If I ever got around to making one of those 100 Things About Me Lists, two of the things that would be on it are the fact that I've never broken a bone and never had a cavity. I'm really proud of both facts, although I'm less and less sure that they're attributable to anything but dumb luck.
Witness: What started out as a scrape on my knee from the car accident in January has morphed into some mysterious injury that is not responding to ice, rest, ibuprofen or cortisone injections. I counted myself as lucky to have walked away from that accident relatively unscathed, but now I can't help but thinking that a simple broken leg would have been healed by now, goddamnit. I know, I know. Stupid. Unbroken bones are always better than broken bones... but still: WAH. My knee hurts and I haven't been able to run or work out for months. I couldn't even go to yoga this week. Not. Good.
I was forcing myself to lift weights 2-3 times a week just to get in some semblance of exercise, and then I went and did this:
I was mauled by a polar bear that mysteriously jumped out of the woods. And Sawyer was riding on its back. Shirtless.
Fine, fine, that's a lie. I was actually hit by an 18-wheeler carrying a load of smuggled bio weapons that careened out of control when Jack Bauer shot out the front tires and singlehandeldly saved the day.
FINE. I tripped on a curb and fell, alright? Stone cold sober. But it was raining and kind of slippery SO THERE.
Wait, there's more. That nasty looking scrape slowly turned into an even nastier looking bruise:
Which then took over my arm...
Which refused to fade ELEVEN DAYS AFTER I FELL WAS MAULED BY A POLAR BEAR...
Don't worry, though, I'm juuuust fine. I had four x-rays taken of that bad boy and it's "just" a "bone bruise". Just like the one on my knee! I match. Awesome!
Pardon me, I have to go and compulsively brush my teeth now. The never-had-a-cavity thing is all I've got left.
I've been randomly, half-heartedly applying to jobs for the past few months. I'm ready to move on to something new, but the problem -- which I feel like I"ve already whined about at length -- is that I just don't know what that Next Move should be. I can't think of a career path that sounds so exciting and interesting that it's a clear choice in the "oh! THAT'S what I want to do!" sense, so I've just been submitting resumes that anything that sounds vaguely do-able, knowing that in the current economic climate jobs are pretty scarce and I should be happy with what I've got. And I am, for the most part, but it doesn't hurt to look, right?
I've gotten a few generic rejection letters, but last week I got my first call for an interview. I had to go back and look up what the job actually was, and it wasn't anything remarkable. Pretty similar to what I am doing now, but in a different industry. Possibly in an office space with windows! But the kicker is that it was a pretty significant pay cut from my current salary. I think I'm willing to take a pay cut for a job that looks really interesting and promising, but for essentially the same thing I'm already doing? Am I OK with that? I am not sure. Maybe. Probably not.
I hemmed and hawed over the interview -- I'd have to take a half day off from work, I was already going to be out for a whole day this week, did I even WANT this job anyway? And then I slapped myself in the face and had a little heart-to-heart (with myself) about how you don't get new jobs by passing on interviews and I scheduled and I went. And I'm happy I did, because it was good practice. At worst, I blew a half day of vacation, and at best I might have a new prospect to consider. Yes, I am very glad I went. I can say that, now that it's over.
Man, interviews really suck, don't they? I mean, you have to dress up all professional-like (thankfully, when I dragged out my Serious Business Suit on the night before, the pants still fit me)) and answer questions that really have no good response, like "why do you want to leave your current job?" and "what would you say is your biggest weakness"? Those sorts of questions remind me of the great old "when are you two going to get married?" query. But in an interview situation, you can't give the person the finger and tell them to mind their own fucking business. You can't even change the subject. I think I said something along the lines of "looking for a new challenge", and that seems marginally acceptable, even if it is a totally meaningless platitude.
I think the fact that I wasn't even sure if I'd accept an offer for this job worked in my favor, because despite a less than stellar performance on the computer skills testing (dudes, the test was still using an even older version of Windows than I have at work)and the kind of crappy HR interview filled with generic questions probably found by Googling "what to ask interview candidates", I managed to keep pretty calm and actually do really well when I met with the actual hiring department. I thought it went well. I didn't cry. I didn't stutter or freak out. I didn't talk about Twilight or Harry Potter or my three cats. That's got to count for something, right?
For those of you reading in a feed reader (does anyone NOT read in a feed reader? I can't remember how I lived before I discovered Google Reader), there may be two versions of my last post. That's because Typepad is currently battling out Twitter to see who can be the most annoying bit of technology. Twitter's got deleted tweets and huge lags in posting updates. Typepad has the worst spellchecker in the universe (right now it's helpfully suggesting that I change "Typepad" to "Typeset" or "Typeface". Other words it doesn't recognize: "internet," "Google," "spellcheck") and a fondness for deleting posts.
