Fur-baby

Ugh you guys I want a pet.  I want a cat or a dog to live with me and be my friend and be really annoying and then be really cute to make up for it.  We live in a leetle one-bedroom apartment with a bathroom that fits two people only if the door is open, both are standing, and neither move, so it’s not like we have space for one.  However, these last two years of marriage (read: only two) are the only ones of my life I haven’t lived with a pet and I’m starting to go a little mad.

I’m to the point where I’m mournfully recollecting past pets, thinking about writing them some odes.  And then possibly leaving those heartfelt poems in places where Nikolai will see them and  understand what he’s doing to me with his selfish “can we afford it” and “do we have room” arguments.

For now, all I can do is visit friends and lovingly maul their pets to fill the dark, empty, fur-less void within my soul, Nick.  

 

item of Interest: The Maria Paradox

After saying nothing for months, I now have things to say.  I will make them two separate things, however, and I may keep the funny one for a later date.  This first one is a big deal though – there is a new and fascinating book out.  It’s a self-help book, and I’m totally going to crib the press release from the blog where I first read about it.

THE MARIA PARADOX, written by Drs. Rosa Gil and Carmen Vazquez, is a unique self-help guide for Hispanic women and the men who love them.

The authors challenge the machismo-reinforcing idea of “marianismo,” a centuries-old belief system that in effect tells Latinas: “Don’t forget a woman’s subservient place; never put your own needs first; sex is for making babies.”

Filled with self-help exercises, this clearly written manual offers practical advice on how to build support networks, overcome passivity, forge career paths, change or get out of abusive relationships and increase sexual fulfillment.Filled with real-life success stories and wise, compassionate advice, THE MARIA PARADOX details how Latinas can enjoy the best of both worlds.

The book can be purchased from all major online retailers. The authors can also be found on Twitter and on Facebook.

My friend, aspiring author A.B. Keuser, wrote well about it here.  The cultural and societal rules the sexes obey has always been a frustration to me, and it seems that this book will be a response to that, with ways to counteract it.  the book is written to Latinas, but I believe that there is wisdom to be gained from it regardless of heritage.  I plan to read it soon.

 

Moderately Important Update

Last week I was dozing off to sleep. Well, I did that more than once last week, but this is the particular instance I want to mention. it was my normal bedtime, normal everything. I dozed off, and began to dream. I dreamed I was eating a cupcake and it had very lovely, fluffy frosting. I jolted myself awake all of a sudden because I was moving. I realized I had the blanket in my mouth. Turns out that cupcake tasted awful.

 

A Shameful Confession

I have wondered if I ought to tell you this, but the possibility for humor outweighs my dignity.  Like always.

It was a coworker’s birthday today, and another coworker made him a pie.  She made a pecan pie, because they’re his favorite.  We all had some.  As I ate my way through my slice, I glanced at the spoon and noticed some red residue on the underside of the bowl.  I thought it odd, but perhaps I was scraping a little too vigorously and was removing paint from the plate.  I kept checking at intervals, and there was still red something on the bottom of the spoon.  The plates were dark green, so they could not be the source, and the pan the pie came in wasn’t red.

I finally got a mirror out of my purse and checked.  Yes, my mouth was bleeding.  I hoped it was spontaneously bleeding from the abundance of sugar, but alas, it was not to be.  I looked again and saw that I had cut my lip on the inside.  How had I done such a thing?  Why, with a spoon, of course!  HOW ELSE DO PEOPLE CUT THEMSELVES IN THE MOUTH EATING PIE?  Remember how people who are a danger to themselves and others are not given forks or knives?  Well, in my hand a spoon can be just as dangerous.

Now if you’ll excuse me, my mouth stings.  Still.

 

“This won’t hurt a bit” is always a lie

I went to give blood today.  I like donating blood!  It’s one of the few things I do that can have actual global significance.  I don’t like the process especially, but I do like the feeling of accomplishment at the end, the free cookies and juice, and all the sympathy I can trump up for myself.  It’s a wonder I didn’t post a picture of my bandaged-up arm to Facebook.  

This time ’round, the experience was a bit more unpleasant than usual.  I haven’t donated in I think almost two years which made most of the process fresh horror for me.  I ate a decent breakfast about an hour before the appointment, drank lots of water yesterday and today, had no caffeine, and still had the nervous shakes as I waited.  

