Tuesday, May 31, 2005

Memorial Day Haze

I wish it were still the weekend...the long, sultry, glorious weekend. A.S. and I took off to his parents' country house, where it was all peace and quiet and the croaking vacuum frog. They have a beautiful view of the Intracoastal Waterway and a big yard full of oak trees and a long dock over the marsh into the creek. So Saturday we left at about noon with the pasta maker and his parents dogs and all our stuff and it was like throwing off all the tensions of the last weeks. The Lacto Pescetarian and the Sexy Attorney came out to lie on the dock and drink beer and holler at their pooches. The damned dogs kept jumping off the dock and swimming off into the hinterlands, which is really alright, because they're not stupid enough to drown and they WILL come back...but the peace and tranquility was frequently punctuated by "BELLA! DAISY! COME HERE! NOW! NOOOOOW!" and then the sounds of snorts and mocking laughter when the dogs blatantly ignored all arm waving and screeching. Dogs are funny.

The next morning, my two neighbors, plus two of my favorite people who used to be neighbors, showed up to go sailing on A.S.'s parents boat. It's an old 30 foot Sandpiper (I am estimating the size, because really I have no idea) and we motored up the creek and then unfurled the sails and popped open the champagne and had a FABULOUS time. We sloshed our way through the mimosas and screwdrivers and bloodies and beer, and had quite a jolly little adventure. And I didn't have to move my foot and the bemini top was down, so no sun on it either, so medically it had to be just as good as staying at home, right? Well, my doctor didn't say so, but what the hell does that quack know?

He did finally take the vacuum off today, and I have quite a scanty little Ace bandage on it now, that makes no noise whatsoever and requires no tubing. I also have new wooden crutches because the aluminum ones fell out of the back of the truck on the way back from the country and were demolished. It was a sad, sad fate. A.S. was mostly annoyed because we didn't realize they were gone until we were all the way back home and had to drive ALL the way back out there only to find them a sixteenth of a mile from his parents' house in little bits in a ditch. It was like Stand By Me. He was a little jerky about it, and I think he's had just about enough of me for now. So I've given him the week off... Don't call, Don't write. Well, he does have to call, but I don't want him doing anything else for me for awhile or he's probably going to break up with me for some non-needy bitch with six pack abs (whom I will promptly name Evangelina Vagina).

So back to work today. It was awfully scary and sucky and I have so much to do, I could have been there for a month and not gotten it all finished. I'm so fired.

Boy is this blog boring. I'm going.

Friday, May 27, 2005


No dice.

Doctor says I have to keep this vacuum thing on through Tuesday at the least and will look at it then and decide if it can come off. So I get to enjoy the croaking albatross for the entire holiday weekend. Joy.

Why the fuck is this such a big deal? It's a FOOT! You know, if this were a gunshot wound, I might understand. But it's not. It's a goddamn measly foot, and I can't do a fucking thing without it. @#$%^&*!!!!

I was so bummed, I was [--] this close to crying in the doctor's office, which is just too humiliating. I asked him I could take the vac out in the boat and he said no to that too. So while everyone else goes out in the salt air and sunshine (and swims and water skis and trots around on the sandbank), I get to sit. On the porch. And do nothing. Some more.

A.S. will be nice about it I'm sure, but I don't think he can take much more. I know I can't. And I'm hoping against hope that his evil friends J&J, this cutesy mod couple who are about the WORST friends known to man, aren't going to come out to the country to join us. They're in town for a wedding, and he asked me to go out with them tonight and I declined...somewhat politely. Well, very politely but probably too quickly. Anyway, they probably won't call him, because they're THOSE types of friends. All they do is bail on people and mooch and are so shallow and boring. They don't DO anything. (I'm not really one to talk at the moment, I know.) Really, they have no hobbies or interests or wit. All she can talk about is shoes, which is super interesting for about 2 minutes. And I'm sure they'd make me feel really embarrassed over having this gnarly vacuum thing and they can just fuck off and go to hell.

