I spent the better part of my day doing nothing. At least, what I consider nothing. Now, some people are really good at nothing, so it’s no big achievement for them to not achieve. But for me, doing things is an addiction, like gambling or alcohol, only without the devastation for my children and the eventual break up of my marriage, which was just not strong enough to overcome the financial ruin, the public embarrassment, and the lack of trust. Actually, my husband and children kind of like my over functioning, as it allows them to do more of, well, nothing.
I had a valid reason to not do anything. I didn’t feel good. Not feeling good is the reason a lot of people do nothing, although they rephrase it as “getting rest.” Well, I didn’t feel good. I didn’t feel good yesterday, and I went to bed not feeling good. When I woke up, I thought I felt better, but by the time breakfast was over, I realized I was wrong. But I persisted in doing something, instead of “getting rest”, or nothing. I got the kids ready for school, and drove them. I contemplated going to the gym, thinking perhaps that would make me feel better, but when I got to the entrance, I thought differently.
I went to the grocery store instead. That does count as something, because if I didn’t do it, someone else would. And let me tell you, the grocery store at 8:30 is a lonely place. It is full of yummy smells, of fresh baked somethings and roasting something elses. But it is also sparsely populated by the elderly, who have nothing better to do at 8:30 than get another container of yogurt and a fresh jar of Sanka. By 9:00 I finished, and even the pharmacist wasn’t there yet to raise her little window cage. Which means two things. One, the pharmacist maybe felt like doing nothing, or felt more like doing nothing than being at work. And two, that I now had to return to the store to get my prescriptions, like the rest of the old people wandering the aisles.
I went home. I put away my groceries. I started a small load of laundry, which doesn’t count as doing something because they were delicates and thus don’t have to be folded. I went in my bedroom, took off my clothes, and climbed back under the covers. I read for an hour. I put down my book and fell asleep.
When I woke up, I lay in bed and listened to what it sounds like at home during the day, with no one else around but the cats. Mostly, I heard that soft static-y sound that is the sound of nothing. I also heard my cell phone beep, a missed call during my nap and reading. I heard hammering in the distance. The honk of Canada geese. The hum of traffic on the interstate. The tinkle of my cat’s collar bell. The rustling of my own dirty hair against the pillow case. My stomach growling.
After I finished listening to nothing, I thought a bit about nothing. Here’s what my nothing thoughts are like: My ceiling fan needs to be cleaned. Where are the cats? Why didn’t either of them want to nap with me? Is it too early to be lunch time yet? When I lie flat on my back, my ribs and hips poke up and I almost look skinny. Too bad I can’t lie down everywhere I go. Do my armpits stink? Did I wash my hair yesterday? I really should clean that ceiling fan. I really should clean all the ceiling fans. I wonder if my Fannie can reach all the ceiling fans. Ha, ha. The thing I use to clean my ceiling fans is called Fannie.
I think you get the idea. Moshe, one of my cats, joined me, and I amused myself for another five minutes by moving one foot a second, then another, to watch his pupils dilate and contract before he finally attacked me. Only then did I get up. And I did shower and make lunch for my husband and thought about returning phone calls and working on my volunteer obligations and arranging play dates and paying bills online. But then I thought again, why ruin my day of nothing with a bunch of little somethings? That’s what tomorrow is for.
Thursday, February 19, 2009
Starfuck(er)s
I went to Starbucks the other afternoon with a couple of mom friends while our daughters were in their piano theory class. I know what you’re thinking and, yes, pianos are real, scientifically proven to exist. But who cares? We had an hour to kill, and why not kill it with the one company who broke the will of a million coffee shop owners worldwide?
Normally I don’t mind going to Starbucks. I am very anal about the way I order, and I like to think they respect it, nay, welcome it. But this Starbucks is a little different than some others I have patronized. At other Starbucks, the employees refer to themselves as coffee baristas and take great pride in making their cappuccino foam swirl in the shape of a heart. At this Starbucks, the employees hope the customers don’t notice they reek of marijuana or mind that they are texting their friends on the clock. In other words, it is not all about the coffee for them. But they are mostly young men, and mostly not unpleasant to look at, and so mostly I don’t mind their flaws.
