As Planet Deedums Turns

2011-07-13T15:32:00.003-04:00

Dear Loyal Blogwatchers,

I have a NEW blog. More bitching, less self-pity, with a little bit of "think about it" mixed in. Check it out!

See you there!

Also, why are people so GOD DAMNED RUDE?

2011-06-10T02:19:00.002-04:00

I can forgive this coming from the mouths of my friends, or even coworkers. But strangers and casual acquaintances who ask me, "how come you never got married?" really GRIND MY FUCKING GEARS.

My cousin asked me the other day in the course of conversation, "are you gonna have kids ever, or no?" It was a purely innocent question. He's family. He's allowed. But everyone else? You are NOT ALLOWED. You are NOT ALLOWED to ask me personal questions. I don't ask you about that thing on your face, I don't ask you why your taste in clothing sucks, I don't ask you how you lost that tooth. So really, just shut the fuck up, all right?

NO. I'm NOT GOING TO HAVE KIDS. And that's part of the reason I never got married. Men want children. Who knew? And I'm somehow "defective" for lacking a maternal instinct. Somehow I was supposed to ignore that little factoid and just go ahead and push out a couple kids because that's what society says we're "supposed" to do.

I've had men on dating sites tell me straight up that there's something wrong with me for not wanting kids. I've had men cease all communiques once I explain my position.

I even had one guy who swore he didn't want kids change his tune after we'd gone out a few times, though I think he just said that 'cause he knew it'd make me go away.

Maybe there IS something wrong with me. Man...

And here we go again

2011-06-10T02:04:00.003-04:00

Yet another friend has gotten engaged. Well, not really a friend, but an acquaintance.

And of course her wall is full of congratulatory wishes and hopeful sentiment. And yet...I still just can't seem to get it right.

How do I write this without sounding bitter? Am I just a big jerk for begrudging people their happiness as I wallow in my own cesspool of sadness?

(I should make it clear that when my FRIENDS get engaged or married it's a joyful time and I really am truly happy for them, but it's the casual acquaintances that get to me, for whatever reason).

I'm trying really hard to NOT let this GP thing fuck me up. I'm NOT letting this skew my ideas about love and partnership, which despite my history, lifestyle, and shenanigans are actually quite traditional at the core.

Deep down, I have always wanted to get married, but only if I found the right person, and I could never accept that my life was destined for picket fences and shuttling a Volvo full of kids to soccer practice. (Not wanting kids makes it really hard to find a husband, you know). And yet for some reason, wanting to find a stable and loving partner is viewed as "wrong," and makes you somehow "weak." We're told "you don't need a partner to complete you," and yes, I know this. I lived without one for a long, long time. And I always take a long time between relationships because I want to make sure I'm ready and can apply the lessons of past relationships to the next one. But what is "wrong" with wanting someone to hold and make love to and share meals with and experience life with?

Why is it so wrong to wish you had someone with you to celebrate life's triumphs and sorrows? Why is it a sign of "weakness" to have someone to hold your hand when you're scared? I'm so sick of this god damned "You don't need a man!" drivel that people try to feed you when you're down about a failed relationship. I mean, yeah, it's true that no one will ever love you, know you, or get you off quite as well as yourself, but it doesn't mean you don't need someone.

Maybe I don't need a man to cut the grass or change lightbulbs or kill spiders, and maybe I'm just fine on my own, patching drywall and fixing shit with my power tools. And maybe I even really like sleeping alone, especially when it's hot like it is now. I love having my own space, and I loved that GP had his own bedroom when he lived here. But you know what? Ballroom dancing lessons, scuba diving, miniature golf outings, day trips...there's only so much of that stuff you can do with friends. It's not about being lonely and needing someone to fix what's wrong in your life. It's about finding someone who can co-pilot the ship on life's journey. And my friends are great, they're happy to have me back, but...it doesn't mean I can't still miss what I never had.

