i’ve resolved not to make any new year’s resolutions anymore, at least not publicly. instead i’m subscribing to my buddy Jeremy’s assertion that it’s better to talk about results instead of goals, otherwise “it’s like telling the universe what you expect to happen, then trying to sit back and watch.”
reading over last year’s list of the things i didn’t do (enough of) is yet another indication that achievement doesn’t always follow on the heels of good intentions. i tend to start strong and finish weak. i tend to fantasize about perfect outcomes, a magical dream life where my potential is limitless, dedication enduring. unfortunately, the hard work required for my fantasy outcomes never actually appears in my daily reality, where inertia is king.
i’d like to say that this year will finally be different, but i need to be realistic about my own track record, which weighs heavily on the hot air side, slim on the achievements. plus, i’m not discussing resolutions publicly. instead, i’ll turn them over in my head, trying to reconcile what i want to do with what will likely happen. it’s a big divide, and it’s been making me blue.
i had the week between christmas and new year’s off. Mo was in houston visiting his bro, and my other peoples were scattered around the country visiting family of their own. that week off was very relaxing, very bourgeois, as i spent the days shopping the after christmas sales alone, getting a facial, massage, all the while thinking, thinking, trying to answer the age-old question of what i want to be when i grow up.
in my office at work, i have a smaller version of this poster printed and tacked onto the wall. my old officemate and i rallied our coworkers into signing the individual fries with their names. people always jump at the chance to sign it, as if being part of the small fry club were some great honor. and as they stand for a moment choosing the perfect fry for their names, i wonder how OK they are with it, how i can be more OK with it.
new years tend to drive it all home — the realization that time is no longer on my side, that things change less over the years, that i must conform to adulthood without complaint. and then come the counter-thoughts right on the heels — quit your whining, your life isn’t bad, accept your potential as a function of your limitations.
i keep thinking, hoping, waiting for the time when my restlessness will transform into resolve and make my dream life happen, make the entropy assume its next form. maybe this year. maybe not.
Monday, January 15, 2007
Thursday, January 04, 2007
Meet the Parents
even though we had been living together for the last six months, dating for a year and a half, Mo still hadn’t met my family. this was the result of equal parts accident and intent -- ok, mostly intent. i’ll confess the thought of the Big Family Meeting made me uneasy, so i didn’t push it on Mo, who never asked. my parents, however, were asking often, and when they started up with “what should we get Marlin for the holidays?” i knew i could no longer delay the big reveal. we settled on the saturday before christmas at my parents’ house where we would exchange gifts and have dinner. my sister would be there with her husband and two kids. i would be there with Mo and my furry kid Juice. easy as pie.
truthfully, i had avoided the Big Family Meeting because it was too damn important. given that i’m 30, unmarried and jewish, such a meeting was incapable of being unimportant. and it was incapable of being easy: Mo is not jewish, nor is he russian — he’s actually a black man whose light skin allows him to regularly pass as white, a disorienting concept for most. he’s also without full-time employment, spending his free time daytrading and writing articles for Archinect. for me -- and probably Juice especially -- having him home often is a welcome treat, but for my parents, he’s probably not the guy they would have picked for me out of a crowd, especially with all the “nice jewish boys” on JDate.com.
plus, my family had grown close to my Last Serious Boyfriend and were as heartbroken as i was when things didn’t work out. during the unraveling of that relationship, my ex even told me, “tell your dad i’m sorry,” a message i relayed to my father who choked up and declared, “it’ll be hard for me to trust the next important man in your life.”
thankfully for him and me, there were plenty of unimportant men to keep me distracted until Mo came along. and while i know he’s important, i’m not sure that he’s “serious” in that one-thing-leads-to-another way that tends to be the hope of jewish parents with unmarried daughters who are 30. i feared that Mo might not be serious enough for the family introduction. his move-in was circumstantial and presumed temporary. we never discussed “our future,” never explored the mystery of “where is this going.” i always figured that our relationship would continue until it began to suck, at which point it would end, just like the relationships i’ve had before.
*******
i woke up early the day of the meeting to begin chewing my cuticles and planning my exit strategy. was that pneumonia i felt coming on? doesn’t my numb left arm signify the onset of a heart attack? no, i probably just slept wrong. Mo gets up and i begin the prep pep talk while he fixes his morning coffee — “my sister’s husband is Patrick. he probably won’t talk to you much but don’t worry about it. my parents’ dog is Chip. he’s small so careful not to step on him.” Mo is barely awake, looking at me askew, but i keep the facts coming, regaling him with details, life stories, russian proprieties he must follow in order to make the right impression. (“you have to drink vodka with my dad.”)
Mo nods, or maybe it was an eye roll. he grabs my hands and squeezes.
“it’s too early?” i ask.
“it’s too much,” he says. “you’re worrying too much. today will be fine.”
i shake him off and keep going all the same, stuffing him like a holiday turkey. more information, warnings on their temperaments. i begin to think aloud: “maybe we should develop a secret language for today, like hand signals to let each other know what’s really happening. are you getting all of this?” phone rings. it’s my Ma confirming the time and asking whether Mo has any dietary preferences.
“i was just telling him all about you guys. you know, preparing him for today,” i say.
“what type of ‘preparing’? you think we’re all monsters or something?”
“no, mom! i’m just telling him everyone’s name and profession, that’s all,” i lied. an argument could easily erupt from here. “let’s have a nice day today, please.”
“ok, fine with me. come by in the afternoon around 5 p.m.,” she instructs.
“what should i bring?”
“your boyfriend and a good attitude.”
“i always have a good attitude, damnit!! Ma?? MA???”
but she had hung up. “damnit, she knows how much i hate it when she hangs up on me!!”
i feel the steam release from my ears, followed by a big exhale. i look at Mo, who’s quietly sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee.
“you know, my family,” i start, “they’re not going to be your ideal family to walk into. hell, they’re not my ideal family to walk into.”
“the craziest people anyone knows are always in their own family,” Mo says. “when i was growing up, the fabric of our couches matched the pattern of our wallpaper. they were both plaid.”
