Been stuck on a downer train for the past couple of weeks. It started with a pain in the lower right side of my abdomen. After two days I made an appointment with another doctor who shared my primary physicians office as my own doc was out for the day. She gave me a pelvic examination. She sent me to Beth Israel, a hospital I've dictated previous experiences at here and here. She said she had to rule out appendicitis. She called ahead, I didn't have to wait long to get a bed. I changed into a robe and waited to be seen. The doctor's smugness didn't match the cartoon whales on his tie. He took one look at me and told me I didn't have appendicitis. Yeah, I coulda told him that, but the pain in my right side was there, it was real, and it was right where my appendix was. I asked him if the scan would show another cause, be it ovarian or otherwise and he said it probably would. In the meantime I pissed in my second cup of the day and got an ultrasound on my belly. The doctor told me it pretty boring inside of my uterus. That's the word he used, not "routine" or "normal" but boring. He got gel all over my panties. It could have been prevented. They gave me a pitcher of liquid to drink over the next hour. I drank. I waited. Two hours. The IV in my arm started hurting. They kept it in just in case they needed to take more blood. They didn't. Finally my blood tests came back, my second pregnancy test of the day was negative, everything else looked normal. Time for the CAT scan. I was escorted into a room. The technician was on the phone. I sat and I waited. She finally noticed me after about four minutes. She went to find the radiologist. She couldn't find the radiologist. She tried to call the radiologist, the radiologist didn't answer. She paged the radiologist, the radiologist didn't answer. A line started to form with patients waiting for their CAT scans. Finally another radiologist came down. They told me they were going to put something in my veins that may make my mouth feel warm. It did. It also made my pelvis feel like it was on fire. It passed and I passed through the machine. Back into my bed, an elderly hypochondriac was talking about gout. Her husband was humoring her. The smug doctor was friendly with her. He was ignoring me. She started whimpering. I laid there still in pain. The doctor came back. He told me he didn't have appendicitis. I told him I figured. I asked him if anything else showed up. He said I had two small cysts on my ovaries. I asked him if that's why it hurt. He said maybe. He gave me a prescription for Percocet for my troubles and discharged me.
I called my doctor on the telephone. She said that I should go see a gynecologist. I went to see the one at Beth Israel's Union Square medical building. It was on the second floor. There was a piano in the center of the open space between offices. No one was playing it when I went in. I signed in. Everyone else was pregnant. I waited. The gynecologist saw me. She was friendly until she stuck two fingers up my ass without me expecting it. She said the two cysts were small and normal and probably not the problem. With her hand inside me she pressed on two spots on my abdomen and asked me if they hurt. I said no. She said, "I just had your ovaries in my hand and you didn't have a flicker of pain. I was watching your face, nothing changed." I agreed. I asked her what now. She said, "It could be a hernia, irritable bowel syndrome, a bone fragment, a slipped disc in your back, it could be any number of things." That didn't make me feel better. She said a word I didn't understand and don't remember. I asked her what it meant, she said it meant I was essentially a mystery at this point but I should come back for a sonogram next week. That was all she told me. I waited for the woman at the desk to stop talking about cooking. She was busy convincing her co-workers that she could indeed cook. She was talking about meat. How she rinsed it before cooking it and then doused it in rum so it wouldn't taste fresh. I asked for an appointment next week. She said they were full for the next three weeks and gave me a number to call somewhere else. I walked back out to the mezzanine to make the call. A red-headed woman sat down at the piano, made eye-contact with me and started playing. I couldn't hear well enough to make the call so I walked away. The other doctor didn't have any openings for three weeks and one day. I went back to the office and scheduled my sonogram for August.
I called my doctor. She said I should come in. I'd been in pain for a few weeks and nothing had changed. I told her about the gynecologist. She felt my belly. Said something about my intestines. Told me I needed to see a gastrointestinologist. Maybe they needed to do a colonoscopy. Maybe they needed to do plenty of things, but it was beyond her medical reach. I sighed. I told her I just wanted to know, be it good or bad. I started thinking about everything I did, my posture when I sat, the position in which I slept, everything I ate and drank. All the seemingly harmless things that could be making my phantom condition worse. She asked me if I noticed any situations that seemed to make things worse. Walking, having sex, eating, and going to doctors. She said she thought it might be a hernia. Or a muscle strain. Or an injury from having sex. That's when I felt the pain for the first time, during sex. She gave me another prescription for Percocet, as I was nearly out. My mom was in town visiting. She was in the waiting room waiting for me. I had to rephrase what doctor told me. Didn't want to lay it straight out, that maybe I had hurt myself getting railed too hard by my boyfriend.
I am seeing the gastrointestinologist on Wednesday. I was told to keep my appointment for the sonogram and the follow-up appointment with the gynecologist. I keep telling people I hope it's not irritable bowel syndrome (which it's not, my bowels are working like champs) or a hernia because those two things seem embarrassing.
Showing posts with label Bitching is my birthright. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Bitching is my birthright. Show all posts
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Tuesday, May 11, 2010
Public Celibacy
Note: I understand how ridiculous it is that I'm actually writing about something in the Post annoying me. Almost everything in the NY Post annoys me, I read it for the crossword puzzle more than anything else. Still, this who celibacy thing really hit a nerve.
I was reading yet another article in the NY Post today about NY women opting for celibacy. First of all, in it's digging for famous representatives of the "new celibacy" it handed us the misinformation that Courtney Love is currently celibate. Love stated on Howard Stern that she didn't have sex for four years while working on the new Hole record, but that she's back on the banging wagon since she finished recording (if you haven't watched the interview and you have access of Howard OnDemand you should, it's captivating as Love generally is when she's somewhat lucid.) So in typical Post fashion it tries to convince us this is a "trend" by smattering in a few famous gals with stories of "regular" New Yorkers. Too bad their regular New Yorkers consist of Julia Allison and a former Miss Teen Alabama.
Honestly, none of this bothered me as much as how tacky I really think going public with your vow of celibacy really is. Religiously motivated virginity is one thing, but a "sex break" is a whole other. It's no one business who you are having sex with so why is it anyone's business who you aren't? There was a time in my life when I wasn't really having sex. I was newly sober and figuring my shit out. I didn't write a book about it, I didn't feel the need to call it a lifestyle change. It was, simply, being responsible and taking care of myself. Sometimes sex is a good thing, sometimes it isn't. It depends on the individual and where she is at. But honestly, if you need to not have sex to be able to record an album, you probably don't have a healthy enough relationship with sex to be having it when that album is done.
Also, in the Post's reference to Gaga's celibacy, it takes her quote out of context. Her stance is pro-relationship and anti-promiscuity. No sex without commitment. That's hardly celibacy. And while I do appreciate the punny headline, "They're Havin' a Celibation" crowing over a ragged photo of Courtney Love, I'm so sick of this shit.
I have no problem with celibacy, your pussy and whatever you want to do with it is your perogative, but this isn't even celibacy. It's just not promiscuity. These women aren't in relationships and I can bet you if they were in committed relationships they would be having sex. If they were saying they were avoiding relationships for the sake of productivity they wouldn't be in a sexy pictorial in the Post.
Furthermore, I think this is bad for women in general. We're once again returning to this notion that we are the gatekeepers to sex. We are the ones who are the decision makers, the naysayers. Aside from Lenny Kravitz, men don't make the news by saying they are off sex. But again, celibacy is far different from just "not putting out." It's great to avoid hyper-sexualizing oneself but come on. There is nothing abnormal about not having promiscuous sex. And really Julia Allison? Is it worth a fucking press release because you decided not to have sex for a month?!?! I mean that's what humans do after a bad breakup, they take either dive in deep or take a breather.
I am having difficulty vocalizing what exactly is bothering me here. I guess it's partially this notion that women can't be productive creative individuals when they are involved with men, sexually or romantically. Instead of casting off the notion of relationships, sexual or not, maybe we should be more focused on casting off the roles we take in these relationships and the relationship we have with not just our sexuality but our partners. If you need to not have sex with people right away in order to find the proper partner, that makes sense, but don't call it celibacy for fuck's sake.
I was reading yet another article in the NY Post today about NY women opting for celibacy. First of all, in it's digging for famous representatives of the "new celibacy" it handed us the misinformation that Courtney Love is currently celibate. Love stated on Howard Stern that she didn't have sex for four years while working on the new Hole record, but that she's back on the banging wagon since she finished recording (if you haven't watched the interview and you have access of Howard OnDemand you should, it's captivating as Love generally is when she's somewhat lucid.) So in typical Post fashion it tries to convince us this is a "trend" by smattering in a few famous gals with stories of "regular" New Yorkers. Too bad their regular New Yorkers consist of Julia Allison and a former Miss Teen Alabama.
Honestly, none of this bothered me as much as how tacky I really think going public with your vow of celibacy really is. Religiously motivated virginity is one thing, but a "sex break" is a whole other. It's no one business who you are having sex with so why is it anyone's business who you aren't? There was a time in my life when I wasn't really having sex. I was newly sober and figuring my shit out. I didn't write a book about it, I didn't feel the need to call it a lifestyle change. It was, simply, being responsible and taking care of myself. Sometimes sex is a good thing, sometimes it isn't. It depends on the individual and where she is at. But honestly, if you need to not have sex to be able to record an album, you probably don't have a healthy enough relationship with sex to be having it when that album is done.
Also, in the Post's reference to Gaga's celibacy, it takes her quote out of context. Her stance is pro-relationship and anti-promiscuity. No sex without commitment. That's hardly celibacy. And while I do appreciate the punny headline, "They're Havin' a Celibation" crowing over a ragged photo of Courtney Love, I'm so sick of this shit.
I have no problem with celibacy, your pussy and whatever you want to do with it is your perogative, but this isn't even celibacy. It's just not promiscuity. These women aren't in relationships and I can bet you if they were in committed relationships they would be having sex. If they were saying they were avoiding relationships for the sake of productivity they wouldn't be in a sexy pictorial in the Post.
Furthermore, I think this is bad for women in general. We're once again returning to this notion that we are the gatekeepers to sex. We are the ones who are the decision makers, the naysayers. Aside from Lenny Kravitz, men don't make the news by saying they are off sex. But again, celibacy is far different from just "not putting out." It's great to avoid hyper-sexualizing oneself but come on. There is nothing abnormal about not having promiscuous sex. And really Julia Allison? Is it worth a fucking press release because you decided not to have sex for a month?!?! I mean that's what humans do after a bad breakup, they take either dive in deep or take a breather.