A.S. can invite the entire world to the country house for the weekend, just please not them. And I mean that. In fact, I hope he does invite a crowd, because then I won't be obligated to be cheery and upbeat the whole time and can read my magazines (Thanks Sexy Attorney!) and my new books in guilt-free peace. I almost wish he were going without me so I could stop feeling guilty for being needy and dependent. Maybe I should come down with something...

In better news, since I was out already, I went and ate lunch with my parents at this outdoor restaurant. The waiters were horrified by my tubing, but to hell with them. I was OUTSIDE! And my dad took me to Barnes & Noble, where I got the first of two collected plays of Neil Simon and the new book by Sue Monk Kidd, The Mermaid Chair. I loved her first book, The Secret Life of Bees soooo much, I never wanted to finish it. And then I went to the spa store and bought some more of my favorite shampoo and conditioner: Aveda Rosemary Mint with Sap Moss conditioner. The big bottles with the pumps. And this delicious lip and face sunscreen with sparkly gold powdery stuff. Yum. Today cost me about $150, but since i haven't bought anything in years and years, I thought I deserved it. The rest of my earnings must be spent on foot related medical business, so I might as well have something I can actually enjoy.

Thursday, May 26, 2005

Craptacular Conference Calling

I've had conference calls ALL DAY. And while I held my teensy cell phone with my shoulder, I tied ribbons around the invitations to our second office grand opening, hand addressed them, addressed the second envelope, stamped and return addressed them... and licked them. All 100 of them. Son of a....

It was almost as bad as being there. I do hate me a meeting. I especially hate it when people call meetings to plan agendas for other meetings. And people at my company LOVE THAT. Let's have a PLANNING MEETING. Deliver me, oh lord, from people who only plan and never do.

I did get my own back, when a certain person I work for asked me for the fifteenth three-month plan in two weeks. I asked him what he did with the 15 that I already sent him, which on top of fighting with him yesterday made me feel pretty good. Hmph. I like him generally, and he's great at his job. He just sucks at my job and needs to quit telling me how to do it.

So A.S. came over last night, and I feel terrible for him. I mean, I'm sick of me, so he must be stark raving mad by now. He comes here every morning to make me coffee, because he is a saint. And he makes the best coffee EVER. And he comes by after work to eat dinner and shoot the shit. Not that I have any shit that needs shooting, because the only interesting thing I do all day is read people's blogs. Otherwise, it's just work and lying around with my vacuum wishing I could go surfing. And he was so grumpy, poor thing, because he feels stuck in a rut. And I told him, "Welcome to my world," and I wish I hadn't said anything. I meant it humourously, but I think I should have just shutup and let him vent. Instead he felt bad for whining when i'm the one who's hurt. And he GETS to vent. Jesus, what that boy has put up with lately! And he still finds me attractive despite having put on about 8 lbs (none of it muscle or in good places) and having a big tube sticking out of my foot. He even SLEEPS here, which with the unceasing froglike noise of the vacuum is a big sacrifice.

DING! DING! DING! Folks, I think I have found a winner!

Anyway, I told him to go out with his friends last night, because there was no sense in two people sitting around feeling sorry for themselves. And off he went, and I watched crap TV, which bored me, but less so than lying in bed. And he's going out in the boat with boys tonight (SOB SOB SOB!!! BOO HOO!!! JEALOUS APOPLEXY!!!), and then Saturday morning we go to the country. So maybe he will feel less rut-ish. For that matter, maybe I will too.

I've been reading Bathroom Reading's blog, and he had an interesting post about a blogger who's been uploading pictures of his wife. And I mean PICTURES, people: nekkid ones, graphic ones, and really lurid play-by-plays about their sex life. And I realize that we're all kind of exhibitionist and voyeurs for both keeping and reading other people's blogs, but where does one draw the line? How much self censorship is a good thing? I like to think that withholding some information about your marital and amorous relationships is respectful and sacred. And while this pervy guy's relationship with his wife might be more open than some, I can't help but think that he might not respect his wife so much as objectify her. I wish I could figure out how to link to BR's post about it, but my mac won't let me. You can get there from my links bar though.


