Clogged Up

I've been blocked.  At least 3 people commented on why I haven't updated in a while and the best thing I can say is - I've been blocked.  

Not that there's nothing going on in my life.  It's just that sometimes I'm just waiting for something to happen, sometimes I've got a bit on my mind and I'm not able to write it down until I know how it pans out.  Like I can't jinx it or make it real or something....

Anyway, I'm sure this will lift (like it always does) and I'll be posting again sometime soon.

Yes, another blog post about Facebook - but yet different somehow

Facebook is an essential tool for stalking.  Duh.  I'm sure this wasn't the most groundbreaking sentence since Shakespeare asked us "To be or not to be... blah blah blah some other stuff".  Which reminds me - "Hamlet 2" was hysterical.  See it.  I swear you won't burn in hell. 

Anyway, back to Facebook.  Last night, while enduring the longest night at work in ages, I decided to poke around on the the ol' book.  I joined this group called "If you lived in the Whitestone, Bayside area and grew up in the 80's, 90's..."  and managed to find all of the people I went to Jr. High with.  It was quite the event.

My personal favorite was when I discovered the boy I shared my first kiss with.  Ben.  He was a scrawny little thing with big blue eyes and a love for Green Day that I so admired.  We wrote notes in class and he would roller blade to my house and kiss me.  Then he would roller blade off into the sunset and I would walk around all dreamy-eyed for the next 6 hours and write about it in my journal.  Ben and I ended when his BFF Matt decided he liked me and sent his brother Nick to throw an egg at poor old Benny Boy.  Hit him square in the stomach.  Then Nick walked me home because Matt had baseball practice and Nick kissed me, much to Matt's dismay.  

I felt very important being the center of this dramatic love square.  I even wrote poems about it.  Sadly, it wouldn't be the last time I enjoyed the drama of friends and brothers fighting for my honor.  

Anyway, when I came across Ben's page, it turns out he's become one of those Pre-Pubescent looking Male Models.  And most likely he's gay.  I wonder if it's the bitter taste of the ill-requited love he felt for me that turned him off to women forever??  Probably not.  But I like to think I make an impact.

Facebook is like an open window into the pasts and futures of everyone you know.  If you look hard enough you could link so much together.  You could find out who they were before you knew them.  The nerds, the whores, the weird kids.  Do enough detective work and it all comes together.  Not that I have that kind of attention span.  I'm just saying - you could.

Yaz is for suckers...

The makers of Yaz promise PMS side effects will affect me no more. They promise less bloating, less hunger, less oh-my-god-the-world-is-ending anxiety attacks. They promise all of this PLUS shorter periods. "Sign me up", I said.

Well, it's been and a month and I see no change. Here I am, in the midst of PMS. I want to eat chocolate, I want to cry, I want it to rain so I can justify this cloud I'm living under. I want to press fast foward and get on with it because I am having the stupid anxiety attacks again. The one where I will never make any money and am destined to live in a studio apartment for the rest of my life.

The way I've begun to deal with this anxiety is by simply acknowledging the fact that this is all brought on by hormones. I know, logically, the world won't end. I know, eventually I will make enough money to have a savings. But it would really really help if Yaz were to hold up their end of the freakin bargin.

Bastards.

Flashy Pants, Flashy Pooch

They make diapers for dogs. I know this because, this past weekend, I bought them. It was probably one of the most embarrassing purchases I've made in the past year or so. Even more embarrassing than when I bought "Fun Betty" which is a cleverly packaged box of hair dye for your "down there hair". It wasn't that much fun - in case you're wondering. I bought hot pink and the entire process took an hour. The end result? My Betty looked a little bloody. Not as sexy as I had imagined, but I digress.

Dog diapers. Being the over protective mom of my fur kid that I am, I have a crazy mad fear of getting her fixed. I'm a nurse. I know the risks of major abdominal surgery on people. Let them take the knife to my poor, unsuspecting baby??? Never. So, once every 6 months, she gets a visit from her aunt flow.

I was out in Long Island, being a house guest of The Boy's all weekend and I did not want to have tiny drops of blood on his carpet, so I did what any other normal dog owner would do in my situation. I bought a pair of "Flashy Pants" ("for the bitch in season" read the insightful description on the box - and I ask: aren't we all?). Let's not forget the accompanying box of sanitary pads that fit inside the "washable undergarment". What the hell is it under?? The dog has fur! If anything, it's a over-garment.

This purchase was more embarrassing than the time I had to buy my own box of tampons for the first time. I was actually standing on line - in a PET store - with a box that clearly said "sanitary pads" on the front and sides. I felt like one of those sick people who paint their dog's toenails and parade them around in baby buggies.

The poor dog was so embarrassed in her Flashy Pants. She walked around with her butt to the floor the whole time. There's a ruffle on the end. Her tail peeks through. It was just a barrel of ridiculous. Not to mention the fact that she was accidentally let out in the backyard with her Flashy Pants still on. She had her first accident.

My dog wet her pants!!!

She could barely bring herself to play with the other dogs, so embarrassed was she.

Seriously, it must be love. True, unconditional, pet love. Because there I was, on the floor, the dog on her back, changing her diaper, assuring her that the accident was not her fault. She looked so confused. So fearful that her mommy had probably lost her mind.

I do have to say, though, those Flashy Pants do work. The carpet was spared. For the mere price of $15. And my dog's dignity.

Scary predictions and cucumber sandwiches

Four.  I have taken four pregnancy tests in the past week.  And my period isn't even late.

Why so obsessive? you ask?  

There are a couple of reasons.  The number 1 reason being that I've been unbearably nauseated every single day.  And in the seconds in between not being about to lose my cookies, I am ravenously hungry.  For weird things.  For the past 2 nights, I've made myself cucumber sandwiches with laughing cow cheese.  Weird, huh?

Also, I'm moody.  I've been reading "Marley and Me", the book about the crazy dog, and every other anecdote makes me cry.  

Not to mention the peeing.  I've been on like a running faucet of pee.

