So tell me, if you please, how someone is NOT supposed to use the Emergency Room as their Primary Care Provider if they cannot- despite hand selecting her PCP for his track record of being available to his patients and her OB-GYN practice being one of the best in the entire country- reach their doctor or receive treatment from her gynecologist?
Friday morning found me crying in the bathroom at work because it hurt when I peed. Fabulous. A UTI. Jesus' way of punishing a lady for daring to have sex.
"Lora, my child. You have previously gone forth and procreated. Why doth you attempt to smite me by having physical relations without the intentions of becoming with child? My Father who Art in Heaven, Hallowed be His Name. (His name is not "Hallowed" it is Yahweh. Don't call him "Hallowed". He has grown weary of that joke) gave you the gift of sexual pleasure so that you may only use it to give him the gift of populating the Earth that he gave you with minions of Christian Soldiers, marching unto war. You are failing miserably, you are a Pacifist and mother to only one child. A child who hath never been to my church and whose precious head is completely dry of holy water as he hath not been Bathed in the Lord by a religious leader. Father is not pleased as that is an insult to the Heavenly Law and you shall thereforth be punished. I will drive one rusty nail pulled directly from the cross which bound me while I perished for sins such as thine up into your pee hole so you remember my word and keep it close to thy heart."
A call into the Gyn, who has treated me once before when I suffered at the hand of the Almighty. Two hours after that I call my family doctor, who is out of the office until Monday and his answering service is not accepting calls. Three hours later, a phone call from the GyNurse on duty telling me that I need to call my family doctor, that the Gyn doesn't routinely care for UTIs and I have to find another way to get a hold of the doctor if I can't get him on the phone.
Right, I'll send Pa with the horse and have him fetch the good doc and bring him to me.
Thanks. Sorry for thinking that a CrotchDoc would be interested in my urinary tract and bladder.
I have a friend who does GYN work, and I know he would call me in a script but that's abuse of friendship and medical licensure and the pharmaceutical process.
So I wait. And drink gallons of water and take those AZO pills and a handful of cranberry pills (thanks Samantha! It took the pain out of my bladder and ut, but I think I got them too late).
I wait for Monday and put my faith and energy into healing myself. I know that all it takes is a conversation with a doctor's office and they call something in. No questions asked. UTIs are common, and sister- let me tell you- you knows one if you gots one.
Around about 3 this morning I get some lower back pain. I have lots of lower back pain, so I write it off as poor sleeping posture and toss myself around. Four brought it worse. Five brought tears.
Five thirty on a Sunday morning is a great time to go to the ER. I was behind a head wound, but we were the only ones there. Pee in a cup (do you know how hard it is to pee in a cup when you have pain so bad that it's giving you diarrea? No? Really hard.)
I breezed through triage, and the doctor told me that microscopic infection inspection showed that it was beginning to turn over into a kidney infection so he wanted to give me a long dose of antibiotics (read: he wanted to make me better and give me a yeast infection at the same time) and he doesn't bother with "further testing for a woman my age".
Thanks, doc. You either age very well or I'm older than you, and I'm glad to hear it from your pretty mouth that I'm at an age where we just assume that X is wrong and we'll do Y about it. I'm glad that you said that about a UTI and not, like Cardiac Arrhythmia or Osteoporosis or something. I'm glad I'm old enough that I don't have to sit through an STD screening and the papers that you sent home with me told me to be sure to wipe from front to back and change my cotton underwear every day and pee after sex and use mild soaps rather than listening to you tell me that.
Advancing age has its perks.
So tell me. Why did it come down to me, someone who has the best insurance available, having to visit the ER before daybreak on a Sunday to get the treatment I needed on Friday morning for something as simple and common as a UTI?
I don't want to hear "and if you think that's bad, wait until Obama's healthcare plan kicks in" because that argument is irrelevant here.
I don't want to hear "at least you have health insurance and you were able to make it to the ER" because I work with people every day who don't have access to healthcare and I know how lucky I am.
Oh, and does anyone have trouble with those pain scales?
"On a scale from one to ten, how unbearable is your pain?"
"Well, I'm in the emergency room, so my pain is at emergency level. I've given birth, and the worst of that wasn't as bad as, say, getting hit with a Mack Truck so I said that drug-free active labor was a 2 or 3 because it was a "natural and expected pain" and the doctors laughed at me. I live with chronic pain, so I'm pretty good with handling things that hurt. I had a migraine for thirty years until recently and now that that is gone I've noticed my threshold is a little bit lower so I'm going to say that I guess... oh, I don't know. What was that girl with the bleeding head at? She was laughing and there's no way I can be laughing right now so I'll say I'm higher than Head Wound Hattie over there but lower than if you were cutting my leg off like a Civil War soldier. So what's that?"