While my friends decided on their beverages, I ordered a grande non-fat decaf café misto, which at $2.25, is the poor man’s latte. I never know whether to pronounce the “e” on grande, like I was ordering a taco, or keep it silent, like I was ordering French food, which is why I usually stick to a tall, but it was such a bargain, I upsized a little. I know I ordered decaf, because I always order decaf. Caffeine makes me sick. Not like it does to my friend B, with her delicate digestive system, about which I will say no more. Caffeine gives me migraine headaches, the kind where you have searing head and neck pain and the urge to puke before falling over in a dizzy pile. So I always, always, always order decaf. Now, I know that getting coffee might seem like a crap shoot, but this was not my first visit to Starbucks. And I trusted them. They never let me down before. My friends ordered their lattes and the three of us crammed into two overstuffed chairs since every available inch of seating was occupied, mostly by the arrogant keyboard loners who had probably been there since it opened.
We chatted and sipped, and chatted some more. After fifteen minutes of chatting, I had the distinct impression I was doing most of the chatting. Rapidly. “Do I seem manic to you?” I asked my friends B and R. “A little, yes,” B replied. “Um-hm,” R seconded. “Goddammit, this thing has caffeine!” I said. I had already downed over half of it at that point. I held my hand up so we could stare at it, but it didn’t appear to shake any more than it normally would. I stopped feeling like I was chatting too much from a little extra boost. Instead, I felt like I was hyped up on speed. I was nervous and sweaty. I fidgeted and picked at my cuticles even more than normal. My heart was going at rabbit speed, if the rabbit had accidentally ingested a grande café misto, full caffeine version. We left to go back to the piano studio. B offered me some crackers, and I ate some but didn’t really want them, and they didn’t seem to help.
By the time the kids were in the back seat and I drove towards home, I just felt like puking. I looked around the front seat to see if there was a stray grocery bag in case I needed one. I have thrown up all over my car before, without a bag, so I knew my potential if I could not find an appropriate container. “Hand me your lunch box,” I said to my kids in the back seat. “Why?” They asked. “Nevermind, just hand it over!” I barked back. S was kind enough to toss it into the passenger seat, and I opened it at the ready in case things went down ugly. Luckily for me, and S, I didn’t need to use it.
We got home and I sat down, my head on the cool wood of the kitchen table. “Go play Wii or something, girls. Mommy doesn’t feel so good.” They ran off and I sat there wondering how one cup of what people drink everyday made me feel like I needed an intervention. It didn’t wear off by dinner, which I skipped, opting instead for a few forkfuls of leftover rice and some ginger snaps, hoping something would settle my stomach. I drank a ton of water, but even that didn’t help. By bath time, I parked my ass on the bed, and had to flee during story time for a couple of dry heaves after gagging on my own spit.
When I got up this morning, I just felt like I had the remnants of a lingering migraine headache and a slight hangover. All from a cup of coffee. One of my friends recommended I email to complain, which I did, but didn’t see the point. What were they going to do, give me a gift card for more coffee? What I don’t understand is how the rest of you people drink this stuff, full throttle. Is the majority of the population walking around, strung out on overpriced coffee like so many black beauties? I guess I will have to switch to herbal tea the next piano theory class, like someone’s therapist or something. This is what pure living gets you: the inability to assimilate at the Starbucks. And a bad coffee trip.
Normally I don’t mind going to Starbucks. I am very anal about the way I order, and I like to think they respect it, nay, welcome it. But this Starbucks is a little different than some others I have patronized. At other Starbucks, the employees refer to themselves as coffee baristas and take great pride in making their cappuccino foam swirl in the shape of a heart. At this Starbucks, the employees hope the customers don’t notice they reek of marijuana or mind that they are texting their friends on the clock. In other words, it is not all about the coffee for them. But they are mostly young men, and mostly not unpleasant to look at, and so mostly I don’t mind their flaws.
