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[The Top Eight: Episode One - t.rex]
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So. This entry is part of a nine-part series on the top-eight people in my "friends" list. The first eight blogs, obviously, will cover my current top eight. Number nine will introduce my next friend to move up in ranks...and will bid farewell to one of the following: t. rex, Sean, Lacy, BEN, diane, Jessie Fetters, TechNoMad, or Don Vito. And no, none of you assholes will have any say in the matter, particularly those whose e-mails start off as "hey baby" or "is yr tong 4 rl??" That said...
t.rex: I met t. rex when I was in high school. She was a freshman during my illustrious, uneventful senior year at St. Ursula Academy. She, like myself, was a Latin geek, and I think the combination of being in Latin club together and sharing the same lunch bell hooked us two loony bitches up.
I remember there were two incidents when I scared her, as, believe me--at one time long, long ago--the child was timid and a tad naive (really she was, hard to imagine, I know.): One being during "beanie week" at SUA (when freshman are hazed, so to speak) when I, along with my friend Sarah, made her stand on a lunchroom table and sing Jackyl's "She Loves My Cock." The second being the time, around Halloween, when she saw me--ahem, on substances--run out of a haunted house, which she was in line enter, and yell some random shit about the grim reaper being hot. Luckily, t. rex didn't grow to fear me, as I sometimes have that effect on people I make sing or those who see me on drugs.
t. rex was a regular staple at the "cool senior" lunch table, overhearing our woes of feared pregnancies and break-ups and possible drug scores. I think she was there when we rolled a faux joint (with pencil shavings) just to practice--right in sight of a teacher. We were daring indeed!
Several indelible moments involving t.rex from long ago reside in the periphery of my memory, and I sometimes stumble into them while recalling high school or various toga-oriented events. One involves the drive from SUA to Miami (to pick up Sus5an) and to Dayton (to pick up Bil) and to Columbus (to a Latin convention, of course). t.rex had a mix tape, which I still have, and I think Bil, whether she realized it or not, was trying to get into her underage panties. Bil had a mix tape, too, with songs like "Accidentally Kelly Street." I'm sorry I had to put her through that, the four of us crammed in my Dodge along with Bil, his silly mix tape, his five bags and his coffeemaker. And, on top of that, we arrived to the convention late (missing the opening meeting, right?), which I'm sure got t.rex in trouble with Mrs. T., her (and my former) Latin teacher at the time.
Another episode worth mentioning involved her family's 2002 Christmas party, where many, many gin and tonics were consumed, many a karaoke tune was sung, and a joint was shared in the bathroom with the ladies of the t.rex fam. t. rex noted that this was the first time she had ever smoked up with her mom. I noted that this was the first time anyone sitting on a toilet (and actually using it) had ever passed me a joint. I'll stop at that before things get incriminating!
Anyhoo, she is public enemy no. 1 on my list because she was actually the person who persuaded me to enter the MySpace inferno of wanna-be porn stars and unsigned bands. It was through the Web, LiveJournal to be exact, that I met up with her four years ago, after not seeing her since the mid-90s. I credit re-meeting t.rex to scholarly St. Isidore of Seville, the proposed Internet patron. I think it is fitting! |
[Lollapalooza '06]
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So.
Anyone interested in sharing a hotel room with me and Sean in Chicago should let me know. If you are in the Cincinnati area and want to drive up together, even better. If you have schloads of cash, even better-er.
However:
You must not be a freak. (I know, I know, look who's talkin'...)
And you can't be a "naked" person.We all sleep with clothes on. No funny business. YannowhatI'msayin'?
However, depending on your cash flow and your willingness to keep me drunk and fed, the freakiness and nakedness clauses might be null and void. |
[And so.]
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Just now I decided not to tempt fate.
Rather than reheat yesterday's coffee, I made a new pot (decaf, of course, to please the kidneys). However, I chose to not clean yesterday's mug (and there were no others clean), as the kitchen sink is up to its rim in Thursday's pots and pans, and cleaning and drinking from bathroom or basement-washtub water, well, that's just nasty.