"How about I put you at a 5 and you can discuss all this with the doctor?"
"Okay"
8.27.2010
August has been rough for me. Personally, professionally, and three or four other p-words-ally.
My birthday passed, on the 15th. But I rescheduled it for mid-September. I'll let you know when so you can shower me with all sorts of good things.
I loved my few days of absolute freedom in New York at the beginning of the month. I don't know if it made it harder to come back to life, or if I would be lying in a gutter somewhere if I didn't have those days.
Nearly a decade ago, a good friend said to me, "it's a shame your birthday is in August. It's the worst month of the year. Bad things happen in August."
"Bullshit"
But maybe she's right. I've stepped outside myself and my obsession with my birthmonth and took a look around the past few years and holy crap. A lot of bad things happen in August. Every August.
Good things happen too. An old friend got married last Saturday. I was in the wedding. Our other best friend from middle school was in the wedding. We are always in each other's weddings. Three of us, four weddings. Four white dresses. Two cranberry. Two red. Two lavender. A yellow and a light blue. My wedding party all wore different colors.
We are that age when people are getting married. Again.
The years bring ups and downs and babies and dogs and marriages and divorces and ex's and oh's.
The friends I have made and kept over the past 15+ years since graduating high school are the ones I turn to for grown up things. Births and deaths and love and hate and bills and notes and houses and floods of all sorts. We can have great fun, but we most often serve to hold each other up through the stuff that bombs a lady after she becomes of age.
These two girls seem to never change, even though their lives have. Drastically. Mine has too, I guess. Being on the inside looking in on things, nothing seems to move because I'm right there moving with it. But it does. Sure as the earth spins and revolves. Things are always moving.
When we three get together we giggle and wiggle and jiggle until everything that goes on outside of our insides falls away and fades to grey and we are left with whatever it was that brought us together as children.
We saw each other through less than ideal teen years. Through math tests and varsity sports. Through bad break outs and bad break ups.
Through the stuff that made us the women we are today.
That's us. The photo is blurry. I cropped most of it. It's an amateur photo of a professional photo shoot but I like the way we look here.
There we are again. I'm wiping lipstick off Mik's wrist. Martha is looking strong. Martha is always strong.
She is a professional All star tight end. She's the athletic one. She's also the funny one. And the gay one. And the smart one.
And the one who isn't so good at putting on her own make up. But that's okay. I like doing make up.
I like taking care of those two girls. I owe them for taking care of me. I also owe their mothers. I should tell them that. Maybe a thank you card next Mother's Day, or a note written into this year's Christmas Card.
Here we are the two of us. Full faces of make up, lots of hairspray, and red dresses on. You can't see it in this picture, but our hands are in our pockets. Hooray for dresses with pockets. We are the type that keep our hands in our pockets. Bad habits. Twin habits.
Peek at you! This was so hilariously uncomfortable for us. We are hardly demure.
Bunny ears. Sort of.
Dave's face on the blog. Full force.
I needed last weekend to remind me indeed that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
My birthday passed, on the 15th. But I rescheduled it for mid-September. I'll let you know when so you can shower me with all sorts of good things.
I loved my few days of absolute freedom in New York at the beginning of the month. I don't know if it made it harder to come back to life, or if I would be lying in a gutter somewhere if I didn't have those days.
Nearly a decade ago, a good friend said to me, "it's a shame your birthday is in August. It's the worst month of the year. Bad things happen in August."
"Bullshit"
But maybe she's right. I've stepped outside myself and my obsession with my birthmonth and took a look around the past few years and holy crap. A lot of bad things happen in August. Every August.
Good things happen too. An old friend got married last Saturday. I was in the wedding. Our other best friend from middle school was in the wedding. We are always in each other's weddings. Three of us, four weddings. Four white dresses. Two cranberry. Two red. Two lavender. A yellow and a light blue. My wedding party all wore different colors.
We are that age when people are getting married. Again.
The years bring ups and downs and babies and dogs and marriages and divorces and ex's and oh's.
The friends I have made and kept over the past 15+ years since graduating high school are the ones I turn to for grown up things. Births and deaths and love and hate and bills and notes and houses and floods of all sorts. We can have great fun, but we most often serve to hold each other up through the stuff that bombs a lady after she becomes of age.
These two girls seem to never change, even though their lives have. Drastically. Mine has too, I guess. Being on the inside looking in on things, nothing seems to move because I'm right there moving with it. But it does. Sure as the earth spins and revolves. Things are always moving.
When we three get together we giggle and wiggle and jiggle until everything that goes on outside of our insides falls away and fades to grey and we are left with whatever it was that brought us together as children.