*****
as we approach the front door of my parents’ house, i could feel the flight instinct taking over my body, making all my limbs twitch. for a moment i consider dropping the holiday presents i have in my arms, the bottle of vodka and bouquet of flowers i made Mo buy for my parents, just tossing it all aside and running toward the horizon, but Juice manages to snake her leash around my legs in a way that renders me immobile. i glance down and catch her big brown eyes, wide with encouragement. she had grown to love Mo as much as i did. there’s no reason the rest of my family wouldn’t do the same.
i look over at Mo for added encouragement and sense strain on his handsome face. in my selfish paranoia i had disregarded his feelings. immediately, my thoughts turn to his thoughts and i conclude that our thoughts are identical and still center around me. he must fear, like i fear, that the Big Family Meeting would make me too human, too flawed, too prepossessed of traits i couldn’t overcome. any remaining mystery that shrouded me — the exotic, lovable goddess i had imagined myself being in Mo’s mind — would vanish upon the unearthing of my roots, like cinderella at midnight.
door opens. cries of “hello, happy holidays” bellow from everyone. gifts are unloaded, hugs and introductions all around. my father and Mo stand facing each other, eye to eye, my two big loves, both six feet tall, dark-haired, bearded. the resemblance is undeniable. handshake. hug!
“do you drink vodka?” my pops asks.
“yes. definitely,” Mo replies, scoring points.
“good! hey Meel, i like him already. go help your mother set the table.”
and then, i don’t know. i helped set the table. we sat down, ate, drank, laughed, told stories — same as always, only now with Mo at the table. he fit in nicely, warmed up to everyone. there was no weirdness to sort though, no visibly tense moments. my family never brought up his job situation, and as i sat at the table looking over at my sister’s chinese husband and two biracial kids, i realized how silly i was to worry that Mo’s race would be an issue in my family.
my father seemed to appreciate that, like him, Mo wasn’t fond of cats, and he even found funny Mo’s story on how, during high school, Mo and friends used to record soft porn off the television in my childhood home, taking advantage of my family’s illegal “black box” that received all the cable channels, including the naughty ones. i beamed when the joke went over well, declaring dumbly, and perhaps a bit too loudly, “see, we all have the same sense of humor!!”
even Juice had a grand time, rummaging as she was through the pile of dog toys set aside for my parents’ miniature pinscher, who sat nearby looking forlorn. my sister’s kids were sparkling angels, despite my young nephew’s attempts at joining Mo as he used the restroom; and my parents and i got along splendidly, keeping our respective monster claws under wraps. Mo and i received various gift cards as holiday gifts, and were sent home with warm wishes and tupperware full of leftovers. on the whole, the night was thoroughly anticlimactic, almost unmemorable.
as the night was closing, i managed to steal a few moments with my parents for the debrief, which amounted to “so far, so good. bring him back!” on the ride home, i got the debrief from Mo, which amounted to, “overwhelming, but not bad. i could do it again.”
“‘again,’ really? it wasn’t too hard on you?”
“no, it wasn’t so bad,” Mo says with a smile. “i told you today would be fine.”
truthfully, i had avoided the Big Family Meeting because it was too damn important. given that i’m 30, unmarried and jewish, such a meeting was incapable of being unimportant. and it was incapable of being easy: Mo is not jewish, nor is he russian — he’s actually a black man whose light skin allows him to regularly pass as white, a disorienting concept for most. he’s also without full-time employment, spending his free time daytrading and writing articles for Archinect. for me -- and probably Juice especially -- having him home often is a welcome treat, but for my parents, he’s probably not the guy they would have picked for me out of a crowd, especially with all the “nice jewish boys” on JDate.com.
plus, my family had grown close to my Last Serious Boyfriend and were as heartbroken as i was when things didn’t work out. during the unraveling of that relationship, my ex even told me, “tell your dad i’m sorry,” a message i relayed to my father who choked up and declared, “it’ll be hard for me to trust the next important man in your life.”
thankfully for him and me, there were plenty of unimportant men to keep me distracted until Mo came along. and while i know he’s important, i’m not sure that he’s “serious” in that one-thing-leads-to-another way that tends to be the hope of jewish parents with unmarried daughters who are 30. i feared that Mo might not be serious enough for the family introduction. his move-in was circumstantial and presumed temporary. we never discussed “our future,” never explored the mystery of “where is this going.” i always figured that our relationship would continue until it began to suck, at which point it would end, just like the relationships i’ve had before.
*******
i woke up early the day of the meeting to begin chewing my cuticles and planning my exit strategy. was that pneumonia i felt coming on? doesn’t my numb left arm signify the onset of a heart attack? no, i probably just slept wrong. Mo gets up and i begin the prep pep talk while he fixes his morning coffee — “my sister’s husband is Patrick. he probably won’t talk to you much but don’t worry about it. my parents’ dog is Chip. he’s small so careful not to step on him.” Mo is barely awake, looking at me askew, but i keep the facts coming, regaling him with details, life stories, russian proprieties he must follow in order to make the right impression. (“you have to drink vodka with my dad.”)
Mo nods, or maybe it was an eye roll. he grabs my hands and squeezes.
“it’s too early?” i ask.
“it’s too much,” he says. “you’re worrying too much. today will be fine.”
i shake him off and keep going all the same, stuffing him like a holiday turkey. more information, warnings on their temperaments. i begin to think aloud: “maybe we should develop a secret language for today, like hand signals to let each other know what’s really happening. are you getting all of this?” phone rings. it’s my Ma confirming the time and asking whether Mo has any dietary preferences.
“i was just telling him all about you guys. you know, preparing him for today,” i say.
“what type of ‘preparing’? you think we’re all monsters or something?”
“no, mom! i’m just telling him everyone’s name and profession, that’s all,” i lied. an argument could easily erupt from here. “let’s have a nice day today, please.”
“ok, fine with me. come by in the afternoon around 5 p.m.,” she instructs.
“what should i bring?”
“your boyfriend and a good attitude.”
“i always have a good attitude, damnit!! Ma?? MA???”
but she had hung up. “damnit, she knows how much i hate it when she hangs up on me!!”
i feel the steam release from my ears, followed by a big exhale. i look at Mo, who’s quietly sitting on the couch, sipping his coffee.
“you know, my family,” i start, “they’re not going to be your ideal family to walk into. hell, they’re not my ideal family to walk into.”
“the craziest people anyone knows are always in their own family,” Mo says. “when i was growing up, the fabric of our couches matched the pattern of our wallpaper. they were both plaid.”