I am having difficulty vocalizing what exactly is bothering me here. I guess it's partially this notion that women can't be productive creative individuals when they are involved with men, sexually or romantically. Instead of casting off the notion of relationships, sexual or not, maybe we should be more focused on casting off the roles we take in these relationships and the relationship we have with not just our sexuality but our partners. If you need to not have sex with people right away in order to find the proper partner, that makes sense, but don't call it celibacy for fuck's sake.
Wednesday, January 6, 2010
Gee thanks Ebay, now I'm drowning in a repetitive sea of bullshit!
All I wanted to do was sell a fucking vintage Chanel skirt! Thanks for going after the little guy instead of the Hong Kong dicks that actually sell fake goods on Ebay. I'm pissed as all get out.
Also, isn't this the longest most repetitive email you've ever read? It took all my strength not to reply with "Eat a dick."
Dear Beverly,
Thank you for writing eBay in regard to the listing restriction you are
experiencing. I can certainly understand your concerns about having
certain selling restrictions on your eBay account. However, having
reviewed your account thoroughly, I have come to the conclusion that the
restrictions were properly placed and will remain active. Please
understand the restrictions placed on your account are not accusations
of you personally nor do they affect your standing as a valued eBay
customer. The restrictions are proactive means of assisting eBay to
reduce fraud and negative buying experiences on the site. This selling
limit is not a disciplinary action; it is a default account state.
Every seller on eBay has been faced with this restriction at some point
or another as their account has grown. Eventually the seller can request
to have their account reviewed and cleared to sell these items in larger
quantities.
In order to maintain a safe and positive trading environment, all eBay
accounts have standard protective limits that pertain to certain items.
These limits impact the number of certain types of items you may list or
revise in a rolling 30-day period.
Once you have reached your limit, the system will notify you and you
will need to wait a minimum of 30 days before attempting to list or
revise these types of items.
This restriction was not directed specifically to your account and is
not due to any action, listing, violation, feedback, etc., of your own.
It also does not affect your account status in any way; it only affects
your listing ability for certain items. The restriction is part of a
site-wide initiative that we've implemented; all sellers that sell
certain types of items on our site have experienced this restriction at
one time or another.
eBay is committed to reducing fraud and negative buying experiences on
the site; this includes preventing the sale of counterfeits and other
unlawful goods on our platform. The sale of counterfeits on eBay
violates our business ethics, undermines the eBay Community's
confidence, and harms our buyers, legitimate sellers, and eBay.
The placement of these restrictions is just one of the ways that eBay is
attempting to fight counterfeits on the site. These restrictions affect
certain types or categories of goods, such as clothing, shoes, jewelry,
or watches, that eBay understands from rights owners as typically being
targeted by counterfeiters.
Again, this restriction only affects certain types of items, ones that
typically have been targeted by counterfeiters. You should still be able
to list and/or revise other items without experiencing these
restrictions.
Please understand that we're not questioning the authenticity of your
items. Once you have reached your limit, you will not be able to list or
revise any more of these types of items, regardless of the item's
authenticity.
We are not able to be more specific at this time about the precise
application of these restrictions; the restrictions impact a wide
variety of items and the affected items are likely to change over time.
The limits are also variable in nature and will be different depending
on the situation and on the types of items being listed.
These restrictions are a proactive means to reduce fraud and negative
buying experiences on the site; they will help increase buyer trust,
resulting in greater loyalty and purchasing activity for legitimate
sellers. We know that initiatives to combat fraud may cause
inconveniences for legitimate sellers, but these initiatives will also
benefit sellers with an increase in buyer demand for legitimate goods.
We want our sellers to build an established history of selling, both in
general and in these types of items, before we remove these restrictions
from their account. When sellers have sufficiently established a
positive history of selling along with a good history of policy
compliance, they may request to have these restrictions removed.
Basically, we want our sellers to establish a positive selling record on
our site before selling these types of items in larger quantities.
This is a standard protective limit that is on all eBay accounts to
begin with for certain types of items. This restriction limits the
number of certain items that can be listed in a 30 day period. Please
keep in mind that the majority of items permissible on eBay are not
subject to this limit and can be listed without restrictions.
After a careful review of your account and history with us, we have
determined that this restriction will remain on your account.
Criteria used in our investigation include, but are not limited to, the
following factors:
-- Selling history (minimum three months) and activity as a seller on
the site
****-- Selling history for these types of items (Need more selling
history for these types of items)
****-- Positive selling feedback (Need more selling feedback)
-- Any feedback questioning the authenticity of your items
-- No unresolved disputes with buyers
-- Compliance with eBay policies
-- Account in good standing
-- PayPal verified
-- DSR for Item as Described
I put stars in front of the specific criteria that applies to you. Not
only is this part of the initial reason your account was restricted, but
it's what you will need to pay attention to and work on for now to have
these limits raised in the future.
These are just some of the things we look for when making the decision
to remove your limits or not. They don't all apply to you. Some other
things we look for include your violation history as well as any blocks
on your account.
Even though the limits on your account remain active, you can still
build a positive selling history by listing other items. You can
list/relist/revise similar items 30 days after receiving the first
message. You received the block on 12/16/09, so you should be able to
list again on 01/15/10.
I would definitely recommend you sell other items until your limits can
be raised. This will help you build up your selling feedback and will
potentially decrease your chances of getting these blocks on your
account. Once you build up more of an established selling history, you
will not receive those blocks.
I do understand how frustrating it is to have the restriction on your
account. The best thing you can do right now is continue working within
these limits, list the items you can, and continue building a positive
selling history and policy compliance history. I would also suggest
contacting us again after several months have passed to review your
account again. At that point we could potentially raise your limits.
If you have any further questions regarding your selling limits, please
click on the link below for more information.
http://pages.ebay.com/sell/selling-restrictions.html
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Aunika
eBay Customer Support
_____________________________________________
(6757770)
Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Form Message: %42223% 061001
D_ID010620101345D_ID/W_ID189147377W_ID/S_ID000S_ID
Subject: IV%X10151 Question About Listing [#US 100770T ?01 ]
User Feedback: 85
User State: ?01
Browser info: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 6.0; en-US;
rv:1.9.1.6) Gecko/20091201 Firefox/3.5.6 (.NET CLR 3.5.30729)
Topics > Question About Listing
Message: I have a restriction on my account. I believe it is because I
occasionally sell designer items in addition to vintage. There have
been no questions as to the authenticity of any items I sell and I run a
very well respected store-front in New York City. I would very much
like to continue selling on Ebay and this restriction hampers my ability
to do so. My business depends on the ability to sell items online as
well as in my retail storefront.
Please review my restriction as I would like to have it lifted as soon
as possible. I have all positive feedback and don't appreciated being
restricted when having done nothing but follow the rules.
Thank you.
Also, isn't this the longest most repetitive email you've ever read? It took all my strength not to reply with "Eat a dick."
Dear Beverly,
Thank you for writing eBay in regard to the listing restriction you are
experiencing. I can certainly understand your concerns about having
certain selling restrictions on your eBay account. However, having
reviewed your account thoroughly, I have come to the conclusion that the
restrictions were properly placed and will remain active. Please
understand the restrictions placed on your account are not accusations
of you personally nor do they affect your standing as a valued eBay
customer. The restrictions are proactive means of assisting eBay to
reduce fraud and negative buying experiences on the site. This selling
limit is not a disciplinary action; it is a default account state.
Every seller on eBay has been faced with this restriction at some point
or another as their account has grown. Eventually the seller can request
to have their account reviewed and cleared to sell these items in larger
quantities.
In order to maintain a safe and positive trading environment, all eBay
accounts have standard protective limits that pertain to certain items.
These limits impact the number of certain types of items you may list or
revise in a rolling 30-day period.
Once you have reached your limit, the system will notify you and you
will need to wait a minimum of 30 days before attempting to list or
revise these types of items.
This restriction was not directed specifically to your account and is
not due to any action, listing, violation, feedback, etc., of your own.
It also does not affect your account status in any way; it only affects
your listing ability for certain items. The restriction is part of a
site-wide initiative that we've implemented; all sellers that sell
certain types of items on our site have experienced this restriction at
one time or another.
eBay is committed to reducing fraud and negative buying experiences on
the site; this includes preventing the sale of counterfeits and other
unlawful goods on our platform. The sale of counterfeits on eBay
violates our business ethics, undermines the eBay Community's
confidence, and harms our buyers, legitimate sellers, and eBay.
The placement of these restrictions is just one of the ways that eBay is
attempting to fight counterfeits on the site. These restrictions affect
certain types or categories of goods, such as clothing, shoes, jewelry,
or watches, that eBay understands from rights owners as typically being
targeted by counterfeiters.
Again, this restriction only affects certain types of items, ones that
typically have been targeted by counterfeiters. You should still be able
to list and/or revise other items without experiencing these
restrictions.
Please understand that we're not questioning the authenticity of your
items. Once you have reached your limit, you will not be able to list or
revise any more of these types of items, regardless of the item's
authenticity.
We are not able to be more specific at this time about the precise
application of these restrictions; the restrictions impact a wide
variety of items and the affected items are likely to change over time.
The limits are also variable in nature and will be different depending
on the situation and on the types of items being listed.
These restrictions are a proactive means to reduce fraud and negative
buying experiences on the site; they will help increase buyer trust,
resulting in greater loyalty and purchasing activity for legitimate
sellers. We know that initiatives to combat fraud may cause
inconveniences for legitimate sellers, but these initiatives will also
benefit sellers with an increase in buyer demand for legitimate goods.
We want our sellers to build an established history of selling, both in
general and in these types of items, before we remove these restrictions
from their account. When sellers have sufficiently established a
positive history of selling along with a good history of policy
compliance, they may request to have these restrictions removed.
Basically, we want our sellers to establish a positive selling record on
our site before selling these types of items in larger quantities.
This is a standard protective limit that is on all eBay accounts to
begin with for certain types of items. This restriction limits the
number of certain items that can be listed in a 30 day period. Please
keep in mind that the majority of items permissible on eBay are not
subject to this limit and can be listed without restrictions.
After a careful review of your account and history with us, we have
determined that this restriction will remain on your account.
