“Why Has The Damsel Not Been Posting?” February 28, 2008

Is the text message I just received from my boyfriend.
 
My first reaction was to laugh. I always forget that he – well, that he reads this thing. Even if I did tell him about it. Conversation between the two of us regarding this blog remains slim. Or in jest. Comments like “The damsel should post about this, no?” when we involve ourselves in something nutty. Like a weekend earlier this month when we embarked on a spontaneous calamity that included: 1 free shuttle from Chinatown to the Majestic casino in East Chicago, Indiana; 1 leaky plastic bag of Chinese leftovers from the lunch that had brought us to Chinatown in the first place; 1 combustion of a rooted bus chair; and 1 busload of questionable characters. 
 
So it needs to be said that every time - every single time - I’m reminded that he follows this thing, I laugh. And I squirm a bit, too. You should know why if you’re a regular reader of this blog. I don’t often present the prettiest, sparkliest little picture of myself, yes?
 
But it’s a good question. Because if my own boyfriend who I see almost every living minute that I’m not at this office (Ed. note: Or rather every sleeping second these days) is wondering why this blog has not been seeing many updates, then maybe some of you are wondering the same. 
 
And the short answer is that I am still feeling very sick and that the office is still one big shitstorm of Insane Deadlines and Pressure Cooker Projects and Not A Single Fucking Second To Blog At Work. Believe me. I’ve tried. And when I get home, my sick body is too drained to do anything more than turn on TNT to catch another late night rerun of Law and Order: SVU before I fall into Status, Comatose.
 
But, again, if you’re a regular reader, you will also know that I don’t give quick answers. I’m long-winded and wordy. And you’re probably getting very tired of these surface-level ”I’m too sick and so busy” whines anyway.
 
So honestly? I’m having a hard time believing it’s already the end of February. The thought, in fact, makes me ill. Maybe this is actually why I am sick right now. Let that be a lesson to all other Hyperbolizing Dramatics out there.
 
I can’t begin to tell you where the last two months have gone. I guess when your life accidentally falls into a harrying routine of Sleep, Wake Up, Office, Sleep, Wake Up, Office, your life can also accidentally get away from you. And when you add Prolonged Illness to the mix, you find yourself almost in a haze as life speeds by. You’re stuck in a crowd moving along with the pace of it all when all you want to do is peep out and stand on the sidelines for a bit.
 
But that takes energy. The peeping out. And energy is something I don’t have much of these days. Because I’m sick. And I’m tired. I want to get better. But all that Office and Waking Up is proving thorny to my plans.
 
Today I got out of bed and turned on the TV as I brushed my teeth. I almost never do this anymore after a day last year that saw me call in sick to work because I just had to see who would win the Malibu Sands Beach Club July 4th pageant to its end. Even though I’ve seen every episode of Saved By The Bell. A lot. Even though I own the package series DVD set. Yes I do.  (And it’s Kelly Kapowski, by the way, which then leads Stacy Carosi, Runner Up, to turn to Scientology for comfort and answers.) 
 
So what was on this morning? But a Top Chef Season 1 marathon. Holy hell was it difficult to continue getting ready for work and leave my apartment. Yes it was.
 
And holy hell. This is all sounding very depressing and gray and S.A.D. and pathetic, isn’t it?
 
The truth is that I’m not feeling very depressed or gray or pathetic. And S.A.D.? Well, yes, maybe, but that’s because I am addicted to sun and there hasn’t been much of that around these parts. It’s a science thing - something or another about solar power and what not. But otherwise, life is okay. It’s trucking along. Albeit in a sick haze, but trucking. Yes it is.
 
But I’m left with little time for — Well, life. Like playing. And fooding. And writing. Things have been so busy and I have been so sick that I haven’t had much time to sit in front of the computer. And just write. I never really plan ahead what I write. Instead? I just sit down and let whatever wants to spew out of me, spew out of me (Ed. note: Figuratively speaking, of course). Then I feel wonderful and light and go back to avoiding phone calls at work or watching that Law & Order: SVU repeat starring that guy from Disney’s Brink.
 
So when I feel as though I’ve written something rushed or pushed that Publish button in some hurry, a post results that I can’t leave alone. It may be a fine post, but I’ll feel uncomfortable. I’ll keep editing it. And a friend will tell me to “just stop fucking around with it, won’t you?” and I’ll tell that friend to just shut up, please.
 
Like my last post. You know, for example.
 
I wanted to write something about being sick and down for the count. And while I wrote, I remembered the story about my friend Lexi and her one woman show as The Rainbow Coalition that night many nights ago. But the post was pushed - I tried to force it admist twenty “Ready To Implode If Not Dealt With Immediately” projects at work. I missed you guys and I missed blogging. But the post only annoyed me after I wrote it. Similar to how I feel annoyed if I’m rushed through dinner or rushed getting ready to go out or rushed for anything that I’d normally like to take my time to enjoy.
 
I like to like what I post. Even if no one gets it but me. Even if no one finds it funny but me. Even if I think it’s extreme or messy or ugly. Or boring. Shit that makes some people want to rip their eyeballs out. Whatever. Because I never intend my writing to be those things. It’s an intangible switch inside of me that knows whether I feel comfortable about something I’ve put out there. Whether, you know, it feels representative of what I wanted to convey.
 
And plus. I like you guys. A lot. I don’t want to post rushed crap. Because when I read blogs where I can tell the blogger has posted rushed crap? I feel — Well, I feel a little let down. Such an entitled attitude for a reader, right? And maybe that’s just me. But for whatever reasons people blog - whether they write for themselves or their readers or a combination of the two or for something completely separate - I respect a piece of writing that feels honest. Something not contrived. Even if I don’t agree with its particular content or message. I’m going to admire someone who wrote something they wanted to write.
 
I miss being able to sit in front of my laptop and write with my mind solely on whatever it is that wants to spew out of me that moment (Ed. note: Figuratively speaking, of course). When my mind isn’t partioned with Work Thoughts and OUCH MY THROAT HURTS Thoughts and GAH! THE PHONE WON’T STOP RINGING Thoughts.
 
Color me addicted, but I’m pretty disappointed that I haven’t been able to post regularly for what seems like a couple months now. Maybe it’s time for me to go knock knock knocking on Blogoholics Anonymous’ door, but I enjoy writing daily. I like arriving at the office and opening up my WordPress right after Gmail and wwtdd(dot)com. I even almost like the insomniac nights where the glowing laptop screen plays companion.
  