*****
as we approach the front door of my parents’ house, i could feel the flight instinct taking over my body, making all my limbs twitch. for a moment i consider dropping the holiday presents i have in my arms, the bottle of vodka and bouquet of flowers i made Mo buy for my parents, just tossing it all aside and running toward the horizon, but Juice manages to snake her leash around my legs in a way that renders me immobile. i glance down and catch her big brown eyes, wide with encouragement. she had grown to love Mo as much as i did. there’s no reason the rest of my family wouldn’t do the same.
i look over at Mo for added encouragement and sense strain on his handsome face. in my selfish paranoia i had disregarded his feelings. immediately, my thoughts turn to his thoughts and i conclude that our thoughts are identical and still center around me. he must fear, like i fear, that the Big Family Meeting would make me too human, too flawed, too prepossessed of traits i couldn’t overcome. any remaining mystery that shrouded me — the exotic, lovable goddess i had imagined myself being in Mo’s mind — would vanish upon the unearthing of my roots, like cinderella at midnight.
door opens. cries of “hello, happy holidays” bellow from everyone. gifts are unloaded, hugs and introductions all around. my father and Mo stand facing each other, eye to eye, my two big loves, both six feet tall, dark-haired, bearded. the resemblance is undeniable. handshake. hug!
“do you drink vodka?” my pops asks.
“yes. definitely,” Mo replies, scoring points.
“good! hey Meel, i like him already. go help your mother set the table.”
and then, i don’t know. i helped set the table. we sat down, ate, drank, laughed, told stories — same as always, only now with Mo at the table. he fit in nicely, warmed up to everyone. there was no weirdness to sort though, no visibly tense moments. my family never brought up his job situation, and as i sat at the table looking over at my sister’s chinese husband and two biracial kids, i realized how silly i was to worry that Mo’s race would be an issue in my family.
my father seemed to appreciate that, like him, Mo wasn’t fond of cats, and he even found funny Mo’s story on how, during high school, Mo and friends used to record soft porn off the television in my childhood home, taking advantage of my family’s illegal “black box” that received all the cable channels, including the naughty ones. i beamed when the joke went over well, declaring dumbly, and perhaps a bit too loudly, “see, we all have the same sense of humor!!”
even Juice had a grand time, rummaging as she was through the pile of dog toys set aside for my parents’ miniature pinscher, who sat nearby looking forlorn. my sister’s kids were sparkling angels, despite my young nephew’s attempts at joining Mo as he used the restroom; and my parents and i got along splendidly, keeping our respective monster claws under wraps. Mo and i received various gift cards as holiday gifts, and were sent home with warm wishes and tupperware full of leftovers. on the whole, the night was thoroughly anticlimactic, almost unmemorable.
as the night was closing, i managed to steal a few moments with my parents for the debrief, which amounted to “so far, so good. bring him back!” on the ride home, i got the debrief from Mo, which amounted to, “overwhelming, but not bad. i could do it again.”
“‘again,’ really? it wasn’t too hard on you?”
“no, it wasn’t so bad,” Mo says with a smile. “i told you today would be fine.”
Friday, December 15, 2006
Tidings
farking hell, december already. i don’t know why time and its passage still surprise me. the way the days pile on top of each other to turn into months and now, almost, a year. not like i could expect a different outcome. but here i am again with the requisite, “oh, where does the time go? oh, the days move too fast.”
i remember how dreadfully slow time moved during childhood when i would count down the days until winter recess, summer vacation. the school year seemed so long and dreary, like adolescence itself. and though i don’t miss being a kid one bit, i do miss the nervous anticipation that accompanied every new calendar year, which signified the approach of a birthday, one year closer to emancipation at 18, to ultimate freedom.
nowadays, new years signify tax season and the need to put 2007 instead of 2006 on my checks, which will trip me for months. they signify the end of holiday gluttony, with the scattered picked-over party trays and dried-up poinsettias. then come the repercussions in the form of credit card bills, increased gym visits, crusty fruitcakes.
not to scrooge. i’m quite content with the present state of things, which, by all measures, is delightful. i have goodness all around me. i feel stable, secure, loved, in control and... bored.
the days are predictable: wake, work, sleep, rinse and repeat. and next year will be no different. i also feel perpetually sick, having just shaken off a cold that kept me home from work for a few days. i had gnarly sniffles that moved me through a box of tissues a day and left me with tender nostrils. when i went in for a haircut last weekend, my hair guy seemed alarmed by their redness, and asked whether i had a “colombian hangover.” now it feels as though the bug jumped from my nose to lungs, making me wheezy.
while home sick, i roamed around in my polka dot pajamas, looking for low-effort things to do between naps. at some midday point, the phone rang and i went to grab it, checking the caller ID as usual before answering. “Zsa Zsa Gabor,” it read. fuck! “hello! hello?” dial tone. fuck!
it was the highlight of my day.
i remember how dreadfully slow time moved during childhood when i would count down the days until winter recess, summer vacation. the school year seemed so long and dreary, like adolescence itself. and though i don’t miss being a kid one bit, i do miss the nervous anticipation that accompanied every new calendar year, which signified the approach of a birthday, one year closer to emancipation at 18, to ultimate freedom.
nowadays, new years signify tax season and the need to put 2007 instead of 2006 on my checks, which will trip me for months. they signify the end of holiday gluttony, with the scattered picked-over party trays and dried-up poinsettias. then come the repercussions in the form of credit card bills, increased gym visits, crusty fruitcakes.
not to scrooge. i’m quite content with the present state of things, which, by all measures, is delightful. i have goodness all around me. i feel stable, secure, loved, in control and... bored.
the days are predictable: wake, work, sleep, rinse and repeat. and next year will be no different. i also feel perpetually sick, having just shaken off a cold that kept me home from work for a few days. i had gnarly sniffles that moved me through a box of tissues a day and left me with tender nostrils. when i went in for a haircut last weekend, my hair guy seemed alarmed by their redness, and asked whether i had a “colombian hangover.” now it feels as though the bug jumped from my nose to lungs, making me wheezy.
while home sick, i roamed around in my polka dot pajamas, looking for low-effort things to do between naps. at some midday point, the phone rang and i went to grab it, checking the caller ID as usual before answering. “Zsa Zsa Gabor,” it read. fuck! “hello! hello?” dial tone. fuck!
it was the highlight of my day.