But each test has been (thankfully) negative.  I'll be the first to admit, when I get an obsession in my mind, a fear or a paranoia, I do not let up until it has proven itself to be impossible.

Another reason this has been on my brain is a rather silly, embarrassing one.  There is a woman I work with who swears she gets "feelings" and according to her, she is always on the mark with her "feelings".  She came up to me (unsolicited) to tell me she strongly feels I am going to be pregnant in the next 6 months.  And she reminds me of this every time I see her.  To the point where it's like "lady stop wishing your baby voodoo on me".

This alleged pregnancy, of course, is news to me.  I am on the pill.  I live in a studio apartment that barely houses me and my dog.  I have a shoe fetish.  I am not anywhere near ready to start sharing my space or my uterus.  But she swears it's coming.  

I take my pill religiously since she's said this.  If I could, I'd take 2 a day.  My mom had me while using the diaphragm (a disclosure she once made over a beer at Murphy's, my local bar - to which my dad jutted in "I have super sperm!" thanks guys, I'll forever have THAT image in my brain).  My aunt popped out 3 consecutive rugrats while on the pill.  What are the odds?

I'm sure my fears are unwarrented.  I wouldn't call them fears, really.  More like things I pray to God won't happen right now.  But I do have a very overactive imagination.  And besides, how well intuned is this psychic lady with my ovaries?  Shouldn't I be getting the strong feeling??  After all, I've housed the suckers for all these years.  Why aren't they sending me psychic visions? 

With all the bullets I've dodged, I'm like Wonder Woman.

With The Boy away for a week, I've had lots of thinking to be done.  To be honest, my experiences in the past with boyfriends going away have not yielded positive results.

It started with my high school boyfriend who was bipolar and didn't take his meds.  He went away on vacation and cheated.  Not 1 summer but 2 in a row.  I think he adhered to that rule about not being in the same time zone, so the cheating doesn't count.  Or maybe he blamed his meds (or lack of).  Not sure, but back then the drama of "I'm sorry - I'll never do this again" and the being treated like a princess and showered with guilt gifts was very exciting.

Then, the worst ego blow was my college boyfriend, whom I was with all throughout college and a little thereafter.  The summer after my Freshman year, he went to Italy for a month for a study abroad thing.  Basically 2 weeks into his trip, he broke up with me over the phone from Florence.  

I later found out it was so he could screw a big boobed blonde named Tina guilt free.

A week after peeling myself off the bathroom floor, dry heaving and dried out from crying (we were going to be together forever!!) I managed to get out and promptly start sleeping with a way too old for me, but still managed a music store and smoked massive quantities of pot boy named John. 

John very quickly became a bit of a stalker.  In the time before cell phones he would repeatedly call my house and leave pathetic messages on the family answering machine.  He went as far as keeping the watch I left at his house for ransom until I saw him again.

Ahh young love.

When my ex came back from his sordid romance in Florence, of course he wanted me back.  Apparently Tina Ta-Tas wasn't more than a set of boobs with blonde hair (how many times does that happen and when will these men learn?).  I, the 18 year old birdbrain I was, was happy to oblige, open arms and all.  He wasn't a stalker and it gave me an excuse to give to John: "Uh sorry, my ex came back and we decided it was meant to be forever, keep the watch, bye".

Years go by and Mr. Popularity couldn't keep his little man in his pants.  This fact, I wouldn't find out until years later when we're living together.  He'd taken a few family vacations, sans the GF (me) and I've come to find out he'd screwed Dolphin trainers in Florida, family friends in New York and little chickies that lived in his college dorm.   

I found all this out when he left his e-mail open on the computer we shared.  Vacations and weekend getaways (as well as the nights I worked) were a time for play.  Who saves e-mails from NAKED chicks from 2 years ago and then "forgets" to sign out?  Someone who wants to get caught.  He was like David Duchoveny or that dude that was married to Hally Barry.  I swore he had a sex addiction.

Where was I going with this?

Ahh yes, so now The Boy's away.  And I am calm and cool as a cucumber.  I have no fear of Dolphin trainers, family friends or any kind of fornicating while he is on this trip.  He puts my anxious heart at ease.

I think of all the bullets I've dodged in my life.  Sometimes, when I'm feeling extra introspective I'll read old journals (I have them ALL) and take myself back to the breakups.  I really try to recall that feeling of panic, pain, fear, chest tightness when you realize it's over.  The "why didn't this work out"? lament.  And I realize why it didn't work out.  He's usually sitting right next to me.  And then I take a deep breath and sniff his armpits and relax.

Semi-political, but mostly personal ramblings...

I was wandering around the Internet tonight (work was a slow and steady influx of drunks and stomach aches) where I came across a news story (OK it was on "Yahoo! Shine" - but still it was news) about a girl who started a controversial blog called "What to Expect When You're Aborting".  

I read the blog (all the while I was very conscientious about the fact that I was at work and the word "abortion" was splashed across the screen).  The writing was very good.  And the author seemed bright and witty as she documented the trials and tribulations she is currently undergoing until she has her surgical abortion (in 2 wks time according to the post).

I'm not sure how I feel about this.  Let me clarify.  I am very liberal in my views and I believe 100% in freedom of speech.  I have no problem with her blog and in a way I do appreciate the honest portrayal of what is happening to her.  Without any condemmings to hell or Christian propaganda.  I'm pro-choice.  I'm a nurse.  I understand how dangerous it would be if young women were denied this right.  But I wouldn't go as far as saying I'm pro-abortion.

Years ago I was terrified of those 2 pink lines on the stick tests.  I most definitely would have had an abortion if you asked a knocked up me, aged 17.  But today at 26, I surprise myself at how conservative my personal thinking has become.  I want to have a baby (not tomorrow - hopefully planned and within the context of a happy family), but in the not-so-distant future I daydream about a cute bump or an adorable mini me.  Abortion is no longer in my vocabulary,

Again, as a health care person, I appreciate this author's ability to describe her condition to the masses.  It is easy and accessible.  The part that didn't sit too well with me was the nonchalant way - the almost giddy way - she described the relief she will feel upon completing the procedure.  She likens the abortion to a "reconstruction of {her} uterus".  As though the pregnancy is an anomaly and she must "fix" it.  She describes the procedure as a few cramps and some amnesics and boom - mommy no more.

