The Gurly Life

Close encounters of the famous kind

This afternoon I was at an alumni event with Brown's Dean of Admissions, which was awesome and I will write about it later, but that's not the point of this post.

At the end, I was closing shop with the dean and another alumn whose last name sounded very familiar.

Me: So do I know your name because you're one of my interviewers or because you're the famous tv producer?

Him: Oh, that's my brother. I own the Milwakee Brewers.

Me: What sport is that?

Him: Baseball.

Me: I'm a fan of baseball. [Then, realizing how stupid that sounded, a baseball fan that doesn't know a Major League baseball team]. Well, I mean, I LIKE baseball, and have gone to some games even. I know some of the rules, sort of, I mean, I kinda get it you know. What I mean to say is that in the hierarchy of sports I watch baseball more than, say, basketball. I watch the Super Bowl, but really for the commercials. So in the hierarchy of professional sports, I like baseball the best. But obviously I'm not a brilliant fan because I didn't even know your team. I've been to a baseball game before, in fact, I try to go a few times during the season, I've even gone to minor league games.

No doubt he was impressed with my wit and sophistication. Thankfully I didn't ruin it by babbling inanities.

Panic

Wherein I freak out because no one was responding to my Facebook updates FOR TWO DAYS!.

Last Thursday or Friday, I downloaded a photo upload Facebook app for iPhoto. If you don't really get what that means, don't worry. What's important is that I downloaded a Facebook application. I did not realize this at the time, but said application screwed something up for my Facebook account, so that no one other than me could see my updates. As far as all my friends were concerned, I'd gone stealth.

The first hint that something had gone awry was when I posted updates that I was on my way to the airport to pick up my mom, and NO ONE RESPONDED, not even a like. My first reaction was, you bastards! Not even a like? Fine. Then you don't get to come have dinner and eat my mom's delicious food. Hurrumph!

I posted a link, a couple more updates on Saturday, and again, nothing. Ummh. Ok, maybe I'm just suddenly really uninteresting and my updates are ending up at the bottom of the new news feed, which decides for you what is interesting and important. So I made myself wrong about being boring for a little while.

In desperation, I posted the following: "I sprouted wings and flew to Canada, where I learned to make goulash." That, I thought, will elicit at least ONE question, even if only something like WTF??

Again, nothing. I began to feel isolated, and ignored. I tallied all the people who I hadn't heard from in a while, trying to remember who hadn't called me back. Could this be a conspiracy? Something fishy is definitely afoot here. Then I tried to remember if I'd written something deeply offensive on my wall and this was retaliation, or the online equivalent of social ostracism, a virtual scarlet letter, if you will.

The anxiety began to creep in. What if all my friends have hidden my updates? I have hidden about half of mine, but I think that's normal, right? You keep the updates of your closer peeps, and occasionally check in with your acquaintances? But what if that is a major FB faux pas, and the word got around and now interwebby vigilante justice is unfolding?

This morning I woke up in a crappy mood and almost didn't go to yoga because I HAD TO GET TO THE BOTTOM OF THIS. Can you imagine? I'm literally going over the edge in less than 2 days.

I emailed everyone I could think of who might have had dealings with FB tech support (and figured out how to contact them, though they assured me they are not likely to respond), got tips and links from all kinds of friends and friends of friends, and finally, after breakfast and tea and while on my way to yoga I remembered that application.

And before you can say Bob's your uncle, I had removed the application and was again visible. I could have run nekked through the streets, I was so excited.

In case you hadn't figured it out from the painfully detailed account above, the whole experience left me rattled. I have only been on FB for a little over a year, but as I am a compulsive communicator, it has turned into a vital tool for me. (Drat!) I read up on what people are doing, put in my two cents, hear from them about what I'm doing, post my blog posts, look at people's pictures, make inane comments about things I find interesting, and so on. More importantly, I have reconnected with long lost friends from childhood. What a community!

In my fog of panic, I thought about the adjustment I'd have to make if for some reason my profile was hopelessly corrupt and I had to close down the account. It's like my cell phone: I'm not on it all the time, but I want to be the one to choose whether or not I'm available, and I want to be reachable in case of an emergency, whether that be a boyfriend misbehaving of someone in the hospital.