I KNOW I'm living in a fantasy world now, thinking I might actually find someone in this crazy, fucked-up world who is suited to be my friend and lover and partner in crime, especially at my age and given my history, my "flaws" (really, men are just so god damned superficial), and my unwillingness to procreate or take up with anyone who has. I do sometimes regret not having kids, to be honest. But it's not so much regret for not having had them, but more that I never got myself into a place where I felt I could be a good parent. If I would have found that place, then maybe I would have felt differently. It's just that the idea of parenthood terrifies the shit out of me, and I could never imagine myself doing it.

I spent TEN YEARS (not counting James because he wasn't "real") being non-committed, footloose, fancy-free, unattached, uninhibited, and selectively lonely before GP came along. Then it was like *pow* I was in love. With someone who has made it pretty clear for the last several months that he does not love me. The same man who had fought tooth and nail for me back in September, the same man who'd told me that NO MATTER WHAT we would stay together and work it out and find a way to make it work...it was all a farce. A game. An experiment. And I knew that it had started out that way, sure, but then it was like...we actually did fall in love, for real. I could have sworn it was the real deal. The man flew 10,000 miles from tropical paradise to Buffalo, New York in the middle of winter to be with me.

So once more I am left trying to figure out what love actually IS. See, this felt unlike anything I'd ever felt before, so I was sure that it had to be it. It was familiar enough in its strength and intensity and woozy side-effects, but then there was something else that I couldn't quite define. There was a pull. There was a connection. And now...I'm just more confused than ever. I do love myself, and I am not necessarily feeling sorry for myself. It's just that I always end up with more questions than answers when this shit happens. And that makes me really fucking sad.

It's my pity party, and I'll cry if I want to.

2011-05-30T12:32:00.005-04:00

I'm 40 today. The big Four-Oh. And everyone keeps telling me that my life begins today.

Good God, I hope so.

I'm trying really hard to be positive about everything, but you know, Mother Nature is a sick bitch, and she decided that this would be a good day for me to start my period. So for the last three days or so, my hormones have been raging, sending me in all kinds of tailspin-like crying jags.

One of the things that has me reeling so hard? Weddings. There were a couple of them this weekend. Not ones I was invited to, thank God, but still - Facebook grants us the great privilege of being able to see photos in near real-time, and so I was treated to photos of lovely brides almost immediately after their weddings. Very lovely brides. Very young, very lovely brides. And then I remember: Oh yeah. I was supposed to get married this year. But I'm not. And hey, I'm 40.

*sob*

Even though my would-be wedding wasn't going to be a huge affair to begin with, I do sometimes regret never having had the chance to be a princess for a day. Yes, yes, I know - it's a hassle and a headache and an expense that I'm better off never having had to expend, but still...the romance, the pretty hair, the cake, the flowers, the dance with the dad...never got to do it. Never will. I never wanted a huge, opulent, outrageous wedding to begin with, but at this point even if I had wanted it, it's silly to do now at this age. And basically what it all boils down to is the underlying issue: It's not the wedding. It's that seeing people's weddings reminds me that I thought I'd found what I never thought I'd find - a partner. And just as quickly as I found him I had to let him go.

This morning someone pointed out (in the presence of my ex, no less) that this was a year of big changes. "Wow, you graduated and now you turned 40, that's a lot!" And all I could think was, "Yeah, and it would have been the year I got married, too, but that ended up in the shitter."

I'm not angry or bitter about the end of my relationship with GP - I know it had to end, and that ending it was the best thing to do for both of us. But that doesn't mean I still don't get sad. And today? Maybe it was seeing GP that made it worse, I don't know. He was the first person to wish me a happy birthday in person, and I think it just set the tone. I still love him, but I'd really do better to just not see him. We're taking a stab at the friendship thing, but I think it is just too early.

Wah wah wah. I know tomorrow I'll wake up and I'll feel better, but today I just want to crawl under a rock and feel sorry for myself. Is that so wrong?

P.S. Guess it's time to change that header up there. Musings of a 30-something drama queen is now a false statement. Sigh.

The Greatest Love Story, continued...

2010-09-04T05:53:00.004-04:00

There was a short break in there, mainly as a result of my inability to show restraint. But we're back, we're live, and we want YOU to be a part of this!

http://lovestory.strident.org

Enjoy! And remember - TELL YOUR FRIENDS! This isn't just a love story, it's an experiment in social media and networking. We want to see just how far-reaching it can be.

