3 more days and if I want to drive without hitting someone in a crosswalk, I'll have to donn the glasses once more. I did it once to get home this morning, and I promise you I will do it again if necessary. I finished book three of the Outlander series with one eye shut and I just completed the first disc of season one of "Six Feet Under" so I'm getting a little stircrazy. I can only calculate the weight watchers points on all my food items so many times before I get REALLY REALLY BORED.
To make it all worse, my roommate is at Lake Powell this weekend and I am home alone. Alone with the Iritis. Me and the Iritis. And I'm not talking to it because it's making me miss the Salt Lake County Fair. I suppose things will get better at some point this weekend. I will probably have to venture out to go to church. God will not let Iritis be an adequate excuse for my spiritual delinquency...cramps, yes...iritis, no. I may try to walk to blockbuster after the sun goes down...I think I should rent a vampire movie. It might comfort me to know that I am not alone in this.
Thursday, August 11, 2005
The effect of other people's weddings on MY vacation time
This weekend will mark the second of three weddings that require the use of my precious vacation time. I am flying to Washington DC tomorrow morning and staying through monday to celebrate the wedding of a girl I taught while I was a missionary in Virginia. In november I'm headed to philadelphia to sing a stevie wonder song at another wedding. When this is all done, I will have NO VACATION LEFT. Not even one day to lounge about in my pajamas with my hair shooting out all over my unwashed head in some sick imitation of a mohawk while I watch 16 candles and day dream about being independently wealthy and never having to work again.
I shouldn't complain, this is the first time that I have ever had paid vacation...and THREE weeks of it to boot...but it just feels wrong when other people are planning their carribean cruises and week-long camping extravaganza's and I am browsing bridal registries and practicing my "so-very-happy-for-the-both-of-you" face.
All I have to say is that there had better be some serious karma when I finally tie the knot. I'm thinking a kitchenaid mixer or a new ipod. Don't come to the wedding...I'll let you have your vacation, just send me something expensive instead. (ok, obviously, this is not the way I really feel...please come to my hypothetical (re: mystical) wedding. By that time we'll all be in our late 80's anyway and you should be able to get some sort of senior discount and every day will be a vacation!)
I shouldn't complain, this is the first time that I have ever had paid vacation...and THREE weeks of it to boot...but it just feels wrong when other people are planning their carribean cruises and week-long camping extravaganza's and I am browsing bridal registries and practicing my "so-very-happy-for-the-both-of-you" face.
All I have to say is that there had better be some serious karma when I finally tie the knot. I'm thinking a kitchenaid mixer or a new ipod. Don't come to the wedding...I'll let you have your vacation, just send me something expensive instead. (ok, obviously, this is not the way I really feel...please come to my hypothetical (re: mystical) wedding. By that time we'll all be in our late 80's anyway and you should be able to get some sort of senior discount and every day will be a vacation!)
Monday, August 08, 2005
What I did on my summer vacation by Ninny Beth
Last summer was my first in Utah and despite the abounding options for recreation, I can't remember a single thing I did. I'm not really sure how any entire summer passed by me without ONE summer type memory, but I determined that this year would be different. So this weekend I went camping. Granted, there are some of you who think that my type of camping (tent, moderate electricity, 100 other people singing karaoke in the pavilion) is not really camping, but I don't care...I had a blast, ended up with only a mild case of hypothermia from the glacial lake and a touch of a sunburn on my nose.
Here's what I've done to rectify last summer's patheticly indoor experience: I've had two cases of severe sunburn, at least 3 very itchy bug bites and donned my new bathing suit 3 times now. I've almost died 2 times by water and once by excessive crowds at the farmers market. I've eaten fresh fruit, bought something looking like tacos from a street vendor and acquired a large bruise on my arm from paddling a canoe under duress. I've played my guitar around a campfire and I've gazed at the stars in the Uintah mountains. I've layed on a blanket reading a book during my lunch hour enjoying the juxtaposition of extreme airconditioning in my office and the real heat of the noon day sun. I've eaten outside at the Gateway, watching the crowds and pointing out poor fashion choices with my girls. I've gone to hot dog parties and various other cook outs and have had picnics at Liberty park. I've stayed up way too late just because the moon wasn't out yet and I've acquired a flashlight. THIS IS SUMMER, PEOPLE!!!!!
Next up, Lagoon and a Kiss Your Summer Goodbye party which will, true to it's moniker, involve summer lovin' and summer flings...two indespensable parts of the season. I think I'm in love. Watch for the baby coming next spring. It's sure to look like Salt Lake City with a touch of the mountains.