Hopefully, the bacteria I'm consuming is the good kind (that helps me digest yogurt despite my years-long dispute with lactose and other milk sugars), or at least its mild-mannered cousin that will decide to take Sunday off and not give me a case of whatever bacteria found in the bottom of a used coffee mug would normally give a gal.
I was up relatively late last night. Until four a.m. or so, knitting while surfing the many channels of shit I actually pay for. Why, pray tell, was I barely able to keep my eyes pryed open Friday night when I was actually out of this house attempting to have, what?, fun.
(You -do- remember fun?, S. once asked me)
I miss the late nights of random trips up I-75 to stop at every Waffle House in sight. The chain smoking. The drunken haircuts. Tripping over the bottles of Colt 45 and Boone's the next morning, while running out the door to miraculously make it to an eight a.m. lecture. Just how did I do that?
I'm not even thirty, and I've tossed in the towel. I grimace at the thought of doing or going or seeing, and shut down easily. I've developed a sort of social paranoia or anxiety, and am perpetually uncomfortable while out, though it's hard to admit it.
I am rarely not working or being productive in some way. And the mere fact that I am not at this moment working for one of my two at-home jobs, when I really should be (the chiropractor bills ain't gonna pay for demselves!), is bothersome. Life has come to a halt, become unbearably boring. And I kick myself: It's clearly my choice!
I'd rather go to the gym, than see a movie or go to a party. I'm in bed earlier than most toddlers. A hot weekend night for me is a trip to Target to buy blinds and, ooh, a large tub of Oxyclean. I drink decaf coffee for crissakes!
I have little motivation, that's for sure to be social. I'm not big on meeting new people (I am a bonafied idiot magnet, most who know me personally can attest to that).
The only people I truly care about are either in other timezones, or consumed with their books and babies and crumbling marriages, or were alienated by me (not on purpose, you see) during the years I confined myself in graduate-school fetters. I'll be old and alone before I know it, and I am scorched by that thought. |
[request]
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If anyone would like to come over here and do (my) laundry and vacuum the rugs and floors and change the catboxes and buy me (scalped) tickets for tonight's sold-out Matisyahu show at Bogarts, I would be pleased. I would say a year's worth of novenas for you to the patron saint of your choosing.
Maybe not a year's worth. Maybe just one novena. Hell, maybe just a Hail Mary, and I'll throw in a box of Girl Scout cookies. |
[Big Beer Love]
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I have a serious case of the beer bloat. And only after three drinks!
This is bad.
After all, St. Pat's Day is right around the corner. What kind of Irish girl am I, unable to withstand appropriate amounts of alcohol?
Oh, I'm not Irish.
Anyhoo, this glorious Monday consisted of the usuals: waking, working, waiting, and waiting some more. But instead of hitting the gym after getting home, I opted to head to Meiners and drink a few beers and consume a healthy dose of saturated fat. I shall punish myself with a 6-mile run and extra squats. Spring is almost here, but my bikini-friendly body is not. Did I mention the beer bloat?
I need to stop making excuses for myself, but I will say that when I return for my follow-up visit with Dr. S., I'm going to inquire about getting my thyroid tested. I should have lost more weight by now.
I'm watching Big Love, again. Nikki's catalog-shopping addiction kills me. As do the gratuitous Bill Paxton ass shots.
Mmm, Mormon ass. I'm kidding really. |
[Story of a Sunday Afternoon]
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Today, I think it has happened. My kitchen has been completed, not by another expensive cabinet from Home Depot, and not by yet another purchase from Target. But from a lucky find, thanks to the St. Vincent de Paul on Este. Thank you, patron saint of charities.