I take offense because I see so many women in the ER everyday who are pregnant with complications.  The majority of these women want these babies with all their hearts and souls.  I see a future me.  I pray that I never have difficulty in the baby making department.  I know I would be in love with that baby the second the stick says "pregnant".  

I'm confused by my own thoughts sometimes.  I feel that if we were to go back to the times before women could make their own choices, the times of back alley abortions and hemorrhaging in the homes, the fatalities would be devastating.  Or babies would be had and abused and unwanted.  But, here I am, a woman, and I'm offended at the way this girl chooses to discuss her choice.  I feel her lack of remorse, her sarcasm and her analogies are almost irresponsible.  No one should be led to believe the choice is as simple as a mole removal or a cavity filling.

It's as though the second I turned 26, I started thinking this way.  I realized that to have an abortion at my age just didn't make sense any more.  I have a decent job, insurance, etc.  The option just disappeared one day.  It was replaced with a sense of wanting and hoping to have the privilege of being some one's mom (some time in the FUTURE).  Now, when I try to put myself in the shoes of other's, the shoes don't fit.  I'm not there any more.  

I thank God quite often that I never did have to make that choice.  I've had so many close encounters.  I have so many memories of being 17 and stupid and ending up in the bathroom of Barnes and Noble peeing on a stick and days of praying for my period, thrilled with cramps and the first sign of blood - I would never want to go back there.  Ever.  However, it is scary to think that the next step will be days in my bathroom, peeing on a stick, disappointed by the sight of my own blood.  At what age, exactly, does the transition occur?

Being an adult is so funny.

My exciting week

I still have 2 more nights of work, off Sunday and back for 3 in a row.  I love nights because I can get things done during the day and because I am so not a morning person.  But sometimes I miss the curling up on the couch with a glass of wine and some trashy tv midweek feeling.

It's been a week.

Last night at work a man peed in his applesauce container.  When I asked him why he said "It was there and it was empty".  He wasn't homeless.  I bet at his house he uses the toilet.  It's a very interesting thing the ER does to people.  They come there and they have the urge to be naked, to yell and to urinate in areas most places would deem illegal.  Or at least inappropriate.

Speaking of peeing, I'm dogsitting for The Boy's family's sheepdog.  Who hates to pee on concrete.  She will only pee on grass and only while she is off the leash.  So to walk the two pooches has been quite the interesting task this week.  My dog pulls and she's 60 pounds.  His dog is good but she's 80 pounds.  I have to trek to the only nearby area that has grass (which is limited in Manhattan) and let the big one off the leash while I beg my dog to behave and stop being jealous.  I also have to coax the sheep dog with "Izzie go pee" 6 or 7 times before she understands what is expected of her.  Then we make the trek home (because the nearby grass isn't really that nearby) and I have to beg Izzie to eat.  

I wanted 2 dogs for a while and now I'm rethinking the whole thing.  It is sweet how she follows me all over the place though.

There isn't too much going on.  The Boy is out of the state, the job is tiring, but entertaining and the dogs make it possible for me to skip the gym this week.

If you want it to be a surprise than maybe you should skip this one....

I have to try and keep a positive outlook. Because I know positive thoughts make positive things or some shit like that. But I'm watching your dog and you can't call? What's that about?

I like to think it's because you're all in 1 tiny room and they might laugh at the pathetic way you miss me.

I miss you too. I miss the sex. I miss the grabbing and I miss you and me against the door of my old building. When behind doors didn't belong to us. When behind doors was only for me. When I didn't believe it would last. When I was waiting for the other shoe to drop - no crash. A time when I believed things like this crashed and burned. Obviously when you put a boy who's fickle with a girl who's jaded together you can't bet on forever. But some thing's different now.

I know it's going to last. I would bet some cash on it. I wouldn't even mind an oops. That's how sure I am. Of course it scares the shit out of me. But I keep digging. And you keep digging. I have songs and memories and conversations - days and data that would have to be erased. I'd crash my computer if this stopped. I'd have to leave Manhattan. I couldn't imagine functioning with all these thoughts in my head. And The Talking Heads?? Forget about any 80's nights. I'd have to give up Karaoke and whole wheat pizza. I'd have to leave work and the new apartment because I doubt I would be able to function. I have so many many days of memories. And yet some days I feel new. And you feel foreign.

Maybe that's the secret to the really good sex? We should write a book or hold a seminar. It's really become a perfected art, the sex. The fact that I still want your body so badly after not seeing you for barely a day - it says something I don't think I've ever been able to say before. The fact that I only want your body. Still. After all those times and after all this time. I still remember that first time. Clearly. Crystal.

I know I could trust you with it all. I know you could read this and not bat an eye. That's how much a part of me you are. But then I'd lose my edge. Have I really got any left anyway? That went away the day I peed the bed because I was so drunk. My edge. Ha. It was fun to have for a sec. I'd give it up again in a heartbeat if it promised to bring us to this place again. I'd leave edge and move comfortably into "obtained" a million times for you.

I know you're it and I know you want that to be a surprise so that's why I suggest you don't read this. I wouldn't want to spoil the ending for you....

MTV is altruistic

Those marketing geniuses at MTV have created yet another reality show based on totally unrealistic lives of supposedly "real" people.  

Remember "My Super Sweet Sixteen"?  The show about spoiled brats that spend more on their 16th birthdays than most people do on their college educations??  Well, "Exiled" is a spin off of that show.  

The premise is - they take those spoiled fuckers and "exile" them to developing countries such as Africa, India, etc.  The idea is these rich biatches see how underprivileged people live.  

I think it's ridiculous.  Not because "My Super Sweet Sixteen" already makes me want to commit homicide.  Not even because MTV has yet to play a real music video (and 4am does not count) since the 80's.  Simply because - most kids (myself included) would kill to go to these countries.  Can you imagine the life experiences?  Or how awesome it would look on college applications?  Never mind - these a-holes can buy their degrees anyway.  But here is this amazing opportunity wasted on Paris Hilton wanna-bes and 17 year old Ghetto Superstars.  