When I went to spellcheck that post last night, Typepad deleted it. I didn't feel like re-writing it so I just re-posted the picture and wrote two sentences, and honestly, it's probaly better that way. I was too busy losing sleep over the ghosts haunting my house, anyway.
But I opened Google Reader this morning and saw both posts. It's a Google miracle! So that's why you have two posts about my cats' trip to the vet. ENJOY. And I think the lesson here is that no one should ever spellcheck anything. Amen.
What happens when you try to drag three cats to the vet in a 1995 pickup truck?
Double decker seating! It's almost like we're in back in Scotland!
(Medicine has been professionally administered, pickup truck has been parallel parked, and there is a freshly made vat of guacamole in the fridge with my name on it. Hallelujiah, happy weekend, and may god bless us, everyone.)
I don't know about you guys, but when I was a whiny little brat who refused to eat the nutritious dinner my hard-working mother had lovingly prepared, I got to eat a bowl of Frosted Flakes instead. Maybe some graham crackers with a little sugar sprinkled on top or some cinnamon pop tarts if I was feeling really crazy. What I did NOT get was a pizza delivered because I refused to eat real food.
This commercial crams everything that is wrong with America into a 30-second spot. OK, well that may be a slight exaggeration, but do you know how hard paella is to make? Actually, I have no idea how hard it is to make, but I DO know that paella is delicious. And therefore probably hard to make. And I am pretty sure saffron is expensive. And also reasonably sure that saffron is an ingredient in paella. VERIZON: Consider yourself ADDED to my officiallist of terrible commercials that are ruining the world.
I've been feeling pretty crappy lately. I feel guilty even saying that, because all things considered my life is pretty fucking sweet.
I have a job. It pays me, I get to leave at 5pm, it's a fifteen minute walk from my house and I get a shitload of vacation time. All things considered, it's pretty goddamn cushy. But I don't enjoy it, I'm frustrated and I'm bored. I half-heartedly think about other options, but I am then overcome with fear about starting a new job so soon before the wedding. And we want to move out of the mid-Atlantic, and I just don't know what I want to do with my life. And I feel guilty for allowing myself to wallow in this sort of apathetic self-pity, because it could be so much worse. I am so lucky.
I'm relatively healthy, but my knee still hurts me every single day. I can't work out, I have to go to the chiropractor twice a week when I'd rather be doing something - anything - else with my evenings. I think about the kid who ran that red light in January every day, and I wonder if he knows how much he still impacts my life on a daily basis. I fantasize about going to his house and punching him in the face. I think of Charlotte Yorke telling Mr. Big that she rues the day he was born, I plan out what I'd say to this kid if I saw him in the street. Would I go on a tirade? Would I show him my scar? Would I cry? Would I lecture him on how he very nearly cost me me life and how I hope he's more careful now? I think about these things, and I feel guilty for spending so much time feeling angry and vengeful. It could have been so much worse.
I have a comfortable home, but it always seems to be a mess. Laundry overflows the hamper and cat litter coats all the floors. I have piles of picture frames I've been meaning to hang and supplies for a yet-to-be-started project sitting in our front room. We need to replace the window in the litterbox room and the front window has mysteriously developed a huge and growing crack. The window above the front door still needs to be finished and the bathtubs need to be resealed. Boards on the deck are warped and need to be replaced. It seems like every time we finish one project, three more jump up to take its place. And I hate myself for daring to feel frustrated over the house that we are so lucky to own, that we can still afford.
I have three cats that I adore, but one of them has a fucking roundworm. Again. I just took a poop sample from all three of them to the vet for annual parasite testing and they all came back clean, but someone threw up a worm on the carpet three weeks ago and it wasn't me or Joel. I'm proud of myself because I've almost become numb to this -- last year I could hardly think, I was so grossed out by the idea of worms. This year I'm just tired, I'm sick of dumping out their litterboxes and washing them every night. I'm tired of having them spit and gag and run away from me when I try to give them the medication. I don't particularly want to spend my evenings squirting goo down their throats, either, and I certainly didn't want to spend $120 for the dewormer and take a plastic bag full of poop to the vet's office. I should be relieved, because Max is doing so well on chemo and Madison's cancer/mystery illness seems to have just gone away, but I'm so goddamn sick of these worms.