And isn't it funny how each level of technology enhances our ability to be connected with our peeps, and how addictive that is? Anyway, all's well that ends well, and you can all look forward to my insane ramblings, just as you did prior to Thursday.

Stubborn

Do you have things you're stubborn about, even though you know full well it's just asinine to be stubborn about them?

One of mine is Starbucks' sizes. Their small is tall, their medium is grande, their large is venti. Now. In Italian, grande means large. And venti means twenty. So it comes out as tall, large, twenty. Huh? It's just idiotic. And I refuse to call a medium drink a large, and I don't care what damn language it's in, it makes no damn sense.

I don't stop there, however, I explain to every poor Starbucks employee who will listen that the way they name their drink sizes doesn't make sense and why (as above). I just won't let it go.

Stormwatch 2009

Temper tantrums. I have one more or less every year. The last one was in September of 2008 when we had 4 days of 107F temperatures, and the power would go out for several hours every day, in the heat of the day, so no AC and no fan. I could have made it without the AC, but no fan sent me over the edge. If I remember correctly, I was on the floor stomping my hands and feet and screaming. Yes, like in the cartoons.

Tonight I had my 2009 temper tantrum. This time, I broke some stuff.

What's weird is that there was not any apparent accumulated stress. I had a busy-ish day, I've been a little tired from the neverendingfuckingcoughthroatthing. I'm nowhere near PMS, no particular source of stress at work or in any other area of my life. I'm not saying there is no stress at all, but nothing really even worth mentioning.

In fact, today I scored a small victory because I switched out my old cable box for a new one and reconnected everything by myself, and programmed my remote to control all the boxes, and figured out that I need one little $7 cable to put the final touches on having one remote only. 

I was also planning to write a post about my yoga class this evening because it was kind of a sweat fest and there is definitely something about that sort of practice that takes you out of your head and into your body, but really more outside your body. A fascinating experience.

So I was quite surprised when I flew into a rage when my $300 blender, for no apparent reason, decided not to work at all. Just dead. As a doorknob. I started throwing things around, and smashing things against whatever I could find. Then I found that my rage intensified so I grabbed a couple of plastic mixing bowls and smacked them as hard as I could against the marble sink. They broke. Unsatisfied, I grabbed a glass from the counter, and threw it into a corner of the kitchen as hard as I could. It shattered.

At which point I noticed something. The rage got even bigger. I was this close from grabbing the heavy base of the blender and throwing it out of the window and into the street. This would have presented obvious liability issues, not to mention it would have blown the warranty on the damn thing. So I stopped. All told, I only caused a few dollars in damage, but the mixing bowls were nice, pretty colors, and now 2 of the 4 sizes (the most useful, of course) are lots of bits of plastic sitting in the recycling bin. I'll have to replace them before my mom arrives. I had already broken a few glasses over the years by accidentally dropping them, so I need to get some new glasses anyway.

While the breaking of things was a release, it left me feeling pathetic and alone. And sad. And now I feel like shit about breaking those mixing bowls, I actually use those things. Well, that's just dandy. 

Sometimes, being alone weighs on me.

The idiot redeems herself

At least a little. You may remember my recent flirting debacle. Well, I have made up for it a little bit.

For anyone who has not read the previous post and does not wish to do so, the short version is that a rather attractive slightly older U.S. Marshal flirted with me in federal court, and I was too slow on the uptake to figure it out until I had left. Duh! You say. Yeah.

I went back to that courthouse a few more times since, and not because of the Marshal, because I wanted to watch my colleaguebosses in action. The Marshal would have been the cherry on top. Or the gravy, depending on whether you have a sweet tooth or prefer savory food. But I only saw him briefly yesterday. He seemed happy to see me, but couldn't stick around and then I left.

Today was closing arguments, so no more visits to federal court after today, and my Marshal was not there. What to do?

I decided to leave him my card with my cell phone number on it. Normally, when I do this kind of thing I get all squiggly and weird, but this time I decided not to. Damn it, I'm a grown woman.

So that's what I did. I left my card with the guys at the metal detector, asking them politely to pass it on to him. If nothing comes of it, oh well. It's not like I have anything to lose.

And yes, you may now call me smoooth operator.

Redemption

always begins with a dick move. Otherwise there would be no need for redemption, would there?