Criteria used in our investigation include, but are not limited to, the
following factors:
-- Selling history (minimum three months) and activity as a seller on
the site
****-- Selling history for these types of items (Need more selling
history for these types of items)
****-- Positive selling feedback (Need more selling feedback)
-- Any feedback questioning the authenticity of your items
-- No unresolved disputes with buyers
-- Compliance with eBay policies
-- Account in good standing
-- PayPal verified
-- DSR for Item as Described
I put stars in front of the specific criteria that applies to you. Not
only is this part of the initial reason your account was restricted, but
it's what you will need to pay attention to and work on for now to have
these limits raised in the future.
These are just some of the things we look for when making the decision
to remove your limits or not. They don't all apply to you. Some other
things we look for include your violation history as well as any blocks
on your account.
Even though the limits on your account remain active, you can still
build a positive selling history by listing other items. You can
list/relist/revise similar items 30 days after receiving the first
message. You received the block on 12/16/09, so you should be able to
list again on 01/15/10.
I would definitely recommend you sell other items until your limits can
be raised. This will help you build up your selling feedback and will
potentially decrease your chances of getting these blocks on your
account. Once you build up more of an established selling history, you
will not receive those blocks.
I do understand how frustrating it is to have the restriction on your
account. The best thing you can do right now is continue working within
these limits, list the items you can, and continue building a positive
selling history and policy compliance history. I would also suggest
contacting us again after several months have passed to review your
account again. At that point we could potentially raise your limits.
If you have any further questions regarding your selling limits, please
click on the link below for more information.
http://pages.ebay.com/sell/selling-restrictions.html
Thank you for your time.
Sincerely,
Aunika
eBay Customer Support
_____________________________________________
(6757770)
Original Message Follows:
------------------------
Form Message: %42223% 061001
D_ID010620101345D_ID/W_ID189147377W_ID/S_ID000S_ID
Subject: IV%X10151 Question About Listing [#US 100770T ?01 ]
User Feedback: 85
User State: ?01
Browser info: Mozilla/5.0 (Windows; U; Windows NT 6.0; en-US;
rv:1.9.1.6) Gecko/20091201 Firefox/3.5.6 (.NET CLR 3.5.30729)
Topics > Question About Listing
Message: I have a restriction on my account. I believe it is because I
occasionally sell designer items in addition to vintage. There have
been no questions as to the authenticity of any items I sell and I run a
very well respected store-front in New York City. I would very much
like to continue selling on Ebay and this restriction hampers my ability
to do so. My business depends on the ability to sell items online as
well as in my retail storefront.
Please review my restriction as I would like to have it lifted as soon
as possible. I have all positive feedback and don't appreciated being
restricted when having done nothing but follow the rules.
Thank you.
Tuesday, January 5, 2010
A few things
First off, don't the guys arrested in Pakistan on a terror plot look like a boy band? Ramy Zamzam...I mean what a name!
If only I knew Photoshop a little better I could turn this into serious gold.
Second, Bobby Liebling's wife has a blog called Halcoholic. It's weirdly fascinating to look at candids of him now. Plus his jewelry collection is insane and I sort of want to hate her just for getting that sweet ram's head pendant with ruby eyes...what?!?!?!
Third, I have been back on the flute playing with Skin Drink! I'll keep you guys posted. I missed performing so much and even though I'm just some background support it's gotten me pretty motivated to do more. Between the business, the writing, and potential banding I'm a pretty busy babe, which is good.
Fourth, I joined a fucking gym for the first time in my entire life. I haven't worked out in ages aside from my former life as a regular bike rider. My pants don't fit, something's gotta give and I don't want that something to be a zipper.
Fifth, more embarassing than the gym is that I created a Twitter for the store and now just use it to blab all day long. Follow me if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you: Foxnfawn
Sixth, yeah I know this was a very unsubstantial post. Sorry, I've got a sweater to mend.
If only I knew Photoshop a little better I could turn this into serious gold.
Second, Bobby Liebling's wife has a blog called Halcoholic. It's weirdly fascinating to look at candids of him now. Plus his jewelry collection is insane and I sort of want to hate her just for getting that sweet ram's head pendant with ruby eyes...what?!?!?!
Third, I have been back on the flute playing with Skin Drink! I'll keep you guys posted. I missed performing so much and even though I'm just some background support it's gotten me pretty motivated to do more. Between the business, the writing, and potential banding I'm a pretty busy babe, which is good.
Fourth, I joined a fucking gym for the first time in my entire life. I haven't worked out in ages aside from my former life as a regular bike rider. My pants don't fit, something's gotta give and I don't want that something to be a zipper.
Fifth, more embarassing than the gym is that I created a Twitter for the store and now just use it to blab all day long. Follow me if you want, but don't say I didn't warn you: Foxnfawn
Sixth, yeah I know this was a very unsubstantial post. Sorry, I've got a sweater to mend.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
ESL selling points
"an ingenious herd of charcoal fire"
I did a reading of this menu, complete with "soute spinach" and "mashroom salad" to an amused crowd of San Franciso-based house guests. Sean and I share a theory that lost in translation menus tend to have better and more authentic ethnic foods. When I ventured to actually eat at the newly opened Kestane Kebab on Nassau Ave in Greenpoint I was sorely disappointed to find that not only had they edited and reprinted their menus to take out the strange wording and misspellings, but the food was fucking terrible. Oh well.
Saturday, November 28, 2009
Hidden ASSets (yeah, it's that kind of pun)
I learned something during the two and a half years I worked as a shop girl at Barneys New York, fashion trends are dictated by the bodies and neurosises of middle-aged white woman. Everything on the sales floor was designed to hide a bulging belly and a flat ass and compliment the legs and occasionally the bust. There are two body types that seem to pervail among that consumer set, one is that peskily annoying kind called "perfect" gained from daily gym routines and some expensive surgical sculpting and the other is the "apple". Apples gain weight in their stomach and chest yet always manage to have a pair of gorgeous legs. It's a bewildering genetic mishap, but it seems to be the norm in a lot of white ladies and guess what, most of the super rich ladies in New York are white ladies (well that or Jews, and lord I wish the Jewish conspiracy was real because I would take my piece of that pie in a minute.)
My job at Barneys was essentially making these women feel good about themselves. Complimenting their bodies and catering to their insecuritie. Often this was done at the expense of my own pride. Nothing beats having a woman ask you what your pant size is. If you tell them a 28 then they invariably answer that they must be a 27 then. They want to be skinnier than you, prettier than you, more stylish that you. Richer than you isn't enough, it's a competition and since they are paying your bills via commission, you have to let them win.
So what do you do? You pull things from the rack and tell them how much you wish you could have them. Accent their privileges. Tell them they are crazy if they say anything negative about their portly mid-section and in the case of the "perfects" you don't bad an eyelash when they "accidentally" open the fitting room door with no shirt or bra on top. I've seen more pairs of fake tits working in retail than your average porn addict. My favorite kind of breast implants are the ones on older ladies, I love a 53-year-old with the tits of a 22-year-old. Also, these women tend to wear lace or other types of see-through thongs so you have to be prepared to catch glimpses of snatch, hairless or not.
One thing almost of all these women had in common was a severe case of ass-anxiety. If they had any roundness in backside they would lament it's hugeosity. If it was tiny and flat like most of the asses than came through the Barneys sales floor they would flock to the ugliest and most embellished of jeans. Being exposed to such extreme tactical body-consciousness made me look at the way everyone dresses differently. Suddenly I saw everything in terms of smoke and mirrors, a plan for attact. The body an assemblage of shapes and sections trying to reach an idealized whole, and the ass just gets left out of the equation. I won't go into the psychology of white ladies and their butts, but it's deep and weird. While I feel this anguished game of body camoflauge is acceptable in the elder New York rank and file, it really upsets me when I see the younger, much more stylish generation hiding their behinds and embracing styles that negate them entirely.
Long blazers, harem pants, drop-crotch, tulip skirts, draped wraps and cardigans, these styles line the racks of New York cool style-hegemonist boutiques. They are an all-out assault on the visibility of a woman's ass. Recently I was at an art opening, the crowd was full of fashionable ladies with nary a curve of rump in site. Maybe it's a backlash from the booty-licious high-waist trend, maybe it's flat-assed white girls hiding what they lack, embracing a trend much like their elders embraced the trapeze dress that's all about hiding. Not that flowy is the only order, there were plenty of skin-tight bandage dresses at that opening, but all of them were paired with loose-fitting long blazers that completely covered the wearers butt.
Fashion 101 teaches us girls that you are supposed to choose legs or tits, when dressing in a revealing manner, but what about the ass? The A has been left out of the precious equation of T and A. Then again, tits have been embattled for about a decade now, a bony sternum seen as infinitely more desirable in too many young girl's eyes than a lucious pair of melons. With most of the low-cut draped tops being bra-suicide, those of us with tits have had to sit back and let certain styles pass us by, but now, seriously, what the fuck do they want me to wear?
Not that skin isn't in. The mid-riff is back, cut-outs are all the rage, and the dueling throw-back Kellys (Bundy and Kapowski) are all the word amongst the collegiate fashion blog set. The ribcage has made a serious comeback as well, but while I don't know any dude who doesn't appreciate a well-placed flash of skin, it seems like the math is all wrong. Maybe I'm just a simpleton. I come from the meat and potatoes sexuality of the midwest where the best is in the basics. I don't' particularly see the difference between a young girl wearing an oversize blazer over her ass and an older woman hiding in a tunic and leggings. Nothing is intrinsically wrong with either look, but good lord, when you are in your 20s why hide that sweet sweet behind?
Take this girl for example. I get the genius weirdness of these extreme drop-crotch Commes Des Garcons pants, but I wonder what she looks like from behind. I'm sure she has a lithe lovely body and she just looks like a rectangle. Sure, it's not always about sex, but squarepants are for cartoons, not for a lady. Then again, maybe I'm just on the pervy side and want to be able to imagine what attractive people look like without their clothes.
Probably something like this. Seriously, is this the standard? Does Oak really want to sell me these pants by representing the fact that they make an ass invisible? Is it the cut or the casting, but either way, it bums out my bum.
Actually I'll probably be putting my feelings about Oak into words very shortly and unfortunately they won't be of the nice variety. They have the worst merchandising I've ever seen in the Bond Street store and their buys are boring as fuck.
Frankly I think this whole oversize blazer trend makes everyone except for supermodels look like they raided their mom's old closet stash.
Maybe I lack refinement but to me it looked like Chloe's Spring 2010 collection was gearing up for "Chicos kind of day."