Tuesday, December 05, 2006
The Digs
much of my spare time and money the past several months have been poured into beautifying my home. it’s become such a favorite pastime of mine that i don't know how to exist without it. and if my lengthy Upgrade List is any indication, i won’t need to know anytime soon as even perfectly functional housewares – like the Martha Stewart dinnerware set i bought at Kmart years ago – have been deemed in need of replacement.
most recently, my living room underwent a major facelift that saw its walls painted and furniture replaced. we cancers are a domestic ilk who prefer their houses to be homey and i am no exception. my lounge time at home is one of my most cherished activities so i aimed for comfort and color when reimagining my living room.
luckily i had a design guru boyfriend to help me in my decorative pursuits. “you need to get over your color fear,” Mo would say (almost daily), picking out a Cabbage Green swatch at Home Depot. i can’t say we agreed on everything, but i am glad i went with his suggestions as they produced a mighty cozy room. and i’m very thankful that he did the painting and put together most of the furniture as my sorry self can barely use a level correctly. here are the results.
in this corner: we have my lustrous desk/work area where all the sitting on my ass takes place. nothing really changed here. still disorganized as ever.
another corner: i should be lighting those candles more often, but they only ever seem to burn during a party. whoops, just thinking aloud. so yeah, this is another corner of the living room.
the blue dog: Mo didn’t paint this, but it used to hang in his apartment before he moved in with me.
also Mo’s: this is a flattened spray can painted by L.A. street artist Buff Monster, whom Mo recently interviewed for a feature on Archinect.
this one’s mine: anyone who’s eaten at Canter’s on Fairfax has likely passed the Blitzstein Museum of Art. i surely had, and was long desirous of something from his store. i landed on this piece very quickly upon walking in – the lightbulb man painted on natural wood with a hole in his heart. i snatched it on the spot.
Matryoshka: that’s the Russian word for Soviet nesting dolls. i also snatched these up as soon as i saw them, a few years back while on my European adventure. they feature former Soviet leaders, starting with little Lenin in the center, then up to Stalin, Khrushchev, Yeltsin and Gorbie topping them off with painted hickey on his head.
more Soviet: the 1980 Olympiad poster, plus another one of Mo’s Buff Monster cans (he has three total).
the non-blue dog: no living room of mine could ever be complete without the sweet and smiley juice.
always been a stunner: here we see the photogenic wonder wide awake, at left, aged four months; and sound asleep, at right, six weeks old.
her boyfriend and mine: exchange knowing glances while sitting on the couch together, both probably wondering, “what the hell is up with these bitches?” black Max is a neighbor’s dog and frequent houseguest.
(maybe this is my color fear taking over, but i’m worried that those uber-bright throws are a bit much for the already bright room. i’m thinking of replacing them with solid brown throws that match the chocolate-colored futon underneath. yes?)
another bulbous head: Mo says i have a penchant for these in the artwork i select, like this painting i bought several years ago while on a trip to mexico.
another Soviet head: dusty, busted Lenin bust in iron with russian devil figurine nearby.
the wall: wide shot of elements combined.
most recently, my living room underwent a major facelift that saw its walls painted and furniture replaced. we cancers are a domestic ilk who prefer their houses to be homey and i am no exception. my lounge time at home is one of my most cherished activities so i aimed for comfort and color when reimagining my living room.
luckily i had a design guru boyfriend to help me in my decorative pursuits. “you need to get over your color fear,” Mo would say (almost daily), picking out a Cabbage Green swatch at Home Depot. i can’t say we agreed on everything, but i am glad i went with his suggestions as they produced a mighty cozy room. and i’m very thankful that he did the painting and put together most of the furniture as my sorry self can barely use a level correctly. here are the results.
in this corner: we have my lustrous desk/work area where all the sitting on my ass takes place. nothing really changed here. still disorganized as ever.
another corner: i should be lighting those candles more often, but they only ever seem to burn during a party. whoops, just thinking aloud. so yeah, this is another corner of the living room.
the blue dog: Mo didn’t paint this, but it used to hang in his apartment before he moved in with me.
also Mo’s: this is a flattened spray can painted by L.A. street artist Buff Monster, whom Mo recently interviewed for a feature on Archinect.
this one’s mine: anyone who’s eaten at Canter’s on Fairfax has likely passed the Blitzstein Museum of Art. i surely had, and was long desirous of something from his store. i landed on this piece very quickly upon walking in – the lightbulb man painted on natural wood with a hole in his heart. i snatched it on the spot.
Matryoshka: that’s the Russian word for Soviet nesting dolls. i also snatched these up as soon as i saw them, a few years back while on my European adventure. they feature former Soviet leaders, starting with little Lenin in the center, then up to Stalin, Khrushchev, Yeltsin and Gorbie topping them off with painted hickey on his head.
more Soviet: the 1980 Olympiad poster, plus another one of Mo’s Buff Monster cans (he has three total).
the non-blue dog: no living room of mine could ever be complete without the sweet and smiley juice.
always been a stunner: here we see the photogenic wonder wide awake, at left, aged four months; and sound asleep, at right, six weeks old.
her boyfriend and mine: exchange knowing glances while sitting on the couch together, both probably wondering, “what the hell is up with these bitches?” black Max is a neighbor’s dog and frequent houseguest.
(maybe this is my color fear taking over, but i’m worried that those uber-bright throws are a bit much for the already bright room. i’m thinking of replacing them with solid brown throws that match the chocolate-colored futon underneath. yes?)
another bulbous head: Mo says i have a penchant for these in the artwork i select, like this painting i bought several years ago while on a trip to mexico.
another Soviet head: dusty, busted Lenin bust in iron with russian devil figurine nearby.
the wall: wide shot of elements combined.
Friday, November 24, 2006
The Shit List
rather than run through the usual list of things i’m thankful for, which i’ve done countless times in the past, i figure it’s more useful for me (and entertaining for you) to run through a list of all the less-than-blessed things i’ve done this past year or two.
certainly i’ve committed no murders, save the occasional spider or cricket, but i’m hardly an exemplary humanitarian and i’m still ages from becoming the person i’d like to be (a retired superhuman). just kidding! i would totally be a philanthropist.
i must also confess that something inside me is convinced that my toe drama resulted from my being a lackluster jew this year – every year in fact. i don’t remember the last time i observed my culture’s holy days in any meaningful way. then for a giggle, i ridiculed the devout in my last blogging. and to top it off, i’ve lapsed from my once regular yoga practice, causing another blow to my “spirituality.” blasphemy to the bone!
so now i atone for my wretchedness:
• perhaps, maybe, probably a few times i’ve called in sick to work this past year i could have mustered up the strength to come in. not every time, though. and if you’re my boss, i totally was sick.
• i’ve been an L.A. flake aplenty – missing parties, screening phone calls, deleting emails and ignoring instant messages, often times very deliberately. most of the time, it’s just that i’m too wrapped up in my own dealings to be bothered, though there have been occasions when the people themselves are the bother.
• also bothersome was the length of Mo’s list for me when i told him about this entry. i guess i need to get better about taking care of his CDs and DVDs, like i do my own, putting my dishes into the dishwasher and apologizing when i’m wrong.