We saw each other through less than ideal teen years. Through math tests and varsity sports. Through bad break outs and bad break ups.
Through the stuff that made us the women we are today.
That's us. The photo is blurry. I cropped most of it. It's an amateur photo of a professional photo shoot but I like the way we look here.
She is a professional All star tight end. She's the athletic one. She's also the funny one. And the gay one. And the smart one.
I like taking care of those two girls. I owe them for taking care of me. I also owe their mothers. I should tell them that. Maybe a thank you card next Mother's Day, or a note written into this year's Christmas Card.
Dave's face on the blog. Full force.
I needed last weekend to remind me indeed that the more things change, the more they stay the same.
8.17.2010
I have a funeral dress.
No wait. First: I've been spending a lot of time in church lately. Not on like, Sunday or anything. But I've logged hours and hours this summer.
Last weekend I hiked up to St. John the Divine in Manhattan. It's beautiful, and there are lots of little side chapels where you can hide and cry if you want.
You don't cry in church? I do. You should. Churches are so full of despair and sadness and lost souls and desperation and loneliness and helplessness and terrible heavy-hearted remnants of people who weren't sure where else to go. And they are also full of hope. That's why I cry. Plus no one thinks you are crazy. They think you are wonderfully spiritual and in possession of a direct line with God. They bow an apology while they leave you to be. It's quite refreshing.
There was an art display at St. John's. A giant dinner table in a dark room set with plain white dishes and an overhead projector that threw images of suppers from around the world being eaten and the taped conversations were broadcast in tandem with the meal. The plates in the video lined up with the plates on the table. The food was actually on the plates. You could see hands and arms of the people eating, and bowls were passed around. Indian meals, Italian meals, Spanish, Russian, French and even a Thanksgiving dinner.
It was beautiful
It was a celebration of the art of sitting down and eating together.
It is an art. A dying art.
I sat down and watched the food be passed, listened to the conversation and cried.
Because I have hope.
I signed http://www.wednesdayspaghetti.blogspot.com/ to the guestbook, and added the tagline "it's more than just spaghetti". I've slacked on my Wednesday Spaghettis, and it hurts. Some Mother of an Institution I turned out to be.
I have a funeral dress.
No wait. First: I have a group of girlfriends who are amazing. We are spread out all over the globe these days, but we stay in touch. There are only a couple of us who still live in the city, and I'm guessing that five years from now I'll be the only one. But we all manage to come together once in awhile, no matter how far the world spreads us. We are up, we are down, we are left, we are right, we are fatgirls.
One of us lost her father last week.
There is no good time to lose your father, but I have never in my life seen a worse time for anyone to lose their father.
Has your heart ever truly broken for someone else? For a family?
Mine has, and it will be awhile before I know how to put it together.
We came together to mourn, we fatgirls. We weren't all in the same room- or city or state or country- but we were together.
We are bigger than time and space. Fatter than time and space.
On a hot August day, years ago we did this before. We lost a friend and learned how to mourn together. It's a valuable lesson. You can't mourn effectively with just anyone.
Thankfully we have also learned how to rejoice together. Graduations, engagements, promotions, children, marriages, homeownership, relocation, each other. The good moments help us get through the bad. We are good together, after all these years. You can't be good together after all these years with just anyone.
My friend's father was incredible.
I have a picture of Dave looking at him while he spoke at his daughter's wedding. It's my favorite picture of Dave. He hates it. I have it hidden. I don't want to lose it.
Right after that picture was taken, Dave said, "he makes me want to be a dad".
Her father was the kind of dad that you wanted for yourself, for your children. He was the kind of grandfather you want for your children, for yourself.
Her father was the kind of dad that makes a girl want to have one thousand babies.
I'm usually okay at funerals, especially if it's a Catholic Mass. It's never very personal, it's never anything I understand.
Sit down, stand up, say this, smell that, sing this, swallow that.
Done out over.
Not this time. It was the most beautiful, heartfelt service I've ever been too. That's the kind of guy he was, one to break long standing tradition for.
I'm usually okay at burial sites. I'm usually spent and hungry and ready to smile. Ready for the first joke to crack and the first beer to crack. The first crack at trying to get on with life.
Not this time. Full Military Honors break me. I cracked.
Life during wartime.
The young soldiers folding the flag, firing the guns.
I'm not good with gunshots, even ceremonial gunshots.
I put my son's face on every soldier. It's one of the ways that motherhood changed me that I was unprepared for. My son was the soldiers, was the pall bearers, was the sons who no longer have a father. He was the priest, he was the brothers of the man in the casket. He was the man in the casket. My child is everyone, everyone is my child.