My job at Barneys was essentially making these women feel good about themselves. Complimenting their bodies and catering to their insecuritie. Often this was done at the expense of my own pride. Nothing beats having a woman ask you what your pant size is. If you tell them a 28 then they invariably answer that they must be a 27 then. They want to be skinnier than you, prettier than you, more stylish that you. Richer than you isn't enough, it's a competition and since they are paying your bills via commission, you have to let them win.
So what do you do? You pull things from the rack and tell them how much you wish you could have them. Accent their privileges. Tell them they are crazy if they say anything negative about their portly mid-section and in the case of the "perfects" you don't bad an eyelash when they "accidentally" open the fitting room door with no shirt or bra on top. I've seen more pairs of fake tits working in retail than your average porn addict. My favorite kind of breast implants are the ones on older ladies, I love a 53-year-old with the tits of a 22-year-old. Also, these women tend to wear lace or other types of see-through thongs so you have to be prepared to catch glimpses of snatch, hairless or not.
One thing almost of all these women had in common was a severe case of ass-anxiety. If they had any roundness in backside they would lament it's hugeosity. If it was tiny and flat like most of the asses than came through the Barneys sales floor they would flock to the ugliest and most embellished of jeans. Being exposed to such extreme tactical body-consciousness made me look at the way everyone dresses differently. Suddenly I saw everything in terms of smoke and mirrors, a plan for attact. The body an assemblage of shapes and sections trying to reach an idealized whole, and the ass just gets left out of the equation. I won't go into the psychology of white ladies and their butts, but it's deep and weird. While I feel this anguished game of body camoflauge is acceptable in the elder New York rank and file, it really upsets me when I see the younger, much more stylish generation hiding their behinds and embracing styles that negate them entirely.
Long blazers, harem pants, drop-crotch, tulip skirts, draped wraps and cardigans, these styles line the racks of New York cool style-hegemonist boutiques. They are an all-out assault on the visibility of a woman's ass. Recently I was at an art opening, the crowd was full of fashionable ladies with nary a curve of rump in site. Maybe it's a backlash from the booty-licious high-waist trend, maybe it's flat-assed white girls hiding what they lack, embracing a trend much like their elders embraced the trapeze dress that's all about hiding. Not that flowy is the only order, there were plenty of skin-tight bandage dresses at that opening, but all of them were paired with loose-fitting long blazers that completely covered the wearers butt.
Fashion 101 teaches us girls that you are supposed to choose legs or tits, when dressing in a revealing manner, but what about the ass? The A has been left out of the precious equation of T and A. Then again, tits have been embattled for about a decade now, a bony sternum seen as infinitely more desirable in too many young girl's eyes than a lucious pair of melons. With most of the low-cut draped tops being bra-suicide, those of us with tits have had to sit back and let certain styles pass us by, but now, seriously, what the fuck do they want me to wear?
Not that skin isn't in. The mid-riff is back, cut-outs are all the rage, and the dueling throw-back Kellys (Bundy and Kapowski) are all the word amongst the collegiate fashion blog set. The ribcage has made a serious comeback as well, but while I don't know any dude who doesn't appreciate a well-placed flash of skin, it seems like the math is all wrong. Maybe I'm just a simpleton. I come from the meat and potatoes sexuality of the midwest where the best is in the basics. I don't' particularly see the difference between a young girl wearing an oversize blazer over her ass and an older woman hiding in a tunic and leggings. Nothing is intrinsically wrong with either look, but good lord, when you are in your 20s why hide that sweet sweet behind?
Take this girl for example. I get the genius weirdness of these extreme drop-crotch Commes Des Garcons pants, but I wonder what she looks like from behind. I'm sure she has a lithe lovely body and she just looks like a rectangle. Sure, it's not always about sex, but squarepants are for cartoons, not for a lady. Then again, maybe I'm just on the pervy side and want to be able to imagine what attractive people look like without their clothes.
Probably something like this. Seriously, is this the standard? Does Oak really want to sell me these pants by representing the fact that they make an ass invisible? Is it the cut or the casting, but either way, it bums out my bum.
Actually I'll probably be putting my feelings about Oak into words very shortly and unfortunately they won't be of the nice variety. They have the worst merchandising I've ever seen in the Bond Street store and their buys are boring as fuck.
Frankly I think this whole oversize blazer trend makes everyone except for supermodels look like they raided their mom's old closet stash.
Maybe I lack refinement but to me it looked like Chloe's Spring 2010 collection was gearing up for "Chicos kind of day."
Saturday, July 11, 2009
More than just a couple of dicks
Two days after reading this article about residents' frustrations about the recent rash of filming in Greenpoint the new Kevin Smith movie, A Couple of Dicks started shooting on my boyfriend's block. After walking 8 miles to and from the Lower East Side the last thing I wanted to deal with was the cameras and the lights right outside the window, so I was relieved to see they were shooting around the corner a couple of blocks away down Nassau. Unfortunately even though the shots were being done with stunt doubles enclosed in cars, it prompted a crowd that extended all the up to our quiet street. Maybe they are hoping to catch a glimpse of Bruce Willis or Tracy Morgan (I thought I saw him from the window last night but from my aerial view it could have just been a black guy in a baseball cap) but honestly I don't think they are even on set tonight.
Maybe I am wrong, maybe Tracy Morgan will do come out in a star-spangled unitard and start doing backflips, but have you ever been a bystander on a film set? It's the most boring of boring. I remember being in D.C. when I was 12 where they were filming the Pelican Brief. Basically we spent 30 minutes watching Julia Roberts running in and out of a building over and over again until she finally rewarded us with a brief turn and wave. This case is far more hopeless. They are filming two blocks down yet for some reason there is a crowd assembled on Sean's roof (he lives on the top floor of a three family building and I can guarantee you none of the people on the roof live in the building, unfortunately all the roofs on the block are attached.) They've been up there for the past hour gazing at a whole lot of nothing, unless you count floodlights. Holy hell.
Maybe I am wrong, maybe Tracy Morgan will do come out in a star-spangled unitard and start doing backflips, but have you ever been a bystander on a film set? It's the most boring of boring. I remember being in D.C. when I was 12 where they were filming the Pelican Brief. Basically we spent 30 minutes watching Julia Roberts running in and out of a building over and over again until she finally rewarded us with a brief turn and wave. This case is far more hopeless. They are filming two blocks down yet for some reason there is a crowd assembled on Sean's roof (he lives on the top floor of a three family building and I can guarantee you none of the people on the roof live in the building, unfortunately all the roofs on the block are attached.) They've been up there for the past hour gazing at a whole lot of nothing, unless you count floodlights. Holy hell.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
Fail
Officially added to the list of things we shouldn't say on the internet and even more so in real life. Ugh.
Friday, May 8, 2009
Justification 101
I wish I was more confident, I really do. I wish I was one of those people who could live her life without feeling the need to explain any potentially embarrassing actions. I am not one of those people. Hence I form elaborate reasoning for doing ridiculous or excessive things.
"You can never have too much of something as long as you collect it." Think about it. No one can give you guff about having four pairs of Ann Demeulemeester boots or four vintage studded jackets by the same brand if you say you collect them. I don't harsh my boyfriend for spending countless hours and dollars trolling Ebay for 80's home recording cassette tapes and he doesn't hate on my for my massive closet. This cannot be used as a method of cheating other people out of cool goods. A former of coworker at Beacons used to always whine that she should get everything that was vintage Chloe that came in because she "collected it". I tried to use the same excuse with her when it came to metal shirts but she said she collected them too.
"I was a cultural studies major focusing in media and popular culture. All these reality shows I watch are relevant to my field of study." If you've spent five minutes on this blog you probably know that I am addicted to bad tv. Which is funny because I don't even have an antenna, much less cable. But I'm addicted to watching bad tv on the internet. I don't get too ashamed about it unless someone else is around, I have the remote, and I flip to Oxygen to watch Bad Girls Club or the latest VH1 romance spin-off. Then I get all nervous and tingly, like I have to explain myself. Usually this is unnecessary because I've realized that almost everyone secretly loves the crap that I watch, even dudes. And they feel relieved that someone else picked it out so they get to watch it with a clean conscience.
"You can never have too much of something as long as you collect it." Think about it. No one can give you guff about having four pairs of Ann Demeulemeester boots or four vintage studded jackets by the same brand if you say you collect them. I don't harsh my boyfriend for spending countless hours and dollars trolling Ebay for 80's home recording cassette tapes and he doesn't hate on my for my massive closet. This cannot be used as a method of cheating other people out of cool goods. A former of coworker at Beacons used to always whine that she should get everything that was vintage Chloe that came in because she "collected it". I tried to use the same excuse with her when it came to metal shirts but she said she collected them too.
"I was a cultural studies major focusing in media and popular culture. All these reality shows I watch are relevant to my field of study." If you've spent five minutes on this blog you probably know that I am addicted to bad tv. Which is funny because I don't even have an antenna, much less cable. But I'm addicted to watching bad tv on the internet. I don't get too ashamed about it unless someone else is around, I have the remote, and I flip to Oxygen to watch Bad Girls Club or the latest VH1 romance spin-off. Then I get all nervous and tingly, like I have to explain myself. Usually this is unnecessary because I've realized that almost everyone secretly loves the crap that I watch, even dudes. And they feel relieved that someone else picked it out so they get to watch it with a clean conscience.
Friday, May 1, 2009
I've got some complainin to do
You ever had a migraine that lasts for two days? In the midst of that migraine you ever get the hiccups? Yeah, fuck you too life. Guess I'm not getting shit done today.
Wednesday, April 29, 2009
Bus-ted
Gee New York, thanks a lot.
Riding the B43 today I witnessed a mother changing her daughter's diaper while feeding her chicken McNuggets. Who the fuck changes a kid's diaper ON THE BUS? And who feeds their child while wiping it's ass? When she was done the mom transferred the child to the father and dashed out the back door to toss the diaper at the next stop. At least she had the courtesy to do that, although it was probably out of personal convenience than respect for others.
So fucking gnarly.
Riding the B43 today I witnessed a mother changing her daughter's diaper while feeding her chicken McNuggets. Who the fuck changes a kid's diaper ON THE BUS? And who feeds their child while wiping it's ass? When she was done the mom transferred the child to the father and dashed out the back door to toss the diaper at the next stop. At least she had the courtesy to do that, although it was probably out of personal convenience than respect for others.
So fucking gnarly.
Thursday, April 2, 2009
What's the opposite of money for nothing?
