If you know me in real life, here are a list of lies that I probably will or have told you....um...sorry about that.
Lie: I have a job
Truth: I've had interviews, a couple emails, and a potential Craigslist identity theft scare. I have no job.
Truth 2: I'll probably still tell you I have a job... even if I'm sure you have read this.
Lie: I just booked a flight to Utah
Truth: I booked a flight to Utah Jan. 19th. Got antsy, booked one for Jan 13th. Got nervous, moved it back to Jan 19th, Got nervous when the "doctor"* told me I had a herniated disc, canceled the flight. Booked a flight February 11th, after my surgery. Got antsy, canceled surgery, booked a flight for Jan. 29th.
Lie: I need surgery on my back
Truth: The surgery was just to get rid of my pain...which is partially legitimate but void because the decision on surgery was also based on another attempt to postpone my real life experience. Also known as unemployment, also known as bills.
Lie: Turns out I don't need surgery on my back
Truth: This lie was more like restitution for the previous lie. Again, the no surgery was really based on my restless desire to live with fun, symmetrical friends again.
Lie: Of course I don't care what my friends think of my life!
Lie 2: I've really got things figured out.
Truth: Read this post again.
Again... my apologies. If you're really angry you can email me at my new work address. I'll get it to you as soon as the tech guy, Sean, gets back from his vacation in Palm Springs... it could be a while. Sean loves Palm Springs! Ugh, tech guys.
*I don't think there's anything quite as condescending as quotation marks. Old Man Winter used them all the time. Bless that man's soul.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Monday, January 19, 2009
Colder than a Convict
When your father is a saint, sometimes it's cool because karma has a way of spilling out onto his demon seed for doing nothing at all. And I mean nothing. But then again, sometimes you end up giving rides home from Springfield to ex-cons.
Today my dad and I went 30 minutes from home to return a kitchen aid to a store in Springfield. Well on the way over we got a call from Tracy, the four-time prisoner of the state penitentiary** who used to go to our church. Tracy has been using my dad's altruistic heart for 11 years for help. This afternoon Tracy asked my dad if he could come to Springfield to give him a ride to Jacksonville to see some "friends." Well we just happened to be in the area heading that way. Lucky us.
We picked him up from work where he is a waiter (no not a dishwasher. I asked.) My dad says due to his anti-social personality disorder, he makes a great waiter. Which is weird because I would say because of his anti-social personality disorder, he would make a great murderer, but I guess I'm just a glass half empty kind of girl.
Anyway, as I'm in the passenger seat, listening to Tracy's stories, I got a rude awakening. He was telling us about the flaggers who stand outside Wal-Mart for $7.25 an hour. Yeah, I've seen them. Looks like the kind of job that would be fitting for Tracy. Go on. I assumed he was going to tell us he filled out an application, but what he did was get that guy some hot chocolate on the coldest day of the year. The guy told him no one had ever done that for him before. Well, after I had successfully judged everyone inside and outside the car (my dad for being too nice, Tracy for being a criminal (ok that one was actually deserved), the flaggers for looking like criminals, etc.), I realized that I was sitting in the car with a saint and a crook, but still managed to be the most insensitive person in the vehicle.
So alright, I'm more cold-hearted than a sociopath on parole, but what I'm hoping is that Karma is a little bit like my GPS. All it knows is that Tracy was in Springfield. The car I was in picked him up, and then the car I was in dropped Tracy off in Jacksonville. Good deed: attained. I also hope that the Jacksonville Police Department is a little less like my GPS. Accomplice in major drug deal: averted.
*Being the optimistic person he is, my dad said he hoped I wasn't too bothered and that maybe I could get a blog out of the experience. I said maybe but I didn't pay attention very well. He said that I could just make up what I don't remember because it's what I "usually do, right?" Great, now I'm cold-hearted and the saint thinks I'm a liar.
**For purpose of this blog, I asked my dad how many times Tracy has been to jail. He said 'four times. Wait, jail or prison? He's been to the county jail a number of times. He's been to prison four.' Well. I wouldn't want to be inaccurate.