 

I detest the prick needle that is spring-loaded to jab my finger to test my hemoglobin, so I nervous-chatter my way through that.  I passed the test just fine and I don’t have any sketchy life practices that could be problematic.  Getting to the giving bed/table thing was no problem.  I got a blanket because the room was cold.  Yay blankets!  My phlebotomist, while I’m sure a nice person, laughed when I requested a hand to hold when he jabbed me.  I’ll tell you:  the edge of the table provides no reassuring squeezing.  

 

I got to pumping and all seemed well.  I focused on taking deep breaths and not trying to feel the humongous needle in my vein, which would require me to hold my breath to try to sense in my arm.  He checked on me once, all good.  He began to set up another giver, and I called him over saying it was making a weird feeling.  The line running across my wrist felt – - bumpy.  It felt like the bag was bump-bump-bumping the leg of the table and the feeling was traveling up the line to me.  I realized he would have to twist the needle away from my vein wall (the bumpy feeling)  (guess who’s nauseated re-telling this)  and turned my head away.  I then immediately snapped my head back to say, ” you need to lay me down right now.  Right now.”  He immediately did so, and two other helpers converged.  

 

One fellow removed my scarf, asking who said it was a good idea to wear a scarf while donating?  I told him, “people with cold necks.”  He didn’t laugh.  He seemed intent on making me keep my eyes open and dude, I was closing them to focus on my breathing.  Then there was a cold compress on my throat and another on my forehead, and lots of coaching to breathe deep and keep my eyes open and cough really hard.  Why?  Well apparently a big cough shoots a bunch of oxygen to the head!  So there I lay, feebly squeezing the squoosh-ball, white as a ghost, covered in a red blanket and coughing for all I was worth, one side of my body sweating and the other ice-cold.  Luckily one of the girls there was willing to hold my hand for a minute, and honestly, PHLEBOTOMIST JIM, human contact can help!  

 

The story ends with me being fine and going home after a can of orange juice and some animal crackers.  I have to say that getting the concerned side-eye from a room full of people who are good with needles can be very unsettling.  

 

Arbitrary Rant: Modern Music

Songwriters these days don’t put much poetry in their work.  It seems that a basic knowledge of language itself is likewise unnecessary.  I have heard grammar be utterly mutilated, I have heard fragments, tenses gone wrong, and plurals ignored.  My biggest annoyance is incorrect use of metaphors or pop culture references.  For example: Ms. Ke$ha sings,”Drink that kool aid, follow my lead,” and I am not confident that she knows she’s referencing the Jonestown massacre, and I’m even less confident that her 13-year-old fans realize they’re singing about a cult leader that convinced his followers to kill themselves with kool-aid laced with cyanide.  Perhaps, Ke$ha, you should not compare a fanatical, suicidal cult with your little group of friends at a dance club.  It’s just a thought.

Selena Gomez came on the radio as I drove home.  While I find her utterly adorable, her song annoyed me.  ”I love you like a love song, baby!  I just keep hitting repeat!”  A fantastic proclamation, my dear.  You love “baby” like a love song.  Do you love him in agreement with the words of the love song lyrics?  Or, do you love him like you love a particular love song, which is why you keep hitting the repeat button?  YOUR LYRICS ARE VERBALLY VAGUE AND DO NOT FOSTER COMPREHENSION.  Go, my children.  Go forth and read the works of poets from years gone by and civilizations older than your own.  Try to understand what they use to convey more than one idea within one sentence.  Learn from them.  CHANGE YOUR OBNOXIOUS WAYS.

 

~end rant~

 

Ever wake up and feel like a moonshiner?

I know I didn’t wake up feeling like one, but after I went for a walk one morning this week and had made and was eating my breakfast, the feeling came on rather fast.  I was zoning out, enjoying my oatmeal and raisins, when I heard a loud and horrible POP followed by what sounded like a burst pipe or sudden, torrential downpour outside the front door.  Given that the front door doesn’t have any exposed pipes and is also very much covered from the elements, none of this made any sense to my early morning brain.  I also thought perhaps the POP had been the result of malicious hooligans setting off large firecrackers at my front door, or to get at one of my near neighbors.  I got up to inquire and found something entirely unlike what I had expected.