• juice likely has complaints of her own. having a yard in the back has made long walks through the neighborhood far less frequent. and i’m sure my fish hates me for almost killing him this year and not changing his water enough.
• i still use my expired student ID from grad school to get discounts on movie tickets and museum admissions.
• many, many blog-related regrets, none of which i care to link to lest they perpetuate my own personal embarrassment. but trust that i cringe aplenty when rereading past entries that highlight my bad writing and overblown ego, and contain overly intimate disclosures and the occasional grammatical or spelling error.
• to be filed under Megabitch Moments: i fancy myself much like the gentle stingray that swims through life wholly peacefully, only attacking when provoked. yet when i do attack, i will stab you in the heart. in recent times, a handful of people have tapped into this ire with their comments and actions, to which i’ve replied with a mighty verbal beatdown when i probably should have taken the high road instead. in no particular order, these people include: my sometimes critical parents, rude waitstaff, Mo on a bad day, an ex-boyfriend’s immature girlfriend, an overbearing coworker, unsavory car mechanics and a girl who tried to feed chocolate to my dog.
what a cunt i am! and how thoroughly déclassé to even use that word. i am going straight to hell. oh, wait a second, jews don’t believe in hell so i’m all set. phew.
truth is that i don’t regret all the happenings on this list (except the part about being a deadbeat dog mom). i do believe employees should use sick days as needed – that is what they are for – and i believe that, on occasion, people need to be told to “fuck off” when they are being ridiculous, myself included.
still, this list is rather mild when i consider the types of “sins” i committed in my early twenties when i partied nonstop and shot my mouth off for sport. i like to believe that my bitchiness is more purposeful nowadays, even ethical, succeeding where the passive high road fails. there are definitely things worth shouting about and bitchiness has its benefits.
i certainly don’t shout as much as i did before and in another 10 years – when i’m trying to get into movies under a senior discount – i hope to be shouting even less. guess this means that i’ve always been and always will be a bitch, but hopefully i’ll keep getting better at it.
happy thanksgiving, turkeys.
certainly i’ve committed no murders, save the occasional spider or cricket, but i’m hardly an exemplary humanitarian and i’m still ages from becoming the person i’d like to be (a retired superhuman). just kidding! i would totally be a philanthropist.
i must also confess that something inside me is convinced that my toe drama resulted from my being a lackluster jew this year – every year in fact. i don’t remember the last time i observed my culture’s holy days in any meaningful way. then for a giggle, i ridiculed the devout in my last blogging. and to top it off, i’ve lapsed from my once regular yoga practice, causing another blow to my “spirituality.” blasphemy to the bone!
so now i atone for my wretchedness:
• perhaps, maybe, probably a few times i’ve called in sick to work this past year i could have mustered up the strength to come in. not every time, though. and if you’re my boss, i totally was sick.
• i’ve been an L.A. flake aplenty – missing parties, screening phone calls, deleting emails and ignoring instant messages, often times very deliberately. most of the time, it’s just that i’m too wrapped up in my own dealings to be bothered, though there have been occasions when the people themselves are the bother.
• also bothersome was the length of Mo’s list for me when i told him about this entry. i guess i need to get better about taking care of his CDs and DVDs, like i do my own, putting my dishes into the dishwasher and apologizing when i’m wrong.
• juice likely has complaints of her own. having a yard in the back has made long walks through the neighborhood far less frequent. and i’m sure my fish hates me for almost killing him this year and not changing his water enough.
• i still use my expired student ID from grad school to get discounts on movie tickets and museum admissions.
• many, many blog-related regrets, none of which i care to link to lest they perpetuate my own personal embarrassment. but trust that i cringe aplenty when rereading past entries that highlight my bad writing and overblown ego, and contain overly intimate disclosures and the occasional grammatical or spelling error.
• to be filed under Megabitch Moments: i fancy myself much like the gentle stingray that swims through life wholly peacefully, only attacking when provoked. yet when i do attack, i will stab you in the heart. in recent times, a handful of people have tapped into this ire with their comments and actions, to which i’ve replied with a mighty verbal beatdown when i probably should have taken the high road instead. in no particular order, these people include: my sometimes critical parents, rude waitstaff, Mo on a bad day, an ex-boyfriend’s immature girlfriend, an overbearing coworker, unsavory car mechanics and a girl who tried to feed chocolate to my dog.
what a cunt i am! and how thoroughly déclassé to even use that word. i am going straight to hell. oh, wait a second, jews don’t believe in hell so i’m all set. phew.
truth is that i don’t regret all the happenings on this list (except the part about being a deadbeat dog mom). i do believe employees should use sick days as needed – that is what they are for – and i believe that, on occasion, people need to be told to “fuck off” when they are being ridiculous, myself included.
still, this list is rather mild when i consider the types of “sins” i committed in my early twenties when i partied nonstop and shot my mouth off for sport. i like to believe that my bitchiness is more purposeful nowadays, even ethical, succeeding where the passive high road fails. there are definitely things worth shouting about and bitchiness has its benefits.
i certainly don’t shout as much as i did before and in another 10 years – when i’m trying to get into movies under a senior discount – i hope to be shouting even less. guess this means that i’ve always been and always will be a bitch, but hopefully i’ll keep getting better at it.
happy thanksgiving, turkeys.
Friday, November 03, 2006
In the Streets, On the Stage
given that i take the same route to work at roughly the same time each morning, i tend to see the same people and cars lumbering through their own commute into downtown LA. it’s your standard blend of rat-racers – land rover girl who puts on her makeup while speeding, prius guy who reviews documents at every red light and, of course, the half-asleep but happy me in my cute jetta (new car excitement still hasn’t worn off). it can be a defensive commute: freeway-free, with constant stops and gos and buses trying to merge into your lane. the eight-mile journey each way should only take about 15 minutes, but averages 40.
i don’t mind it so much – unless i see him: the horrible, nutty him my bad luck often forces me to drive behind for several miles. he’s like a bible thumper on steroids, the christ crusader in the godvan. he always has the most agonizing christian music blasting from his car, poisoning the ears of the nice people waiting for the bus, some of whom roll their eyes when they see him passing.
his car, a minivan, is plastered with bumper stickers that love on jesus – tons of stickers, half in spanish, that cover not just the rear of his car, but also the sides and front where you can’t really tell what the original color of the car is (though i think it’s painted Resurrection White). stickers are your basic “jesus is king,” “lea la biblia,” doomsday doomsday crap, and a few attempts at, maybe wit, like, “In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned!!!!”
it gets worse. he has this sizable wooden cross at the ready. it usually emerges when everyone is stopped at a red light where his is the first car in the line. his holy little paw will come out the driver’s side window, cross in hand. then he’ll up the volume on the bad christian rock, and begin jumping around in his seat, causing his car to rock, as if he’s being possessed or exorcized, head shaking from side to side with arm still outstretched. he’ll drive like that for several minutes, sometimes swerving.
it’s totally creepy. i hate driving behind and alongside him for fear that the cross will slip at a high speed and smash into my windshield. i also try to avoid eye contact, lest he reduce me to a pile of dust. sometimes i think of calling the cops on him. he must be breaking some law. at the very least i’d like to encourage him to commit suicide. people like that seem so excited about dying. i know i’m excited about his dying.