At the ripe old age of 27 my previous refusal to intern has bitten me in the ass. I find myself qualified only to work in a field that I don't give a fuck about-retail management. Why would I want to intern when I was making $34/hr hawking jeans at BNY? Oh, wait, you're gonna get sick of doing that? Really? And then you're going to want to do something else but no one will hire you to do anything but the thing you are sick of doing? Really? What's that sharp sting...is it reality? Regret? Who knows. What I do know is that there are plenty of great jobs out there now...if you want to work for free.
With those more qualified than myself taking paycuts, I'm feeling a little doubtful on my prospects of quality employment. So what do I do? I'm 27 years old, is that too old to start interning? Not necessarily, although a little humility will go a long way I'm sure. Sean's friend Chris offered to try get get me a stage (the culinary equivalent of an internship, you work your ass off for free and pray you get hired at the end of your run) at the extremely high-end restaurant he works at. I have always romaniticized the idea of having a trade, but have no romantic misconceptions about what life in a kitchen is like.
Unfortunately right now I travel far too much to have the possibility of a kitchen job in my life. I'm trying to think of what other sorts of internships I could try out. I could try to be Genesis P-Orridge's archivist or perhaps be a management company lackey. First assistant intern reporting for duty Mr. Wentz. Ugh. Right now my only job prospect seems to be professional blogger, but can you really be professional if you only make about $100/week? Just wondering.
With those more qualified than myself taking paycuts, I'm feeling a little doubtful on my prospects of quality employment. So what do I do? I'm 27 years old, is that too old to start interning? Not necessarily, although a little humility will go a long way I'm sure. Sean's friend Chris offered to try get get me a stage (the culinary equivalent of an internship, you work your ass off for free and pray you get hired at the end of your run) at the extremely high-end restaurant he works at. I have always romaniticized the idea of having a trade, but have no romantic misconceptions about what life in a kitchen is like.
Unfortunately right now I travel far too much to have the possibility of a kitchen job in my life. I'm trying to think of what other sorts of internships I could try out. I could try to be Genesis P-Orridge's archivist or perhaps be a management company lackey. First assistant intern reporting for duty Mr. Wentz. Ugh. Right now my only job prospect seems to be professional blogger, but can you really be professional if you only make about $100/week? Just wondering.
Wednesday, March 18, 2009
The grumpy beast has been sedated
All is well again in Beverly world. Despite a sore arm/back/ankle/head/knee, I was able to sort out my pain med debacle with a phone call to my doctor who called in a prescription for Vicodin for me. No, I am not sharing, I don't think my pain will run out before my little prescription will. So now that I am sufficiently relaxed, I am ready to tell the second part of my story.
I was dropped off in triage by my friendly EMTs and my vitals were taken. I went through the same run-through as I had with the EMTs, medications I was on, age, date of birth, allergies, blah blah blah. The triage nurse handwrote the info on my bracelet and got my birthdate wrong. After about an hour of waiting in the waiting room (where I got chastised by security for using my cell phone) I was given a bed in trauma next to a pregnant woman suffering from terrible back spasms and a woman who was in a gnarly car accident. A truck had made a wide right turn while she was trying to make a sharp left and pinned her car to a light post. I got to pee in a cup and change into a hospital gown which led to a very awkward conversation with the orderly where I had to explain to him that I was wearing a bodysuit in lieu of underwear. He blushed and said, "So no underwear at all?" So much for wearing clean underwear in case you have to go to the hospital. Thankfully they let me wear my bodysuit under my gown.
A nurse came to give me a shot of Tramadol in my ass, she said my arms were too skinny, and I dozed off for about an hour until my boyfriend woke me up by calling to check on me. He was stuck working on a jobsite upstate and couldn't come visit me until the job was done and his ride left for the city. Eventually I was taken to the Radiology waiting room where blessedly there was a tv and I got to watch the Family Guy. Unfortunately partway through the episode (the first part of the Stewie Kills Lois storyline) they moved my stretcher and I couldn't see it anymore and instead got to listen to a waiting room conversation about how terrible the show was and how it was the downfall of society. A few other semi-concious individuals lay around bitching but somehow my wait wasn't that long. A half-blind white-haired x-ray tech wheeled me into the room, told me my yellow toenails were cute, tried to talk to me about college and inquired about the Cult of Youth record in my tote bag. I unsuccessfully tried to avoid having to explain neofolk to him as he took x-rays of my foot.
He tried to wheel me back to trauma but I stopped him saying I was also there for a facial x-ray and a CT scan. Phew...and after about ten more minutes I was wheeled in for my first CT scan. It was weird to say the least. Laying there strapped down with my head taped to a neck rest knowing my brain was being scanned, it's super creepy. They also took an x-ray of my facial bones because my jaw was incredibly sore. I was wheeled back into a hallway and the slow hell of waiting really began. Two hours with no word on a stretcher in the hallway behind trauma. My neighbors were the car crash victim and a Puerto Rican grandma who was missing a shoe and kept cursing at everyone about her foot. She proceeded to eat an apple by taking little bites around the skin and spitting it out into a plastic bag until it was skinless and then munched everything through the core. Gross.
Behind me a man in police custody was handcuffed to his stretcher and another was wheeled by. Later on there was a hubbub of gossip coming down the hall that the second man in police custody had gotten violent and needed restraining. Still no sign of my doctor. I lay there waiting for it to be 8:30 so Sean could come in from the waiting area and keep me company, he'd finally made it in from upstate only to be told he couldn't see me for another half hour. I'd been in the hospital since 2:30. Someone finally checked on me and gave me some juice and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My pain was back but I decided to tough it out, not like anyone would listen anyway.
Finally my doctor reappeared, apparently there'd been some emergency that was life or death. Ergh, can't bitch about that. He told me everything was fine, no broken bones, no internal bleeding, gave me a diagnosis of multiple contusions (aka bruises) and told me that they weren't even that impressive. Fuck you bro, I'm hobbling around and can barely lift my arm today, feel twice as gnarly as yesterday...ugh. ANYWAY, he gave me a prescription for Ultracet and a note excusing me from work for three days.
So anyway, yeah, after telling the EMT, the triage nurse, and the orderly what medications I was one I was prescribed something that had a potentially life-threatening interaction with a drug I was taking. And it was the same drug they'd shot into my ass earlier in the day:
traMADOL (Ingredient of Ultracet) and Celexa (citalopram) (Major Drug-Drug)
GENERALLY AVOID: The coadministration of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) with tramadol, which has weak serotonin reuptake inhibiting effect, may potentiate the risk of serotonin syndrome, which is a rare but serious and potentially fatal condition thought to result from hyperstimulation of brainstem 5HT1A receptors. Patients receiving this combination may also have an increased risk of seizures. Pharmacokinetically, coadministration with certain SSRIs, namely fluoxetine, paroxetine and possibly sertraline, may result in decreased plasma concentrations of the active O-demethylated (M1) metabolite of tramadol due to inhibition of CYP450 2D6, the isoenyzme responsible for the formation of the metabolite. The clinical significance of this potential interaction is unknown. However, M1 is thought to possess up to 6 times the analgesic effect of tramadol, thus diminished therapeutic response to tramadol should be considered.
MANAGEMENT: In general, the concomitant use of SSRIs and tramadol should be avoided if possible, or otherwise approached with caution if potential benefit is deemed to outweigh the risk. Patients treated with the combination should be closely monitored for signs and symptoms of excessive serotonergic activity such as CNS irritability, altered consciousness, confusion, myoclonus, ataxia, abdominal cramping, hyperpyrexia, shivering, pupillary dilation, diaphoresis, hypertension, and tachycardia.
Sounds like fun, don't it? Good god.
I was dropped off in triage by my friendly EMTs and my vitals were taken. I went through the same run-through as I had with the EMTs, medications I was on, age, date of birth, allergies, blah blah blah. The triage nurse handwrote the info on my bracelet and got my birthdate wrong. After about an hour of waiting in the waiting room (where I got chastised by security for using my cell phone) I was given a bed in trauma next to a pregnant woman suffering from terrible back spasms and a woman who was in a gnarly car accident. A truck had made a wide right turn while she was trying to make a sharp left and pinned her car to a light post. I got to pee in a cup and change into a hospital gown which led to a very awkward conversation with the orderly where I had to explain to him that I was wearing a bodysuit in lieu of underwear. He blushed and said, "So no underwear at all?" So much for wearing clean underwear in case you have to go to the hospital. Thankfully they let me wear my bodysuit under my gown.
A nurse came to give me a shot of Tramadol in my ass, she said my arms were too skinny, and I dozed off for about an hour until my boyfriend woke me up by calling to check on me. He was stuck working on a jobsite upstate and couldn't come visit me until the job was done and his ride left for the city. Eventually I was taken to the Radiology waiting room where blessedly there was a tv and I got to watch the Family Guy. Unfortunately partway through the episode (the first part of the Stewie Kills Lois storyline) they moved my stretcher and I couldn't see it anymore and instead got to listen to a waiting room conversation about how terrible the show was and how it was the downfall of society. A few other semi-concious individuals lay around bitching but somehow my wait wasn't that long. A half-blind white-haired x-ray tech wheeled me into the room, told me my yellow toenails were cute, tried to talk to me about college and inquired about the Cult of Youth record in my tote bag. I unsuccessfully tried to avoid having to explain neofolk to him as he took x-rays of my foot.
He tried to wheel me back to trauma but I stopped him saying I was also there for a facial x-ray and a CT scan. Phew...and after about ten more minutes I was wheeled in for my first CT scan. It was weird to say the least. Laying there strapped down with my head taped to a neck rest knowing my brain was being scanned, it's super creepy. They also took an x-ray of my facial bones because my jaw was incredibly sore. I was wheeled back into a hallway and the slow hell of waiting really began. Two hours with no word on a stretcher in the hallway behind trauma. My neighbors were the car crash victim and a Puerto Rican grandma who was missing a shoe and kept cursing at everyone about her foot. She proceeded to eat an apple by taking little bites around the skin and spitting it out into a plastic bag until it was skinless and then munched everything through the core. Gross.
Behind me a man in police custody was handcuffed to his stretcher and another was wheeled by. Later on there was a hubbub of gossip coming down the hall that the second man in police custody had gotten violent and needed restraining. Still no sign of my doctor. I lay there waiting for it to be 8:30 so Sean could come in from the waiting area and keep me company, he'd finally made it in from upstate only to be told he couldn't see me for another half hour. I'd been in the hospital since 2:30. Someone finally checked on me and gave me some juice and a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. My pain was back but I decided to tough it out, not like anyone would listen anyway.