Last weekend, Nick and I had made apple cider with my family and friends.  We had brought back some gallons of pasteurized and sealed cider, and four unpasteurized gallons with which to make hard cider.  It’s fun.  However, we had stacked the boxes in the front closet and proceeded to forget what raw cider does when left unsupervised in a dark, warmish environment:  It begins to ferment.  It had fermented so hard it had exploded a glass gallon jug.  The liquidy noise was the cider flying out of the corners of the box and soaking the box beneath it, as well as the closet floor.

I promptly panicked.  I dashed into the bedroom and woke up a very confused and disoriented Nikolai, who (once he understood what was happening) was very helpful.  We placed bowls to catch the runoff, towels to staunch the cidery coup of the closet floor, and moved things in imminent danger of being cidered out of the closet.  Nick was brilliant.  He realized that the other three jugs would likely explode as well and he unscrewed the caps on them, saving us from cidery, glass-splintery doom.

Did I mention I woke him early?  You see, his natural sleep pattern starts at about 2 AM and ends about 10 AM.  I prefer he wake up in the mornings and help me with getting ready so I don’t get angry that he gets to sleep in, so I wake him up at 7 AM.  With me so far?  This particular morning, I woke him up half an hour early, which to his body is actually three and a half hours early.  Ergo, quick thinking under such circumstances is remarkable.  We got the mess contained, the closet cleaned, and the applejack (it’s called applejack when it gets a little boozy and fizzy all by itself, did you know?  I just found that out.) into a large pot to start the hardening process.

I left for work with these final thoughts on the event:  I think this is what moonshiners feel like when a still explodes.  But I bet a still explodes louder.

 

Hear ye, hear ye

Today is my aunt’s birthday!  Happy Birthday aunt D****!  It’s something of a joke in our family that I’m actually, secretly her child.  Mostly it’s because we look a lot alike, and that bit was helped along when both my mother and older sister saw me across a room and thought D**** had showed up to the event.

My favorite memory of D**** is something of a toss up.  I love the memories of her teaching me knitting, and the look she gave me when I demonstrated my *cough* unorthodox method of purling.  The best, though, is the one where she attempted to wash a birthmark off my toe, convinced it was hot cocoa I had spilled on myself.  In her defense, I really had spilt cocoa on my foot.  She thought I had missed a spot.  Love you D****!

 

Geeeeeez

This week just seems to be MY WEEK.   Friday night, Nikolai called me out on being mean to him without cause or good reason.  I guess Some People don’t like dead legs when I disagree with them.  Who knew?  I thought I was expressing my opinion, but he thinks I was being needlessly cruel.  Potayto, potahto.  All I’m saying is, when he says something I don’t like, he might get punched in the thigh.  OR not, now.  Because he doesn’t like it and gets sad or whatever.  Pshhhhhh.

Nextly, at work having a discussion with a friend brought up my tendency to play devil’s advocate and argue sides of conversation I don’t even agree with, just because I can.  I do it because I think so many people write off all sides of an issue once they decide which they agree with, and decree that side to be right.  When that is done, everyone who disagrees becomes the enemy instead of another rational being who believes their view is valid, and also the right side.  Then nothing gets done between the factions because everyone’s too busy fighting the enemy.

I would let this friend start telling her side, and then I’d save time later by defending the opposing side right away.  I’m all about efficiency in communication, you see.  It would seem that she does not appreciate my efficiency, instead preferring me to hear her out, and let her allow the other view some validity in her own time.  BUT IT TAKES SO LONG AND I’M FASTER AT IT AND STUFF.  It seems that she feels condescended to whenever I do that. Well too bad, Senorita Sensitive!  I have things to do and communication to facilitate.  I can’t sit here all day and listen to my friends finish sentences.  I have things to do.  Good grief.

ed. note:  Please realize this was all tongue in cheek.  I don’t like learning unpleasant things about myself, so I trivialize them and adjust blame so I can deal.

 

I will now proceed to mope

I found a lovely knit sweater pattern which I knew would not fit me.  I made it anyhow because clearly I am smarter than a vintage sweater pattern.  I don’t even need to make sleeves.  I can make it a sweater-vest thing.  I can even add in extra panels on the sides and stitch them in at the end.  It won’t mess up the fit, it will make it perfect for me.  I won’t measure, I don’t even need to do that.

 

On an unrelated note, does anyone want a nice lavender sweater-vest?