Here's what I've done to rectify last summer's patheticly indoor experience: I've had two cases of severe sunburn, at least 3 very itchy bug bites and donned my new bathing suit 3 times now. I've almost died 2 times by water and once by excessive crowds at the farmers market. I've eaten fresh fruit, bought something looking like tacos from a street vendor and acquired a large bruise on my arm from paddling a canoe under duress. I've played my guitar around a campfire and I've gazed at the stars in the Uintah mountains. I've layed on a blanket reading a book during my lunch hour enjoying the juxtaposition of extreme airconditioning in my office and the real heat of the noon day sun. I've eaten outside at the Gateway, watching the crowds and pointing out poor fashion choices with my girls. I've gone to hot dog parties and various other cook outs and have had picnics at Liberty park. I've stayed up way too late just because the moon wasn't out yet and I've acquired a flashlight. THIS IS SUMMER, PEOPLE!!!!!
Next up, Lagoon and a Kiss Your Summer Goodbye party which will, true to it's moniker, involve summer lovin' and summer flings...two indespensable parts of the season. I think I'm in love. Watch for the baby coming next spring. It's sure to look like Salt Lake City with a touch of the mountains.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Death by Splenda
I can't get enough diet coke. I want to drink it every day, all day.
And I hate everyone.
I wonder if splenda is rotting my brain...or at least the part of my brain that allows me to love. I would blame it on the man who has been playing me for the last year and oh...3 months...but that doesn't make sense because I've been played before and have still been able to like people. It must be the splenda. or aspertame. or whatever else it is in DC that eats acid off car motors...
Ok, really, I'm not that angry. Hurt, yes...but if there is one thing that will remain my trademark through YET another disappointment it is OPTIMISM. I believe that you men are good inherently. I believe that men want long term committed, kind, honest relationships. I believe that even though we are all broken in our specific and perfect ways, we are still capable of accomplishing connections that last...as long as the foundation is the Savior. Being broken is not an excuse to treat people poorly. It should be an impetus to seek a higher level of kindness, beauty and goodness. I refuse to allow my negative experiences to taint my journey with anger and bitterness.
Maybe the diet coke is my salve. Fake sweetners and contrived bubbles to lighten my weary soul (wow, that was like, totally like, deep). Probably it's just a caffeine addiction, but whatever...at this point it's something to look forward to in my day. And it reminds me that it's the little things that really give us hope.
Thank you Diet Coke (specifically cherry diet coke and lime diet coke...you've always been there for me!)
And I hate everyone.
I wonder if splenda is rotting my brain...or at least the part of my brain that allows me to love. I would blame it on the man who has been playing me for the last year and oh...3 months...but that doesn't make sense because I've been played before and have still been able to like people. It must be the splenda. or aspertame. or whatever else it is in DC that eats acid off car motors...
Ok, really, I'm not that angry. Hurt, yes...but if there is one thing that will remain my trademark through YET another disappointment it is OPTIMISM. I believe that you men are good inherently. I believe that men want long term committed, kind, honest relationships. I believe that even though we are all broken in our specific and perfect ways, we are still capable of accomplishing connections that last...as long as the foundation is the Savior. Being broken is not an excuse to treat people poorly. It should be an impetus to seek a higher level of kindness, beauty and goodness. I refuse to allow my negative experiences to taint my journey with anger and bitterness.
Maybe the diet coke is my salve. Fake sweetners and contrived bubbles to lighten my weary soul (wow, that was like, totally like, deep). Probably it's just a caffeine addiction, but whatever...at this point it's something to look forward to in my day. And it reminds me that it's the little things that really give us hope.
Thank you Diet Coke (specifically cherry diet coke and lime diet coke...you've always been there for me!)
Friday, July 29, 2005
Friday, 5pm, still at work
I should be home finishing the dregs of my latest highland romance novel, but I'm still at work. Hence the title of this blog. So what?you say. Lots of people stay late at work on a friday...
YES I KNOW, but this is ME we're talking about and *I* am not a late at work on friday kind of girl...well at least I didn't used to be. But now I have a grown up job (or at least the semblence of one) and I am almost 28. ALMOST 28 which is like, practically, almost 30!!!!!! Do you know what this means???? I am like already almost 1/3* dead. So I've decided to stay late at work in order to stop thinking about the fact that I have already used up 5 of my 15 ride tickets at the carnival. I don't know why I think editing essays and sending out emails to volunteers is going to help my state of mind...obviously it hasn't really because here I am blogging about it all...