Got in a fight with my boss yesterday. That always sucks. But at least I stood up for myself (on one foot), although I'm not sure he gets that just because I'm a female doesn't mean I have to do his busywork for him. I like my job, really I do, but I miss writing full time. And I definitely miss having a good relationship with my coworkers, and one where you didn't have to worry about people passing the blame on stuff to make themselves look better. Maybe I'd forgotten how much I disliked the big corporate lifestyle. I've done it before, and although this is certainly different in a lot of ways, so much of this nitpicky BS (certain fonts for certain documents, constant meetings, buzzwords) I could do without.

Some of my neighbors came up earlier to set up the wireless connection, which should allow my entire house to surf the net at will. Sadly, even though we called in the city's biggest web geek (seriously), it didn't work. It was pretty great watching them try though, even if only the joy of having some fresh personalities in my apartment (two more days till the next doctor appointment). They're going to try again in a day or so.. the geek has to reconfigure something.

A.S. and I are going to his family's country house this weekend. I can't WAIT! Change of scenery, here I come. I'm hopeful the doctor will say I can cut off the vacuum and maybe put a bit of pressure on it. I need to ask about going out in the boat! Vibration might not be what i need right now, but the idea of getting sun and wind and light and fresh air has me so excited. Oh, and his parents are out of town. Nice. Of course, we have to take care of their dogs, but I'm actually kind of looking forward to that.

Observation: Crest White Strips really work.

Tuesday, May 24, 2005


Architecture Student is speaking to our chicken in French. He is slicing it over spinach with fresh rasberry vinaigrette. Oh, you should see him. And hear him. I love this boy!


The doctor's appointment went great. He did say another week of bedrest, but said I might be able to get the vacuum off by Friday (sweet holy Jebus). He also said I could go running within the month. A MONTH, PEOPLE! I was dreading this whole dissertation about having therapy and whatnot and taking it slow and "maybe by the end of the year." But a month! I nearly kissed him...wouldn't have been too terrible, since he's pretty hot (mrow). Ohmigod, I'm so excited now, I want to go pirouette around my apartment. He said he could tell I was a healthy person and said that this must be making me crazy, and that I ought to be up and about by the middle of next week. So Alexandrialeigh, I hope you haven't been running too much, because 1.5 months of sitting has not improved my stamina. Still, it's almost time to lace up my brand new, unblemished pair of trail runners! Hoorah!

I may have to crack open some wine to celebrate. God knows something has to make data entry (why is this MY job?) from home more interesting. I cannot believe they're getting their public relations manager to do CRM data entry on our competitors. I mean no disrespect whatsoever, but this is an EA's job. I realize they've never had a PR person before, but I really think my time would be better spent, and their money as well, if I could devote more of my time to press releases, press events and case studies than tooling around doing CRM. What a waste. Oh well, they're probably going to fire me soon anyway. Too much to do, too many meetings to discuss doing it rather than actually DOING the work, and too much busy stuff that I don't have time for, combined with being a gimp and not sitting at my desk or getting on the road. Wish that Assistant Editor job was still open.

Monday, May 23, 2005

Men Suck Ass

Sorry Bear, this wasn't directed at you, particularly not after your lovely post avoiding the blow-job-offering trollop.

But A.S. called me to see how my day was going and said he was "suffering major internet withdrawal after a solid week of not checking" and was off to pay mass amounts of money to go online in a nearby coffee shop. Since I have internet here, I offered to let him use it. And since he refused, I naturally assume it's because he's e-mailing Evangelina Vagina, the craggy whore avec moustache whose boobs are probably bigger than mine.


Why is this all it takes? Boy am I feeling ULTRA exciting and attractive and cool and fun now. He's spent so much time slaving over me that now he's having EV withdrawal? Fuck him. Fuck the world.

It's 2:15. Is it too early to start drinking? I have wine. It's only a short crutch away.