I hate them.

But I watch the show.  The same way I watch those sad ASPCA commercials that make my stomach knot up.  Because I want to find the meaning.  The good.  

MTV, a big pat on the back for this one.  Congrats on giving rich kids more ammo to hold over the heads of their middle class peers.  You're just like Oprah.

Ugh

I am old.  Old in the way that "hangover" takes a new meaning.  Meaning if I get shitfaced on a Friday, I won't feel better until a Monday.  Maybe not even this Monday.  Maybe next.  

Last night we started at the Boat Basin.  Which I assumed would be a low key night for me since everyone was ordering pitchers of beer and I don't really love beer.  I thought this will be a sober night.  Ha.

We wound up at Niagara down on the Lower East Side. I used to go there all the time in the days of yore.  I felt cool because the bar wasn't yet discovered by the trendy 22 year olds the city has come to be inhabited by.

There was lots of dancing.  Lots of drinking and I had fun.  The kind of fun where you know it's probably going to hurt tomorrow.  

Oh and did I mention The Boy came in to surprise me?  He told me he had to work but showed up anyway.  I was kind of expecting him to surprise me because that's his favorite thing to do to people.  But it was still nice to know that I wasn't just imagining an ideal situation in my head.  

Then we fought.  We don't usually fight when we drink.  I hate it especially when we've had a wonderful time and then we fight.  And sometimes I cry.  I hate to be such a stupid girl.  

When I was a little munchkin, I was somewhat rambunctious.  (Wow - I cannot believe I spelled that word right).  I sometimes pushed buttons and my parents would yell at me and I would feel so sad.  Not because I was getting in trouble (I was used to being punished) but because I took a fun, happy moment and turned it into an angry one.  I hated most that I disappointed my mom and dad because I knew how much they loved me.  I didn't want to ruin their time and I didn't want the loving attention to stop.

I still carry that feeling after a fight with people I care about to this day.  Last night was filled with lots of I love yous and you're my favorites and I hated that we had to top it off with a stupid drunk fight.  

He had to leave early this morning, but he still made sure I had water and Motrin because I wanted the room to stop spinning.  He takes care of me no matter how angry he gets.  That's one of his best qualities.  He doesn't stop the loving attention.  Which made me feel more guilty, but I could barely lift my head to say sorry.  I couldn't even take the sleep mask off my face because the sun was making it a mission to burn my hungover eyes out of their sockets.

I know we've made up a dozen times in our sleep already.  But I just hate the stupid fights.  

They made a Peanut Butter Twix

Oh. My. Goddness. Peanut Butter and Twix??? Who said this world wasn't a place filled with joy and love??

Maybe I'll allow myself to have one one day.

Hold tight and never let go (at least not until i say so)

I hate the fact that I still get a bit anxious from time to time.  For no logical reasons.  When I was a teenager, I used to get anxiety attacks all the time.  I was incapable of eating due to the fact that my stomach was in knots all the time and as a result my mom presented me with pamphlets about eating disorders.  

These days, my anxiety attacks aren't as dramatic.  I still get the knots in the stomach, but trust me there ain't nobody accusing me of any eating disorders.  It seems to happen when I'm the most hormonal.  

The people closest to me are affected most by this.  Diana, one of my best friends, gets to hear me lament about all my fears in the world, The Boy gets accused of not loving me enough (which even now as I write seems absolutely absurd).  Even my dog gets extra mushing because she has that Golden Retriever calming way.

Today the pooch is in Long Island with The Boy.  He came over this morning after work just as I was coming home so we could snooze a bit together.  When he woke up and said he had to go I actually asked him if he was mad at me.

I did nothing wrong of course, I was just being menstrual and needy and couldn't understand why he would want to leave after just sleeping.  Although that was the plan all along and in retrospect it made sense.  He picked up the dog, took her to the Island and I will see them this weekend.  It was actually sweet that he drove so far for so little an amount of time.  (Yes I do appreciate the little things - it's my ovaries that generate such silly thoughts).

I understand why guys think girls are crazy.  But to the defense of the female sex, we spend most of our lives "pulling it together".  For work, for our even more needy friends, for our nosey family and for the strangers we meet.  We give birth and have periods and we age a little less graceful without the use of plastic surgery.  So if we actually have the luck of being comfortable enough with our "other halves" to ask for a little extra luvin, I think the monthly surge of hormones should be excused.

Just a thought.  

Makes you think....

I was just taking my dog for her afternoon walk before I have to go to work and I recognized a woman on the street.

She was the new mother of a baby who was a patient of mine a few weeks ago.  I remember it so vividly because her brand new baby tragically died, no real cause of death found.  It hit us all very hard in the ER.  Most of the staff that morning left in tears.  The hardest part was the sobbing of the mom when it all ended.

It surprised me a bit to see her today.  She was walking along on the street.  Seemingly enjoying the same beautiful weather as everyone else.  I guess I was surprised because, though we see people at the height of their illness or sadness in the ER, there is no follow up.  Had I not see her on the street, continuing to exist, she would forever be etched in my mind as the weeping, tragic-stricken woman of that night in the ER.  I forget that people have to go back to their lives.  

I had to think about myself.  God forbid, had that happened to me, I'm not sure if I would be walking around, just a few short weeks later.  I looked at her outfit, expecting to see mismatched and carelessness, but it was put together well.  I looked at her hair - does she have the heart to even touch it in the morning?  It looked normal.  Everything about her was normal. She even wore make-up.  And then it made me think about the hundreds of people we see every single day on the streets of NYC (or whatever town).  They all have a story.  At any given moment someone may be dealing with a heavy heart full of pain.  But they get dressed and wear make-up and do their hair.  And we have no idea.

It made me feel silly for the times I moan about my bad day.  And all the times I wished for rain, simply to justify staying in bed and moping about some nonsense or another.  It made all the times I just got out of bed, put on some mascara and dealt with it more justified.  Because nothing is going to stop the calender.  Even when you wish it could.  Even when you think "why me?  Why can't the world just stop and see what I've been through?"