And now that my bosses think I should be paid to accomplish what they actually hired me to do and I’m sick? Going to work means going to work and going home means going to bed.
 
Has Steve Jobs invented telepathic typing yet? Because I’m tired of this blog falling victim to sporadic posting. But maybe the gods will finally take sympathy on Over-Tired, Over-Worked, Over-Plagued Me and regular posting can finally resume once more. Today is relatively quiet around these parts. Could this be a blessing of things to come?
 
Tomorrow (What Da! Posting! Two days in a row?) there will be a surprise post by a friend. Tune in. With the expectation that you will like her better than me.
  
And me? Well, it’s time for me to stop posting these “I’m too sick and so busy” whines. For real.
 
Oh. And to respond to my boyfriend’s text with the good news about a whole new post inspired entirely by him.

Everyone Gets Sick But Not Everyone Is Chinese February 21, 2008

Whenever I’m really sick for an extended period of time, I begin to trumpet that I wish I were hungover instead.

I know a hangover fucking blows, I’ll start. But I know what to feed a hangover. And I know when I can expect it to end, I’ll continue, based on how much I had to drink the night before and whether I stuck with one type of booze or played happy hostess to a Mixed Bag of Cocktails Extraordinaire, you know?

Then I will catch my breath. And resume whimpering and pouting.

I’d probably notice that thoughts of hangovers sounding preferrable to mild illnesses could suggest I have a serious problem were my mind not so clouded with cold and flu that anything besides ”GULPING BOTTLE OF CODEINE COUGH SYRUP.. BAD OR NOT THAT BAD?” is too difficult for me to ponder at the moment.

I resemble something close to a toddler when ailing - if toddlers are known to cry, ask for tummy rubs and forehead kisses, demand shitty TV and gossip rags, and syruply request just a teensy splash of vodka in that orange juice, please. Which, granted, comprises most of my Normal Behavior Repertoire. But when sick, I suspect it begins to appear less like “She’s so fun and silly” and more “God, this girl is batshit nutty.”

And I’ll bet that toddlers are much more manageable. You can just cram a pacifier in their mouth to shut them up. Or barricade them in some playpen they’re unable to crawl out of.

This past Monday, I called in sick to work.

I actually was sick, but I doubt anyone at work believed that. I had coughed extensively during the middle of my message for HR. It most likely guaranteed that whoever listened to the message came to the conclusion that I was faking the sick to wrangle a three-day weekend.

I mean. That’s what I would have thought if I had heard that message from me.

I haven’t dared miss a day of work since Monday.

My office has been one chaotic shitstorm since the beginning of the new year. And in addition to this hectic schedule that a healthy person who gave a fuck would have trouble handling, there are developments and changes I am trying to see develop and change. So even Idiot Me is able to surmise that missing days of work right now would wrought a kind of hell not worth its exchange of sitting all day in bed, watching Saved by the Bell and Dawson’s Creek, surrounded by pillows and down comforters.

Being sick yet enjoying no sick days? No. Fucking. Fair.

And last night saw my sore throat and pounding headache only get worse. Which led me to regress even further backwards in age and maturity level. To demand that my boyfriend give me hugs (more!). And massage my forehead (softer!). And let me watch whatever I wanted to watch on television because I’m siiiiick and trashy TV is therapeutic, okay?

I couldn’t blame him when he suggested we watch something manly after one hour of the America’s Next Top Model followed by an hour of the Pussycat Dolls Present Girlicious.

Me: Something manly? Like.. porn?

Him: Well no. I was thinking of something more like James Bond, but–

It meant missing Project Runway’s Reunion Show. And I forgive him for that. He was the one, after all, that had remembered that America’s Next Top Model premiered last night.

Me (bellowing): I HATE THE SICK.

Him: Baby. But guess what? America’s Next Top Model premieres tonight, right?

Since his face often displays a kind of pain that could follow actual physical castration whenever he watches America’s Next Top Model, I knew it was only love that kept him from fleeing the couch after reminding me of its airing in the first place. It was easy for me to magnanimously agree that we watch whatever he liked after our two hours of CW trashtastic reality. Love is about compromises after all.

And besides. Bravo repeats the hell out of Project Runway episodes.

Sickness makes me neurotic. It turns me into a bratty hypochondriac. And, worst yet, I lose all sense of my kind of humor.

For instance, I considered starting this post by talking about a recent article I had read covering carbon monoxide poisoning and how its symptoms can often be confused with those of colds or flus. I then planned to write something off-color like: “Ha! Wouldn’t it be funny, y’all, if I have carbon monoxide poisoning?” But then I began to really think about it. And there’s no need to bog you down with the details of what followed, but lesson learned, my apartment building’s management office does not appear to enjoy frantic calls about our apartment building’s carbon monoxide detectors and repeated inquiries of how effective are they though, really? HOW EFFECTIVE? No, I can’t test mine right now. Well, I’m at work, that’s why. 

Sickness messes with my sense of Morbid Funny. It compels me to behave like a normal person who takes normal carbon monoxide precautions after reading a normal article covering the topic. Rather than just, oh, kibitz about having carbon monoxide poisoning on an anonymous blog and leaving it at that.

And being sick? Also makes me unbelievably horny.

Or maybe it’s just that I’m always horny, including when I’m busy wailing and ailing. That’s me. I swallow what feels like large shards of glass and sniffle and sneeze and rest my head against any goddamn nearby thing (stranger’s shoulder? well hello!) to avoid carrying the weight of my own head with my wee little neck alone, and yet? I still want to make the sex.

I’d probably notice that thoughts of having sex while feeling terribly ill could suggest I have a serious problem were my mind not so clouded with cold and flu that anything besides ”SPLASH OF KALUHA IN COFFEE IS.. JUST RUSSIAN MEDICINE?” is too difficult for me to ponder at the moment.

So. In sum. When sick, I become a less composed version of my regular unbalanced self.

Terrifying, yes?

And a couple years ago, in this condition, Sick Horny Demanding Me went to a local bar with my friends Lexi and Kate. It was a Wednesday night and staying in bed just seemed so boring.

The night’s half dollar drinks got us all twice as drunk, twice as fast and, naturally, made everyone twice as friendly. The men in the bar had begun to gather around us three, swarming and clamoring for our respective attentions, and while most of them knew their efforts would be ignored if earlier rebuffs proved continuous, one boy clamoring for my attention specifically returned to our booth with a beer for him and a dirty martini for me.