Finally my doctor reappeared, apparently there'd been some emergency that was life or death. Ergh, can't bitch about that. He told me everything was fine, no broken bones, no internal bleeding, gave me a diagnosis of multiple contusions (aka bruises) and told me that they weren't even that impressive. Fuck you bro, I'm hobbling around and can barely lift my arm today, feel twice as gnarly as yesterday...ugh. ANYWAY, he gave me a prescription for Ultracet and a note excusing me from work for three days.
So anyway, yeah, after telling the EMT, the triage nurse, and the orderly what medications I was one I was prescribed something that had a potentially life-threatening interaction with a drug I was taking. And it was the same drug they'd shot into my ass earlier in the day:
traMADOL (Ingredient of Ultracet) and Celexa (citalopram) (Major Drug-Drug)
GENERALLY AVOID: The coadministration of selective serotonin reuptake inhibitors (SSRIs) with tramadol, which has weak serotonin reuptake inhibiting effect, may potentiate the risk of serotonin syndrome, which is a rare but serious and potentially fatal condition thought to result from hyperstimulation of brainstem 5HT1A receptors. Patients receiving this combination may also have an increased risk of seizures. Pharmacokinetically, coadministration with certain SSRIs, namely fluoxetine, paroxetine and possibly sertraline, may result in decreased plasma concentrations of the active O-demethylated (M1) metabolite of tramadol due to inhibition of CYP450 2D6, the isoenyzme responsible for the formation of the metabolite. The clinical significance of this potential interaction is unknown. However, M1 is thought to possess up to 6 times the analgesic effect of tramadol, thus diminished therapeutic response to tramadol should be considered.
MANAGEMENT: In general, the concomitant use of SSRIs and tramadol should be avoided if possible, or otherwise approached with caution if potential benefit is deemed to outweigh the risk. Patients treated with the combination should be closely monitored for signs and symptoms of excessive serotonergic activity such as CNS irritability, altered consciousness, confusion, myoclonus, ataxia, abdominal cramping, hyperpyrexia, shivering, pupillary dilation, diaphoresis, hypertension, and tachycardia.
Sounds like fun, don't it? Good god.
Advance Revision
So I was all set to write a second post about my 6 hours at Woodhull and how the hospital was nowhere near as crazy or scary as I thought it would be. But I just got back from Walgreens where they told me the pharmacist prescribed me a medication that will give me seizures if I take it in conjunction with the medication I am already on. A medication I told my EMT, my triage nurse, and my doctor I was on. Sweet, thanks bro. Glad I was a paranoid weirdo and googled Ultracet in advance. Now I get to hang in pain all day. Sweet!
Monday, January 26, 2009
Awkward
My dad requested my friendship on Facebook tonight. This is my current profile picture:
It could be worse. At least I had already changed my status which earlier read:
Foiled by posting on accessible public forums once again. I'm sure my cousins are already horrified. And of course he can see my previous status posting unless I delete it but I am sure I'll make some other slip soon enough so why even bother. I just hope he doesn't ask me about battletits...or battle ass for that matter.
It could be worse. At least I had already changed my status which earlier read:
Foiled by posting on accessible public forums once again. I'm sure my cousins are already horrified. And of course he can see my previous status posting unless I delete it but I am sure I'll make some other slip soon enough so why even bother. I just hope he doesn't ask me about battletits...or battle ass for that matter.
Work Forced
Or alternately punnily "Workfarce."
So, after how many months of unemployment (September, October, November, December, January...wow) I finally got an interview somewhere I was intrigued by. I initially sent my resume to Le Book but apparently I wasn't a correct fit. Three hours later I received an email from somewhere completely different. They said they had received my resume and were very interested in meeting for a PR Assistant opening.
Now PR Assistant is not my dream job by any means, but it is work that comes easily for me. Reading over the duties I saw I had done everything on the list and was possibly overqualified for the job. I let myself bask in dreams of advancing in the Lifestyle and Marketing department of this large company who had recruited me. That's right, they wanted me. I imagined the benefits I'd receive, finally freeing me from the ridiculous cost of my COBRA insurance that is about to expire anyway. Sure I am working on a novel (ugh...that looks so douchey written out, but I really am, at least I didn't say "working on my novel" that's worse) but there is time for that and I could do it at night. Just be extra disciplined, right? My boyfriend was so happy for me he said he would take me out to a romantic celebratory dinner that night and promised to score us a table somewhere special.
I DJed the night before the interview but thankfully it was scheduled for 3:30 so I had plenty of time to prepare. I told my boyfriend he wasn't allowed to spend the night that night so I could be ready. I wanted to be focused goddamnit, at the top of my game and was willing to sacrifice any amount of snuggling to do it. I woke up early (for me) and made myself breakfast. Upon returning to my bedroom, hearty bowl of farina with apples and cinnamon in my hand I saw I had a missed call and a new voicemail. It was from the woman who was to interview me saying she wanted to touch base with me before I came in. I called her back and got her voicemail so I proceeded to try on four different outfits determined to look perfect.
Finally I found something that had the right mix of current and conservative (PR is a bitch to dress for when it comes to interviews...to show tattoo or no tattoo...that is the question.) Confident, and having received the thumbs up from my roommate I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when my phone rang.
It was her, my savior, my job prospect. She had just gotten out of a meeting when she'd first called me. The job she wanted to see me about no longer existed due to budget cuts. She was going to fight for it to be reinstated but didn't want to waste my time in the meanwhile.
That was it. Twenty minutes before I was set to leave my house. No more interview. No more job. At least I can't feel too rejected, I didn't get a job that doesn't exist. But damn.
So, after how many months of unemployment (September, October, November, December, January...wow) I finally got an interview somewhere I was intrigued by. I initially sent my resume to Le Book but apparently I wasn't a correct fit. Three hours later I received an email from somewhere completely different. They said they had received my resume and were very interested in meeting for a PR Assistant opening.
Now PR Assistant is not my dream job by any means, but it is work that comes easily for me. Reading over the duties I saw I had done everything on the list and was possibly overqualified for the job. I let myself bask in dreams of advancing in the Lifestyle and Marketing department of this large company who had recruited me. That's right, they wanted me. I imagined the benefits I'd receive, finally freeing me from the ridiculous cost of my COBRA insurance that is about to expire anyway. Sure I am working on a novel (ugh...that looks so douchey written out, but I really am, at least I didn't say "working on my novel" that's worse) but there is time for that and I could do it at night. Just be extra disciplined, right? My boyfriend was so happy for me he said he would take me out to a romantic celebratory dinner that night and promised to score us a table somewhere special.
I DJed the night before the interview but thankfully it was scheduled for 3:30 so I had plenty of time to prepare. I told my boyfriend he wasn't allowed to spend the night that night so I could be ready. I wanted to be focused goddamnit, at the top of my game and was willing to sacrifice any amount of snuggling to do it. I woke up early (for me) and made myself breakfast. Upon returning to my bedroom, hearty bowl of farina with apples and cinnamon in my hand I saw I had a missed call and a new voicemail. It was from the woman who was to interview me saying she wanted to touch base with me before I came in. I called her back and got her voicemail so I proceeded to try on four different outfits determined to look perfect.
Finally I found something that had the right mix of current and conservative (PR is a bitch to dress for when it comes to interviews...to show tattoo or no tattoo...that is the question.) Confident, and having received the thumbs up from my roommate I was putting the finishing touches on my makeup when my phone rang.
It was her, my savior, my job prospect. She had just gotten out of a meeting when she'd first called me. The job she wanted to see me about no longer existed due to budget cuts. She was going to fight for it to be reinstated but didn't want to waste my time in the meanwhile.
That was it. Twenty minutes before I was set to leave my house. No more interview. No more job. At least I can't feel too rejected, I didn't get a job that doesn't exist. But damn.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
New years, old jeers
So 2009 is over. I feel like I mark my years by age not by the calendar. I don't remember things as having happened in 2006, I remember them as having happened when I was 24. So the calendar changing over doesn't impact me that much. But suffice to say, 2008/26 was a rough year. 27 is so far more hopefully and with it, so is 2009.
My blog has been quite ruminative lately. It's been a big year, slowly letting go of girlhood and replacing it with an unfamiliar idea of womanhood I am still learning how to embrace. Yet I get more confident residing in this skin every day. Part of this slow, but necessary embrace started this summer when a lot of my walls started breaking down. I've always been one to keep my struggles secret, preferring to be stoic. For someone who professes to be such an open individual, I am really fiercely private about certain things. Anyone can know the mundane or tacky detail about my life, but in many ways I am quite guarded. My major struggle this past year was learning to let go of a persona I depended on to guard myself against the threat of intimacies and focus on developing and opening up my personality.
The difference between persona and personality is something that has always fascinated me. In fact it was a major topic of my senior thesis, Raging Against Intimacy in which I explored concepts of persona development in the club scene. I spent a good number of years dwelling in the confines of what I wrote, a persona complete with nickname, full of reference points that only referred to my interests not to me as an actual person.
While rave culture made some claims about the parties being about unity and transcendence through dancing bodies further enabled by drug usage, downtown makes no such claims. Instead, it is about annihilation and mayhem. Not that the scene is always tinged with dark undertones—it manages to be both nihilistic and naïve. Deep down there is the recognition amongst many participants that while punk rock may not have saved their lives, it definitely made them bearable. Friendships are formed quickly within this commonality of history, some are surface and some much deeper, but when recreation turns into required maintenance, these associations become fractured. The bonds that are formed are formed between the “out” personas of the nightlife participants. One person can refer to another as one of their closest friends and not know their last name and possibly seen them sober only on a few occasions. There is a staggering lack of intimacy within this scene whose anthems speak of loyalty and living and dying for one’s friends.
I wrote the above as part of my thesis in the spring of 2005. Three and a half years later not enough has changed. But my life isn't a dependent on that downtown rush as it once was. A few faces from the old days have faded away, left town, or passed onto their own oblivions. The rest of us awoke startled and confused in the aftermath. Realizing that while still quite young, we were becoming too old for relevance, the real world started interfering with our highs and the personas began to crumble. Jobs and the potential for success beckoned. Our art or our careers became priorities and punk rock a distant memory. We sobered up, looked around, and realized we didn't know a thing about those who we'd partied with for years. It was a sad state of affairs. Yet for some of us, the persona persisted.