I said a small prayer for her.  That she's as calm on the inside as she looked on the outside.  And then I realized "Life goes on" isn't just a cliche or a Beatles song.  It's kind of true.

The Morning Rush....

I am so f*ing nosey.  I guess it comes from being an only child.  I was excellent at pretending I wasn't paying any attention while the adults would talk.  But my ears were perked up to everything.  I took it all in, memorized it and used it to my advantage later on.  Sometimes only for entertainment.  Sometimes for prophet.  Maybe my nosiness is the reason I was drawn to working in the ER.  I get to see tiny glimpses into people's everyday mishaps.

My nosiness keeps me entertained.  The elevator this morning, is a good example.  It was about 645am when I was going back to work from my break.  Of course the elevator had to stop on every single floor. And the most entertaining bunch got on....

Floor 26 was a young doctor, my guess was an intern based on how terrified she looked.  All I could wonder was how long her pretty blond highlights were going to last when they had her working 6 days a week on the Surgical ICU.  And I had to check her wedding finger because I always wonder why the doctors marry so young.  It never lasts.  She was single.  Smart.  The ER will eat her alive.  I tried to smile warmly as if to say "us nurses aren't all bitches".  But we pretty much are.

Floor 23 was a young-ish looking guy in jean shorts and a tee shirt.  I guessed he must have been some one's sleepover buddy based on the fact that it was 645am on a weekday and he wasn't dressed for anything that resembled a respectable job.  Then my mind began to wander.  Trying to figure out who in the building he could be sleeping with.  But it's a 35 story building so, moving on...

Floor 22 (ugh I hate when it stops just seconds apart) was a pudgy little woman who was loudly eating a donut for breakfast.  It looked kind of good, despite the fact that loud eaters are a huge pet peeve.  And I wondered who just happens to have strawberry frosted donuts readily available in their apartments?  How fancy.

Floor 11 was the polar opposite of the donut girl.  A tall, stick of woman dressed in skintight black.  I swear I could see her small intestine through her skirt.  She looked like a cross between Audry Hepburn in Breakfast at Tiffany's and those guitar chicks in the Robert Palmer "Addicted to Love" video.  She also looked like she hadn't eaten food since 1985.  I caught a glimpse of the look she shot at the pudgy donut girl and it was crystal clear that she did not approve of her choice in breakfast fare.  I bet she's the kind of woman who has a cigarette and black coffee for breakfast.

Finally, after what seemed like the longest elevator ride ever (I say that about every elevator ride) we got to the lobby where all my little story characters made a mad dash for the door.  Except for the donut girl.  She kind of moseyed on, enjoying the strawberry frosted.  As if she didn't have a day ahead of her.  Not a care in the world.  Definitely was oblivious to the fact that the strawberry frosted will go right to her hips, (and butt and thighs).  And I kind of respected her "ain't no donut gonna make me feel guilty" attitude.

You go, donut girl.  In fact, go back upstairs and grab an extra one for our 85 pound friend while you're at it.

Quick! Pass the Chocolate! Stat!

In true "I'm PMSing, stuck in a rut and I'm bored" fashion, I went ahead and made an appointment to color my hair auburn.  I haven't told anyone.  Simply because I don't want to be talked out of it.  The Boy is especially good at this.  He doesn't like change and whenever I mention something like cutting, coloring, lipo or boob implants (kidding about the last 2 - kinda), he manages to change my mind with the whole "you're beautiful the way you are, blah blah blah" nonsense.  It's endearing.  It also proves to me that I would be doing this simply for ME.  

PMS is so annoying.  I thought being on The Pill would take away the symptoms, but I still want chocolate, sex and a makeover.  Not necessarily in that order.  Or maybe in that order. Who the hell cares?

PMS changes women.  For some, they become weepy and sad.  Others, outrageously horny. Most scrutinize their appearances mercilessly.  Jeans don't fit and migraine headaches make us bitches.  For me - I get the whole gamut of symptoms.  I've thought about it - every single time I made a drastic change to my appearance, I was under the influence of the 'Flow.  I dyed my dark brown hair platinum blond and chopped it off to my chin.  I've had red, Burgundy, highlights, low lights and every single Jen Aniston style there was to have.  

My hair color never changed my life.  It never defined me.  The blond did attract a different kind of men than I was used to.  Other than that, no great epiphanies were to be had.  

I'm going red, simply because it's pretty.  I don't think it will make The Boy love me more.  I won't win a million bucks or a movie deal.  Secretly I hope people might tell me I look kinda like Isla Fisher.  We have the same face shape and eyes.  I guess that's all I hope to gain.

Anyway, this is the most pointless blabber I've written in a while.  Time to get ready for work.

Ryan Reynolds - Why Do You Make Me Second Guess My Life??

I just got finished watching the chick flick Definitely Maybe.  The one with Ryan Reynolds and some other not-so-famous cast members.  I came away with 2 thoughts.  Number 1 - I want to dye my hair red a la Isla Fisher.  Number 2 - I'm terrified of falling in love, getting married and having a kid only to find myself divorced, my ex husband running off to Brooklyn (or in The Boy's case Australia) to be with "the one he was meant to be with all along".  In case you haven't seen the movie - sorry to spoil the ending for you.  But come on.  It was obvious that was going to happen. 

I'm not bitter.  I'm not even one of those annoying people who subscribe to the cult of "marriage is just an institution and most end up in divorce".  It's just that ever since I was 5 I've wanted to be a princess.  The One.  The beautiful maiden with the long flowing hair.  The one the men write songs about.  For me, married = settling down.  Gone are the castles and the hair in the wind.  The pretty pink dress and the songs of love and unattainable.  Real life happens.  

Up until the age of 25 the nicest thing a guy ever said to me was "I always thought you were unattainable".  The relationship got stale pretty fast.  I realized immediately that once I had become "obtained" I was second hand news.  Even after that guy and I parted ways,  and though I do not fondly recall the guy, I fondly recall the memory of being "unattainable".  