Yesterday, the Sean and I found a corner cabinet that -looked- as if it might fit in the wee space left in my wee kitchen-sans-pantry. It was new, never been touched. The previous owners probably failed to find a use for it as they assembled their own kitchen or whatever room the piece was intended for. So, rather than going back to place of purchase, it was donated, much like the women's clothing at the thrift store still with tags still in place (ladies, we're all guilty of buying skinny clothes we never quite fit into, yes, and sometimes these clothes stay hanging, untouched, and sometimes they end up at the thrift store, as a tax credit is often better than a store credit).
Of course, I didn't make the rash purchase, as with my luck, it would be to large for the corner (I could only spare 23 inches --at the most-- in each direction out from the corner).
But with measuring tape firm in hand, I returned to SVDP this afternoon, to discover that the cabinet was smaller than I imagined and would work perfectly. The Visa was swiped.
Of course, getting the sucker in the trunk of my Camry was a chore, as was tying down a trunk not meant for haulin' shit. (There are no hooks-n-holes as there were with the ol' Dodge, pbuh.) Somehow, with more than half of the cabinet hanging out the ass end of my car and with twine holding down the trunk and with my driving from Este to my house at blazing speeds of 15-to-20 mph and with me avoiding the hills at all costs, I made it home and managed to singlehandedly take the thriftstore find up the back steps, get it into the kitchen, and place it in its new home.
And what started as a fairly productive day ended there. I found no motivation to go to the gym, I almost went yet another day without showering (I won't go into details), I failed to do my usual Sunday cleaning routine, and I've done nothing but poke around on the computer, checking credit card statements, future bills, bank statements, and the like, and watch various home decorating shows on TLC. Now, what am I doing: rewarding my laziness with a lemonade and Southern Comfort concoction.
Tonite: Sopranos and Big Love. |
[Adventures in Acupuncture]
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So, after seeing another doctor today, one who practices both eastern and western medicine, I'm convinced that surgery is not the route to take in my adventures with what the textbooks call cubital tunnel syndrome. See, the problem is not with my elbow. Well, it is. There -is- inflammation in my elbow, causing my ulnar (aka not-so-funny) nerve to be crushed and my right hand, ring and pinky fingers to feel all sorts of cozy pain and tingling.
But there are also stress- and work-environment induced knots in the tissues of my arms, neck, and upper back that are the underlying problem. Sure, rerouting my ulnar nerve would indeed stop the pain (or would it? It could -not- work, as with every surgery), but it wouldn't fix what's really going on with me, and that -thing- that is going on with me could--in the end--continue to manifest in other ways. (Perhaps my left arm would be the next victim.)
After discussing my uninteresting medical history and learning of possible ways to approach the problem (involving visits to a chiropractor, shiatsu [deep tissue massage, which is hardly relaxing], and craniosacral fun), Dr. S. decided to do some acupuncture (which she wouldn't report to the insurance company, knowing that the bastards wouldn't cover it--despite the sneaky ways in which they claim they will).
Before any pricks were made, she asked if I would be okay with a needle in my pinky. Of course, I said yes, as, well, why would I not? After all this is all new to me. Her quick reaction was, "It hurts!" And it did, indeed! The first needle was inserted on top of my head. This was followed by several in my hand (and the pinky!), arm, neck, feet, ankles, and another one on my head. I reclined alone for about 12 minutes; about two minutes into my "nap," my bladder decided to get a bit ticked. Why? How? I used the bathroom just minutes before heading to the doctor. Anyway, I was able to hold it in until after the nurse came in and removed the needles. The doctor returned to finish up some last minute details about my health information and to give me to samples of a steroidal nasal spray that will help me get through my early-spring allergies. (That was the western medicine aspect of the visit. I loves me some free prescription drugs.)
After paying, I made a quick run to to potty. And I think that's when everything kicked in. The nurse had told me that having to use the bathroom after acupuncture was normal (it's part of the cleansing process). I had one of those after six-beers-broke-the-seal pees. Really. And promptly after, I stepped into a mild state of euphoria, which encased me for about 45 minutes.
Just in time for my dental cleaning at 4:15, which was not nearly as interesting as the prior appointment, but that's how I prefer them. I can't believe I'll be 29 this year, and I've never had a cavity. |
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