The first part of said dick move harks from a few months ago, when Willow asked me if I would give her a kidney if she needed it. My immediate response what that I would have to think about it. Of course, Willow was totally scandalized, but since my first answer to absolutely every request is always "NO!" after which I can think about it and change my mind, "I would have to think about it" is a step in the right direction. And in my defense, Willow is in shockingly good health, so I have some time to think about it.

Anyway.

The other day, Kathya sent an office-wide email asking if anyone would be interested in getting tested for bone marrow donation. A family friend, a 22 year old boy, has leukemia. He has undergone repeated chemotherapy treatments and needs a bone marrow transplant.

My automatic response, frankly, was revulsion. I'm not PROUD of it or anything. This is, after all, the second part of the heretofore mentioned dick move.

It's not that I have any objection to parts of my body inhabiting other bodies. I'm all for organ donation, I would not want to be kept alive if I'm brain dead (seriously, what's the point? if my brain is gone, all that's left is the meatbag), and then please cremate me. None of that embalming bullshit, which in my humble opinion is disgusting and so NOT circle of life! Where was I? Oh yes. Revulsion.

The revulsion came from the thought of having another surgical procedure. (You might remember that I swore that I would not have any more surgeries unless absolutely necessary.) While the odds of being a bone marrow match are about as high as the odds of winning the lotto, if I get tested it's because I want to be a match and then if found to be one I will donate. While not wanting to be tested is a dick move, getting tested and then chickening out is just a giant boner of a dick move.

My big concern was that I finally have gotten to the point that I'm not in excruciating pain most of the time, and that another surgery does not fill me with anticipation. The brochure says that most people return to their normal routine within days. Right. My hip surgeon told me I could start running again about 4 months after my hip surgery TWO YEARS LATER STILL NOT RUNNING AND MAYBE NEVER but for sure at least 3 years before the hip heals fully. It's not that they lie, it's that they don't have a damn clue that one thing affects the entire body, and the entire body takes longer to heal than just the one thing. As it turns out.

Plus, they stick a needle in your hip and suck the marrow out of there. Oh goody, something that causes hip pain. I think I would like MORE hip pain, please, thankyouverymuch. They say you're anesthetized, but they don't specify if it's local or general. If it's general, yipeee! I want another day of retching and a burned out throat and dry mouth for 3 days. And in light of the fact that I am flattened by a mere 4 vials of blood when I get my annual physical, I'm guessing that the "few days" will be more than that for me.

Sigh.

So imagine, if you will, how it would be for me if I had leukemia and had to undergo chemo. I, who cannot take Tylenol for more than three days because it makes my liver hurt. I, who get the runs if I drink cough syrup once each night for a week before going to bed. I, who get horrible gas from cough drops, for Christ's sake. To be perfectly honest, I'm not entirely sure that I'd make it. I would probably vomit so much that my toenails would come right out of my mouth (I would get a pedi, first). My face would melt, my ears and my eyes would swap places, my boobs would become fried eggs and then I'd grow an extra one in the middle of my forehead. And then that one would droop, too.

And how would I feel if someone who could save me didn't because of some selfish, dumb-ass reason? Man, I would be angry. But more than that, I'd be frustrated, and lost, and helpless, and sad, and desperately, hopelessly alone.

The revulsion is still there. But I have requested a testing kit, and I truly want to be a match. What a gift it would be to be able to save this young man's life. Which of course also means that if Willow needs the kidney, she can have it.

The fear isn't going to go away. I will not suddenly get inspired and get all rapturous about it, there will be sedatives. But I am counting on the stellar karma orgy to get me through any minor health setbacks. And ice cream. And somebody had better make me some kickass gluten-free pizza.

Going through the motions

This morning I got up at 4:30. I wanted to spend a couple of hours in federal court (no Clint Eastwood today, sadly) and didn't want to lose the entire morning. Billable hours, don't you know.