Today my dad and I went 30 minutes from home to return a kitchen aid to a store in Springfield. Well on the way over we got a call from Tracy, the four-time prisoner of the state penitentiary** who used to go to our church. Tracy has been using my dad's altruistic heart for 11 years for help. This afternoon Tracy asked my dad if he could come to Springfield to give him a ride to Jacksonville to see some "friends." Well we just happened to be in the area heading that way. Lucky us.
We picked him up from work where he is a waiter (no not a dishwasher. I asked.) My dad says due to his anti-social personality disorder, he makes a great waiter. Which is weird because I would say because of his anti-social personality disorder, he would make a great murderer, but I guess I'm just a glass half empty kind of girl.
Anyway, as I'm in the passenger seat, listening to Tracy's stories, I got a rude awakening. He was telling us about the flaggers who stand outside Wal-Mart for $7.25 an hour. Yeah, I've seen them. Looks like the kind of job that would be fitting for Tracy. Go on. I assumed he was going to tell us he filled out an application, but what he did was get that guy some hot chocolate on the coldest day of the year. The guy told him no one had ever done that for him before. Well, after I had successfully judged everyone inside and outside the car (my dad for being too nice, Tracy for being a criminal (ok that one was actually deserved), the flaggers for looking like criminals, etc.), I realized that I was sitting in the car with a saint and a crook, but still managed to be the most insensitive person in the vehicle.
So alright, I'm more cold-hearted than a sociopath on parole, but what I'm hoping is that Karma is a little bit like my GPS. All it knows is that Tracy was in Springfield. The car I was in picked him up, and then the car I was in dropped Tracy off in Jacksonville. Good deed: attained. I also hope that the Jacksonville Police Department is a little less like my GPS. Accomplice in major drug deal: averted.
*Being the optimistic person he is, my dad said he hoped I wasn't too bothered and that maybe I could get a blog out of the experience. I said maybe but I didn't pay attention very well. He said that I could just make up what I don't remember because it's what I "usually do, right?" Great, now I'm cold-hearted and the saint thinks I'm a liar.
**For purpose of this blog, I asked my dad how many times Tracy has been to jail. He said 'four times. Wait, jail or prison? He's been to the county jail a number of times. He's been to prison four.' Well. I wouldn't want to be inaccurate.
Wednesday, January 14, 2009
Torture Me
I have this herniated disc in my back. I usually tell people it's from running a half marathon in June (and I usually leave off the half), but it's probably just because I ate something wrong and twisted. Whatever the case, I've been seeing the chiropractor for a few weeks now to try and correct it before surgery.
I've never been to a chiropractor before, but I've only heard success stories so I was optimistic. However, today it dawned on me why the success rate is so high.
I've been seeing similarities for a while between the chiropractor's office, and torture scenes I've seen on movies. I go in to a room, get electroshock treatment, and then go to another room to see the doctor who asks me lots of questions I don't have the answers to:
"how did you do this?"
"A marathon"
"You can't herniate a disc from running"
"I don't know then."
"More electroshock."
Except that all of these "torture" devices feel really good. It's not that they are torturing me, but they are torturing me in reverse. It's genius. I think they're ahead of the Chinese on this one. And it must be great for business.
When I first came in they asked me my pain level. I said 9. They said on a scale of 1 to 10. Oh. 9.5 then. My leg doesn't feel any better now, but it's like every time they torture me in reverse and ask me what level of pain I'm in they are saying, "we are doing all this nice stuff for you and you don't feel just a little better? Not even a little?" So these days I say my pain is a two and hop up on the massage table. I think they're catching on though because today I got the best treatment of my life: the hydrotable. It was like being water boarded by an angel.
They may threaten me with love, candy and big spine-cracking bear hugs from the doctor... but I'm holding out with the "I feel better" because I know they've got the big guns in the back: Dr. oh so sexy (and single) VanFleet, the surgeon I see on Friday; and I feel like if I'm really insistent that my back/leg still hurts, I might just get that doctor/torture love affair I've been dreaming of since the explosion of popular "sexy doctor" shows on tv.