While my friends decided on their beverages, I ordered a grande non-fat decaf café misto, which at $2.25, is the poor man’s latte. I never know whether to pronounce the “e” on grande, like I was ordering a taco, or keep it silent, like I was ordering French food, which is why I usually stick to a tall, but it was such a bargain, I upsized a little. I know I ordered decaf, because I always order decaf. Caffeine makes me sick. Not like it does to my friend B, with her delicate digestive system, about which I will say no more. Caffeine gives me migraine headaches, the kind where you have searing head and neck pain and the urge to puke before falling over in a dizzy pile. So I always, always, always order decaf. Now, I know that getting coffee might seem like a crap shoot, but this was not my first visit to Starbucks. And I trusted them. They never let me down before. My friends ordered their lattes and the three of us crammed into two overstuffed chairs since every available inch of seating was occupied, mostly by the arrogant keyboard loners who had probably been there since it opened.
We chatted and sipped, and chatted some more. After fifteen minutes of chatting, I had the distinct impression I was doing most of the chatting. Rapidly. “Do I seem manic to you?” I asked my friends B and R. “A little, yes,” B replied. “Um-hm,” R seconded. “Goddammit, this thing has caffeine!” I said. I had already downed over half of it at that point. I held my hand up so we could stare at it, but it didn’t appear to shake any more than it normally would. I stopped feeling like I was chatting too much from a little extra boost. Instead, I felt like I was hyped up on speed. I was nervous and sweaty. I fidgeted and picked at my cuticles even more than normal. My heart was going at rabbit speed, if the rabbit had accidentally ingested a grande café misto, full caffeine version. We left to go back to the piano studio. B offered me some crackers, and I ate some but didn’t really want them, and they didn’t seem to help.
By the time the kids were in the back seat and I drove towards home, I just felt like puking. I looked around the front seat to see if there was a stray grocery bag in case I needed one. I have thrown up all over my car before, without a bag, so I knew my potential if I could not find an appropriate container. “Hand me your lunch box,” I said to my kids in the back seat. “Why?” They asked. “Nevermind, just hand it over!” I barked back. S was kind enough to toss it into the passenger seat, and I opened it at the ready in case things went down ugly. Luckily for me, and S, I didn’t need to use it.
We got home and I sat down, my head on the cool wood of the kitchen table. “Go play Wii or something, girls. Mommy doesn’t feel so good.” They ran off and I sat there wondering how one cup of what people drink everyday made me feel like I needed an intervention. It didn’t wear off by dinner, which I skipped, opting instead for a few forkfuls of leftover rice and some ginger snaps, hoping something would settle my stomach. I drank a ton of water, but even that didn’t help. By bath time, I parked my ass on the bed, and had to flee during story time for a couple of dry heaves after gagging on my own spit.
When I got up this morning, I just felt like I had the remnants of a lingering migraine headache and a slight hangover. All from a cup of coffee. One of my friends recommended I email to complain, which I did, but didn’t see the point. What were they going to do, give me a gift card for more coffee? What I don’t understand is how the rest of you people drink this stuff, full throttle. Is the majority of the population walking around, strung out on overpriced coffee like so many black beauties? I guess I will have to switch to herbal tea the next piano theory class, like someone’s therapist or something. This is what pure living gets you: the inability to assimilate at the Starbucks. And a bad coffee trip.
Tuesday, February 17, 2009
Double Feature
My sister L and I went to the movies last weekend to see Slumdog Millionaire, an often talked about but frequently unexplained sleeper hit film. It is a favorite to win big with Oscar, which speaks poorly of the rest of the candidates. Nevertheless, I was happy to see a movie with an "R" rating, no animation, and no one wanting to sit on my lap. I was also happy to be with L, and while we knew little about the movie itself, we were excited to be out of our houses with no one but ourselves to attend to. I bought our tickets after fast walking up to the window in order to beat some sad sack mom and her posse of preteen girls on their way to enjoy Paul Blart: Mall Cop. Sucker!