There were babies in attendance. Proof that life goes on.
I like babies at a funeral. Especially if they make a lot of noise.
And there were birds circling the gravesite. Proof that life goes on.
I like birds at a funeral. Especially if they make a lot of noise.
So many of my friends' fathers are passing. Three this month alone. I can't stomach counting on my fingers how many have been lost this year. These past few years.
We are at that age, I guess. Everyone is getting divorced and everyone is losing their fathers. Those of us that aren't seem the lucky few.
I take it as a sign to change a few things in my life. To make things better.
I have a funeral dress. I thought it would be prudent to buy something appropriate for all these funerals I keep getting invited to and there is nothing worse than having to decide what to wear to a funeral. It's black, with white polka dots. Short sleeved, button down, full skirted, past the knee, sash waisted, and collared. A size too big. Sometimes two. Bought large so the spaces between the buttons don't gap and show my tits or my belly. Sensible and neat, stylish but not a bit sexy. It goes well with my black high heeled, round toed, silver buckled, all seasons Mary Jane shoes. Everyone likes it. Getting complimented at a funeral is strange, but something I'm used to these days. These days since I bought the funeral dress. It won't go out of style. I'll wear it until it falls apart. It always fits- thanks to that sashed waist- it always will. Old reliable.
It hangs next to my party dresses. I wonder if I should separate it, hang it in the hall.
No wait. First: I've been spending a lot of time in church lately. Not on like, Sunday or anything. But I've logged hours and hours this summer.
Last weekend I hiked up to St. John the Divine in Manhattan. It's beautiful, and there are lots of little side chapels where you can hide and cry if you want.
You don't cry in church? I do. You should. Churches are so full of despair and sadness and lost souls and desperation and loneliness and helplessness and terrible heavy-hearted remnants of people who weren't sure where else to go. And they are also full of hope. That's why I cry. Plus no one thinks you are crazy. They think you are wonderfully spiritual and in possession of a direct line with God. They bow an apology while they leave you to be. It's quite refreshing.
There was an art display at St. John's. A giant dinner table in a dark room set with plain white dishes and an overhead projector that threw images of suppers from around the world being eaten and the taped conversations were broadcast in tandem with the meal. The plates in the video lined up with the plates on the table. The food was actually on the plates. You could see hands and arms of the people eating, and bowls were passed around. Indian meals, Italian meals, Spanish, Russian, French and even a Thanksgiving dinner.
It was beautiful
It was a celebration of the art of sitting down and eating together.
It is an art. A dying art.
I sat down and watched the food be passed, listened to the conversation and cried.
Because I have hope.
I signed http://www.wednesdayspaghetti.blogspot.com/ to the guestbook, and added the tagline "it's more than just spaghetti". I've slacked on my Wednesday Spaghettis, and it hurts. Some Mother of an Institution I turned out to be.
***
I have a funeral dress.
No wait. First: I have a group of girlfriends who are amazing. We are spread out all over the globe these days, but we stay in touch. There are only a couple of us who still live in the city, and I'm guessing that five years from now I'll be the only one. But we all manage to come together once in awhile, no matter how far the world spreads us. We are up, we are down, we are left, we are right, we are fatgirls.
One of us lost her father last week.
There is no good time to lose your father, but I have never in my life seen a worse time for anyone to lose their father.
Has your heart ever truly broken for someone else? For a family?
Mine has, and it will be awhile before I know how to put it together.
We came together to mourn, we fatgirls. We weren't all in the same room- or city or state or country- but we were together.
We are bigger than time and space. Fatter than time and space.
On a hot August day, years ago we did this before. We lost a friend and learned how to mourn together. It's a valuable lesson. You can't mourn effectively with just anyone.
Thankfully we have also learned how to rejoice together. Graduations, engagements, promotions, children, marriages, homeownership, relocation, each other. The good moments help us get through the bad. We are good together, after all these years. You can't be good together after all these years with just anyone.
***
My friend's father was incredible.
I have a picture of Dave looking at him while he spoke at his daughter's wedding. It's my favorite picture of Dave. He hates it. I have it hidden. I don't want to lose it.
Right after that picture was taken, Dave said, "he makes me want to be a dad".
Her father was the kind of dad that you wanted for yourself, for your children. He was the kind of grandfather you want for your children, for yourself.
Her father was the kind of dad that makes a girl want to have one thousand babies.
I'm usually okay at funerals, especially if it's a Catholic Mass. It's never very personal, it's never anything I understand.
Sit down, stand up, say this, smell that, sing this, swallow that.
Done out over.
Not this time. It was the most beautiful, heartfelt service I've ever been too. That's the kind of guy he was, one to break long standing tradition for.