At a much wiser 26, I do realize that "unattainable" means no one's caught me yet.  And that is not the desired position most women want to be in past the age of 30.  I know to be obtained means he knows my quirks, my smell, the fact that I hate my curly hair.  To be obtained means Saturday night is pretty much a sure bet.  No more awkward first dates.  I'm obtained.  

Obtained also means comfortable and I love and loathe comfortable.  Unless it means shoes, sheets or sweats, the word has a stigma.  I've seen comfortable unravel into cheating, lying and internet sex.  I've seen comfortable morph into "I hate you - get out".  

Strangely though, so far, all The Boy has taught me of comfortable has been good.  Comfortable means I can be myself.  Crazy and all.  I can walk around in just underwear.  I don't mind if he sees me minus mascara.  Comfortable has been a walk in the park.  A nice walk.  The kind where it's spring and the carousel is running and there are puppies and street theatre.  Maybe even some cotton candy.  That kind of walk in the park.

I found 3 grey hairs today.  Maybe I'm just scared of old.

I hate fear.  I hate that part where you realize there really isn't the whole entire world ahead of you.  Not like when you were 18.  I hate the fact that I may get old, stretch marks or wrinkles.  I hate the word divorce.  But I hate the idea of loveless/sexless marriage even more.  Sometimes I want to suspend myself in time until I can figure it all out.  I like to know what's going to happen.  I've been known to read the end to most books, just because I hate the suspense.  

I know life can't be like that.  I know that if life was like that, I'd be bored anyway.  

Maybe I'm just a smidge of a control freak?  But in reality, I wouldn't change a thing.  Except my hair color.

I really, really want to dye my hair red.

Stupid Ryan Reynolds movie.

Weathering the Storm

I hate the last days of vacation just as much as I hate Sundays.  In fact, as a personal rule, none of my vacations end on Sundays because I'm pretty sure the results would be catastrophic.  The world actually might end.  

So here I am on Tuesday.  The Boy and I did the drive in last night - where we had a front row seat to some amazing lightening shows.  It was one of those perfect romantic moments where you're on the side of the road in the dead of the night looking at some extraordinary show the heavens created just for you.  And then he had to start a fight.  I will spare the details.  But it was the kind of fight where you know the make up time will be spectacular.  Where you think to yourself oh buddy, you are going to regret this one.  THAT kind of fight.  

The tears, the drama, the cold shoulder.  It ends fast for us.  I know he tries to make me laugh it off because he doesn't like to see me cry.  But sometimes I have to remind him not to trivialize my feelings.  That I can't laugh it off immediately.  I need to get over it on my own.  I always do. And I do believe he gets it.  The funny thing is, even with the stupid fighting and his button-pushing ways, I find myself staring at him sideways and thinking I would like to grow old with this man.  It's alarming to hear myself say this.  Even if it's in my own head.  But there's comfort in the fact that even when we are at each other's jugular, I still want the forever.

A Book Review and How I Was a Fatty

The weather is beautiful, the pool is huge.  A perfect setting for doing absolutely nothing except what you want to do.  This is what Montauk is.  I'm awake by 8am every morning, but it's ok because there is plenty of time in the day for napping.  I could live in this small town by the water for ever.  I could leave the city - with it's sirens and it's crowds.  I could get used to nothing to do but read and write and have bonfires on the beach at night.

I'm sure this is what was needed.

With little to do but relax, I just started reading Moose: A Memoir of Fat Camp, by Stephanie Klein.  It reminds me of my childhood.  Of the days in gym class where I was petrified of health day in gym - where they weighed you in front of your classmates.  I'm taken back to the days of peanut butter and Fluff for lunch, of jogging suits and over sized t-shirts.  Pool parties I was scared to go to, nicknames and having to develop a personality because I wasn't the pretty one. It all comes back.

If you were a fat kid, you had to develop something special - a talent or a persona.  Because that's all you had.  For me - I was a tomboy.  I wore Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle sneakers and read comic books.  If boys didn't want to date me, they sure wanted to hang out with me.  My vast knowledge of early 90's action heroes and killer taste in music was my saving grace.  Plus I was an insider.  I knew all the pretty girls in the class.  I was friends with them.  I could be a matchmaker.

I was certain I was doomed to live my life as "the friend" forever.  Then high school came.  Baby fat melted away.  We moved out of my grandma's house and no longer was I forced to be a member of "the clean plate club".  I chose my meals and my drinks.  Boys noticed me.  

I was boy crazy since pre-school.  My first boyfriend was Santiago.  I liked the exotic men.  We would cuddle together at nap time.  True love in the sandbox.  Being the fat tomboy, though, I didn't get to explore my true potential until I was 14.  From then on it was boys, boys, boys.

If they were cute and wore flannel - I was in love.  Armed with keen music taste and an interest in comics (leftover from my fat days) I became the pretty girl who liked boy things.

This book makes me nostalgic for my childhood.  I want to go back to the days of no worries, no need for a plan.  I want to go back with the knowledge I have now.  I want to tell the pudgy little me that this passes.  That boys who call you a cow are the same boys who want to date models and trust me your future has a much sweeter boy in store for you.  You'll be pretty one day - but you won't own it.  Just like you don't own fat.  All you have to be responsible for is the way you treat others.  And never forget what it feels like to be judged.  

I want to tell future me that if I ever have a daughter - please don't let her in on the weight obsession.  Don't fill her childhood with the words "diet" and "muffin top".  Keep those trashy magazines of thin celebs away from her and maybe she'll have the chance to grow up with a positive view of what healthy is.  Maybe she'll have a donut one day for breakfast.  Don't make her have spinach for dinner to make up for it.  

Yes, this is what the book makes me think about.  I think it's a true bestseller when it has people relating it's contents to their own life.  Good job Stephanie Klein. 

What I can Put off until tomorrow.... But I tried to do today (or how I'm stuck in a rut and need a change of scenery)

I need a change so bad it's killing me.  I say that every so often - but then go back to doing the daily thing and ultimately getting stuck.