(By the way, Bear's blog is beartrackst2nowhere.blogspot.com. Does anyone know how to make the toolbar appear on a Mac? All I got is spellcheck and picture uploads?)

Oh, and Blue Cross admitted they were ass holes and are only making me pay PART. Fuckers. Fuck. Fuck. Fuckety-fuck.

Blue Cross must die

Just heard from my home nurse that Blue Cross is claiming my foot injury is a pre-existing condition and they aren't covering any of my medical expenses. Let's see, I became eligible for their insurance on April 1, hurt myself April 16. Nope, not pre-existing.

(rolling up sleeves)

Somebody's getting their ass kicked.

That aside, I'm a little panicked. Let's see: emergency room visit, three orthopedist visits, four plastic orthopedist visits, surgery, surgeon, anesthesiologists (God, I butchered that), vacuum thingy... I'm so helped if they become massive super wanks and refuse to cover this. I will sue them until they are all dead. And I can, because my aunt and uncle are both partners in mean scary firms, my uncle is also a judge, my boyfriend's dad represents the hospital I was carved up in, and somebody's ass is mine if they don't ante up. What am I paying them for?

Sunday, May 22, 2005

How can I be tired...

...when I haven't done ANYthing?

Here's what I did today: woke up to my mom calling about 7:45 and ignored her phone call. Went back to sleep until 10, when A.S. had to leap straight out of bed and into his pants, etc. because he had his cousin's christening in 30 minutes. Then I had a friend come help me onto the porch where I sat in a beach chair with my foot up in the air for about an hour to get some sunlight. I also ate boiled peanuts and inspected my fig tree (Newton) for caterpillars and read another year's worth of Dooce archives. Then another friend helped me inside again, where I sat on the couch and watched bullshit TV all day. Then a third friend came and helped me from the couch to the bed again, and here I sit. Riveting, isn't it?

God, I'm fucking bored.

I miss Woo and running and strappy shoes and sandy toes and surfing and going out in the boat with friends and getting to be on top and cooking my own food and taking the stairs two at a time and not starting every sentence with "Will you please...?"

A.S. went out in the boat with his friends today to this deserted barrier island, where we've tried to go like EIGHT TIMES to find the most misto surf spot and he found it and surfed it without me. WITHOUT ME. God, I almost hated him a little, even though he's been nothing but nice to me all week. He's shown no signs of resentment or irritation and hasn't treated me like an invalid and is constantly offering to run errands or entertain me. I am so ungrateful. But I kind of wish he'd be a little pissed at me. Because I am. I'm pissed with me. I'm PISSED OFF.

The Accident (the official version)

(flashback sequence, April 16, a grisly tale)

A.S. wants to go surfing to help me get my mind off Woo, and because he just wants to go surfing every day. We head out after my friend's baby shower, and he lends me his longboard, now named "The Blue Shark." I eat it several times in the water that day, partially because I suck and partially because his crappy board is top-heavy and tends to nosedive if you forget to scoot backwards before popping up. I catch another wave and start to pop up, realize I need to be further back, scoot, try again, and then scoot some more (in the space of about three or four seconds), and the fat-titted bitch dives under the wave and somersaults. I dive to the bottom to get out of its way and actually don't even feel exactly what happens. Anyway, I'm goofy-footed, so the leash jerks the board back towards me, and the fin on the bottom slices off the top of my left foot.

When I come back up, I can't tell what I've done, but I know it is very very bad, and then feel the flap floating back and forth in the water. This feels rather nasty. Now in neck-deep water, I lift my foot above the surface, put it right back down and decide it is past time to go in. I must look ghastly, because the nice hippie stranger surfing nearby asks me if I am okay and need some help. My bearded savior takes the unwieldy longboard and hands me his nice, lightweight shortboard, and I hop onto the beach. Then I see that all the skin is hanging over the front of my foot and see all of my tendons, and my toes look like they have turned inside out. [Everyone seems to think that the salt water must have stung, but honestly, when all THAT other shit is hanging out, who gives a FUCK about salt water?] I sit down and put my head between my knees and start shaking, and Hippie John says, "Oh my God!" and grabs me in a big bear hug.

