The Gynecological Picnic

Oh, fun! A post about my lady-parts! Men blog-watchers, you may want to go back and read about my sign again, or go play in the archives for a little while until the next post. This is not the kind of lady-part blog entry that's any fun, trust me.

All righty then! So today I had to go for the first in a set of tests I have to have to take a "closer look" at stuff. And like most women, the OB/Gyn office is one of my least favorite places to go. I have tried in vain for years to find a gynecologist who's not also an obstetrician, but they are apparently a dying breed. Literally - like, they're all 90 years old. They're also all male with incomprehensible accents. Not that there's anything wrong with a male gynecologist (my first one, in fact, was a man and I adored him), but when it comes to my most precious body parts, I'd prefer someone I can understand and who does not resemble an Indian Montgomery Burns.

So, yeah. The OB/Gyn office sucks. Not only is it an all-around unpleasant experience, but it is exacerbated by the fact that I'm surrounded by pregnant woman all talking about their kicking fetuses and their swollen feet and their newfound aversion to orange juice because it makes their morning sickness go on all day. Oooh, so THAT's what Florence Henderson was talking about with that whole"Orange Juice - It's not just for breakfast anymore!" commercial campaign. Well anyhow, not only am I surrounded by women with whom I have nothing in common, but I am also surrounded by nothing to read except magazines geared toward the breeding crowd. Did you know there is actually a magazine called "Conceive" that features articles - among other things - on how to make your bedroom more pleasant for baby-making activities? Yowza. As if the sperm is going to come out and look around at the wallpaper and candles and think, "yeah, this is very tastefully decorated, nice ambiance...betcha there's some good eggs in HERE!" or conversely, take one look at the piles of dirty laundry and torn comforter and go, "Oh, hell no, I'm not swimming any further in this dump!" Whatever. Shouldn't there be a Cosmo around here somewhere? Or at least a Reader's Digest? Good God.

Luckily I didn't have to wait too long (and for this I was especially grateful since my bladder was extremely full, as it has to be when you go for one of these things) and after only a few minutes of reading how a $1,100 bed from Crate and Barrel would be more conducive to getting it on with your baby's daddy, I was whisked into the ultrasound room. Here's where the surreality begins. I'm told to drop trou and hop on the table. Warm jelly stuff is smeared all over my abdomen and the technician moves what looks like a wide roll-on bottle with a cord over the slime. She is silent. I crack jokes. She doesn't smile. I say, "Do you see anything?" She says, "I see your uterus. I see your ovaries."

I say, "But do you see anything IN any of those things?" She says, "I'm not allowed to tell you."

Um...this is MY uterus we're looking at, no? So why can't she tell me anything? Apparently because she's not a doctor, she's not qualified to tell me if there's a baseball-sized cyst on my ovary or some foreign object growing in my fallopian tube. I say, "Well, you would tell me if you saw anything bad, right?" Her answer, "I can't tell you anything either way, good or bad."

She finishes and tells me to go empty my bladder and come back for the second part of the test, and this is where things get a little more intimate. There is this wand with a sensor on the end of it, and the whole thing is covered with what looks like a giant condom, and ... oh hell, you're all adults; you can figure out what happens next, crikey. So while she's poking around in there and pressing on my stomach, I'm watching her face, which is watching the screen (which I cannot see, and even if I did wouldn't be able to tell what everything was anyway). She looks serious. I ask again, "Do you see anything?" and she says, "The radiologist will be able to tell you about anything we find." I lay back on the table and watch her some more. Her mouth is turned downward, her eyes are boring into the monitor. I can't tell if she's concerned or just concentrating. In any case, it's fucking annoying and scaring me.

This is going to be one really long week.

Getting in touch with my "other" roots

This weekend was the annual Oktoberfest party at the Central Terminal, where I've been a volunteer for the last four years. This year was the second year I donned the "Bier Wench" outfit for Oktoberfest, and as you can see from the above photo, I had a pretty good time!