I'm getting married to a wonderful man, but I feel in a constant state of anxiety over the wedding. I promised myself I wouldn't do this; I swore to myself that the minute the wedding started to stress me out, I'd scale whatever it was back, I'd let it go. But now that the time is here I'm finding that I can't help myself. This is what I do, it's who I am. I worry about things. I've become adept at managing this part of my nature by figuring out what's stressing me out and either doing something about it or making a conscious effort to let it go... but when it's just this general state of anxiety, there's not much I can do. I just know that I hate feeling like this. And I hate that I'm allowing myself to feel like this.
I have more to say on all of these topics, but I just don't know how to do it right now without turning into a weepy, self-indulgent mess. I really thought that these feelings would pass once spring finally arrived... but they haven't. I don't like whining like this here, but I am hoping that by getting it OUT I'll start to feel better. I'm hoping that I'll look back on this entry in another two weeks and laugh at how dramatic I was feeling over nothing. Because really, it is nothing. I know that. That's why I feel guilty on top of feeling crappy.
If I had to pick the one thing I hate most about city living, it would be theparkingsituation. Hands down. Why, internet, what's that? You'd like to hear all about the latest development in the ongoing parking saga? SO GLAD YOU ASKED.
Parking, it sucks. Parking on my particular block sucks even more because we have two handicapped residents, and both have designated handicapped parking spaces outside of their houses. That's fine and dandy, except for 1) their spaces are big enough for a yacht, 2) one of the spaces is arranged so that there is space for about 3/4 of a car between the end of the space and the "no stopping" sign at the end of the block, and when the meter maid is in a grumpy mood she gives out tickets to anyone parked in this 3/4 space. This could have been avoided if they had moved the space up two feet when the city marked it off, and 3) one of the handicapped dudes is a total asshole who refuses to park in his designated space.
But! Back in the fall we reached a happy turning point in the parking saga: our street (and several others in the neighborhood) was converted to angle-in parking. There was a heated debate over this proposed change, with the nay-sayers claiming that angle-in parking would ruin the "historic look" of the neighborhood. (To that I said, tell me if you care about the "historic look" of the neighborhood when you've been cruising around for 45 minutes looking for a parking space. And how is changing the direction of parking ruining the historic look, anyway? I mean, we're still talking about parking CARS, trade in your sedan for a horse-drawn carriage and then talk to me about the "historic feel" of the neighborhood) In the end, practicality won out and I came home one day in October to find that I suddenly lived on a one-way street with freshly painted angle-in spaces. This was a glorious day. Sure, it's a little annoying to live on a one-way street. Now we have to go around an extra block to get to the house and it's harder to double-park while unloading groceries, but WHATEVER. This has really helped, parking is a bit easier to find. O, happy day!
Except for one little thing: The handicapped spaces. When the city came to re-paint the angled lines, they failed to move the signposts marking off the boat-sized handicapped spots. So, now the signposts spanned two spots each, from the middle of one spot to the middle of another. Which spot was the actual handicapped spot was anyone's guess for Handicapped Space #1. For Handicapped Space #2, they'd thought to mark off the actual handicapped space with hash marks. Unfortunately, the dubiously marked Space #1 is the space belonging to the asshole neighbor. I've seen him call the two truck twice so far on people parked in one of the dubious spaces, EVEN THOUGH THE OTHER DUBIOUS SPACE WAS OPEN FOR HIM. I'd resolved to call the city and demand that they come over and move the signs or paint a handicapped symbol on one of the spaces or arrest him for being a total asshole or something, but Inever got around to it. Instead I just made sure to never park in either of those spaces and grumbled about this asshattery to myself.
And then yesterday, when Joel and I came home, Mr. Old Man, the kindly owner of Handicapped Space #2, called us over to let us know that the parking cop had been by and tried to give Joel a ticket for parking in the space NEXT TO his marked handicapped spot. We were incredulous. How can we get a ticket for parking next to the handicapped space? Well, the parking cop told Mr. Old Man that the hash marks on his handicapped space did not actually designate a handicapped parking spot. No, they meant "No parking whatsoever in this space". The cop explained that this was so that a wheelchair van would have space to unload. Mr. Old Man explained that he didn't have a wheelchair, nor a wheelchair van, so he'd be happy to just park in that space. The cop told him he couldn't; he needed to park next to it. On either side. That's right, the spaces on BOTH SIDES of the hash-marked space belong to Mr. Old Man and his ONE car. The old handicapped signpost is in the middle of one of these spaces, but any rational person would assume that the sign was outdated (since it is) and negated by the markings on the actual new space. There is absolutely no signage of any kind indicating that the spot on the other side is off-limits. That's the spot Joel was parked in. That's the spot we almost got a ticket in.