*****
i saw my beloved Brazilian Girls perform for the third time in about a year and a half ’cus they are the shit live. it was the night of halloween and i felt pretty beat, having seen The Roots perform the night before at the Avalon. i was dragging ass the whole night, but the show was good, though not the best i’ve seen them have. and then the most awesome thing i’ve ever seen happen at a show happened.
the band headed into their closer: their hit song “Pussy” with its chorus of “pussy, pussy, pussy, marijuana.” for added realism, they lit a joint on stage and smoked it amongst themselves before passing the roach into the crowd. well, that must have been some bomb chronic because they got mighty sloppy afterwards. the music became noticeably out of sync, with my lesbian fantasy girl Sabina, the stunning lead singer whose first language is not english, butchering the bit where she urges the crowd to sing along, mistakenly saying, “boys, repeat after me: i got a pussy and you want it!”
she tried to recover, saying something about “boys being pussies,” but with the rest of the band also high, the comedy of missteps kept compiling and killing the performance. the band seemed good natured enough about it, finally ending the spectacle with the bassist jumping into the drum set. rock ’n’ roll at its finest.
i don’t mind it so much – unless i see him: the horrible, nutty him my bad luck often forces me to drive behind for several miles. he’s like a bible thumper on steroids, the christ crusader in the godvan. he always has the most agonizing christian music blasting from his car, poisoning the ears of the nice people waiting for the bus, some of whom roll their eyes when they see him passing.
his car, a minivan, is plastered with bumper stickers that love on jesus – tons of stickers, half in spanish, that cover not just the rear of his car, but also the sides and front where you can’t really tell what the original color of the car is (though i think it’s painted Resurrection White). stickers are your basic “jesus is king,” “lea la biblia,” doomsday doomsday crap, and a few attempts at, maybe wit, like, “In case of rapture, this car will be unmanned!!!!”
it gets worse. he has this sizable wooden cross at the ready. it usually emerges when everyone is stopped at a red light where his is the first car in the line. his holy little paw will come out the driver’s side window, cross in hand. then he’ll up the volume on the bad christian rock, and begin jumping around in his seat, causing his car to rock, as if he’s being possessed or exorcized, head shaking from side to side with arm still outstretched. he’ll drive like that for several minutes, sometimes swerving.
it’s totally creepy. i hate driving behind and alongside him for fear that the cross will slip at a high speed and smash into my windshield. i also try to avoid eye contact, lest he reduce me to a pile of dust. sometimes i think of calling the cops on him. he must be breaking some law. at the very least i’d like to encourage him to commit suicide. people like that seem so excited about dying. i know i’m excited about his dying.
*****
i saw my beloved Brazilian Girls perform for the third time in about a year and a half ’cus they are the shit live. it was the night of halloween and i felt pretty beat, having seen The Roots perform the night before at the Avalon. i was dragging ass the whole night, but the show was good, though not the best i’ve seen them have. and then the most awesome thing i’ve ever seen happen at a show happened.
the band headed into their closer: their hit song “Pussy” with its chorus of “pussy, pussy, pussy, marijuana.” for added realism, they lit a joint on stage and smoked it amongst themselves before passing the roach into the crowd. well, that must have been some bomb chronic because they got mighty sloppy afterwards. the music became noticeably out of sync, with my lesbian fantasy girl Sabina, the stunning lead singer whose first language is not english, butchering the bit where she urges the crowd to sing along, mistakenly saying, “boys, repeat after me: i got a pussy and you want it!”
she tried to recover, saying something about “boys being pussies,” but with the rest of the band also high, the comedy of missteps kept compiling and killing the performance. the band seemed good natured enough about it, finally ending the spectacle with the bassist jumping into the drum set. rock ’n’ roll at its finest.
Friday, October 27, 2006
Stuff and Things
• since the big car purchase, my life has been consumed by this strange new concept called “budgeting.” i guess i didn’t know how good i had it pre-monthly car payment. plus, my car insurance has more than doubled from what i paid for the crapmobile. i fancy my fabulousity so it’s difficult for me to accept that i must downsize my bourgeois lifestyle. but having reliable wheels is a bigger must in los angeles so i’m more than happy to eat my car’s interior if times get really desperate. it’s leather and i eat beef, so it must be ok.
• work is slow lately. it’s standard cycle-of-business stuff that affects everyone, not just me. freelance work is also minimal. when things get this slow i’m prone to engaging in a bit of online shopping, but i can’t. see above.
• the toe has been healing beautifully (thank you for your prayers). though it’s not healing quickly enough, as i still cannot wear closed-toe shoes. the one time i attempted it, earlier this week, caused an intense discomfort that turned into throbbing pain by midday. this means no sneakers and, conversely, no gym, and no heels at work. i’m pretty much wearing the same pair of sandals night and day. they could use a good disinfecting.
• Mo turned 30 this month (and whined far less about it than i did). i was having such a great time at his birthday party that i forgot to take photos of it for posting. but rest assured it produced an admirable turnout of beautiful people who enjoyed themselves immensely and didn’t trash my house too horribly.
• halloween. bah-humbug. i’ve never really been one to stuff myself into uncomfortable costumes and put on rash-inducing makeup, even as a candy-craving kid. and now as an adult living in west hollywood, i scoff at the gaggle of cars and drag queens that congest my neighborhood each year for the parade.
• living room beautification is now complete. old furniture sold quickly on craigslist and was replaced by more comfortable seating and a larger coffee table; the walls were painted a fabulous Cabbage Green and then adorned with new art and shelving; i even updated my vacuum with a far superior one made especially for pet hair. it looks great.
• work is slow lately. it’s standard cycle-of-business stuff that affects everyone, not just me. freelance work is also minimal. when things get this slow i’m prone to engaging in a bit of online shopping, but i can’t. see above.