And out of nowhere, Lexi began to yell, “YOU BASTARD! SHE’S KOREAN!” as the boy in question cheered his drink to mine.

We both looked at her in shock.

Lexi continued her verbal streamroll. “Not everyone is CHINESE, you know, and it’s REALLY INSENSITIVE and IGNORANT to use slurs. CUZ YOU WANNA KNOW SOMETHING? IF YOU CALLED ME A BIG NOSED JAP OR SOME SHIT RIGHT NOW, I’D SLAP YOU. WHAT IF I JUST START CALLING YOU A CRACKER? POLLY WANNA?”

Everyone in the bar began to look over at the skinny, pretty, shrieking brunette, no doubt wondering to themselves, “What the fuck is that crazy fucking JAP losing her shit about?”

When the boy began to appear as though he may cry, and Lexi displayed no near end to her screaming and splashing of drink all over his jeans as she quizzed him about Korea (WHO IS THAT GUY, IN, UM, THAT MOVIE WITH THE PUPPETS? WHO’S ALWAYS RONRY AND WEARS BIG EYEGLASSES?), I dragged her away to a corner of the bar and asked her what the hell she thought she was doing.

And soon, I began to laugh. Manically. Because when this nice stranger had cheered his drink to mine and joyfully blurted “Clink!” moments earlier, Lexi had heard him call me a chink.

The next day, I dealt with a hangover that fucking blew, one that I knew exactly what to feed and exactly when to expect its end based on the amounts and types of booze I had pulled the previous night. And for the next x hours, it distracted me from the fact that I was sick and I knew that no matter how much I may lose my sense of humor when ailing, what had happened the night before had been without a doubt very, very funny.

The Visible Deformity of WebMD January 25, 2008

There is a bump that has recently swelled on my left shoulder. 

I could begin to lie spin a tale of a fight or a moment of klutziness that caused this particular piece of ugly. Anything that would be far more flattering than the actual story of this bump. But that would be kind of like how the Bush administration began with 9-11 and, five years later, ended up with a dead Saddam (Ed. note: What? You don’t take every opportunity to bash the Bush administration?). So we’ll try out the truth.

It is a mass of pain that not even a bottle of Chilean Red and a box of Barefoot Contessa’s Outrageous Brownies could overshadow when I bumped my left shoulder against a wall while dancing to Ice Cube’s You Can Do It last night. (Ed. note: Suggested music pairing with this post: http://www.deezer.com/track/6077) So I decided to shower. I had - after all - gotten chocolate brownie batter in my hair.

And when I undressed? This bump became the only thing I could see. It was, as they say, the elephant in the room that is impossible to ignore - if that elephant had decided to jump onto the back of my left shoulder and stay fixed there. (Ed. note: I just pictured myself as Quasimodo and laugh-cried.)

What had begun as a little white bump has apparently transformed into a swelling lump of purple and red and it’s HARD and it hurts. And it’s the size of Montana. Or a Chicken McNugget. Whatever.

The real back story of this lump is that it may have first appeared two summers ago (Ed. note: Yes, as in Summer 2006) when I lived in my very first apartment post college, a place I liked to affectionately refer to as The Little Dungeon That Could. It is the reason why I will never live in a ground level apartment ever again. The first place I encountered a cockroach in my life and the place that saw me beginning to fall asleep in galoshes and a can of hairspray. So when I first noticed this bump, I pretended it must be some sort of spider bite and proceeded to move on with the rest of my life.

After one and a half years of bump hibernation, the rest of my life has now come to a screeching halt.

Finally seeing the ugliness of this bump before my very eyes triggered action, and I did what any normal person does who isn’t scared to learn that they may have the gout no matter what their symptoms are and visited Web MD.

Well, no. The first thing I did was google whether spiders could plant baby eggs into people skin and if so, how long they took to burst open.

Because I do not normally use WebMD. It’s pointless. While I enjoy the unintentional comedy it can sometimes provide, I made the mistake of learning about roundworm in 10^thgrade Animal Science to know that as long as I don’t know about a certain ailment, I cannot convince myself I have it. And like the little denialist and extremist I am, this suits me just fine.

And the futuristic androgynous models scare me a little.

But to WebMD I went. Because, I concluded, why not. If I must learn I have Elephantitis of the Shoulder, I should at least be allowed the comfort of my own home, a bottle of Chilean Red and a mound of cooked butter and chocolate that the Barefoot Contessa dubs a brownie. God bless not ever trusting a skinny chef.

Age: 18-24. Check.

Bleeding? No.

Drainage or pus? No.

Lump or bulge? Oh God. Yes. Check.

Swelling? Unless the Chicken McNuggets from Saturday night took a course from my mouth to my shoulder, I certainly goddamn hope this monstrous lump is due to swelling. Check.

Tenderness to touch? Ouch. Yes. Check.

Visible deformity? Hm. Visible deformity. Well, yes. It is visible and it certainly isn’t normal. Check.

POP-UP: ! If you have a new visible deformity of your shoulder please seek prompt medical attention !

Gah! No, WebMD. No, you don’t. There is a reason why I am in my kitchen drinking wine and eating brownies while naked and dripping water from the shower onto the hardwood floors rather than seeking prompt medical attention. Your livelihood depends on people like me. So no, don’t you tell me to seek prompt medical attention. Call 911 and tell the operator that I am calling because WebMD told me to? I don’t like unintentional comedy that much.

I continued.

Another pop-up.

On which side of your body is your visible deformity located?

I paused. I had already clicked on the left back shoulder of the futuristic androgynous model to begin this whole process. I wondered if this was intended as some kind of deeper question. But seeing that “Everywhere” or “My brain” were not options, I closed the pop-up unanswered.

And I was left with my list of conditions.

WebMD considers a “deformity” related to a dislocated or separated shoulder. Cellulitis, hematoma, or Crohn’s disease – which is when parts of your digestive tract get swollen and symptoms often include belly pain and diarrhea - were also possible reasons for My Little Tumor. To list a few.

I realized then the real problem with WebMD.

And it’s not as simple a diagnosis as mistakenly telling people that shoulder bumps indicate ulcers. 