My main worry is that A.S. might not have seen it happen and could be hard to find, since all surfers are hard to identify from the beach. But I look up and saw him jogging down the beach with his board- I've never been so glad to see anyone in my life [not that I can actually speak]. So he gets to us and says, "What happened? Did you hit your head on the board?" And I sort of mumble, "No." And he says, "Are you okay?" And I say, "No." And Hippie John says, "Dude, look at her foot." And A.S. drops his board and sits down hard and says, "Oh shit."

Then he piggy-backs me to the boardwalk and drapes me over the railing while he fetches the car. This horrible medic who is malingering in the area stops by to tell me that it looks REALLY bad and I will have extensive nerve and tendon damage and never regain the use of anything and will probably end up with a blackened club foot. I exaggerate only on the club foot remark. Wherever that bitch is, I hope she has ingrown pubes.

So A.S. and Hippie John help me take off my wetsuit, and what a treat that is. And then we go to the hospital, which takes about 30 minutes, and I writhe around the whole time moaning, "They're going to poke it!"

[And they did. Endlessly. And they're still poking it. I'm like their little pink voodoo doll. So they reattached everything and washed it off and sewed it all back into some semblance of a foot. But the skin kept on dying, and the doctors kept on poking, and I've been on bloody awful crutches for a month, and last week I had a skin graft. So that's the story. Any questions?]

Saturday, May 21, 2005

I've been helped

Do you remember in grade school, about the time everyone was wearing jams and saying "rad," that there was a little saying about "being helped?" As in, "My dad caught me smoking Granny's Salem 100's and now I'm so totally helped!"

Part of this is fun. People come to visit me. They bring me chocolate. They tell me news of the outside world, and their talking mercifully drowns out the sound of my croaking foot vacuum. I love my friends.

Some of this is not so fun, and this is the only place I can vent my ingratitude and surliness and frustration.

A.S. is the sweetest in the world. This morning, he made me French toast when he didn't even want any. When I asked for milk, he asked "short glass or talll glass?" He also still says he loves me, even though I've put on about 7 lbs. and got maple syrup on my neck from eating lying down.

And then he helped me.

He reorganized my living room, putting things in what he thinks are their proper places. I have a feeling that part of this is because his mother had her first visit to my apartment yesterday, and as she wandered from room to room looking at things (while I lay in bed wondering what the hell my living room looked like after a month of crutches and bedrest and no thorough cleaning) and said "You have a lot of STUFF in here." And A.S. tells me I need to sort through the two foot pile of magazines by the sofa, and threw away all my gift bags and brought in my paperwork to sort through and moved my computer printer to a dark and inaccessible corner of the living room and put THINGS in the little dovecote cubbies of my fold down desk (I have a SYSTEM), and I lay here in my bed and thought, "THIS IS MY APARTMENT AND MY MAGAZINES AND MY GODDAMNED COMPUTER PRINTER AND I PAY RENT HERE, BUDDY!" But out loud I said, "Thank you, my angel pie. That was so thoughtful. When you have a moment, will you please replace the printer to its former location?" And he said, "But you never use it!" And I said, "Nevertheless." And he said, "But it's the first thing people see when they walk in!" And I said, "Still." And he said all suspicious, "When was the last time you used it?" And I said, "I can't remember, but it's because it's out of ink." And he said, all superior, "We'll put it back when you get some more ink."

Excuse me? We? WE?

So I said, trying to keep the frost from my voice and heart, "Angel lambkin, please just put it back. You don't have to do it right now or even today (yeah right, it BETTER be today). But. I. Really. Want. You. To. Put. It. Back." I think I hurt his feelings.

So between him moving my shit and my mother refolding my underpants, I've been HELPED. I'm on the edge here, people.

Friday, May 20, 2005

Ahhh, Clarisse

My skin graft attachment looks so very Silence of the Lambs... very, Jame Gumb-esque.