L and I discussed the pros and cons of popcorn (L: we just ate lunch. Me: but it smells good!) while we walked in the theater lobby. I looked around at the high ceilings, movie posters, and concession booth while L handed our tickets to the usher. Next to me, a chipmunk voice squeaked, "Thank you, your movie theater is on the left." I looked up to see who owned that high pitched rodent voice. Before us, taking our tickets, was a thin shouldered micro encephalitic woman with thin, wispy hair barely covering her scalp. And I mean tiny head. The last time I saw a woman with a head that small, I was watching the 1930's film classic Freaks. I quickly looked away and avoided all eye contact with both her and my sister, in an effort to not bust out laughing.
L and I stumbled down the hallway toward our theater. L tried to engage me in conversation while I continued to pretend I wasn't going to crack up. "I didn't realize she was a pinhead, " L said. "I thought she had cancer or something with that sparse hair growth." I fell against the wall, laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks. I tried to regain composure, but when L began chanting, "One of us! One of us!" I just lost it. I hope I was laughing at the unusual sound of her voice or maybe at the surprise at seeing a small headed woman ripping movie tickets, but I can't promise I wasn't laughing at her, which I realize makes me the kind of person who laughs at other people's physical anomalies. In other words, I am a monster.
We snorted and guffawed our way into the theater, wiping our eyes and scouting for good seats. Right in front of us was a morbidly obese man spilling over his seat into the one next to him. We started laughing all over again and found two seats near the back, from which we were able to watch the large man dip his fat hand into his small popcorn bag to eat, stopping after each handful to daintily wipe the butter flavored grease off his fingertips onto a wad of napkins. L checked the armrest between our seats to see if it could be raised. I knew she was thinking that man would have been more comfortable if he could lift the arm and take over the neighboring seat. It could not, though, which made me laugh harder.
The movie was good too. But I think L and I enjoyed the pre-show even more.
L and I discussed the pros and cons of popcorn (L: we just ate lunch. Me: but it smells good!) while we walked in the theater lobby. I looked around at the high ceilings, movie posters, and concession booth while L handed our tickets to the usher. Next to me, a chipmunk voice squeaked, "Thank you, your movie theater is on the left." I looked up to see who owned that high pitched rodent voice. Before us, taking our tickets, was a thin shouldered micro encephalitic woman with thin, wispy hair barely covering her scalp. And I mean tiny head. The last time I saw a woman with a head that small, I was watching the 1930's film classic Freaks. I quickly looked away and avoided all eye contact with both her and my sister, in an effort to not bust out laughing.
L and I stumbled down the hallway toward our theater. L tried to engage me in conversation while I continued to pretend I wasn't going to crack up. "I didn't realize she was a pinhead, " L said. "I thought she had cancer or something with that sparse hair growth." I fell against the wall, laughing, tears streaming down my cheeks. I tried to regain composure, but when L began chanting, "One of us! One of us!" I just lost it. I hope I was laughing at the unusual sound of her voice or maybe at the surprise at seeing a small headed woman ripping movie tickets, but I can't promise I wasn't laughing at her, which I realize makes me the kind of person who laughs at other people's physical anomalies. In other words, I am a monster.
We snorted and guffawed our way into the theater, wiping our eyes and scouting for good seats. Right in front of us was a morbidly obese man spilling over his seat into the one next to him. We started laughing all over again and found two seats near the back, from which we were able to watch the large man dip his fat hand into his small popcorn bag to eat, stopping after each handful to daintily wipe the butter flavored grease off his fingertips onto a wad of napkins. L checked the armrest between our seats to see if it could be raised. I knew she was thinking that man would have been more comfortable if he could lift the arm and take over the neighboring seat. It could not, though, which made me laugh harder.
The movie was good too. But I think L and I enjoyed the pre-show even more.