In a doctor’s office, you get to sit, increasingly nervous, on the padded bed with the crinkly white paper that shifts whenever you move your exposed ass due to the uncomfortable robes that I’m still fairly convinced is the medical equivalent of a good joke. When the doctor finally arrives to tell you what you may or may not have, you are just grateful to hear that No, The spots you have been seeing lately are not because of Mad Cow Disease and you happily stroll away to the pharmacy to pick up your inhaler and go along your way. (Oh? I haven’t told you about the time when I went to the doctor’s office this past summer because of a possible sinus infection and desperately wanted antibiotics and my prude of a doctor prescribed me an inhaler that I then took out later that night and sprayed into my Frozen RumRunners at Cactus for fun?)
 

Cactus 2007, May You Rest In Peace and May The Corporation That Tore You Down Burn In Hell

WebMD, on the other hand, has too much competition for my attention.

I could almost believe WebMD if I really wanted to. I mean, I am just a girl with no MD in her name. Given enough time, I could start justifying its suggestions. “Well, now that I think about it, my stomach did hurt a little bit today after I ate that Chipotle burrito bowl at lunch. And my hands havebeen feeling cold lately and sure, it’s winter, but maybe it’s because my blood is weak and hema-ed and not flowing properly.”

But how much time does a girl have to contemplate such matters when she catches a glimpse of these Betsey Johnsons on a website up in the background?

 

All of a sudden, I don’t really give too much of a damn about anything other than where the hell is my credit card and can I get these delivered to me in the next 5 minutes?

And it hits me. As I stand there, with brownie on my fingers and maroon wine tint on my lips, I realize that all WebMD has done is distract me with visible deformities and questionable digestive tract systems while the cause for the bump on my shoulder remains unattended and I purchase pretty things that outweigh my concerns for my health and well-being.

So.

If you have any ideas what this bump might be, please share. There’s only so long that a girl can feel like her insides and outsides are ugly without starting to cry in public and whimper, “It hurts, in here.” And point to her heart. Then her head. Then the lump on her shoulder.

I’ll leave you the shoes in my will.

M.I.A. (Like The Singer, But Not As Sri Lankan) January 3, 2008

It was most likely accumulated angst from not writing on this blog for eight straight days that led me to ask my boyfriend for blog topic suggestions as we got naked together last night.
    
I wasn’t entirely serious. But 2008 thus far? Pillow Talk: 0. Hi, I’m Awkward: 1.
     
I don’t tend to run out of things to say. 99% of me is composed of spirited opinions and the remaining 99% is an inaptitude at ever shutting the trap to said spirited opinions (Ed. note: I quit math once I arrived at college and learned that my AP credits passed me out of all necessary math requirements. I now aim for a higher truth where numbers don’t need to make sense as long as they make a point). Me and Speechless rarely find ourselves locking lips.
   
And last week, I arrived at my office, ready to write about my four crazy days of family fun. (Ed. note: Shhh. It’s slow around my office. No judging. Also? By “slow around my office,” I mean to say that it’s not slow at all. But I also mean to say that I don’t give a shit.)
    
I arrived at my office, ready to quote Tolstoy’s classic that all happy families are alike and that all unhappy families are unhappy in their own ways. And substitute unhappy with crazy. And leave you to marvel at my wittiness (Ed. note: Jay Slash Kay).
    
I arrived at my office, ready to drivel of the Wii (Wee!) my boyfriend had secretly bought while I was gone. The Wii he set up before he left for his own family fun because he knew that I returned to Chicago before him and he didn’t want me to feel too lonely. Or break the Wii in frustrated spite were I left to set it up by myself.
      
I opened the world wide web to do all this.
   
My homepage loaded. 
       
And I immediately felt sickened. Crushed. Disgusted.
 
The sadness of the photographs. The sheer panic and horrific chaos of the aftermath. The realization that every time - every single time - I saw Benazir Bhutto in the news, I marveled at her braveness and her daring. And thought, Honestly, how has this woman managed to stay alive even this long?
   
I knew a part of the sick I felt was knowing that, in the end, she didn’t. We all saw her life as a ticking bomb and the ticking bomb won.
     
Yet, it’s The Holidays (Presents!) and The New Year (Champagne!). And I am far too many awful things, but a killjoy is not one. Misery may love company, but I love when people are happy. This world needs more happy.
    
So during these past eight days of (unintended) mournful and contemplative thinking, my fingers stayed silent. Eight days that saw me dig myself into a deep hole of why the fuck is this world so full of shit? The shovels were endless. TV led to clips of the Kenyan riots. Internet pages led to articles about the Iowa primary and a sense of familiar irritation at the hackneyed finger-pointing. Emails, text messages and phone calls from friends led to sad news on a more personal level and my heart hurting for their aches. Gossip rags led to me wanting to stab the shit out of my eyes every time - every single time - I saw Jamie Lynn Spears; or, even worse, a politician’s position on anti-abortion referencing Jamie Lynn Spears. 
      
When it rains, it pours, yes? 
     
Even something like compassion is taken to an unhealthy level when felt by me (Ed. note: Yet another example of my ability to practice frightening extremes. But the consistency at which I carry myself!). I loved every inch of my four day weekend from December 28 to January 1. I enjoyed every second (I can remember) of a drunkenly hilarious (hilariously drunken?) New Years Eve that was spent with my boyfriend and friends. But me at Idle - in that absence of flurries created by activities and distractions - felt troubled and disheartened. Maybe even hopeless. Hopeless because I’m really two people in one. One constant polarity between Natural Optimist and Depressed Cynic.
     
Eventually, storms end. And maybe it’s because of the gray it immediately follows or because of the world’s need for overall balance, but the sun always seems to shine the brightest after a storm.
   
My boyfriend - ever the good sport - suggested I write about Chinese restaurants and poker. If I had let him continue, he may have also suggested soggy Italian beef sandwiches ordered from sidewalk huts while standing in foot-high snow wearing peep toe stilettos; limo drivers met in gas stations who begged us to stay while they fetched their limos; triple-fisting champagne bottles; or meeting for “brunch” with friends on New Years Day at 4:30 p.m.
 
In other words, 24 Going On “It’s No Longer You Just Having Fun, You Have A Legitimate Problem” remains the frontrunner of possible titles for my obligatory post about New Years Eve. Should I decide to be obligatory.
       
He also suggested that I just be honest. Which is what makes him my better half. This and the Wii.
        