First thing when I wake up, I make myself a large mug of tea, mix my weird breakfast concoction of yogurt, miscellaneous seeds and nuts, a banana and sometimes strawberries, and of course, while the water is heating up for the tea, I feed the cats. All this requires a bowl, a large mug, a teaspoon, and a little plate with a little fork. The mug, of course, is for the tea. The mug goes next to the electric kettle, teabag at the ready. While the water heats up, I ladle half a can of delicious cat food onto the little plate with the little fork, while Cricket eyes me from the table, probably hoping for treats, and Maliboo Kitty meows plaintively on the floor. Once that's done, and the water dish refreshed, it's the yogurt concoction's turn. A few chia seeds here, a couple of pumpkin seeds there, some slivered almonds, walnut pieces, dessicated strawberries, and perhaps fresh fruit, all smothered by low fat yogurt.

The point is, this is a well-rehearsed, well-choreographed morning routine. Morning food, as some of you may know, is the most critical part of my daily nourishment. No food, no Elena. In fact, no food, and you might lose a limb. Which I will eat. Raw. Grrrraaur.

However, I have found that when I wake up at 4:30am or earlier, even the deep memory grooves of my morning routine have smoothed out, like footprints on the wet sand as the tide begins to rise. So this morning, the routine went a little like this: it's o'dark hundred, and literally, it is dark outside. My eyes are barely open. I have them open, but they won't go past half mast. In fact, my lids keep lowering, and for the next few minutes, I find my head going backwards as my eyes close so that I can see. I get to the kitchen (did I mention it's dark outside?) and I pull a mug out of a kitchen cabinet and put it next to the microwave. I then walk to the fridge, open it and close it. I walk back to my mug, pick it up, bring it to the counter on the other side of the stove, across from the fridge. I open the fridge and close it. I take the mug and move it back by the microwave. I walk to the fridge and I open and then close it. Then I get a plate out and put it next to the mug by the microwave. Then I take out the bowl, and move it to the counter across from the fridge. I won't tell you what I do with the fridge. After a few minutes of this, it starts to dawn on me that I'm not getting much done. It seems my morning auto-pilot is is stuck on auto-circle, and this could go on for a while. So I stop, in the middle of the kitchen, cats meowing for their breakfast and start all over again, this time with my brain on.

U.S. Marshal deliciousness

But I'm still an idiot.

So, today I went to federal court. I did not have a hearing, thankfully, those judges are scary - I went to watch my colleagues (=bosses) in action. I showed up at the federal courthouse and immediately found myself flirting with one of the U.S. Marshals at security. I swear he started it. The man is definitely on the older side, I wanna say at least 60, but he had a very pronounced Clint Eastwood thing going. Now, I don't know if you've taken a close look at Clint Eastwood, but the man is hot deliciousness served on a plate of yummyness. Granted, he's definitely too old for me, but only just, and that is entirely beside the point. His current wife, who is 40 years younger than he is, married him when he was 76. And I didn't blame her one bit.

I was all, oh isn't that fun? I get to go down memory lane (I worked for the U.S. Attorney's Office my first law school summer, the best summer job EVER!) and I get to flirt with Clint Eastwood. Awesome.

I then went about getting lost in the lobby (who gets lost in the lobby of a courthouse? I mean, seriously), asking other Marshals for directions  TO THE ELEVATOR for pete's sake. One of them was like, I can see you're a very bright woman, and I was all, hey, it's a miracle I've gotten this far in life, ok?

In my defense, they don't exactly make it easy. They don't tell you what floor the courtrooms are on, or where the cases are being held, and when you get up to the courtroom there is no calendar outside that tells you you've arrived at your destination. Only a mildly snide clerk who says yes, the H*** trial is in this courtroom, all day today and all day tomorrow, too. Pfft.

Anyway, I arrived at the right courtroom, riding up in the elevator with a firefighter who was there to testify in an officer-involved shooting case, caught up with my colleagues and then as they put themselves on the chopping block (counsel table), I sat in the audience, front row. While court is open to the public, there's not usually a lot of public in attendance, especially for civil trials, I mean who the hell cares, right? The judge came out and was immediately on top of my colleagues, saying that she had reviewed a certain exhibit and that counsel should think carefully about how they want to handle the issue. The subtext was that so far your argument is bullshit, so you better change tactic right now before I humiliate you in front of the jury. Eeeek. She also glared at me a bit, just to make sure I knew who was boss in that courtroom. Like there was any chance of not getting that. And by the way, if your phone goes off in there, the Marshals will shoot you in the head, execution style, right then and there, no due process or nothin'. I exaggerate for dramatic effect (really?), but you get the drift.