Monday, February 2, 2009
Worry Warts
My oldest daughter has an unsightly problem. She would kill me if she knew I was telling you about it. Lucky for me she doesn’t know about my blog yet. E has developed a nasty little wart problem. It started with one bumpy one on her pointer finger, but now the warts have spread to her feet. She has two on one toe, and the dreaded plantar’s wart, which sounds more involved than it is. A plantar’s wart is one on the bottom of your foot, that grows up into your skin as opposed to festering on the surface. Wow, when I describe it, maybe it is that involved. Anyway, four warts. I told her it looks like she needs to stop picking at her feet, but that didn’t make her laugh. It made her cry.
We tried unsuccessfully to treat the little fuckers at home. I went out and bought some Compound W, which may or may not be from the makers of Preparation H, and a fresh box of Disney Princess Band-aids. We painted that foul smelling stuff on her foot and fingertip for three weeks. We occasionally covered her finger with Jasmine or Belle, and we attempted to not gag or say “ewww!” while inspecting her digits. We encouraged hand washing. I even gave her a pumice stone from one of my many pampering gift baskets that I keep receiving and never use, so she can scrub her protrusions raw. But her warts just kept getting bigger and angrier looking. So I broke down and took her to the doctor.
Taking E to the doctor is just like taking your cat to the vet, only without the pet carrier. First she has to fret about the possibility of shots. Or a finger stick, when they test for anemia, which they do maybe once every two years for the average child. I point that out to her every time we do go to the doctor’s, but it doesn’t matter. She always resorts to an irrational fear of needles. Anyway, we had an appointment after school. She probably freaked out about it all day, and from the minute we got in the car, she started in with the hyperventilating and panic. By the time we had signed in and sat in the waiting room, she was so worked up she couldn’t even sit down, choosing instead to stand stiffly next to my chair while S, her younger sister, crawled around on the filthy floor, touching all the germ covered baby toys while I snapped at her the whole time, “Stop touching that!”
We went back to the exam room and waited. Waiting for the pediatrician isn’t as bad as waiting for, say the gynecologist. Of course, that might be because it is not my exam, and I am not wearing a paper vest. But still, the wait was short, and we entertained ourselves in our usual odd fashion, mainly by drawing germs and bacteria all over the paper table liner with whatever pens we could find in the room. If my kids could figure out a way to take tongue depressors and glue them together with hand sanitizer, we could actually make 3-D germ sculptures, but we had to make do with what we had. Dr. L, our usual doctor, came in not too longer after and asked how we were that day, to which E replied,” Warty!” No sense in wasting his time, we jumped right into why we were there. He laughed and asked for a rundown of what we have been doing. I explained about the Compound W, the Band-Aids, and the lack of success. I wasn’t looking forward to Dr. L freezing off E’s warts, but at least it is quick, if not pain free. So imagine my surprise when he chose not to freeze them off. Instead, he recommended duct tape with an over the counter patch called Mediplast for her plantar warts, and some lotion called Aldara for the other three. He thought the duct tape/Mediplast combo would be too difficult to administer on her finger and toe, so the lotion was for that. He seemed to think the duct tape would work just as well as the lotion, thanks to the New England Journal of Medicine’s study of 101 medicinal uses of duct tape. I assumed it was not sponsored by any of the major pharmaceutical companies.
The next day, when I got the prescription filled, I was absolutely shocked when I picked it up. $150 for our share. Our insurance company paid $191 for its share. For a lotion we were to use three times a week. Which meant that for a month’s worth, roughly twelve little packets, we feasibly could have paid $340. No wonder doctors are trying to figure out remedies out of household products for things like warts. Who wants to pay the equivalent of a car payment to fix what could be knocked off with a paring knife, a slammed door, or a little WD-40? I don’t know what that crap Aldara is made of, but I am beginning to think it must be unicorn sperm. How else can they justify that wallet rape?
With that price, you would think it would work, and work well. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you that. Before we could even try it, the wart on E’s finger decided to split open like a hot Parker House roll. It looks like it has a tiny little mouth in it, and I am pretty sure it is screaming. We can’t treat that one because it is too irritated. But at the price of the lotion, we can’t treat the other ones either, since we can’t afford to waste it. So we are still no closer to fixing the wart problem than when we began. I understand eventually these things clear up on their own, if the unicorn cum and duct tape remedies don’t do their job. Remind me again why medicine is a science and not an art.