I can only write what’s on my mind. Rather than go M.I.A., I need to remember that to write whatever is on my mind is why I began this blog in the first place. Perhaps this needs to be my goal for 2008. Since, you know, it would be very topical of me to tie in some resolutions to this post as well.
 
Happy New Year, everyone. I genuinely hope that all of you had an amazing holiday and a fucking brilliant jump start to the new year.
 
Here’s to 2008. You are already planning on practicing hell on earth come February 29th, right? Because it’s a day that doesn’t technically exist 75% of Time. Which technically means you can do whatever you want and it doesn’t count. I’m sure if I had taken math classes in college, I’d have no trouble backing this theory with a very complicated math formula but since I did not, you’ll simply have to take my word.

This Is A Post About Hulk Hogan December 20, 2007

But first? It’s a post about sulking for no goddamn good reason.
  
Because this morning I am drowning in a sea of ennui that is interrupted only by momentary bouts of guilt and annoyance.
   
Guilt because there really is no goddamn good reason for this feeling of blah. Guilt because it’s the holiday season and everyone is supposed to be so! full! of! cheer!
 
And annoyance? Annoyance because I am that girl always expected to be on. (And if one more person asks me What’s wrong! Grinch steal your spirit? I may have to cap a bitch’s ass.)
   
The girl always energetic and comic and alive. The one that attends work functions and starts the laughs and the jokes and the slightly inappropriate conversations. The one that never says no to fun, who actively begins the rounds of shots and the dancing and the making friends with strangers.
  
I like being that girl. But at 24, I finally understand that no one can always be on.
 
I used to force that girl if I didn’t feel her. The omnipresence of expectations was hard to ignore. And people-pleasing is one of my Achilles’ Heels (because each of my multiple personalities is allowed one, yes?). So I gave the consistent big smiles and the eternal playful demeanor. I would take one deep breath before entering a party or bar or club or lounge and understand that once I walked in and heard Look who’s here - Now the party starts! it was my cue to plunge into My Act. Everyone had their roles to fill. Sia was the moody bitch. Teddy and Carlos were the fabulous gays. Elly was the adorable ditz. And I was the party girl that never said no. The one with the Laughter, the Cheer, the Never Down In Her Dumps. The one who said Sure Why Not to snorting adderall off of Adam Grabowski’s marble kitchen counter while intermittently shooting Grey Goose four hours before our 9:00 a.m. 12-person senior honors seminar because, really, why the hell not.
 
When allowed brief sojourns of time alone, I hid. Like so many things tended to become in my life, I had created another exercise in extremes. When indoors and alone, I holed up. I happily sat in bed for hours, watching seasons and seasons of various TV shows on DVD (Ed. note: Or what I also refer to as one of God’s greatest gifts to man - there is no room for argument here). I silenced calls. I ordered in food. I? Became I, Recluse.
 
But I, Balance? No.
 
I met my ugly collision at the end of my senior year in college, two halves of me pulled in two very opposite ends for too long. And I began to learn that I needed a net to catch me for those times in between the proverbial feasts and the proverbial famines. Because let’s be honest. I wasn’t going to be giving up the feasts, proverbial or not. 
 
People who give me minimal the first time I meet them bait me. It could be my insatiable hunger for challenges or some version of self-loathing manifesting itself by seeking what I can’t be in someone else. But I think it’s pure admiration. An appreciation for someone who doesn’t feel they need to be all Flash and Dazzle right away. That can be comfortable letting the truth of who they are trickle out rather than flood.
 
To be myself is to be the girl who talks not-soft, talks not-slow, jokes inappropriate, and embraces the crazy; an overall bundle of energy and ferocity. But I can’t always be that girl; I don’t always want to be that girl, not even to fulfill people’s expectations. And that’s difficult for me to remember sometimes. I’m the oldest daughter of parents who moved to this country to give their future procreates a better life. The fundamental lesson to live my life to fulfill the expectations of others was embroidered onto my onesie.
 
So today, this morning, I wallow in a sea of ennui. I lack a valid explanation or excuse. And I feel brief bouts of guilty annoyance because I am the girl always expected to be on.
 
But until I feel like that girl again, I’ll sulk. I’ll answer Meh when people ask me how I am. And I’ll keep this video up on my monitor all day, until seeing Militia (Militia!) and Helgaaaaa introduce themselves doesn’t incite fucking non-stop giggling. I seriously cannot fucking wait for these modern day American Gladiators.
 
From blah to giddy. Such is the force of Hulk Hogan, I guess, brother. (Ed. note: See. This post really was about him.)

100 December 11, 2007

100. I get S.A.D. And creative, coherent writing? Is simply outside the realms of possiblities when one feels S.A.D. (Inside the realms? Are Sighing. Sleeping. Eating Chipotle.) So - just for today (Ed. note: Lie) - I turn to lists. Juicy, exciting drafts await to be published. I pinkie promise. And–

99. A pinkie promise is my sacred form of allegiance.

98. I worked as a cocktail waitress at a gentleman’s club for 3 months while in college. It wasn’t nearly as sleazy as people always assume. But it was a mind-altering first hand experience inside a conflicting world that triggers so many opinions and criticisms. I plan to write about it on this blog. I hope I can do it justice.

97. My second toes are longer than my big toes. My mom tells me that this means she’ll live longer than my dad.

96. For the first 17 years of my life, I was dedicated to the idea of saving myself for my future husband. It had nothing to do with religion. I was just that much of a romantic and idealist.

95. I feel the most attacked when people use my race to insult me. I’m a walking bundle of traits that are ripe for insult. People need to be more creative.

94. I once spent the night with a famous musician. It was around the time he was beginning to become very well-known. From what I’ve seen in the media, he seems like an absolute dousch now.

93. I hate the sound of cracking knuckles.

92. I don’t let myself think in terms of “The One” anymore. My heart is a far too fragile, weakened thing for that. But if I did, I know my boyfriend is it.

91. I perfer to write with Sharpies and Pilot Razor Points. I have told actual people that the Pilot Razor Points are the best pens ever! I am very cool like this.

90. Sometimes, I wonder if part of the reason I root for Hillary is because I want Bill back.

89. In seventh grade, I had a chain of paperclips that I kept in my room. I added to the chain every time I wanted to kill myself and decided that when it reached 12, I would.

88. I battled with thoughts of suicide during my entire childhood and teen years. It was 100% due to my father’s treatment of me.

87. After everything, optimism and hope remain my innate instincts. I’m confident that this is why I am the conflicted person you see today.