I've never been to a chiropractor before, but I've only heard success stories so I was optimistic. However, today it dawned on me why the success rate is so high.
I've been seeing similarities for a while between the chiropractor's office, and torture scenes I've seen on movies. I go in to a room, get electroshock treatment, and then go to another room to see the doctor who asks me lots of questions I don't have the answers to:
"how did you do this?"
"A marathon"
"You can't herniate a disc from running"
"I don't know then."
"More electroshock."
Except that all of these "torture" devices feel really good. It's not that they are torturing me, but they are torturing me in reverse. It's genius. I think they're ahead of the Chinese on this one. And it must be great for business.
When I first came in they asked me my pain level. I said 9. They said on a scale of 1 to 10. Oh. 9.5 then. My leg doesn't feel any better now, but it's like every time they torture me in reverse and ask me what level of pain I'm in they are saying, "we are doing all this nice stuff for you and you don't feel just a little better? Not even a little?" So these days I say my pain is a two and hop up on the massage table. I think they're catching on though because today I got the best treatment of my life: the hydrotable. It was like being water boarded by an angel.
They may threaten me with love, candy and big spine-cracking bear hugs from the doctor... but I'm holding out with the "I feel better" because I know they've got the big guns in the back: Dr. oh so sexy (and single) VanFleet, the surgeon I see on Friday; and I feel like if I'm really insistent that my back/leg still hurts, I might just get that doctor/torture love affair I've been dreaming of since the explosion of popular "sexy doctor" shows on tv.
Tuesday, January 6, 2009
The Greatest Sacrifice
Some might say that giving birth and raising a child is the most selfless thing a woman can do in this life. But I think something is getting overlooked here. A friend of mine from London (who is Australian) came to visit me in "Chicago" where I'm from for a few days. I understand that childbirth might be hard, but hostesses are certainly not getting enough credit for being a top competitor on the selfless scale.
You think you are losing sleep because of your newborn? Well try pretending like you're not the kind of American who sleeps until ten. How's that for a disrupted schedule?
Not to mention my social life. Maybe it's hard for new mothers to be able to spend time with their husbands but I have texts to answer! Very important texts from men who don't call or come around so I depend on these texts to provide me with false hope and potential emotionally abusive relationships (fingers crossed). And the life I am in charge of doesn't nap. I had to send the Aussie to find Velveeta cheese in the Super Wal-Mart buying me a guaranteed 15 minutes to squeeze in a few texts (God bless over-sized American warehouse shopping and foreign-to-Europeans synthetic cheese).
Don't get me wrong, I love my guest as much as any postpartum depressed mother "loves" her newborn, but I would like some credit for my selfless sacrifices. Sure diapers are expensive but so is driving back and forth to the airport.
So go ahead, mothers of the world, soak up all the martyrdom while "giving life," I'll just be over here, the silent American ambassador, making peace with the world by driving to Chicago for the third time this week.
You think you are losing sleep because of your newborn? Well try pretending like you're not the kind of American who sleeps until ten. How's that for a disrupted schedule?
Not to mention my social life. Maybe it's hard for new mothers to be able to spend time with their husbands but I have texts to answer! Very important texts from men who don't call or come around so I depend on these texts to provide me with false hope and potential emotionally abusive relationships (fingers crossed). And the life I am in charge of doesn't nap. I had to send the Aussie to find Velveeta cheese in the Super Wal-Mart buying me a guaranteed 15 minutes to squeeze in a few texts (God bless over-sized American warehouse shopping and foreign-to-Europeans synthetic cheese).
Don't get me wrong, I love my guest as much as any postpartum depressed mother "loves" her newborn, but I would like some credit for my selfless sacrifices. Sure diapers are expensive but so is driving back and forth to the airport.
So go ahead, mothers of the world, soak up all the martyrdom while "giving life," I'll just be over here, the silent American ambassador, making peace with the world by driving to Chicago for the third time this week.
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