I've been saying for years that if I don't leave my job soon I will never grow.  ER nursing is exciting for a while but lately I'm on autopilot.  And even the guy who had a phobia of stretchers (and an earplug stuck in his ear for three weeks) didn't make me want to laugh behind his back.  It's getting mundane.

So, today, after a rather irritating e-mail from my place of work, I rashly made the decision to e-mail a recruiter from another hospital with my resume.  Who knows if I'd go through with it in the long run?  But it feels good to have options.  Options are what gets me out of bed in the morning.  Er - afternoon.  (I work nights).

I know this stems from I need a vacation-itis.  The cure?  I'm going to Montauk tomorrow

with The Boy and his fam.  Who are a fun bunch.  Think, the family in Dan in Real Life.  Board games, guitars, beach bonfires - the whole shebang.  Enough to get me out of the rut I'm in for now.  A band aid (when what I really need is surgery).  But exciting, nonetheless.

Another flame to the fire that is today - I went bathing suit shopping for the Montauk extravaganza.  What I want is an adorable Betsy Johnson number that I saw in a Macy's catalog. Those of you not from NYC - Macy's is not a miracle on 34th street - it is a day in HELL. Worse than the DMV.  Worse than the GYN.  I'd rather go to the DMV and spread my legs into some 

stirrups and get a GYN exam if it means I can avoid Macy's.

Instead, I went to the BJ store and Bloomies. Nada.  I know it's August - but that does not mean it's time to get out the mink coat and the UGGs.  The only suits left were XL or XS. Nothing for me.  Sooooo, tomorrow I am sentenced to the flames because I have got to track down this adorable suit from BJ.  I'll go early.  Avoid the crowd of onlookers who must have just got their walking legs.  But for Betsy -it's worth it.  Wish me luck.

The Power of Smell, Good Playlists and Past Relationships

I read somewhere that the sense of smell is most closely related to making memories.  I think that explains why I love the smell of The Boy.  And my dog's breath.  And certain subway stations.  Each and every one of those scents brings me back to a certain time in my life.

"Stop smelling my armpits - you weirdo.  I told you, you can only do that when we're alone.  Not in public".

That's an excerpt from a normal conversation between The Boy and I.  I remind him that I'm making memories.  I'm half kidding.  But I really mean it.

I remember one day a long time ago, I was on the subway.  I had just broken up with my high school boyfriend of four years and everything set me off.  I was like a time bomb.  Some guy standing near me smelled just like the drug store cologne my ex wore.  I remember wishing to the heavens that I could just forget that smell.  Because I was 18 and dramatic and breaking up is hard to do.  I thought I would forever be haunted by that smell.

A thousand years later and I wouldn't be able to identify it anymore.  It's been replaced by the smell of growing up.  Certain areas of the ER where I work, the perfume I pull out for first dates and new beginnings.  My own shampoo.  Spring.  A lot of memories were created between then and now and my mind has (thankfully) replaced that smell.

The sense of smell is crucial to my existence.

Another memory maker is music.  I think if you polled 100 people with a variety of songs - they could assign a place, a time, a feeling and an event to many of the songs.  And they would all be very indivdual.

The Boy has a very eclectic list of songs on his pod.  I love his pod.  I love sitting in the car, playing DJ from the passenger side - because I know he has songs that I'll like.  And because he has no qualms about me playing songs on repeat.  The way I like to listen to them  But sometimes, when I'm feeling masochistic and retrospective, I let my mind wander.

Do some of these songs have a meaning assigned to them?  Does he think about his ex when he hears certain guitar chords or certain lyrics?  I try not to dwell on the past.  If you get me on a logical day I'll tell you all the many reasons I know I have nothing to fear when it comes to the past.  

I think the fact that I obsess over it sometimes has to do with how little I know.  He never really talks about why it ended, who she was or any of those little details your stomach can't handle but you have to know.  He doesn't do this to be secretive.  I know if I asked he would share.  (I think).  But I don't ask.  I don't want to know.  But I do.

It's not as though I've diagrammed out my entire relationship with my ex either.  He doesn't ask.  And I hate to sound bitter, so I don't tell.

But, sometimes I can't help but wonder if it's crucial to the "now" to know about the "was".

But then I turn up "This Must Be the Place" by the Talking Heads real loud (to drown out my insecurities) and realize - this song is our memory maker.  

That and his arm pits.

Fuck the Fair Weather - What Happened to Rainy Day Friends?

I understand the fact that life is moving on and people are engaged and have boyfriends, new jobs and school is hard for you.  I, too miss the days where we would all get drunk on a Sunday and do cartwheels in the snow.  I miss the butterflies and the what-if's when we would discuss our futures.  I'm sorry he treats you like crap and I'm even sorrier that you take it.  But I am finished feeling guilty for having a life beyond you.  And quite honestly, the needier you become, the more assuming and angry - the less I want to even try.

It's sad that this has to happen.  I still believe you have a good heart.  But I think the years of second guessing and being negative has buried your true self deep down.  I know he doesn't give you what you want.  You know it too.  But you're lulled back in by his weak words and when you blanket yourself with the comfort of being one half of an "us" you forget that you need friends.

So, though I'll always be here - in the event of a life altering situation or even if you want to borrow some milk - I really can't try anymore.  And when he doesn't respond to emails or calls or can't handle 7am therapy sessions anymore - of course I'll still listen.  But I realize you'll never be a rainy day friend.

Sometimes it takes Patient.....

Sometimes it takes a sentence to put it all in perspective.  Today that sentence was "I really didn't think he was gonna do that to me". 

It came from a patient I had tonight who was badly injured by her boyfriend.  The father of her child.  And she was only two years older than me.

I've been an ER nurse for four years and I've seen my fair share from the "oh my God" to the "God awful".  I rarely cry or get emotional anymore because I think I've become desensitized.  But today, I had to hide my tears from that woman.  Because SHE was still trying to put on a smile.  She was going to be going to the ICU and SHE still tried to make light of it.  And it made me want to cry.