Anyway, I've decided recently that while I am proudly ensconced in my Irish heritage, it's high time I started recognizing and appreciating the other nationalities of which I am made. The Irish part is easy because I just look the part so well (that, and the fact that Irish people tend to disregard/squelch/ignore/deny any other non-Irish part that might by lurking within the genes). However, just because the Irish part of me is so dominant does not mean I can't appreciate the other parts of me, one of which is, indeed, German. My grandmother on my father's side is of German descent, though it's something that we just never talked about in the family. My mother's side is mostly English and is largely settled in Canada.

Partaking in Oktoberfest celebrations has made me realize that I should be proud of my German heritage, even if it is just a small part of me. Watching some of the older German folks, dressed in their Oktoberfest finest and dancing the polka like pros, made me wish I was more connected with that side of me. Perhaps it is because that part has been repressed for so long, or maybe I just like the idea of being something other than Irish, I don't know. Or maybe because the Germans drink just as much as the Irish it appeals to me more than if I were, say, part Amish or something.

In any case, I've decided that I would like to explore my roots some more, research just where exactly my family came from - all of them, not just the Irish ones.

The soundtrack of our lives

We were born forever
We are twinned in a fugitive mind
Friends should stay together and
Light the world with the fugitive kind

-"Satellites" by Ricki Lee Jones


The other day I was walking through the pet store and this song was playing overhead. Suddenly I found myself stopped in my tracks, clutching a bag of dog food and sighing wistfully. There is so much about this song that means so much to me, and because it's not a song that gets a lot of, if any, play, it threw me off to hear it out of the blue like I did.

It's funny how a song can stir up memories that had long since been tucked away. Not memories like, "Oh remember the time we did such-and-such," but just random bits and pieces like the purple velvet bedspread you had in your dorm room, or the pack of Merit cigarettes that was always in your pocket. You remember things like Paul Masson "california carafe" wine and the Throwing Muses poster in your best friend's bedroom at Condo #7. Suddenly all this stuff comes rushing back, and you start thinking even further and deeper into it. You suddenly remember people you'd forgotten and the nicknames you'd given them. You remember the mauve tabletops in the cafeteria and the time "Equine Boobie" galloped over the catwalk. You remember Matt and his tea. You suddenly recall pieces and vignettes of conversations that were otherwise unmemorable.

Funny how all this can come back within the first few seconds of a song you haven't heard in a long time.

Funny how you start thinking of all the stuff that happened back then and how your life has been shaped by those things. You start to think about the path your life has taken and wonder how it would have been different if those things hadn't been a part of it. You can't control the feelings and emotions that wash over you in those seconds of recollection; they just come. And to think these things wouldn't have even crossed your mind had you not decided that you needed dog food at that moment...it's kind of weird, isn't it?

Astrological musings and tattoo meanings

I'm often asked what the tattoo on my chest is. Some people have asked me, "Why do you have a number two on your chest?" and "Is that the Pi symbol?" (The latter is the funniest one, because anyone who knows me knows that math is so totally not my thing).

It's a Gemini sign surrounded by three stars, representing both my sign and my number, placed purposely on the left side of my chest (so that it's directly over my heart). Hey, some folks wear their hearts on their sleeves; I wear my sign on my boob. Kind of the same thing, yeah?

Anyway, I know many people like to discredit astrology as a bunch of bunk, but most of my definitions are so spot-on, it's hard to ignore the consistencies and similarities. If they weren't so accurate I would probably not be so adamant in defending my belief, but they are, and anyone who knows me even remotely well can see how the descriptions fit.

The Gemini Personality:

The symbol for Gemini is the twins, which stand for the duality and changeability of this sign.

'I THINK' is the motto for Gemini. Geminis are intelligent, with quick minds so they learn fast. They're always studying something, because they're curious about everything. Words trip off their tongues, in a quicksilver flow that makes them good at languages, marketing and anything that calls for the gift of the gab.

They can turn their hands to writing almost anything, whether a novel, play, speech or advertising copy. They like to know what's going on, hence their penchant for gossip. They're also witty and have a sense of mischief.

Variety is the spice of life for Gemini - they like to be in two places at once and have more than one thing on the go.

Their nervous energy and restlessness can give them a reputation for being unreliable and a bit of a butterfly. They can also appear glib.