I'm usually okay at burial sites. I'm usually spent and hungry and ready to smile. Ready for the first joke to crack and the first beer to crack. The first crack at trying to get on with life.
Not this time. Full Military Honors break me. I cracked.
Life during wartime.
The young soldiers folding the flag, firing the guns.
I'm not good with gunshots, even ceremonial gunshots.
I put my son's face on every soldier. It's one of the ways that motherhood changed me that I was unprepared for. My son was the soldiers, was the pall bearers, was the sons who no longer have a father. He was the priest, he was the brothers of the man in the casket. He was the man in the casket. My child is everyone, everyone is my child.
There were babies in attendance. Proof that life goes on.
I like babies at a funeral. Especially if they make a lot of noise.
And there were birds circling the gravesite. Proof that life goes on.
I like birds at a funeral. Especially if they make a lot of noise.
***
So many of my friends' fathers are passing. Three this month alone. I can't stomach counting on my fingers how many have been lost this year. These past few years.
We are at that age, I guess. Everyone is getting divorced and everyone is losing their fathers. Those of us that aren't seem the lucky few.
I take it as a sign to change a few things in my life. To make things better.
***
I have a funeral dress. I thought it would be prudent to buy something appropriate for all these funerals I keep getting invited to and there is nothing worse than having to decide what to wear to a funeral. It's black, with white polka dots. Short sleeved, button down, full skirted, past the knee, sash waisted, and collared. A size too big. Sometimes two. Bought large so the spaces between the buttons don't gap and show my tits or my belly. Sensible and neat, stylish but not a bit sexy. It goes well with my black high heeled, round toed, silver buckled, all seasons Mary Jane shoes. Everyone likes it. Getting complimented at a funeral is strange, but something I'm used to these days. These days since I bought the funeral dress. It won't go out of style. I'll wear it until it falls apart. It always fits- thanks to that sashed waist- it always will. Old reliable.
It hangs next to my party dresses. I wonder if I should separate it, hang it in the hall.
8.10.2010
All the cool kids have this hipstamatic app on their awesome iPhones.
I'm scared of iPhones (and iPods, and hairdryers, and alarmclocks, and irons, and anything else that was invented after 1923) so I have to rely on good old fashioned photo flops that look like they were taken ages ago.
Fuzzy off-kilter timeless skewed up pics.
Like this one.
That's Jake. Waiting for me to figure out the new camera so I can take a picture of his toughness.
So tough, right? Run or you might get smoldered.
I'm scared of iPhones (and iPods, and hairdryers, and alarmclocks, and irons, and anything else that was invented after 1923) so I have to rely on good old fashioned photo flops that look like they were taken ages ago.
Fuzzy off-kilter timeless skewed up pics.
Like this one.
When I saw Jake on Sunday afternoon for the first time since Wednesday morning, he looked so big. His voice had changed a little. His hair was longer and curlier and lighter from the sun. He was tanned from his Jersey Shore adventures. He said new things like "nevermind" and "are you serious with this?".
I like reconnecting with the boy.
***
There were a few people who I really wanted to be sure to meet at the conference last weekend. Of course my phone crapped out of me (first the air conditioning, then the camera, then the phone. I have a bad habit of just letting things go until it's too late. The oven is next, I predict.) and I couldn't get a hold of anyone until they got a hold of me first.
I wanted to sit down and have some one on one time with Theresa. Check. And Kristin joined the mix, which is nice because I always thought they'd like each other.
And KC from Under the Influence and I had it all planned out, but she fell and broke her arm. Boo to that, yay to that we got a chance to meet each other at one of the parties before it all happened. I'm pretty sure that she wasn't too much Under the Influence when she fell, but I have yet to hear the whole story!
Nadine and I made a point to meet up between giant gatherings, and I'm so glad we did. I've been stalking her for years now.
And Shelly. Shelly, Shelly, Shelly. We had the best laid plans and neither of us had access to one another's phone number or email so we spent days wandering around and looking for one another to no avail. I'm still not convinced that we aren't the same person. After all, I've never seen us in a room together...
And the City. I love cities. I love trampling my feet all over them so we get to know each other well. I'm really good at cities and cities are really good at me. I'll bet I walked 30 miles last week. I wanted to be sure I knew my way around Manhattan by the time I left and the only way to do that is set out and learn it. You can't get lost in the city. You can get turned around, but you always know where you are. I'm in Manhattan. On 74th and 7th.
I'm not good at country. And country isn't good at me. You can get lost in the country. And eaten. Or worse. You never know where you are. I'm in the country. On a hill and near a tree. No one can give you directions home based on that. I saw Deliverance. That's all I need to know about the country.