Such as with myself, Beverly Battletits...former Battletorn-er, that chick who knows more about metal than most other chicks. Sobriety may have mellowed out perceptions of who I am, but a lot of the associations remained intact. Instead of relying on actually getting to know people I'd simply protest dumbly to the running commentaries as to who people thought I was. Until finally, one day, I learned not to worry. Anyone who thinks all I am is a metal record collection and a pair of expensive heels doesn't know me. And either they are or aren't worth getting to know. I shouldn't have to prove that I am a whole person, it should be obvious upon meeting me. I can't complain about people latching onto conceptions of who I am if I have done nothing but encourage them for years. And in turn if I have not showed them anything but that persona in the meantime.
This is all coming straight from my brain through my fingers onto this blog so pardon if its a little muddled. I have been in serious rant mode for a while lately and since this is my blog I'll use it as I please, and presently it has become a place for catharsis. However I hope my personal rumination also has somewhat of a world view and you can find my musing relevant or at least somewhat relatable. If not, then who knows, maybe I am alone here and the rest of you are a little more together and balanced naturally. But I for one have had to work on it, and thankfully I can proudly say I am just about there.
My blog has been quite ruminative lately. It's been a big year, slowly letting go of girlhood and replacing it with an unfamiliar idea of womanhood I am still learning how to embrace. Yet I get more confident residing in this skin every day. Part of this slow, but necessary embrace started this summer when a lot of my walls started breaking down. I've always been one to keep my struggles secret, preferring to be stoic. For someone who professes to be such an open individual, I am really fiercely private about certain things. Anyone can know the mundane or tacky detail about my life, but in many ways I am quite guarded. My major struggle this past year was learning to let go of a persona I depended on to guard myself against the threat of intimacies and focus on developing and opening up my personality.
The difference between persona and personality is something that has always fascinated me. In fact it was a major topic of my senior thesis, Raging Against Intimacy in which I explored concepts of persona development in the club scene. I spent a good number of years dwelling in the confines of what I wrote, a persona complete with nickname, full of reference points that only referred to my interests not to me as an actual person.
While rave culture made some claims about the parties being about unity and transcendence through dancing bodies further enabled by drug usage, downtown makes no such claims. Instead, it is about annihilation and mayhem. Not that the scene is always tinged with dark undertones—it manages to be both nihilistic and naïve. Deep down there is the recognition amongst many participants that while punk rock may not have saved their lives, it definitely made them bearable. Friendships are formed quickly within this commonality of history, some are surface and some much deeper, but when recreation turns into required maintenance, these associations become fractured. The bonds that are formed are formed between the “out” personas of the nightlife participants. One person can refer to another as one of their closest friends and not know their last name and possibly seen them sober only on a few occasions. There is a staggering lack of intimacy within this scene whose anthems speak of loyalty and living and dying for one’s friends.
I wrote the above as part of my thesis in the spring of 2005. Three and a half years later not enough has changed. But my life isn't a dependent on that downtown rush as it once was. A few faces from the old days have faded away, left town, or passed onto their own oblivions. The rest of us awoke startled and confused in the aftermath. Realizing that while still quite young, we were becoming too old for relevance, the real world started interfering with our highs and the personas began to crumble. Jobs and the potential for success beckoned. Our art or our careers became priorities and punk rock a distant memory. We sobered up, looked around, and realized we didn't know a thing about those who we'd partied with for years. It was a sad state of affairs. Yet for some of us, the persona persisted.
Such as with myself, Beverly Battletits...former Battletorn-er, that chick who knows more about metal than most other chicks. Sobriety may have mellowed out perceptions of who I am, but a lot of the associations remained intact. Instead of relying on actually getting to know people I'd simply protest dumbly to the running commentaries as to who people thought I was. Until finally, one day, I learned not to worry. Anyone who thinks all I am is a metal record collection and a pair of expensive heels doesn't know me. And either they are or aren't worth getting to know. I shouldn't have to prove that I am a whole person, it should be obvious upon meeting me. I can't complain about people latching onto conceptions of who I am if I have done nothing but encourage them for years. And in turn if I have not showed them anything but that persona in the meantime.
This is all coming straight from my brain through my fingers onto this blog so pardon if its a little muddled. I have been in serious rant mode for a while lately and since this is my blog I'll use it as I please, and presently it has become a place for catharsis. However I hope my personal rumination also has somewhat of a world view and you can find my musing relevant or at least somewhat relatable. If not, then who knows, maybe I am alone here and the rest of you are a little more together and balanced naturally. But I for one have had to work on it, and thankfully I can proudly say I am just about there.
Saturday, December 27, 2008
Crap on top of shit
In addition to my camera breaking my bike seat got stolen on Christmas. That somehow resulted in me spending money I don't have on a pair of boots. See the logic behind my life? Okay, neither do I. If my camera isn't covered by my warranty I told myself I had to return the boots because a camera is more important to my emotional well-being than boots are. Right? Right? Come on...help me be a good person. In other Beverly news...
Oh wait, there isn't any other Beverly news. I've been housesitting and hiding. I did eat a whole bunch of dim sum with a whole bunch of nice funny people on Christmas. I ate so many dumplings and cakes and balls I wanted to cry. I've never wanted to say, "I ate so many balls...I wanted to cry" before but it's pretty satisfying. But the balls were shrimp balls and the cakes were pumpkin and turnip. Oh well...Beverly: 1, Excitement: 0.
Oh wait, there isn't any other Beverly news. I've been housesitting and hiding. I did eat a whole bunch of dim sum with a whole bunch of nice funny people on Christmas. I ate so many dumplings and cakes and balls I wanted to cry. I've never wanted to say, "I ate so many balls...I wanted to cry" before but it's pretty satisfying. But the balls were shrimp balls and the cakes were pumpkin and turnip. Oh well...Beverly: 1, Excitement: 0.
Tuesday, December 23, 2008
Where evil grows
I've had darkness and evil on my mind due to a story I've been working on. Someone asked me what it was about the other night and I couldn't really say. I guess the topic is good and evil. It's all based on one of the best things a man has ever said to me (and I've written this before,) "You may pride yourself in evil girl, but you've got too much good."
The southern gothic notion of being a bad seed is something I've flirted with in my writing but never a position I could accurately claim to occupy. It's the stuff of myths and songs, "You'll never stop doing bad things because you'll never stop being a bad seed/You don't grow up from evil and you don't grow out of sin." Tagging along with my manhood post I think about the man who told me I wasn't evil and claimed to be that mythic bad seen himself. Both conditions, evil and darkness, are difficult to navigate within the identity of a woman. They contradict the earth mother nurturer ideal I hold somewhat dear to my future dream incarnation. Perhaps my flirtations with darkness play a part in my hesitation to call myself a woman just yet. I am not quite sure how to negotiate anger.
I'm not launching into a tirade about gender oppression here, but I feel that anger is an emotion that woman have been robbed of until recently. And our anger so often only gets attention when it is politicized. I am more interested in the primal response, the emotion of anger. It has been one of the hardest emotions for me to show. While I am a reasonably emotional person, I'd often pride myself on my ability to control my temper. I'd push myself into a state of non-caring enough to never feel true anger. It resulted in me being overly tolerant of the way certain others treated me and somehow transformed me into a woman who both self-identified and was recognized by others as "strong" but had a severe hesitance and perhaps even inability to stand up for myself.
Not that I want to embrace the identity of the "angry woman." Lord knows we saw enough of that in the 90s. Instead of classifying my identity along one primary taboo emotion I'd rather be able to freely express a breadth of them, from anger to fear to love to nurturing. Of course it's only fair for me to be able to do the same. But I can't help feel a sense of jealousy about men being trained to express anger as a woman who was raised to suppress it. What is often mistaken as an unflappable quality, is really an inability to confront the things that really, honestly, just piss me off.
I am not championing unadulterated wrath in all directions. But just an occasional expression. When life presents you with a series of indignities it's okay to call bullshit. That's all.
I have no idea how I got from the difference between evil and darkness to gendered expressions of anger. It's 5:25 am and I am on a sleep schedule that is totally fucked. Tired and hungry is the equivalent of drunk for me, so pardon my posting, I'm both tired and hungry and can't handle a picture post right now. But at least currently I am not angry about much of anything, not that I'm repressed, just that life is okay for the time being.
And on this note, I'll leave you with my current theme song. The video is pretty anti-climactic, but the song shines.
The southern gothic notion of being a bad seed is something I've flirted with in my writing but never a position I could accurately claim to occupy. It's the stuff of myths and songs, "You'll never stop doing bad things because you'll never stop being a bad seed/You don't grow up from evil and you don't grow out of sin." Tagging along with my manhood post I think about the man who told me I wasn't evil and claimed to be that mythic bad seen himself. Both conditions, evil and darkness, are difficult to navigate within the identity of a woman. They contradict the earth mother nurturer ideal I hold somewhat dear to my future dream incarnation. Perhaps my flirtations with darkness play a part in my hesitation to call myself a woman just yet. I am not quite sure how to negotiate anger.
I'm not launching into a tirade about gender oppression here, but I feel that anger is an emotion that woman have been robbed of until recently. And our anger so often only gets attention when it is politicized. I am more interested in the primal response, the emotion of anger. It has been one of the hardest emotions for me to show. While I am a reasonably emotional person, I'd often pride myself on my ability to control my temper. I'd push myself into a state of non-caring enough to never feel true anger. It resulted in me being overly tolerant of the way certain others treated me and somehow transformed me into a woman who both self-identified and was recognized by others as "strong" but had a severe hesitance and perhaps even inability to stand up for myself.
Not that I want to embrace the identity of the "angry woman." Lord knows we saw enough of that in the 90s. Instead of classifying my identity along one primary taboo emotion I'd rather be able to freely express a breadth of them, from anger to fear to love to nurturing. Of course it's only fair for me to be able to do the same. But I can't help feel a sense of jealousy about men being trained to express anger as a woman who was raised to suppress it. What is often mistaken as an unflappable quality, is really an inability to confront the things that really, honestly, just piss me off.
I am not championing unadulterated wrath in all directions. But just an occasional expression. When life presents you with a series of indignities it's okay to call bullshit. That's all.
I have no idea how I got from the difference between evil and darkness to gendered expressions of anger. It's 5:25 am and I am on a sleep schedule that is totally fucked. Tired and hungry is the equivalent of drunk for me, so pardon my posting, I'm both tired and hungry and can't handle a picture post right now. But at least currently I am not angry about much of anything, not that I'm repressed, just that life is okay for the time being.