They are the communicators of the zodiac.

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Numerology is a little trickier. Whereas in astrology you need look no further than the day you were born and the sign under which that day falls, numerology requires a little more calculation. Numbers vary according to different categories; typically you have many numbers - a sun number, a life path number, a personality number, a birth number, etc. Your personality number is based on adding up the letters in your full name, and is typically the number with which you most closely define yourself. The letters correspond with a series of numbers which are then added up and reduced to the lowest number. In my case, the letters add up to 21, then 2 + 1 = 3.

3 - OPTIMIST

Traits:creative, social, easygoing visionary, humorous, energetic, spontaneous.

The number 3 symbolizes the principle of growth. When the initiating force of 1 unites with the germinating energy of 2 there is fruitfulness -- 3. It signifies that there is a synthesis present -- that imagination and an outpouring of energy is in action. The 3 is optimistic and fun-loving, and strives to uplift and color its surroundings. Its energy is enlivening, youthful, and enthusiastic.

Gifts: Enthusiasm, imagination, versatility

Challenges: Exaggeration, lack of direction, unfinished projects, sensitivity to criticism, laziness

Personal Goal: Enjoy life, stay young, play

Fears: Loss of youth, restriction, boredom

Succeeds as: Motivator, coach, writer, musician, artist, parent, salesperson, communicator/all media

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Now of course there are some inconsistencies here. Succeeds as parent? Uh, no. Coach? Well maybe if you count my designation as a Learning Coach at work. Definitely nothing having to do with sports. But everything else fits so tightly it's almost frightening. One need only to look through the blog entries preceding this one to see that these descriptions are accurate.

If you delve further into it and start looking at things like compatibility and relationships and career paths, it makes even more sense. Geminis typically get along best with other Geminis. As crazy as this might sound (because, in essence, there are four personalities involved in a Gemini-Gemini relationship), it's true. The two relationships I've had with Geminis have been long-term, serious, intense, energetic, truly loving, and sexually supercharged (sorry if that's too much information, but it's true). When I look back on other previous relationships, I see patterns that can't really be disputed. Relationships with Sagittariuses have all been volatile and full of drama, ending badly. Relationships with Virgos were frustrating and difficult to maintain. Leos drive me up the fucking wall with their constant need for validation and assurance.

This is not to say I date or choose friends based on someone's sign (although declaration of Sagittarius status usually puts me on high alert). I just think it's interesting. And it's fun to see how people naturally fill the roles of their signs. I think I fill mine pretty damn well.

Happy Surprises Rule!

Today we got the project sheet for the next assignment in my Illustration class, and I read with dread all the stuff we're required to buy for it. Now, you would think that at this point I've amassed a collection of supplies - and I have, but not much that I need for this class. It's all new media for the most part, media in which I've not yet worked. So while, yes, my t-square and my massive pad of tracing paper and my precision rule have come in handy, I do not own technical pens or a Crowquill pen. Then there is the constant need for presentation supplies, which I tend to buy as I need, because if I buy too many at one time they tend to float around and get damaged. So anyway, I'm thinking "man, this is going to cost me some money that I don't have," and I started worrying about how to budget this week's paycheck to cover the cost of a couple of $17 pens, illustration board, bristol board, and cover stock.

Upon coming home this afternoon, however, I found in my mail a dividend check for $102 from my insurance company! Thanks to everyone who has State Farm and drives carefully, I got some of my money back on my premium. Woo-hoo! So now I can buy my supplies AND some groceries, too! I love when stuff like this just falls in my lap!

Maybe I'll go buy a lottery ticket, just for good measure.

Creativity on demand

Now in my third year as a design major, I'm discovering a disturbing trend: I struggle immensely with being creative on demand. When I started school, I had stars in my eyes and big dreams of finally earning a living doing something I love to do. I thought back to all those days in Chicago when I had my drafting table set up in the corner of my kitchen on Whipple Street, and how on my days off I would wake up, put on a pot of coffee, and draw all day in my pajamas. I thought of all the days and late nights spent doctoring photos and drawing on the computer, teaching myself the ins and outs of Adobe Photoshop. I recalled the greeting cards I used to make, and how everyone who received one would rave about how I really should be doing this sort of thing for profit. And so I went in, thinking "this is going to be great!"