And food. I was hellbent on making sweet sweet mouthlove to some halal, and there was a fantastic cart right on the corner next to the hotel. 53rd and 6th. Best truckfood ever. And cheap.
I am also a sucker for those hot street nuts. Vacation isn't vacation until you've sucked down an entire
sweet
sticky
shady
salty
savory
nutsack.
Sorry.
It's just those bags of nuts smell so good and taste just like they smell.
Some people prefer to get their nuts in a can.
Sorry again.
Nuts.
Sacks.
Cans.
I don't like to spend more than $100 in a week on stuff. The challenge holds on vacation too. $99. That's what I spent. Not including hotel or busfare. My meals came from that halal truck, fruit trucks and nut carts. All easy, fresh, and cheap. The only thing I had a hard time with is coffee. Coffee is hard to get in New York. Well, harder to get than here but probably easier to get than in most. Plus I hate waiting in line for things. My bad joke is that "my people have been in this country way too long for me to have to wait in line for food". It's not a joke. My people have been here way too long for me to have to wait in line for food. I can't wait patiently for something I'm addicted to so I run around like a crazed person until I find someone willing to sell me coffee immediately. That's so sad. Even more so that I consider it blog-worthy.
Back to people. I am so bad with who is a "famous" blogger and who isn't so much the famous.
It's just nice being near thousands of people who like to write and like to share their lives with the general public. I saw the Pioneer Woman, but didn't talk to her even though she was my first non-family member reader and commenter here. (I'm pretty sure she's not reading this anymore.) I met Amalah, and she's just the sweetest. And Greeblemonkey who is super friendly. Also the Bloggess, who is like, the famousest blogger ever. She's every bit as sweet as people say, and she really does hide in the bathroom. It's also true that she has some sort of weird photographic memory and she knows everyone in the whole wide world. Or else she's really good at pretending and guessing. It was pretty powerful for me to be near someone like her. Not because she's famous on the internet or wildly hilarious, but she's about my age and she knows what it's like to be a mom to an only child and wake up in pain every day and have her hair fall out in giant clumps. And to have her throw her arms around you and hug you and tell you that you're beautiful despite the crippled up joints and bald spots was just what I needed to hear from someone who is beautiful despite the crippled up joints and bald spots. And Schmutzie, who does so much for networking us all together with her Five Star Friday Awards and for all her Cervical Cancer is not an STD awareness work. She is gorgeous and gives good hugs.
Gush gush gush.
I like the internets because it puts me in touch with people who talk about things that we aren't supposed to talk about in real life.
I also like the internets because there is an off button.
8.09.2010
Home again finnegan. A swift return to small town life.
So I'm back from a blogger conference that I sort of feel I'm not supposed to blog about.
The first rule of Write Club is you do not talk about Write Club.
I'll say this, though. BlogHer is just like the internet. There's a bunch of really cool people you wish you lived closer to, and a bunch of really weird people you are glad you don't. There are people you look up to and people you can't stand. Some people are prettier than you thought they were, some people look better in avatar. Some are fatter some are thinner some are taller some are shorter some are quieter some are louder some are some are some are.
It was fantastic.
I want one more day of it all. One more kissy hissy chatty catty huggy buggy day.
Lots of my friends from home were there. That was nice. Especially because I don't ever see them here. Funny how we have to travel two hours just to get some face time with one another.
A bunch of computerfriends where there too. It's funny how normal it is these days to have never met someone you've known for years. And when you finally do it seems like you see one another every day. Love that. Love it, love it, love it.
I skipped the seminar part of the weekend and just got the party pass. I really needed some alone time, and what better place to get it than Manhattan? Wednesday I walked around midtown and was lucky enough to score a free ticket to see West Side Story with Cecily, Ellie, and Debbie. I'm not one for theater, but I'm one for free. And I know all the words to all the songs in WSS, so I sort of jumped at the chance to go. You know, just to see if I thought I could do it better.
Yes.
I would've been a better Maria. Except I'd need a stand-in for the Spanish parts. And the dancing. But the singing? All me.
Wednesday night= hotel room parties. Some people were in their jammies. I was not. I'm not really one for drinking if I'm away from home. I get really skittish and paranoid and I'm just not good with it. But I have no problem watching other people get drunk. And I certainly had no problem spending some Quality Time with my roommates, Jenny and Julia. They are the awesome. And I really wish we lived closer because now I miss them even more than I did before. And I'm not just saying that because they might read this.
Aren't we just the prettiest?