• the toe has been healing beautifully (thank you for your prayers). though it’s not healing quickly enough, as i still cannot wear closed-toe shoes. the one time i attempted it, earlier this week, caused an intense discomfort that turned into throbbing pain by midday. this means no sneakers and, conversely, no gym, and no heels at work. i’m pretty much wearing the same pair of sandals night and day. they could use a good disinfecting.
• Mo turned 30 this month (and whined far less about it than i did). i was having such a great time at his birthday party that i forgot to take photos of it for posting. but rest assured it produced an admirable turnout of beautiful people who enjoyed themselves immensely and didn’t trash my house too horribly.
• halloween. bah-humbug. i’ve never really been one to stuff myself into uncomfortable costumes and put on rash-inducing makeup, even as a candy-craving kid. and now as an adult living in west hollywood, i scoff at the gaggle of cars and drag queens that congest my neighborhood each year for the parade.
• living room beautification is now complete. old furniture sold quickly on craigslist and was replaced by more comfortable seating and a larger coffee table; the walls were painted a fabulous Cabbage Green and then adorned with new art and shelving; i even updated my vacuum with a far superior one made especially for pet hair. it looks great.
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
The Road Ahead
i knew we were reaching the end of the metaphoric road. the signs were clear – reduced dependability, moodiness, dread at every interaction, the groans of discomfort that accompanied even the mildest request. each day together felt like it could be our last, saturated with the chronic anxiety: “will we make it? and what happens if we don’t?” i feared for the future, which exceedingly looked dim, hopeless and unavoidably real.
and at that final moment when the wheels stopped turning, i felt no sorrow. only a strange calm as i sat motionless and looking ahead, parked somewhere near fairfax and pico. sunday night, 10 p.m., hearing the death knell ring from afar. i put my forehead on the steering wheel and studied the dashboard, mileage: 165,955. i stepped outside and looked up at the sign: street sweeping monday morning. i would get a ticket.
Mo pulled up beside me in his ride, Juice wagging her happy tail in the backseat. i slide in back with my pup who cheers me with a face licking. “well?” he asks. “that hunk of shit is dead and i’m not dropping another penny on fixing it. they can tow it to the junkyard for all i care. i’m buying a new car tomorrow.”
and that’s what i did. i bought a car. this car. the very next day, i walked alone into a dealership after work, test-drove the car, spoke with the sales dudes, wrote a big check with an unsteady hand, and bang, i drove off in my new ride.
it’s a volkswagen jetta, in case you couldn’t tell. i went with a jetta because no one else in my generation drives one. actually, i chose it because it wasn’t a soulless, nondescript car like the civic or corolla, and american cars, of course, are uniformly out of the question.
but the truth is i had been researching the jetta for about a month and had pretty much decided it would be my next car. great reviews all around and cute to boot. i love me a good european engine and given that i couldn’t afford the luxury mercedes of my dreams, the still german and cozy jetta, which is small enough to park in hollywood and zippy enough to take to SF for the weekend, worked on every level.
it was used, very gently, a 2005 edition with just 20,000 well-maintained miles, bought from enterprise, which sells its cars after renting them. inspected, certified, still under manufacturer warranty with roadside assistance, financed through my work’s credit union for a no-haggle price well below blue book.
i felt mighty proud of myself as i drove off the lot, my eyes slightly misty at the thought of my conquest (and upcoming monthly payments). i had driven into adulthood finally with this, my first real car purchase, after years of enduring my parents’ hand-me-downs. i thought of the dead saab, lonely in the junkyard after 16 years of service to my mom and then me. yeah, whatever, i bought a friggin car!
my chariot is semi-loaded – charcoal grey with a grey leather interior, 6-CD changer, dual airbags, lojack, power everything, automatic 4WD, 2.5L gasoline engine, 5 cylinders and a bunch of other technical things i can’t comprehend. (who the hell knows what “tiptronic” is?) but best of all, it still has new car smell, baby.
driving is brand new. i had a joker grin the entire drive to work this morning, smiling dumbly at other jetta owners. this is the first car i’ve had with a CD player and nice sound system. (Mo has taken to singing “mr. roboto” around me – just like in the commercial.) this is the first time i’m the one volunteering to drive. this is the first time i haven’t been worried about taking my car on a freeway. this is the first time i won’t mind sitting in LA traffic. this is the first time i'm taking the long way home.
and at that final moment when the wheels stopped turning, i felt no sorrow. only a strange calm as i sat motionless and looking ahead, parked somewhere near fairfax and pico. sunday night, 10 p.m., hearing the death knell ring from afar. i put my forehead on the steering wheel and studied the dashboard, mileage: 165,955. i stepped outside and looked up at the sign: street sweeping monday morning. i would get a ticket.
Mo pulled up beside me in his ride, Juice wagging her happy tail in the backseat. i slide in back with my pup who cheers me with a face licking. “well?” he asks. “that hunk of shit is dead and i’m not dropping another penny on fixing it. they can tow it to the junkyard for all i care. i’m buying a new car tomorrow.”
and that’s what i did. i bought a car. this car. the very next day, i walked alone into a dealership after work, test-drove the car, spoke with the sales dudes, wrote a big check with an unsteady hand, and bang, i drove off in my new ride.
it’s a volkswagen jetta, in case you couldn’t tell. i went with a jetta because no one else in my generation drives one. actually, i chose it because it wasn’t a soulless, nondescript car like the civic or corolla, and american cars, of course, are uniformly out of the question.
but the truth is i had been researching the jetta for about a month and had pretty much decided it would be my next car. great reviews all around and cute to boot. i love me a good european engine and given that i couldn’t afford the luxury mercedes of my dreams, the still german and cozy jetta, which is small enough to park in hollywood and zippy enough to take to SF for the weekend, worked on every level.
it was used, very gently, a 2005 edition with just 20,000 well-maintained miles, bought from enterprise, which sells its cars after renting them. inspected, certified, still under manufacturer warranty with roadside assistance, financed through my work’s credit union for a no-haggle price well below blue book.
i felt mighty proud of myself as i drove off the lot, my eyes slightly misty at the thought of my conquest (and upcoming monthly payments). i had driven into adulthood finally with this, my first real car purchase, after years of enduring my parents’ hand-me-downs. i thought of the dead saab, lonely in the junkyard after 16 years of service to my mom and then me. yeah, whatever, i bought a friggin car!
my chariot is semi-loaded – charcoal grey with a grey leather interior, 6-CD changer, dual airbags, lojack, power everything, automatic 4WD, 2.5L gasoline engine, 5 cylinders and a bunch of other technical things i can’t comprehend. (who the hell knows what “tiptronic” is?) but best of all, it still has new car smell, baby.
driving is brand new. i had a joker grin the entire drive to work this morning, smiling dumbly at other jetta owners. this is the first car i’ve had with a CD player and nice sound system. (Mo has taken to singing “mr. roboto” around me – just like in the commercial.) this is the first time i’m the one volunteering to drive. this is the first time i haven’t been worried about taking my car on a freeway. this is the first time i won’t mind sitting in LA traffic. this is the first time i'm taking the long way home.