It rubs the lotion on its skin, or else it gets the hose again.


Friday List

Jemima is a shameless present whore. Here are ten things nice people have sent her:

1. Bouquet of snapdragons and peonies (A.S. said they were "Pekingneses"
2. Bouquet of roses and snapdragons and Gerber daisies from people at office
3. Biscuits from Mr. Burbages and a DVD of Finding Neverland (vg)
4. Oatmeal peanut butter cocoa cookies that make you regular as well as taste good
5. Gift bag with bizarre movie trivia game, weirdo rumikub game (what the?) and ultrastink pink perfume--but, hey, it was a nice gesture
6. Two giant blow up photos of Woo's eyes and the tip of one of her soft, brown ears- my favorite
7. My new surfboard, The Surf Taco, which will never ever eat my foot. Well, actually, I paid for that, but it was still delivered and I like it
8. An omelette from my dad, WITH coffee
9. A shower curtain with hula dancers which I have been in love with for AGES (thanks Lacto Pescetarian!)
10. Bottle of Spanish wine that will go GREAT with my Percoset


This morning my mother came over and organized my closet, rearranged my chest of drawers, and folded all of my underpants.


I've had to distract her from bringing her graspy hands over to my bedside table, but the Lacto Pescetarian, who is much cleverer than I, instructed me that this is the wrong idea. Rather than freak about her rummaging through drawers, let the woman find "something" she won't like and she'll quit opening things at my house altogether. So I may have to go online and find the biggest, gnarliest, glow-in-the-dark dildo known to man. That'll learn her.

And if that fails, I can always chase her around with a vibrator and clonk her over the head with it. WHAM!

Yeah, I'll do that in my "free time." ...Free time, my ever expanding patootie. Everytime I check my e-mail, I get buried under another avalanche of work. And I'm concerned because my doctor today told me it's going to take TWO WEEKS not just one before I can get out of bed.

First of all, I'm going to get fired. Secondly, I'm going to go insane. So I'll be unemployed and schitzo, but my apartment will be organized numerically, alphabetically and color coordinatedly by my even more psycho mother...including my brand new collection of glow in the dark sparkly sex toys.

The doctor changed the dressing on my foot today. It's currently attached to a vacuum device that is keeping my skin graft from, er, falling off. I was expecting either a plastic bubble or some sort of black rubbery sock (since most medical devices, case in point, my former walking boot, are EXTREMELY unattractive). But my foot looks like it's been shrink wrapped with a very long irritating tube poking out the wrapper and this ice cream sandwich box-sized black vacuum that croaks like a frog once per second. It gets very angry if I stretch and sounds like a duck. If I'm lonely and want a cuddle, I imagine it's a purring cat. K.Lo, I wish you could bring Miss Kitty for a visit. She might think my foot was friendly.

Anyway, this device is called a Wound Vac. You have no idea the humiliation it has already caused. I had them deliver it to work the day before my skin graft, because I figured it was small (portable) and easier than waiting for four years at my apartment like waiting for the cable guy. So I'm typing away at my computer and I hear this redneck hollering "WOUND VAC" for the whole office to hear. I pop my head over the cubicle walls, eyes rolling and see him showing the damned thing to the horrified receptionist and shrieked, "Shut it! Shhh! Get over here." So here he comes over looking like fucking Father Christmas of the medical supply world with a little black case PLUS a ginormous clear bag filled with 45 boxes of medical shit. Lord have mercy. So he sat there blabbing away about wounds and seepage and sponges and other unsavory things in a very loud and indiscreet fashion, while I pleaded with him to go away and be quiet. I looked over at the team near my desk and they're all wide eyed, watching me and mouthing, "What IS that?" The horror!