Anyway, I tried to convert to 28 shortly after my last birthday in preparation. I am mormon and although I wasn't willing to admit it then, I think I realized that moving into my late 20's and still being single was going to be a little traumatic. Early conversion was my only hope. IF I could get over the 28 hump before it actually happened, then I could just party like it was 2005 when the time came and not worry about what I was or wasn't. But I'm here to tell you that it doesn't work. I'm still feverish about August 25th. I'm still trying to hold it back, make it stay, wish it away. I don't know what I really want out of my 28th year, but what I don't want is for it to bring me closer to 29 and then 30 and 40 and then 50 and then....ahhhhhh......
I'm not really afraid of the future. I just can't see it and that's what makes me crazy. So I'm staying late at work on a friday...the only possible solution for staving off the end of another day which signifies the end of another week which means one year closer to pureed spinach and old people breath. I promise...eventually I will go home...eventually.
*assumes that I live to 70...in reality I could be 1/2 dead and not even realize it!
YES I KNOW, but this is ME we're talking about and *I* am not a late at work on friday kind of girl...well at least I didn't used to be. But now I have a grown up job (or at least the semblence of one) and I am almost 28. ALMOST 28 which is like, practically, almost 30!!!!!! Do you know what this means???? I am like already almost 1/3* dead. So I've decided to stay late at work in order to stop thinking about the fact that I have already used up 5 of my 15 ride tickets at the carnival. I don't know why I think editing essays and sending out emails to volunteers is going to help my state of mind...obviously it hasn't really because here I am blogging about it all...
Anyway, I tried to convert to 28 shortly after my last birthday in preparation. I am mormon and although I wasn't willing to admit it then, I think I realized that moving into my late 20's and still being single was going to be a little traumatic. Early conversion was my only hope. IF I could get over the 28 hump before it actually happened, then I could just party like it was 2005 when the time came and not worry about what I was or wasn't. But I'm here to tell you that it doesn't work. I'm still feverish about August 25th. I'm still trying to hold it back, make it stay, wish it away. I don't know what I really want out of my 28th year, but what I don't want is for it to bring me closer to 29 and then 30 and 40 and then 50 and then....ahhhhhh......
I'm not really afraid of the future. I just can't see it and that's what makes me crazy. So I'm staying late at work on a friday...the only possible solution for staving off the end of another day which signifies the end of another week which means one year closer to pureed spinach and old people breath. I promise...eventually I will go home...eventually.
*assumes that I live to 70...in reality I could be 1/2 dead and not even realize it!
Friday, July 22, 2005
Blog BLog BLOG...
it sounds like something my stomach does when I've eaten too much dairy and broccoli.
The thing is...I actually have a real journal...like the kind you use ink in and turn pages and stuff. I've had one since I was 12 and write in it pretty regularly, so I'm just not that into the dougie howser-ishness of this blog. I suppose it gives me an opportunity to publicly air my grievances, and it's like the 21st century version of Confessional Poetry, but I'm starting to wonder 1. whether I NEED to publicly say ANYTHING and 2. if I do need to publicly say something, is this blog even the place to say it...? I don't read any other blogs and I don't expect people to ever read this blog.
hmmm...so maybe I keep coming back to it because I'm bored at work and secretely I hope that someday someone is going to give a crap. Maybe I should suppliment my blog with some paid air time on NPR or something. And now, I have sullied my blog with a self-conscious rant about blogs...this is just great. just great.
In other news: I've been having some trouble focusing at work lately. I would rather be at home reading the OUtlander series (scottish highland historical romance fall through time dirty 18th century druid sex) eating baked cheetos in my airconditioning than writing emails to people that make me crazy. So I will settle for eating baked cheetos at my desk and carelessly wiping my cheese fingers on the keyboard as I write blog entries for no apparent reason. Viva la Friday.
The thing is...I actually have a real journal...like the kind you use ink in and turn pages and stuff. I've had one since I was 12 and write in it pretty regularly, so I'm just not that into the dougie howser-ishness of this blog. I suppose it gives me an opportunity to publicly air my grievances, and it's like the 21st century version of Confessional Poetry, but I'm starting to wonder 1. whether I NEED to publicly say ANYTHING and 2. if I do need to publicly say something, is this blog even the place to say it...? I don't read any other blogs and I don't expect people to ever read this blog.
hmmm...so maybe I keep coming back to it because I'm bored at work and secretely I hope that someday someone is going to give a crap. Maybe I should suppliment my blog with some paid air time on NPR or something. And now, I have sullied my blog with a self-conscious rant about blogs...this is just great. just great.
In other news: I've been having some trouble focusing at work lately. I would rather be at home reading the OUtlander series (scottish highland historical romance fall through time dirty 18th century druid sex) eating baked cheetos in my airconditioning than writing emails to people that make me crazy. So I will settle for eating baked cheetos at my desk and carelessly wiping my cheese fingers on the keyboard as I write blog entries for no apparent reason. Viva la Friday.
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