However when forced to create, I lock up. Deadlines paralyze me, as does the fear of criticism. I don't think I'm exceptionally good at anything, to be honest. My book, which has been in the works for years at this point, sits dormant in ancient Word files. Half-finished vignettes and dangling endings plague me, and I don't think I'll ever finish because I just can't figure out how to wrap it all up. I have a portfolio full of stuff I'm not all that excited about. I have a cache of unfinished songs that I've written. I know how to play only parts of songs. I get to a certain point in lessons and give up, opting instead to stick with what I know instead of challenging myself to do more.

This goes with something I realized while struggling with the piece I'm working on in Ceramics class -- I don't do well with delayed gratification. If I'm not good at something immediately, I get extremely frustrated. The trouble with this is that most art, whether it's fine art, design, music, writing, etc, is a process. One must have patience to see the process through, and well, patience has never been my thing.

And now I'm losing patience with this blog entry, so I'm going to stop here.

Comings and goings

I'm not always right. I'll admit that. But when you've been on this earth for 36 years and have the type of history that I do, you tend to possess a wealth of knowledge and experience that only someone who's been there can relate to. You tend to become a much better judge of character, because chances are you've dealt with the type before. You almost feel like you can predict the future based on the past; you've lived in a few different places, you've traveled a bit, you've worked every job known to mankind, and have known/met/dated practically every type out there.

So when someone finally realizes that you are, indeed, not so full of shit after all, you understand that they just needed some time to figure it out. And it makes you happy. Not in an "I told you so" sort of way, but more in an "I'm glad you finally came around" kind of way. When people start coming around and realizing that your complaints were valid, that your arguments held water, that your observations were real, that your perceptions and opinions weren't just the result of some odd psychosis...it makes the struggles worth it.

It is this that keeps me sane during periods of strife and conflict, because I know that as long as I'm sure I know what I'm doing and what I'm talking about, eventually I'll get my point across, and it will become evident that I'm not so "out there" after all. And no matter how many people try to make me feel inadequate, stupid, crazy, unstable, ugly, or otherwise unworthy of existing, I sleep well knowing that the ground upon which I stand is solid, *I* know who I am, and at the end of the day, I'm the only one who has to answer to myself.

New fur!

By happenstance, a little black and white kitten has found her way into my home - and my heart. Meet Giblets, the newest addition to the ever-growing furry family!




She's about five months old, and I swear she's the reincarnation of Lepew. She's completely affectionate, friendly, and vocal - everything that Turkey is not (yes, that's correct; my cats' names are Turkey and Giblets). It was only somewhat accidental that she arrived to the Planet Deedums Zoo; a few weeks back I was browsing some online pet ads, just because I'm a freak and like to look at the photos. Well, this little girl struck me for some reason, so I responded to the ad. The woman who'd placed the ad replied that she'd already adopted this kitten out, so I figured it was just not time to get another kitten and I went on with my life.

Then two days ago, I got an email from the woman again, telling me that the original adopter wasn't a good fit, and that the kitten was mine if I wanted her. Well, that was all the sign I needed. I picked her up yesterday, and for the last 36 hours or so have been enduring a cacophony of hisses and growls, punctuated by an occasional cat-scream. Yikes. I've never had more than one cat before, except the time my roommates surprised me with two kittens that they'd brought home and I swiftly moved Lepew to my boyfriend's house. So this is totally new to me. From what I'm told, eventually things will calm down and they'll become friends. I'm hoping this is true, since the whole idea behind getting another cat in the first place was to ease the transition for Turkey once Alex is gone (though I'm convinced at this point that dog is immortal).

Oh, and I welcomed four more rats into the colony a few weeks ago. Eight wasn't enough after all. Two of the four were babies from Paula's litter that came back because their new owner wasn't able to keep them. The other two were their cagemates.

At this point I'm beginning to think that buying stock in Petsmart might be a good idea.