As I sat there, I noticed my Clint Eastwood Marshal come into the courtroom. This did not surprise me much, they move around from courtroom to courtroom, and presumably there are not a ton of trials going on so it was quite likely that a Marshal, any Marshal, who wanted to sit in a courtroom and watch a trial would come to our courtroom.

When I left, he left with me and we rode the elevator down together and chatted a bit. He asked me my name, told me his, and asked me if I was coming back. He had great hands, by the way. I gave him an unintentionally evasive answer about my pending return. Something along the lines of, well, yes I want to and I will but it depends on my schedule it might be tomorrow, but if I can't tomorrow, then Friday for sure but now I'm thinking tomorrow, if I can. Sometimes, I wear myself out.

It occurred to me later that he might actually have come looking for me. I mean, he did leave with me, and he did ride down the elevator with me, and then slooowwwllly walked me to the exit, all the while chatting and smiling at me and being VERY interested in all the inane things I had to say. Mmmh. Of course, I did not have the presence of mind to say, oh will you be here tomorrow, I'll see you then or some such triteness that would indicate that I got it. Because, in truth, I hadn't gotten it, at least, not then.

Like I said, I'm still an idiot.

[PS I'll be back tomorrow and if he's still there and still flirty I will give you an update. Heavens!]

My writing class

Last night I spent an hour in a chat room with about 6 of my classmates, and the instructor. I don't think I've been in a chat room since the early days of AOL. I know, right?

When I signed in, I was just getting over the shock of getting my work critiqued by other writers. I'll take a moment here to say that there are some really, really good writers in this group. I'm definitely at the bottom of the pile, here, people. Oh yeah. On the plus side, the people in the class are wonderfully fun. We had a brief discussion about ducks. One writer said that she was finally getting all her ducks in a row, prompting me to confess that I had forgotten to bring my duck to the discussion, and then it just went downhill from there.

I was not particularly thrilled with my first two assignments. When the first comment on my second writing assignment said something to the effect that the emotion behind the piece was missing, I went to a crazy place: I was all, oh my god, I have no emotions, I'm a cold fish, I'm dead inside! No wonder I don't have a relationship, I am practically a robot, OHMYGOD I need therapy. In other words, I had an emotional breakdown. When I finally realized the irony (idiocy?), I burst out laughing. All by my myself, laughing, with Maliboo Kitty making worried chirpy noises. But then, she makes worried chirpy noises when I sneeze, sooo....

Then finally I realized that (a) one person's response does not make me a robotic dead fish, and (b) if I were a virtuoso writer, I would not be taking the class, I'd be teaching it. In fact, I hope all my pieces suck it, so I can see where I have room for improvement. I am so mature it's almost annoying.

Gooey and stupid

Every now and again, it happens to us all to be so attracted to someone that we get gooey and stupid. It's ok, you can go ahead and admit it. It happened to me this week. I won't say when, or where, but I was at a meeting some time this week at a police department that shall remain nameless. I had a meeting with a lieutenant and an officer. The lieut is unquestionably good looking, but I work with a lot of very gorgeous cops and while I am aware of their hotness, it doesn't usually overcome me. Normally, it's just a perk of the job.

Today for no reason that I can figure out, said lieut totally knocked me over. What can I say, he was in his uniform, short sleeves with muscular arms on display, gun and badge (and you know how I like a gun and a badge), and sat across from me leaning back in his chair the way manly men can do sometimes, all in his perfectly fitted uniform and his gun and his badge (did I mention about my thing with guns and badges?), with his manly arms crossed over his chest (I like arms, too), looking at me through those half-closed eyes, you know the eyes of someone who is really interested in what you're saying and is listening intently and processing at the same time and I was all STOP LOOKING AT ME LIKE THAT I CONFESS. Every now and then I'd say something he liked, and he'd smile a cat smile and I would be all, shit. What was I saying? Oh yeah, the admin cites.

No doubt he must have thought I was nutty. I got all fidgety, and kept playing with my pen, which I dropped about 6 times, and my right hand was covered in ink by the time the meeting was over. I kept telling myself to focus and BE PROFESSIONAL. Instead, I was mostly an idiot. On the plus side, my goofiness is more likely to have been mistaken for complete incompetence. Thank goodness for small mercies.