Thursday was hot. Outside. I was hellbent on walking all around Central Park and circling the reservoir. So I did. Nobody was there who could tell me what to do or ask me for something. It was glorious. Then I walked up to St. John the Divine. Which was amazing and I will most likely address in a post of its own. I cried. And I'm not a crier. Unless there is a parade or marching band involved. Those things get me every time. But there wasn't a marching band at church.
Also amazing? I didn't burn up on entry. There is hope for me yet.
Thursday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
Friday was lunch in Battery Park with a friend who lives and works in Manhattan. And doesn't blog. I walked down 7th and around to Wall Street to meet her, and accidentally landed myself at Ground Zero. I thought I could go around, but it was bigger than I thought. I really didn't want to be there.
And yes, there are still people posing in front of it for pictures. With smiles on their faces. So so so so sick. Also sick? They bottle neck you around the construction site so there is a lot of pushing and shoving and general pissiness.
Hated it.
But loved lunch.
Friday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
Saturday was spent bumming the Upper West Side and lunch with this girl who is blogging anonymously these days. I waited for that lunch for years and years and years and when it finally happened I'm glad we only got pie, because there wasn't a lot of mouth time spent eating. We pretty much didn't shut up for two hours.
Saturday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
I had planned to take the Bolt Bus home early early early on Sunday morning, but because I was smart and married the nicest man in the whole wide world when he was young and didn't know any better, I got picked up in the middle of Saturday night and driven home like royalty. And I didn't even have to ask, he just offered to swing by and pick me up if that was easier for me.
-or-
he didn't have anything better to do than drive into Midtown Manhattan because he is a raging insomniac.
One or the other.
I left in total Cinderella fashion, a few minutes before midnight without saying goodbye to anyone.
I would have cried if I had to say goodbye.
And there wasn't even a marching band.
So I'm back from a blogger conference that I sort of feel I'm not supposed to blog about.
The first rule of Write Club is you do not talk about Write Club.
I'll say this, though. BlogHer is just like the internet. There's a bunch of really cool people you wish you lived closer to, and a bunch of really weird people you are glad you don't. There are people you look up to and people you can't stand. Some people are prettier than you thought they were, some people look better in avatar. Some are fatter some are thinner some are taller some are shorter some are quieter some are louder some are some are some are.
It was fantastic.
I want one more day of it all. One more kissy hissy chatty catty huggy buggy day.
Lots of my friends from home were there. That was nice. Especially because I don't ever see them here. Funny how we have to travel two hours just to get some face time with one another.
A bunch of computerfriends where there too. It's funny how normal it is these days to have never met someone you've known for years. And when you finally do it seems like you see one another every day. Love that. Love it, love it, love it.
I skipped the seminar part of the weekend and just got the party pass. I really needed some alone time, and what better place to get it than Manhattan? Wednesday I walked around midtown and was lucky enough to score a free ticket to see West Side Story with Cecily, Ellie, and Debbie. I'm not one for theater, but I'm one for free. And I know all the words to all the songs in WSS, so I sort of jumped at the chance to go. You know, just to see if I thought I could do it better.
Yes.
I would've been a better Maria. Except I'd need a stand-in for the Spanish parts. And the dancing. But the singing? All me.
Wednesday night= hotel room parties. Some people were in their jammies. I was not. I'm not really one for drinking if I'm away from home. I get really skittish and paranoid and I'm just not good with it. But I have no problem watching other people get drunk. And I certainly had no problem spending some Quality Time with my roommates, Jenny and Julia. They are the awesome. And I really wish we lived closer because now I miss them even more than I did before. And I'm not just saying that because they might read this.
Aren't we just the prettiest?
Thursday was hot. Outside. I was hellbent on walking all around Central Park and circling the reservoir. So I did. Nobody was there who could tell me what to do or ask me for something. It was glorious. Then I walked up to St. John the Divine. Which was amazing and I will most likely address in a post of its own. I cried. And I'm not a crier. Unless there is a parade or marching band involved. Those things get me every time. But there wasn't a marching band at church.
Also amazing? I didn't burn up on entry. There is hope for me yet.
Thursday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
Friday was lunch in Battery Park with a friend who lives and works in Manhattan. And doesn't blog. I walked down 7th and around to Wall Street to meet her, and accidentally landed myself at Ground Zero. I thought I could go around, but it was bigger than I thought. I really didn't want to be there.
And yes, there are still people posing in front of it for pictures. With smiles on their faces. So so so so sick. Also sick? They bottle neck you around the construction site so there is a lot of pushing and shoving and general pissiness.
Hated it.
But loved lunch.
Friday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
Saturday was spent bumming the Upper West Side and lunch with this girl who is blogging anonymously these days. I waited for that lunch for years and years and years and when it finally happened I'm glad we only got pie, because there wasn't a lot of mouth time spent eating. We pretty much didn't shut up for two hours.