Apparently some air conditioner repair guy invented this thing from some AC foam and an aquarium filter, and it heals wounds 50% to 70% faster and is now living on his own island somewhere. My surgeon, who is the best in the state at reattaching hands and fingers and such, swears they're amazing. They also have a surgical device called a Bear Hug that is nothing more than a plastic quilt attached to a hairdryer that keeps patients' body temperatures up on the operating table better than anything else ever invented. I had one of those too, but I don't remember it. Apparently I also had a big tube shoved down my throat too, which I am glad as hell I don't recall, but my throat still hurts like a sonofabitch.

Architecture Stud is being very sweet to me, other than not wanting to spend the night (keeping me company only) because the wound vac is so annoying. He brought me flowers and fetched stuff from work and other things. He is snoozing here beside me right now, and I'm afraid the approaching thunder storm and the stupid asshole neighbor outside on my porch and the skil saw half a block away are going to wake him up. He looks so pretty when he's sleeping. Well, he's pretty all the time. He hates it when I say he's pretty.

I am trying my damndest to get along with my mother, but I swear she thinks the surfboard cut off my head along with my foot. I was getting out of the car, and cracked the door while cars were still whizzing past and she SHRIEKED at me, "AHHHH, OHMIGOD, WATCH OUT! BE CAREFUL!" I jumped 45 feet and hissed at her, "Good God, woman! Just because i'm on crutches doesn't mean I've gone retarded too." She makes me feel like my heart is going to jump out of my chest and all my veins are standing out like a thoroughbred's and my brain will explode and my nostrils will suck in a car...and all because she is trying to HELP me. I need therapy. And while we were at the doctor, she was acting self righteous about something and said, "I really think know-it-alls are the worst kind of people." I snorted and though, "Takes one to know one, bitch." Of course, I'm one too, which is something A.S. can't stand, and I TRY not to do it. Mom has no clue.

The place where they took the skin off my hip is about four inches long, and probably was about an inch and a half thick, although they've sealed it all up, of course. It actually hurts much, much worse than my foot. But the glue they use nowadays makes it safe to shower, so at least I don't stank.

Saturday, May 14, 2005

wedding fevre

I adore how in Quebec, all the stop signs say, "Arrete!"

My friend J.C. and are sharing a room in the most charming little inn overlooking a giant mountain lake. We just completed a stunning lunch of roated duck (her) and boeuf bourgouinnon (moi) and have to gird our loins, or perhaps girdle our loins, for dinner in another hour. God, all we've done is eat all day- three courses for breakfast, lunch and dinner (plus amuses)- and lounge about, and then groan and whine about how full we are before heading down for the next feeding.

The wedding is to take place in half an hour in the jardin, and unfortunately for the bride, it is freezing today and grey and who knows how long the rain will hold off. Well, she did choose a wedding in May, which is so very unpredictable. It's been gorgeous every other day. Apparently in winter here, the giant lake freezes over solid for six feet, and people ice fish and snow ski and iceskate and sled across it. I'd like to see it, except I'd be hiding inside by a fire with sixteen layers of wool and a bad attitude to cloak me from the cold.

Ooh, they're seating people. I don't want to go out yet, because I'll freeze to death in my Grace Kelly dress ten minutes into the ceremony. Blech.

Wednesday, May 11, 2005

drunk blogging

I should not be allowed to blather when i'm drunk, because I'm gross and spell Vietnam wrong.

Here is what I am eating for breakfast: spelt flakes with skim milk; blueberry-rhubarb pie with whipped cream. I just can't do healthy. I have to chase it with something that tastes good.

Here is what I dreamed about last night: I don't remember.

Here is how many times I woke up: about 865. Some bitch even called me with the wrong number at 6:30. WTF? and I'm always compelled to answer those because what if it's my mom calling me from the hospital because my dad's had a heart attack or something.

This pie is delicious, really. I made it for mother's day with the Carrera marble rolling pin they wouldn't let me bring on the plane in Italy. I haven't made real crust in a long time- Pillsbury is so much easier. The recipe called for cooking the rhubarb in sugar and lemon zest and cinnamon with corn starch for ten minutes, and I'm not sure I like that. It made the surface too flat, and I prefer my pies to be lumpy and REAL looking.