So, five of our glorious angle-in spots are now off-limits for two handicapped vehicles. I cannot even put my rage over this into words. I want to call city hall and demand they fix the signs. I want to report Asshole Neighbor to the cops for calling the tow truck on innocent people when one of his two half-spaces was perfectly available for him. I want to report the entire situation to the Sun's Watchdog (we're not the only ones with ridiculous signage, check this beauty out.) I want to cry about the entire situation on my blawwwwg.
We also got a call from BGE last night. They'd like to come out and service our meter because apparently it's "not reading correctly". I am pretty sure that's BGE code for "we're going to try to charge you more money". They offer appointment for this mandatory service that I did not request during convenient 8-hour windows. Weekdays only.
Thanks, guys, for the overwhelming response to the burning question of 2009: what in the hell is Chicken Jean Marie?
We were inclined from the start to just put "chicken" on the response cards, but we just couldn't figure out if Chicken Jean Marie was a real, known dish or not. It's all over the caterer's menu, but that could just be because it's a signature dish. We did Google it, of course, but the results less than conclusive. There was no clear result #1 saying "HEY ASSHOLE, THIS IS WHAT CHICKEN JEAN MARIE IS." But there were several mentions of people saying things like "Chicken Jean Marie will always remind me of being a newlywed" (on the NYTimes food blog, no less!), so... yes. We were confused. We wondered if maybe it was some kind of wedding thing (like Italian Wedding Soup!). And then I asked the internet, and the internet answered and we decided once and for all to put "Chicken with Penne Pasta" on the response cards.
(And thankfully so, because this curse-happy, semi-secret blog is now the #6 Google result for "Chicken Jean Marie" and... yeah. I do not NOT want everyone invited to the wedding to find this website. Hi Grandma! HI COWORKERS!)
BUT! Then the invitation shop called to say that "Chicken with Penne Pasta" was overlapping the flowers in the corner of the response cards and, hey, maybe we could just say "Chicken" instead?
So! "CHICKEN" IT IS.
God, enough talk about poultry; I have far more pressing topics to discuss: HAIR!
Internet, I thought I was so on top of my shit when I called a few places last week to see about having someone come out to the wedding venue to do our hair. I don't even have a purple exclamation point next to this on my knot.com checklist yet! (Speaking of knot.com checklists, my absolute favorite to-do item for this month has got to be this gem: s.) Imagine my surprise when the first, oh, TEN people I contacted were already booked. And by "surprise", I mean "despair". There was fretting involved. I'd been prepared to shell out for a big-name company just to avoid the hassle of having to worry about whether the person who showed up on the wedding day would be a total loon, but apparently every other bride in the mid-atlantic beat me to the punch. The big-name place happily recommended me to another big-name place, which was also booked. That place was quick to give me several other names to contact. All booked. This went on for a few days, until I was on a first-name basis in my head with Mindy and Jessica and Alyssa and Brandi... WHO WERE ALL BOOKED. More fretting ensued.
Finally, I gave up on the idea of having a possibly loony, definitely overpriced bridal hair consultant come out to the hotel and started looking at salons instead. And lo, the first place I called had an actual wedding consultant on staff who assured me that they had plenty of space on July 25th and that he'd be personally handling all of my correspondence and scheduling. He sent me an email less than an hour later confirming everything. And get this - he didn't use any crazy-ass fonts and he used punctuation correctly. Yes, I think that Chris the wedding consultant and I are going to get along just fine. CHECKMARK!
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I saw a robin on my way home from work yesterday, and unless I'm mistaken that is Nature-speak for HALLE-FREAKIN-LUJIAH SPRING HAS SPRUNG. The whole "April showers" bit is already getting old (just an FYI for ole' Mama Nature), but hot damn am I ever ready for spring.
I dragged out my camera for the first time in months this weekend. I shot some pictures of Joel's race on Saturday, which is officially the last race I'll ever see at his home boathouse.
It was an appropriately gloomy day for the occasion.
Rowing is about the furthest thing from my kind of sport. I like solitary, low-maintenance activities: running, hiking, yoga. I like to be responsible for my own performance and no one else's; I love to be able to lace up my shoes or roll out my mat at a moment's notice. And then there's the whole practice before dawn thing.
Yes, it's safe to say that rowing is not for me (and Joel's let me know many a-time that he'd cut my complaining, yawning ass from his team anyway, SO THERE'S THAT.)
But I have so much respect for these kids who do drag themselves out of bed at 5am, who spend their weekends loading shells on an off of trailers, rigging oars and and rowing in the pouring rain.
It's been a great experience to serve as Joel's team's unofficial photographer for the past four years. I think I've mentioned that his team's been cut due to the economy and budget issues, but I don't know if I've said how much I'm going to miss it, even though I am just That Weird Girl With The Camera.
I will. I'll miss it, rain, mud, Saturday morning alarm clocks and all.