We tried unsuccessfully to treat the little fuckers at home. I went out and bought some Compound W, which may or may not be from the makers of Preparation H, and a fresh box of Disney Princess Band-aids. We painted that foul smelling stuff on her foot and fingertip for three weeks. We occasionally covered her finger with Jasmine or Belle, and we attempted to not gag or say “ewww!” while inspecting her digits. We encouraged hand washing. I even gave her a pumice stone from one of my many pampering gift baskets that I keep receiving and never use, so she can scrub her protrusions raw. But her warts just kept getting bigger and angrier looking. So I broke down and took her to the doctor.
Taking E to the doctor is just like taking your cat to the vet, only without the pet carrier. First she has to fret about the possibility of shots. Or a finger stick, when they test for anemia, which they do maybe once every two years for the average child. I point that out to her every time we do go to the doctor’s, but it doesn’t matter. She always resorts to an irrational fear of needles. Anyway, we had an appointment after school. She probably freaked out about it all day, and from the minute we got in the car, she started in with the hyperventilating and panic. By the time we had signed in and sat in the waiting room, she was so worked up she couldn’t even sit down, choosing instead to stand stiffly next to my chair while S, her younger sister, crawled around on the filthy floor, touching all the germ covered baby toys while I snapped at her the whole time, “Stop touching that!”
We went back to the exam room and waited. Waiting for the pediatrician isn’t as bad as waiting for, say the gynecologist. Of course, that might be because it is not my exam, and I am not wearing a paper vest. But still, the wait was short, and we entertained ourselves in our usual odd fashion, mainly by drawing germs and bacteria all over the paper table liner with whatever pens we could find in the room. If my kids could figure out a way to take tongue depressors and glue them together with hand sanitizer, we could actually make 3-D germ sculptures, but we had to make do with what we had. Dr. L, our usual doctor, came in not too longer after and asked how we were that day, to which E replied,” Warty!” No sense in wasting his time, we jumped right into why we were there. He laughed and asked for a rundown of what we have been doing. I explained about the Compound W, the Band-Aids, and the lack of success. I wasn’t looking forward to Dr. L freezing off E’s warts, but at least it is quick, if not pain free. So imagine my surprise when he chose not to freeze them off. Instead, he recommended duct tape with an over the counter patch called Mediplast for her plantar warts, and some lotion called Aldara for the other three. He thought the duct tape/Mediplast combo would be too difficult to administer on her finger and toe, so the lotion was for that. He seemed to think the duct tape would work just as well as the lotion, thanks to the New England Journal of Medicine’s study of 101 medicinal uses of duct tape. I assumed it was not sponsored by any of the major pharmaceutical companies.
The next day, when I got the prescription filled, I was absolutely shocked when I picked it up. $150 for our share. Our insurance company paid $191 for its share. For a lotion we were to use three times a week. Which meant that for a month’s worth, roughly twelve little packets, we feasibly could have paid $340. No wonder doctors are trying to figure out remedies out of household products for things like warts. Who wants to pay the equivalent of a car payment to fix what could be knocked off with a paring knife, a slammed door, or a little WD-40? I don’t know what that crap Aldara is made of, but I am beginning to think it must be unicorn sperm. How else can they justify that wallet rape?
With that price, you would think it would work, and work well. Unfortunately, I can’t tell you that. Before we could even try it, the wart on E’s finger decided to split open like a hot Parker House roll. It looks like it has a tiny little mouth in it, and I am pretty sure it is screaming. We can’t treat that one because it is too irritated. But at the price of the lotion, we can’t treat the other ones either, since we can’t afford to waste it. So we are still no closer to fixing the wart problem than when we began. I understand eventually these things clear up on their own, if the unicorn cum and duct tape remedies don’t do their job. Remind me again why medicine is a science and not an art.
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