Sunday, October 08, 2006
My Right Foot
having an ingrown toenail pretty much tops the list of ridiculous ailments. it’s one of those things that should be endured instead of admitted to, like an STD. it’s quite silly and i would have thought nothing of it if it didn’t hurt so damn bad. but it hurts really fucking bad, bad, bad and bad.
it’s like the hand of g-d is electrocuting me at the toe, flooding my entire nervous system with pain when even the smallest amount of pressure is applied to my toe. walking makes me very unhappy lately. it’s so difficult that i’ve thought of attaching a pillow to my mouth for biting.
the nails on both my fingers and toes are something bionic – they grow super fast and stay super strong (an unfortunate contrast to my hair, which grows an inch each year and is damaged from years of processing). mom and sister also have these crazy growth nails, much to the envy of our brittle-nailed female relatives. the dang things are also sharp as hell, causing accidental scratches galore. i’ve always considered them my secret weapon in a catfight. they can really cut a bitch up.
point is that when the big toe on my right foot started to bother me on monday, it was just a negligible pinch at the corner. on tuesday, it became red and swollen. by wednesday it was throbbing and purple, and when i finally saw the doctor on thursday the fucker was black and crusty with puss and blood. gangrene seemed on the horizon. amputation would surely follow.
“wow, that’s really infected,” said the doc when i removed my band-aid to unveil my toe.
“it really hurts, doctor. please fix it. but whatever you do, don’t touch it!! please don’t touch it!!”
i was near hyperventilation as he put on his latex gloves and approached my toe to give it a squeeze. my foot began to jerk wildly. i held my leg down at the shin as he poked around to my chorus of “ow! ow! ow!”
“you’re going to need to see a specialist.” i got the feeling he was beginning to hate me and just wanted to make me someone else’s problem. i tried to toughen up, shake free of the crybaby i had (suddenly?) become.
“can you put me under to do your exam? you can remove the nail while i sleep and send me on my way.”
sadly, it wasn’t that simple. the swelling needed to subside before the open-toe surgery, scheduled for soon, which means i have to consume antibiotics for a few days before the specialist can remove the nail. doc sent me on my way with a 10-day supply of Keflex, some weak-ass painkillers and a cane.
being dehabilitated by an ingrown toenail is embarrassing enough, but the cane is the cherry on top of the shit sundae. it’s not even a cool wooden cane i could rock like a pimp, it’s an aluminum orthopedic cane with a foam handle built for grandpas.
problem is it helps; my gimpy, limpy ass needs it. for some authenticity i’ve decided to wrap my ankle in an ace bandage and tell people who ask that i fractured my foot rock climbing. to make matters worse, this is the week when all the painting has been going on in my living room, meaning the room is a minefield of paintbrushes, buckets, scattered trash and a big ladder, with all the furniture pushed together in the center. this leaves me cranky as hell, frustrated as fuck. it just makes me want to use the cane for pure evil.
but i can only use it on myself, as i’m the one to blame. it’s as though my body is poisoning itself with itself. perhaps it’s karmic retribution for not fasting on yom kippur this year, for not even taking the day off of work like a dutiful jew. maybe g-d is pissed at me.
i’m fucking sorry, Man.
it’s like the hand of g-d is electrocuting me at the toe, flooding my entire nervous system with pain when even the smallest amount of pressure is applied to my toe. walking makes me very unhappy lately. it’s so difficult that i’ve thought of attaching a pillow to my mouth for biting.
the nails on both my fingers and toes are something bionic – they grow super fast and stay super strong (an unfortunate contrast to my hair, which grows an inch each year and is damaged from years of processing). mom and sister also have these crazy growth nails, much to the envy of our brittle-nailed female relatives. the dang things are also sharp as hell, causing accidental scratches galore. i’ve always considered them my secret weapon in a catfight. they can really cut a bitch up.
point is that when the big toe on my right foot started to bother me on monday, it was just a negligible pinch at the corner. on tuesday, it became red and swollen. by wednesday it was throbbing and purple, and when i finally saw the doctor on thursday the fucker was black and crusty with puss and blood. gangrene seemed on the horizon. amputation would surely follow.
“wow, that’s really infected,” said the doc when i removed my band-aid to unveil my toe.
“it really hurts, doctor. please fix it. but whatever you do, don’t touch it!! please don’t touch it!!”
i was near hyperventilation as he put on his latex gloves and approached my toe to give it a squeeze. my foot began to jerk wildly. i held my leg down at the shin as he poked around to my chorus of “ow! ow! ow!”
“you’re going to need to see a specialist.” i got the feeling he was beginning to hate me and just wanted to make me someone else’s problem. i tried to toughen up, shake free of the crybaby i had (suddenly?) become.
“can you put me under to do your exam? you can remove the nail while i sleep and send me on my way.”
sadly, it wasn’t that simple. the swelling needed to subside before the open-toe surgery, scheduled for soon, which means i have to consume antibiotics for a few days before the specialist can remove the nail. doc sent me on my way with a 10-day supply of Keflex, some weak-ass painkillers and a cane.
being dehabilitated by an ingrown toenail is embarrassing enough, but the cane is the cherry on top of the shit sundae. it’s not even a cool wooden cane i could rock like a pimp, it’s an aluminum orthopedic cane with a foam handle built for grandpas.
problem is it helps; my gimpy, limpy ass needs it. for some authenticity i’ve decided to wrap my ankle in an ace bandage and tell people who ask that i fractured my foot rock climbing. to make matters worse, this is the week when all the painting has been going on in my living room, meaning the room is a minefield of paintbrushes, buckets, scattered trash and a big ladder, with all the furniture pushed together in the center. this leaves me cranky as hell, frustrated as fuck. it just makes me want to use the cane for pure evil.
but i can only use it on myself, as i’m the one to blame. it’s as though my body is poisoning itself with itself. perhaps it’s karmic retribution for not fasting on yom kippur this year, for not even taking the day off of work like a dutiful jew. maybe g-d is pissed at me.
i’m fucking sorry, Man.
Monday, October 02, 2006
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