Work is great, although my To Do list has reached 18 pages and I told my boss to keep all of his brilliant ideas to himself for awhile until i'm caught up. Where do I even begin? writing press releases is harder than I thought, because saying the same thing over and over gets tedious and it's hard to pay attention. And in journalism, you write it, hand it in, and you're pretty much done. With this, it's got to go through your client's legal department, corporate communications department, etc, etc, and the finished product is so dry and devoid of information, you could use it as a communion wafer. And it takes FOREVER. One stupid two-page press release can take a MONTH to get approved. It makes me wild with fury when these damned corporate communications people say, "Oh...well, so and so left for vacation, so we'll get back to you in two weeks. Sorry." Fuckers!

But I'm still really enjoying all the people there. They've been super helpful about my foot and giving me time to go to the doctor's office and such. It still amazes me how driven and focused they all are. 200 highly motivated Gen Xers in one room. It reeks of wizardry.

Miss Nobody, it doesn't look like I'll see you before you go on vacation and I go to Quebec. I hope you have fun! Don't get too hungover; remember, one pint of water with three Advil before bed.

Tuesday, May 10, 2005


God it's hot in my apartment. I've got all the doors and windows open and it's still hot. And still. And sticky. At least I have cable, which A.S. is flipping through and stopping on all the annoying channels...blackjack, heavy metal, boring other shit.

We've just come from dinner at La Hacienda where the margaritas are very large. Maybe it'll help me sleep, which I have not been doing very well at all. I need to start keeping a dream journal, in the same vein that my mom says that if you're lying awake thinking of things you have to do, writing it down gets it off your mind and lets you fall asleep. Anyway, I've had bad dreams and very exciting dreams about avoiding hit men on yachts. Kind of cool actually--wish I'd written down more of it so I could write a book.

Dinner at Stupid People Breeding's house was excellent, although the two of us were so busy going, "Blah! Blah! Blah! I'm right! Blah! Blah!" that A.S. couldn't get a word in edgewise. I'm like that. So is SPB, but we're very interesting people. At least A.S. thought we were funny, especially when we were reminescing (on my part, sadly still a reality on his... is that word spelled right?) about The Nerve. SPB's wife is a fantastic photographer and has some beautiful shots of the Vietname Memorial in DC. And an extremely fat cat. What was really funny was their puppy kept trying to lick my rotten foot and then would go drink SPB's beer. Heh. Heh. When his lips fall off, it's his own fault for drinking after a dog.

The foot is still dreadful, by the way. Very nasty and unattractive, although I am good about keeping it under wraps for the most part. When people come into my apartment somewhat unannounced (which is not the same thing as unwelcome) and it's out and free and gruesome for all to see, I am not responsible for their reaction. My Quebec wedding is on Thursday, and I wonder what shoes will go with my heinous boot and the Grace Kelly dress...

By the way, I'm most awfully drunk and am going to go crawl into bed.

Monday, May 09, 2005


I got $125 in cash in my pocket from that silly driving test. I gotta dinner party. I gotta walking boot. My man's on his way. Who's your daddy?

Anyone ever heard of the Squirrel Nut Zippers? I'm listening to Blue Angel right now, and it puts me in a certain mood. Well, THE mood, if you will. But you know, that has a certain attitude too.

So sorry for not blogging for an ETERNITY. Cable took much longer to install than expected. You should see the ghetto installation job. He drilled two holes through the stucco of a 200 year old house, stapled the cables under my front door, all down the porch, down four storeys of house to the box. Sheesh. But since I have a skin graft scheduled for the 18th and needed some means of entertaining myself, it was absolutely imperative, aesthetics aside. So now the addiction has begun. I come in and wonder what's on television? And if nothing is on for the first go round, I will keep flipping through until something becomes palatable. sigh.

It's interesting blogging in my own living room, with my pecan tree out the window, my little Chinese fellow in the corner, my wildebeest peering down his long nose at me. I'm a tad flustered. It's so much easier to be witty when your editor could catch you. Hmph.