86. I masterbate, but don’t own a vibrator. And I hate the word masterbate. I hesitate every single time before I use it and cringe immediately afterwards.

85. I’m slightly nervous right now that I will fuck up counting backwards.

84. Flowers are nice, but I’d rather have a guy buy me a dinner of oysters, medium rare steak, and an accompanying bottle of red.

83. I almost always offer to split the bill. And if the guy agrees, I don’t secretly judge him.

82. I must sleep with my feet uncovered. Sleeping bags make me panic.

81. I was considered a piano prodigy at the age of 8 and continued to play until I was 16. Then I quit to spite my parents.

80. I find a quick wit and sly intelligience far sexier than any single physical trait.

79. I prefer Batman over Superman. This speaks volumes about the type of men I like.

78. In eighth grade, I was class president, a straight A+ student, and the most popular girl in school. I also steadily shoplifted over a period of 9 months.

77. My mom was the one who figured out what I was doing. One day, she came into my room, looked at me, and simply said: “Please stop. Think about how sad you make me and your daddy if they catch you.” I stopped immediately. My heart aches with shame when I think about how much my mother must have hurt and doubted herself that day.

76. My father is the smartest person I have ever and will probably ever meet.

75. I mumble secrets while I sleep. (Please don’t take advantage of this knowledge.)

74. I desperately wish I spoke with a British accent. Sometimes, when I’m in a new place where no one knows me, I try to fake one.

73. When I was younger, I always ordered my eggs sunny-side up at restaurants because I loved how it sounded even though I preferred my eggs scrambled.

72. I am able to draw perfectly straight lines free-hand.

71. Were I forced to choose between going blind or deaf, I would choose to go blind. Music, laughter, whispered “I love you’s”, crashing waves and uninhibited loud sex all outweigh whatever ease sight can afford.

70. If I ever run into Ann Coulter, I plan on backhand slapping the shit out of her.

69. In 9th grade, my friend Cindi asked me one morning if I knew what 69ing was as we sat together on the schoolbus en route to our high school. Cindi was one of those girls who had already french kissed and what not, so I lied and said I did. I don’t think I officially learned what it was until my senior year in high school.

68. I am deathly afraid of animals that can act like humans. The Island of Doctor Moreau continues to be one of the most disturbing movies I’ve ever watched. It also marked the end of my obsession with Val Kilmer that had begun with Batman Forever and (unfortunately) motivated me to watch any and every movie of his.

67. Somehow, I escaped my childhood without having to add “problems with body image” to my mixed bag of fucked up issues extraordinaire.

66. But then I dated a boy named [omitted] who told me one day - out of the blue - that his friends often discussed that he was lucky for my teeth that are fine but not supermodel straight and white or I’d be far too hot for him. Since then, I’ve had problems laughing or smiling or talking without wanting to cover my mouth with my hand.

65. In the 6th grade, I was asked to submit my handwriting into some contest for a book that displayed examples of perfect handwriting.

64. I absolutely cannot watch movies that have been adapted from books without making a million comments about how it failed to capture the proper spirit of the book. I also nitpick about changed details.

63. I went through a period in college where I spelled words like this: favourite, centre and realise. (Is anyone else sensing some Anglophile tendencies?)

62. I have killer beginner’s luck. From the first time I bowled to the first time I cook a new recipe. Sometimes I think this is why I never developed a good work ethic.

61. I would rather live in a dank, cramped basement apartment in a fabulous city than a spacious barn in the middle of fucking nowhere.

60. I was in love with a boy all during elementary school who broke my little 9 year old heart when he moved away the summer after fourth grade. I found him on Facebook a few years ago. After a few messages back and forth saying Hello and How are you and What have you been up to, I sent him an adorably witty message about how I had crushed on him during our elementary school days. He never responded.

59. I don’t think there’s such a thing as a heel that is too high.

58. I trash talk at sporting events. A lot. I was once warned by a referee at a professional sporting event that if I didn’t can it, he’d have me personally escorted out of the game.

57. When I lived in Chicago’s Lakeview neighborhood two years ago, I would run into Shane from the Real World all the time. One night, at a bar in Boystown, I saw him demand free shots from people who wanted pictures with him.

56. I hate Twizzlers. But every once in a while, when they’re offered, I try them again because there must be a reason why so many people are obsessed with them, right? And every time, I conclude that I absolutely hate them.

55. I would eat these habitually, though. They’re just so pretty.

54. The summer after third grade, I suffered third degree burns on my left arm after I tripped on a rug and landed it in a boiling pot of chicken noodle soup. I didn’t follow the doctor’s orders to keep it properly bandaged for six weeks and now have the skin that never healed properly to show for it. But I kind of like the scars. (So I’m also proving to be a scar-o-phile, yes?)

53. I love sex and I think I’m the horniest person I know. Well, second to my friend Pete. He’s a horny fucker (Ed. note: Pun or no pun intended, I don’t even know).

52. I need to highlight texts in perfectly straight and parallel lines.

51. I want to be the first female to win the World Series of Poker’s $10,000 Buy-In No-Limit Main Event.

50. I always laughed at the girls on America’s Next Top Model who cried at the hair salons during the makeover episodes. Then, during the summer after my junior year in college, I went to my hair stylist Saha for a perm. I wanted beautiful, sexy waves. She was sick that day and had her assistant fill in. I ended up with poodle curls (that literally *boinged* back into shape when pulled straight) and cried right there in the salon chair. A lot.

49. I’m not one of those girls who already have their perfect wedding planned to every detail. But I see mine happening at the beach, at sunrise, with everyone dressed in formal wear and barefeet.

48. I’m pretty certain I would have walked away with at least $125,000 if I had ever been on Millionaire.

47. My friend Ally and I created a fake Friendster account during our senior year in college and sent messages to a Buddhist I had slept with a few times earlier that quarter. On our 7th date or so, he told me that he had a girlfriend who he’d leave for me. I immediately stopped seeing him. That ass responded to every single message until I sent him one that suggested he looked like Patrick Dempsey.

46. I have spent over $400 on a 9-course sushi dinner. One 9-course sushi dinner.

45. My friend Christina and I signed up for a Crunch membership a few years ago solely to attend their Aerobic Striptease classes, then never attended a single class. The one and only time we were inside their facilities - the night we went to sign up - we saw Fifty Cent. He came dressed in Timbalands, baggy jeans, black suspenders, a white wifebeater and a black doorag. There were also some heavy gold chains around his neck. He did a few bench presses. Said hello to us. Asked us if we wanted to come to his concert the next night at the House of Blues. Then left.