Saturday night, BlogHer parties. OMG.
I had planned to take the Bolt Bus home early early early on Sunday morning, but because I was smart and married the nicest man in the whole wide world when he was young and didn't know any better, I got picked up in the middle of Saturday night and driven home like royalty. And I didn't even have to ask, he just offered to swing by and pick me up if that was easier for me.
-or-
he didn't have anything better to do than drive into Midtown Manhattan because he is a raging insomniac.
One or the other.
I left in total Cinderella fashion, a few minutes before midnight without saying goodbye to anyone.
I would have cried if I had to say goodbye.
And there wasn't even a marching band.
8.03.2010
You can find me at Good Girl Gone Redneck today. It's my first guest post ever!
For the rest of the week you can find me in NYC. How will you know it's me and not an imposter?
I have a Party Pass, so I'll be making my rounds Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Thursday I'll be dressed in turquoise, Friday I'll be sporting my black Marilyn Monroe dress, and Saturday I'll be wearing a coral dress.
I have pretty big tattoos on the backs of my calves that look like this:
I love new people, especially if they aren't actually new. So please stop and say hello, I can't wait to meet you for reals!
For the rest of the week you can find me in NYC. How will you know it's me and not an imposter?
I have a Party Pass, so I'll be making my rounds Thursday, Friday, and Saturday night. Thursday I'll be dressed in turquoise, Friday I'll be sporting my black Marilyn Monroe dress, and Saturday I'll be wearing a coral dress.
I have pretty big tattoos on the backs of my calves that look like this:
8.02.2010
I was out with some of my improv team on Friday night, and someone asked me if Jake is funny.
"Hilarious"
"What kind of funny? Like, what does he do or say that makes him funny?"
"Everything. He's just a funny kid. I mean, both Dave and I are pretty funny so I guess it would be weird if he wasn't. But he's just sort of organically funny. The stuff he says is off the wall, even for a kid."
Fast forward to yesterday, at lunch. Jake isn't much of a drawer, but yesterday he was on a roll. Aliens and rockets and bottles (I don't know either) and houses and stuff. It was the first time he ever really sat down on his own accord and drew since he drew the pirate.
I asked him to draw a family portrait, and a picture of our house on the back of his placemat.
At first glance, I figured it was Dave, me, Jake, his imaginary brother also named Jacob*, and Tyler standing outside of a house that looks nothing like our house.
"Can you tell me about the people in this picture?"
"Sure, that's Tyler there on the right, then me, then you, then some fat lady who jumped in the picture while I was drawing it because she thought that would be funny to do, then Daddy. We're standing under a big fluffy white cloud"
"Really? A fat lady? Is that nice to say?"
"Is it nice that she just jumped in and ruined this like that? All I wanted was a nice picture of our family together and I got this"
That's the kind of funny Jake is.
Where he got the fat thing I have no idea. We say things like douchebag in front of him, but not fat. Fat is mean. Douchebag is just a statement of fact.
*my next door neighbors growing up, the Menuto's, had two brothers named Mark. I think it was maybe as a result of adoption, or maybe the husband and the wife both brought sons named Mark into the marriage, but it was weird. I can't imagine the confusion. It's hard enough to have two Jacobs in the house and one isn't even real.
"Hilarious"
"What kind of funny? Like, what does he do or say that makes him funny?"
"Everything. He's just a funny kid. I mean, both Dave and I are pretty funny so I guess it would be weird if he wasn't. But he's just sort of organically funny. The stuff he says is off the wall, even for a kid."
I asked him to draw a family portrait, and a picture of our house on the back of his placemat.
At first glance, I figured it was Dave, me, Jake, his imaginary brother also named Jacob*, and Tyler standing outside of a house that looks nothing like our house.
"Can you tell me about the people in this picture?"
"Sure, that's Tyler there on the right, then me, then you, then some fat lady who jumped in the picture while I was drawing it because she thought that would be funny to do, then Daddy. We're standing under a big fluffy white cloud"
"Really? A fat lady? Is that nice to say?"
"Is it nice that she just jumped in and ruined this like that? All I wanted was a nice picture of our family together and I got this"
That's the kind of funny Jake is.
Where he got the fat thing I have no idea. We say things like douchebag in front of him, but not fat. Fat is mean. Douchebag is just a statement of fact.
*my next door neighbors growing up, the Menuto's, had two brothers named Mark. I think it was maybe as a result of adoption, or maybe the husband and the wife both brought sons named Mark into the marriage, but it was weird. I can't imagine the confusion. It's hard enough to have two Jacobs in the house and one isn't even real.
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