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.