44. I slept with a night light until I was 18.

43. I am completely obsessed with the history and literature of Russia. And more generally, Eastern Europe.

42. My college history honors thesis centered on women who lived during the Italian Renaissance. I wanted to write it primarily about prostitutes and courtesans, but enough primary sources did not exist. So I wrote about mothers, nuns, and prostitutes and courtesans. And sex. At the end of the year, I graduated with honors from the history department.

41. When I skydived (skydove?) last summer, I was completely unafraid. In hindsight, the only thing that scares me was how unafraid I was.

40. I hate the phrase “At the end of the day.”

39. I also hate the phrase “It’s not personal.” It’s always personal.

38. When I was young, I was so scared of the idea of “eternal life” that I’d cry if I thought about it too much. I would have to force myself to stop trying to make sense of it. (And we see when my problems with denial began.) I still find this concept numbingly frightening.

37. The first time I ran over an animal while driving, I had to pull over because I couldn’t stop shaking.

36. I grew up in a town that - at the time - was approximately 95% white. But it wasn’t until I arrived at my prestigious alma mater that I felt so self-conscious about my race. I still postulate that the college I went to was far too segregated and separated for an institute of higher learning.

35. I love pizza rolls. I think I could eat 50 of them in one sitting.

34. I have a hard time choosing favorites. Color, drink, season, genre of music, whatever. I guess I really do like change and the something new that much.

33. I think Thousand Island dressing - 99% of the time - is absolutely disgusting. The 1% is to cover the times when I eat Reuben’s. Because I adore Reuben’s.

32. Remember Gumby? He scared the shit out of me.

31. Until I was 11 years old, I thought “chaos” was spelled KAOS because of Get Smart. I loved Get Smart. One night, four minutes before its air time on Nick & Nite, my mother told me that I was not allowed to watch any tv until I showered. To date, that is the fastest shower I’ve taken in my life.

30. I learned how chaos was actually spelled when my extended family sat down to watch Braveheart together in my uncle’s new home theater. I - being the oldest - was selected to read the history at the beginning of the movie. I still cringe when I remember how much my cousin - who is one year younger than me and had herself and her achievements always compared against my own growing up - smirked as she corrected me.

29. I like playing video games, and, yes, I’m that girl who moves her controller around and bounces in her seat and squeals when she just narrowly escapes the pit of lava.

28. When I’m out, I like dancing with girls far more than with guys. Guys are too gropey and thrusty.

27. I also think girls are better kissers.

26. I still qualify things I want to do in the future with “When I grow up..”

25. I think I’d make an excellent aunt/godmother/nanny because I would totally want to play with Legos and Barbies and Hide & Seek and Tag all the time.

24. The best ice cream that exists in this world is Dove’s Chocolate & Brownie Affair with the layer of ganache. This is actually not up for argument. A close second and third are Ben & Jerry’s Oatmeal Cookie Chunk and Häagen-Dazs’ Cherry Vanilla.

23. I want to travel and visit everywhere. Literally, everywhere. I love immersing myself into different cultures, learning and becoming more aware.

22. I fell through a manhole cover one very early morning on the way to my apartment during my senior year in college. And that, my friends, is what God thinks about walks of shame.

21. Last winter, an attorney at my firm asked me if I like to eat bright candy. Affected by the holiday spirit, I had recently purchased some Sweet Tarts candy canes. When I told him that I had eaten some of these candy canes the other day, he informed me that he had found bright blue bits of candy among documents earlier that morning in court while speaking in front of the judge and opposing counsel. 

20. One of my biggest regrets from college is that I never tried out for College Jeopardy.

19. There is a company policy that no one is allowed to save MP3s on the company server. I am the reason for why this policy exists.

18. There is also a company policy that states it cannot be held accountable if an employee trips and hurts themselves due to the length of their pants being too long for their persons. I am also the inspiration behind this.

17. I still hopelessly believe in fairy tales and happily ever afters. I blame the endless stream of Disney movies I was sat in front of during my childhood for this affliction.

16. I love fried chicken livers. And fried chicken. A lot.

15. I don’t use birth control anymore after a particularly bad stint with a little bitch named Cyclessa. It made me the type of crazy I had no control over. I know I may be crazy, but I never want to feel like I’m crazy because of some foreign intrusion into my brain, my mind, my body.

14. I can be incredibly ditzy sometimes. For instance, the running joke among my friends for a while was asking me if I felt like eating an “abesto” after I asked my friend Tim what an abesto was.

13. I sometimes really wish hoop skirts would come back into style. Even for just one day.

12. My boyfriend may get glasses just to appease me, even though he’s had LASIK done on both of his eyes and now has perfect vision. 

11. Several years ago, my friends had to take me to the police station after an ex boyfriend stalked me, crossed two state lines, found me, and broke into my apartment. Sometimes, I will see a person who resembles him and become instantly paralyzed with fear. Then, I run. I can’t even look back to see if it’s really him or not, I just run.

10. I was a naturally gifted singer who smoked far too much during college and now my voice doesn’t sound the same at all when I sing. The worst manhandling happened during the winter quarter of my senior year, when I smoked and drank my way through six days a week. I hate that it affected my singing, but I loved the gravely and throaty speaking voice that was mine for 4 months.

9. I really wish I could be hired as Britney’s stylist and life coach for a few months. Hell, even a few weeks. Homegirl needs help.

8. I probably would have slept with one of my college professors if the situation had ever presented itself. And, you know, had he been sexy and gorgeous. Or, you know, not gay.

7. For all the superlatives I throw around, I’m incapable of hating people. It’s easy to not hate nice people, but I’ve met some, known some and loved some well-disguised backstabbing assholes. Still, I can’t hate them.

6. If you want me to do anything, just extend a dare. I cannot turn them down, even one where the loser of a fantasy football matchup has to run down a stretch of Lake Shore Drive completely naked. (Please don’t take advantage of this trait, either.)

5. I have not seen a single episode of The Sopranos. Which is surprising, because I love all things related to the mafia, the mob, or whatever other underground society or subculture. And, um, also surprising in light of the fact that I’ve pretty much seen 99% of all tv programs ever created.