And on this note, I'll leave you with my current theme song. The video is pretty anti-climactic, but the song shines.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
Woman? Whoa man.
This is something that has been tempting me for a long while...
To all the men in my life who can:
Change a tire
Put up a shelf
Win a fight
Play a mean hand of poker
Stand up for a lady
Catch a fish
Sharpen a knife
Throw a punch
Start a fire
Grill
Stay loyal
Toss a football
Fight a bear
Etc, etc (okay, maybe not the bear part...)
Thank you.
To the rest of you, please take off your flannel shirts and retire your cowboy boots. Just because you can grow a beard and throw on some plaid doesn't make you a man.
Okay, so this is the beginning of a long-standing rant about gender in my neck of the woods. We're at that age where we we aren't quite ready to be men and women yet but we can't be boys and girls anymore. We occupy that special middle-ground of chicks and dudes. It's functional, at least temporarily until we settle down. Lord knows I'm still trying to figure out what being a woman means after so many years hiding in bro-dom. So many city-dwelling ladies I know have the same end of raging days fantasy. Meet a fella, fall in love move outta town but still within reach of the city, get a house on a piece of land, get a big ole dog, and settle down with or without the eventual babies.
Surprisingly traditional, no? The older I get the more comfortable I become with traditional gender roles. When I was younger I would think my current behavior was selling out. I went seven years without shaving my legs or armpits, about four of those years not wearing deodorant (that's total, it went in phases.) Now I'm well groomed, my eyebrows are tweezed, my hair is long, and my nails finally painted and unbitten. The realities of aging have begun to set in. My body has started to change and so has my energy level. My wants and needs have metamorphosised and it's a scary prospect. Is this what growing up feels like?
Living here a lot of us fall into a prolonged state of adolescence. Thirties are the new twenties, so all the magazines say, but are we really just so youth oriented that we need to redefine what's young and what's old now? Are we lifting the standards for the age of accomplishment because we are afraid of not accomplishing things in time? Surely it's a good thing not to be expected to be married with kids before the age of thirty. Lord knows I doubt I will be, I'm 27 and don't have a boyfriend much less a prospective mate. But when do we start thinking of ourselves as men and women?
I told a friend the list I had in my head about the ideal man and he jokingly replied, "Who are you looking for, Tim Allen?" Home Improvement jokes aside, I sincerely hope the fact that I snuck in many an episode of Married with Children didn't somehow warp my brain into an attraction to the mythical men and their manly exploits. I doubt it. There is a distinction when gender is used as a tool to marginalize and when it is used as a form of expression. I would like to think I use my femininity as a mode of self-expression. My womanly ways are an essential part of my being and I don't want to be punished for them. I am not drawn to the No Ma'am mentality, where manhood is a boy's club, no girls allowed.
My parents raised me to be independent and to fend for myself, but at the same point, my mom did the cooking (except for taco night and grilling or smoking meats which was dad's role) and my dad did the eating. He watched sports and the History Channel while my mom played bridge and watched ER. He wrote academic articles and she painted Christmas ornaments. Had our family's financial situation been different she would have been a stay-at-home mom which was her dream when she first got married. That is not the life for me. However, growing up in Nebraska my childhood male friends became men who can re-tile a bathroom floor, rewire a light fixture, and drive trucks, they play in country or metal bands, are loyal to a fault drink hard, work harder, battle douchebags with MBAs on the weekends, and are artists at the same time. That's my model for manhood.
Here I feel like so many of us are floundering. The concept of drink hard, work harder has been switched. Or maybe it's just drink hard, work whenever. In a city where creativity is an industry it affords us the liberty of using our creative skills as a means to make a living but in the same manner it also enables us to spend most of the work day reading blogs or looking at videos on YouTube. And after 8 hours of semi-creative work too many of us come home and just want to drink instead of pursuing the passions that brought us here hopeful in the first place. We don't have the energy to be humans much less men and women. All we become are bodies on bar stools looking for other bodies with the desired set of holes or appendages.
People ask me why I don't try to write for fashion blogs or magazines and it's because, while I like clothing and dressing myself, ultimately I don't care about the magazines or the blogs. My heart wouldn't be in it and I don't want to compromise the one thing holy to me. And as a woman, is that what I'm supposed to have to write about? Fashion? I guess it has a broader appeal than just writing about myself, and I am sure you all are aware that this blog is primarily an exercise in self-indulgence. Thank you for reading by the way, I never thought anyone would.
I hate to think that adulthood is necessarily a negotiation of passion and reality. Maybe it is for some, but I hope that I can become an adult or rightfully call myself a woman (and I think I am almost there) without compromising my desires. Maybe that is what makes a woman and a man, not compromising desires. Reality isn't necessarily a buzz-kill. Sometimes reality can be everything you wanted it to be, or everything you needed without even realizing it. Or maybe I'm an optimist. Strangely I do have faith, something lacking around these parts. I can't think of the world as an entirely cold cruel place where you have to lie, cheat, and steal to survive. Maybe it's the Midwestern gal in me. Maybe I'm right and I'll get that house outside of the city with the big dog and a man who can do a few of the things on that list. Or maybe I'm wrong and life will give me a big old slap in the face. Do reality checks inherently have to be harsh?
Then again, I call this blog Reality No Show so who am I to talk.
To all the men in my life who can:
Change a tire
Put up a shelf
Win a fight
Play a mean hand of poker
Stand up for a lady
Catch a fish
Sharpen a knife
Throw a punch
Start a fire
Grill
Stay loyal
Toss a football
Fight a bear
Etc, etc (okay, maybe not the bear part...)
Thank you.
To the rest of you, please take off your flannel shirts and retire your cowboy boots. Just because you can grow a beard and throw on some plaid doesn't make you a man.
Okay, so this is the beginning of a long-standing rant about gender in my neck of the woods. We're at that age where we we aren't quite ready to be men and women yet but we can't be boys and girls anymore. We occupy that special middle-ground of chicks and dudes. It's functional, at least temporarily until we settle down. Lord knows I'm still trying to figure out what being a woman means after so many years hiding in bro-dom. So many city-dwelling ladies I know have the same end of raging days fantasy. Meet a fella, fall in love move outta town but still within reach of the city, get a house on a piece of land, get a big ole dog, and settle down with or without the eventual babies.
Surprisingly traditional, no? The older I get the more comfortable I become with traditional gender roles. When I was younger I would think my current behavior was selling out. I went seven years without shaving my legs or armpits, about four of those years not wearing deodorant (that's total, it went in phases.) Now I'm well groomed, my eyebrows are tweezed, my hair is long, and my nails finally painted and unbitten. The realities of aging have begun to set in. My body has started to change and so has my energy level. My wants and needs have metamorphosised and it's a scary prospect. Is this what growing up feels like?
Living here a lot of us fall into a prolonged state of adolescence. Thirties are the new twenties, so all the magazines say, but are we really just so youth oriented that we need to redefine what's young and what's old now? Are we lifting the standards for the age of accomplishment because we are afraid of not accomplishing things in time? Surely it's a good thing not to be expected to be married with kids before the age of thirty. Lord knows I doubt I will be, I'm 27 and don't have a boyfriend much less a prospective mate. But when do we start thinking of ourselves as men and women?
I told a friend the list I had in my head about the ideal man and he jokingly replied, "Who are you looking for, Tim Allen?" Home Improvement jokes aside, I sincerely hope the fact that I snuck in many an episode of Married with Children didn't somehow warp my brain into an attraction to the mythical men and their manly exploits. I doubt it. There is a distinction when gender is used as a tool to marginalize and when it is used as a form of expression. I would like to think I use my femininity as a mode of self-expression. My womanly ways are an essential part of my being and I don't want to be punished for them. I am not drawn to the No Ma'am mentality, where manhood is a boy's club, no girls allowed.
My parents raised me to be independent and to fend for myself, but at the same point, my mom did the cooking (except for taco night and grilling or smoking meats which was dad's role) and my dad did the eating. He watched sports and the History Channel while my mom played bridge and watched ER. He wrote academic articles and she painted Christmas ornaments. Had our family's financial situation been different she would have been a stay-at-home mom which was her dream when she first got married. That is not the life for me. However, growing up in Nebraska my childhood male friends became men who can re-tile a bathroom floor, rewire a light fixture, and drive trucks, they play in country or metal bands, are loyal to a fault drink hard, work harder, battle douchebags with MBAs on the weekends, and are artists at the same time. That's my model for manhood.
Here I feel like so many of us are floundering. The concept of drink hard, work harder has been switched. Or maybe it's just drink hard, work whenever. In a city where creativity is an industry it affords us the liberty of using our creative skills as a means to make a living but in the same manner it also enables us to spend most of the work day reading blogs or looking at videos on YouTube. And after 8 hours of semi-creative work too many of us come home and just want to drink instead of pursuing the passions that brought us here hopeful in the first place. We don't have the energy to be humans much less men and women. All we become are bodies on bar stools looking for other bodies with the desired set of holes or appendages.
People ask me why I don't try to write for fashion blogs or magazines and it's because, while I like clothing and dressing myself, ultimately I don't care about the magazines or the blogs. My heart wouldn't be in it and I don't want to compromise the one thing holy to me. And as a woman, is that what I'm supposed to have to write about? Fashion? I guess it has a broader appeal than just writing about myself, and I am sure you all are aware that this blog is primarily an exercise in self-indulgence. Thank you for reading by the way, I never thought anyone would.
I hate to think that adulthood is necessarily a negotiation of passion and reality. Maybe it is for some, but I hope that I can become an adult or rightfully call myself a woman (and I think I am almost there) without compromising my desires. Maybe that is what makes a woman and a man, not compromising desires. Reality isn't necessarily a buzz-kill. Sometimes reality can be everything you wanted it to be, or everything you needed without even realizing it. Or maybe I'm an optimist. Strangely I do have faith, something lacking around these parts. I can't think of the world as an entirely cold cruel place where you have to lie, cheat, and steal to survive. Maybe it's the Midwestern gal in me. Maybe I'm right and I'll get that house outside of the city with the big dog and a man who can do a few of the things on that list. Or maybe I'm wrong and life will give me a big old slap in the face. Do reality checks inherently have to be harsh?
Then again, I call this blog Reality No Show so who am I to talk.
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