Earlier, I was on my soapbox at work about the injustices of the "system" blah blah blah.  And I won't take my opinions back but the fact is - I leave and come home to an apartment that's mine, a dog I love and a boy who is incapable of inflicting the kind of physical and emotional damage I witnessed tonight.  I have family and friends who love me and my health.  

I wanted to cry for her - because her biggest concern was that she was inconveniencing us all.  I wanted to give her a hug and tell her it wasn't her fault and I wanted her to believe me.  I wanted to cry for me because I feel like such a selfish brat.  I wanted to call The Boy and just thank him for everything.  For the fact that he would sit on the phone with me (no matter how badly he wants sleep) if I needed him to help placate my stupid anxieties. I wanted to call my parents and tell them that I loved them and thanks for the healthy genes.

I want to remember this feeling every single day I work.  Sometimes it's not easy.  But I want to leave that place and know that I made a teeny smidgen of a difference.  At least in my own attitude.

"Security - you're needed in aisle 5 - Feminine Products!"

Why is it completely acceptable to threaten, cuss out and basically spit on medical workers in NYC Emergency Rooms??  Seriously - how would it fly if I were to march myself to Duane Reed (where they are as slow as shit), cut the line and demand attention or I'll sue??  Would security not drag my ass onto the sidewalk and tell me to go to CVS for my tampons??  Yes.  So why, at a job where the stress level is at a 10 already (sometimes people come to the ER because they are SICK folks) do I have to put up with someone's sister, mother, husband, wife, cat-sitter in my face calling me names that would make the people at HBO blush??  

Because the healthcare system in NY is really just another part of the hospitality industry.  A much more expensive hotel system that basically makes ass-kissing a science.

Please - if life ever finds you in the ER (god-forbid) - be kind to your docs and nurses.  It shocks the hell out of us.

No More Skinny Mini - Hello "Adult Weight"

"You look skinny - but I don't know why I bother to say it - you don't believe me anyway".  That's the first thing Diana said to me yesterday after not seeing her for a week.

She means well.

She's right.  About the not believing her part.

I'm one of those short girls (5ft) blessed with "curves" that are cute at 17 and then fast foward almost a decade and suddenly curves become muffin top.  

I know it's an obsession.  When I was in grade school I was one of the biggest girls in the class. Eric Flores told me he liked me for my personality but the fact that I resembled a baby elephant was apparently his deal breaker - that didn't leave me.  I hear that Eric Flores dropped out of high school and was part of an Asian Mafia in Queens.  Karma.  A bitch.

I'm working on this.  I haven't been a baby elephant for years.  I think I actually settled into my "adult weight" recently.  The weight that means - I don't drink in place of meals, I stopped the diet pills that were pretty much legalized speed and maybe one day my adult body has enough adipose tissue to get pregnant and have a baby.  Adult weight means that no matter how often I like to fool myself into thinking I will ever be a size 2 again - it ain't gonna happen.

I think I might be ok with it.  I have a sick obsession with Celebrity Gossip mags and I see all the thin celebs and all the supposed pics of cellulite and I know that is what to blame.  Lucky for me I have a boy who is genuine and he swears he loves my body - curves and all.  He's the same boy who thinks Jennifer Aniston looked better in the early episodes of Friends before she lost the weight.

I'll keep him.

Words....

Even on my best days, there are times that my nemesis Anxious and her sister Insecure come to visit.  And while you've done wonders to placate my fears, nothing can stop them once they're inside.  When you say "forever", they whisper that "forever" is pretty vague.  They want hard proof.  A date, a limb, a shared lease at least.  I assure you they aren't who I am anymore.  But sometimes the past comes back unannounced.  And I'm helpless to accommodate.

You've done wonders to calm most fears though.  I know I'm safest when I'm asleep in your arms.  I know you mean words like "gorgeous", "never" and "forever".  I know you are one of those rare souls that were born minus the deceit gene.  And I love you for that.  

Sometimes I resist.  And you putter on through.  You fight my pig-headedness and you prove over and over again that you are not any of the "thems".

Today was one of those days.  I felt Anxious knocking again.  She wanted to remind me that you're still there while I sleep.  Insecure reminded me of the five pounds I swore I'd lose by now.  Sometimes I want to beat them out of me.  But how do I beat up myself?  I mean, don't I do that enough?  So I try to come up with concrete evidence to the contrary.  And I win in small defeats.

I get better everyday.  I believe the "I love you" and I am getting very used to "forever" (sometimes you add two "evers" and I know you mean business).  

Past musings

I think back now to that day he moved out.  "I just need to get away for now.  I don't want this to be for good"; I didn't believe him then.  I knew it had to happen.  Hell, I moved out myself just a week before.  But I was only bluffing.  He, the well seasoned gambler he had grown to be, called my bluff.  He left with most of his stuff (the stuff I hadn't thrown out or given away to the local homeless in a fit of anger just weeks before).  He left his ties - I held on to them as a tiny smidgon of hope.  Months later I would use those ties as fashionable belts.  Break ups make me lose weight.  I was a size 2.

That day, he forced me to grow up.  Before that I lived in a world where I payed $400 a month for rent on the Upper East Side of Manhattan (unheard of), I shopped online like a fiend looking for her next fix.  I was living like a kept woman.  Those sad cases you see on the reality shows where you wonder "how the hell can they live like that??"  I was fixated on a diamond ring but terrified the day I found the Zales bag in his nightstand.  I knew deep down that I didn't want to live like that.  I just didn't know any other way.  

Today, almost four years later, I want to thank him.  For being an online pervert, for the cheating and the lying.  For the life experience he gave me.  I would thank him if we were speaking.  But that would involve me giving his ceramic Buddha back - and I destroyed that months ago when I moved into my new apartment.  I wanted no mementos.  NYC studios do not accommodate tangible memories.

I look at the woman I've become - I found my funny side, my artistic side and yes - my rent has increased significantly but I pay it.  So, maybe one day, when you're searching the Internet for some cheap porn/hookers (like you did in old times) you'll come across this post and know I just really want to thank you.  For making me the best grown-up I can be.