4. Of the seven sins, I am most guilty of lust, gluttony, sloth, and bits of pride. I’ll have moments when I think of how nice it would be if I had won the lottery after a big jackpot has been won or become very heated when a past landlord finally gets in touch with you and your roommates after four months of silence and claims he mailed your security deposit checks back in September, but these moments are fleeting. Envy, greed, or wrath just aren’t really my things.

3. I admire people who don’t bullshit. I’d much rather hear the blunt truth than be dealt saccharinely sweet untruths. I work towards being better at this myself.

2. I feel the most happiness when the people I care about are happy and content and well.

1. I could not say with full confidence that a video of me having sex couldn’t be found on the internet. My friend Matt, after it was too late, found a video of him stripping to Enrique Iglesias’ Escape - a private video he had made for his girlfriend - online. And knowledge like this is what makes me very fearful of the world wide web sometimes.

13,500 Feet Above Sea Level November 8, 2007

He yelled into my ear, “You gotta be willing to die in order to live, right!?”
 
I whipped my head around, glaring You can’t be serious!, just as he - the skydiving flight instructor strapped to my back - threw us out of the airplane with no warning towards the very hard, very cold earth that awaited us 13,500 feet below.
  
To our deaths.
  
(Just kidding.)
  
(Laptops would melt quite quickly in Hell.)
  
Back on November 1, I suggested to myself a few themes I could employ for the month of November to help the NaBloPoMo posting-every-day-process. I’m tagging one in now. Because I’m sick. And what I briefly suspected to be food poisoning now seems to be the flu, and I’m sorry, food, my love, how could I have ever questioned you?
 
My brain finds anything beyond sitting hunched over moaning in pain taxing. And I’m at work. And that shit’s just not fair. And funny is far beyond me. Putting thoughts together is far beyond me.
  
So I’ve chosen to post some pictures that currently call my work computer home. From the day I jumped into a plane only to jump right off of it once it was up in the air, with a skydiving instructor attached to my back who found jumping out of planes and letting gravity pull his body for approximately 5,000 feet towards a very hard, very cold earth as easy as breathing. As breathing.
 
 

This is the point when they yell jokes about how they hope everything is working properly and you want to kick them in the balls. Notice my sneakered foot in his crotch?
  
 

If you look really closely at the right side of this photo, you can see that I am attempting the fetal position.
  
To the people who skydive and have awesome pictures to show for it, I commend you. I don’t know how it’s possible, but congratulations for being able to defeat the elements of falling to the earth at speeds of 120 miles per hour while having wind whip against your face so intensely that, even though your mind has other matters it should preoccupy itself with, you stop to contemplate what people’s reactions would be if you returned to the ground with what used to be your face nothing more than a fleshless skull.
 
Oh, and a tip. If you decide to purchase the video & picture package, and you’re in the air and the videoman/photographer starts beckoning you with his left hand, please don’t forget that he had already explained to you that during the free fall process, he would signal you with his hand when it is time for you to hold onto it with one of yours so that he can twirl you around 360 degrees to capture a breathtaking panoramic scene for the video, and instead, become very confused, and then conclude that he’s asking you to “ham it up” for the camera, you know, 12,000 feet above earth as you are falling in midair, because you will end up with pictures like this:
  
 

  
 
Moments after landing with all bones intact and euphoria pumping through our veins that no drug - not even you, meth! - could come close to achieving, the videoman, still filming, turned to ask my boyfriend if he’d recommend skydiving to everyone, expecting a hearty Yes of course! for the video. My boyfriend? Quickly protested, “NO!”, then after seeing the shocked expression on the videoman’s face, explained, ”If my mother knew I did this, she’d kill me!” 
 
I, on the other hand, recommend skydiving to anyone who is not severely pregnant, suffering abnormal heart conditions, or possessing weak bladder control.

The Egyptian November 7, 2007

I once didn’t see my friend Rachel for approximately 12 straight days during the winter of our senior year in college.
 
My friends and I had a habit that quarter of not letting each other out of our sights, equal parts co-dependence and what’s that theory about how when you find people who do and believe the same things you do you then become a tight cohesive unit even if those things you do or believe may be wrong because it provides you with validation? Cultism Right, Friendship! What with all the binge-drinking, food-gorging, and crash-studying, where was the time to be alone?
 
Once Rachel’s lovely face reemerged from the black hole we had assumed she had accidentally fallen herself into, we were all very eager to hear what she had been busy doing.
 
“The Egyptian,” she began, while we stood in her kitchen mixing drinks.
 
We leaned in, excited. This was our friend Rachel, after all, a girl who would sometimes have to avoid house parties in college because she had already slept with each of the housemates holding the house party in question, unbeknown to the housemates themselves. My mind instantly foretold misadventures with a tall, dark mysterious stranger, a man with a foreign accent and broken English, a man who needed not the English when his primary concern was making my friend Rachel his Cleopatra. (Historical note: Cleopatra was not in fact “Egyptian” but a descendant of the Hellenic Ptolemy line, but this isn’t The History Channel, so let’s move on, shall we?)
 
All of us paused to let her continue. In the silence, she raised her right hand to her mouth and lowered her left hand to her tailbone, began demonstrating the Walk Like an Egyptian dance, and said, “You know, the Egyptian.“
 
Apparently, the woman had been severly ill for 12 straight days and was unable to keep anything down or inside her body, and, apparently, the Egyptian is when one’s body feels the need to expel from opposite ends at the same time. And that is all I am going to say about that.
 
It’s not a coincidence I remembered this story today. My body has spent all night and day systematically throwing up every 40 minutes. The last 6 or so times have been nothing but bile. Gross, disgusting, no-matter-how-many-times-I-brush-my-teeth-I-can-still-taste-it bile. I’m hesitant to blame it on food poisoning since food is my love and finding out that it may have poisoned me is probably similar to the heartbreaking betrayal Screech felt when he saw Zach kissing his precious and life-long love Lisa right before she held her fashion show at The Max for the FIT admissions recruiter, but that sushi I ate for lunch yesterday may want to prove me otherwise.
 
Thanks to my friend Rachel, through the cold sweats, the non-stop shaking, and the uncontrollable tears streaming down my face, I cannot stop repeating to myself: No Egyptian, no Egyptian, please God no Egyptian.
 
Which, incidentally, has led my boyfriend, while comforting me, to soothe, “Of course, baby, of course, no Egyptian food. How about some Saltines?”