The Greatest Love Story of the Century

2010-08-18T03:46:00.004-04:00

It really is. Please tell everyone you know. :-)

Text from the Facebook page:

Imagine for a second that you've spent your life searching for something you ultimately decide doesn't exist. Imagine that years after you stop looking, you suddenly find it, and you realize it's something you never even knew you were looking for! So now you think, "oh man, THAT's what I needed all along!" and it's...half a world away.

Meet Deedee and Gregory, two Quirkyalones who found each other on Facebook, in a chance exchange on a mutual friend’s status thread. For the past five months, these two crazy kids have carried on a virtual relationship. And although they have never physically met, they are very much in love with each others' hearts and minds.

This is, as we see it, The Greatest Love Story of the Century. It’s post-modern love at its finest - and as far as we’re concerned, it’s the Real Deal. It’s hard to describe the true depth and scope of how we feel, but we love each other - truly. But, you know, it’s online. And while it looks great on paper and works fabulously in cyberspace, the fact remains that we want to find out if it works in "3-D".

The future of our relationship is obviously uncertain, given the geographical limitations. These limitations, however, aren't necessarily impossible to work around! BUT...we can't possibly know anything until we find out for sure if our relationship is workable on a real-world, real-life level. In order for us to take the next step (or even know what the next step will be), we need to spend some actual time together. Because the nature of his work and situation preclude Gregory from traveling for awhile, we have decided that Deedee should join him in Thailand for the holidays this coming winter. This is more than a vacation - it is an experiment in love. :-)

So…what is this page all about, and where do YOU fit in? Well, we’re begging, to put it bluntly. We are trying to raise $2000 to offset the cost of Deedee’s plane ticket. All her other trip expenses will be taken care of by our meager incomes and whatever’s left of the student loans this semester, but the plane ticket…yikes. So we thought, “Hey, people love a good love story…maybe we can find 2000 people to send us a dollar to help make it happen!”

And that’s really all we want. Just a dollar. Or fifty cents, if that’s all you have. Hell, drop some bottles and cans at Deedee’s house if you’re local to her. Buy some of her artwork. Whatever. We just want to be together for Christmas and see if this thing actually works. If it does? Well, you can feel slap-happy and warm and fuzzy that your little old dollar facilitated the most awesome union since … [umm, insert your favorite against-the-odds couple here]. If it doesn’t, and turns out to be the most carnage-strewn disaster in the history of mankind? Hey, you’re still only out a buck. And either way, you’re off the hook for a wedding gift (Christmas, too!). ☺

Whether you know us or not, we hope you’ll take a chance on our in-love, broke asses and help us out. You’ll be treated to updates and photos along the way (to prove that your dollar really did go to this trip and not to a pyramid scheme or a shoe-shopping spree) and we’ll even send you (like, real snail-mail!) a postcard from Thailand if you give us your address! If you want to get really fancy and donate a lot of money, we’ll send you a special gift! We don’t know what that is yet, but you’ll love it, we promise!

But seriously, please suggest this page to all your friends. Ask them to do the same. We’ve already seen the power of Facebook in our introduction. We're writing our story before everyone's eyes, and we want you to help us write the next chapter. There are 500 million people on Facebook – surely there are 2000 of you with big hearts and some spare change.

With all our love and gratitude,
Deedee and Gregory

P.S. Yes, we know – there will be haters. Please try not to rain your hate on our parade, though. If you’re not interested in tossing a buck in our direction, simply ignore the page and move on. We’re not interested in hearing from you. Thanks! And love love love!!!!

Land of the free? Hardly.

2010-08-01T17:59:00.005-04:00

I don't often get into political rantings here, mainly because I've gotten to a point where I'm pretty apathetic about most issues. Either that, or I just don't feel like dealing with the argument.

There is one issue, however, that really puts my knickers in a knot, and that's the issue of Homeland Security. It's always bothered me because it's just so subjective, and full of blurry lines and double standards...but it didn't REALLY start to annoy me until I moved back to a border city.

I'm not unsympathetic to the cause. I understand that we're trying to keep our nation safe. I understand and was profoundly affected by the devastation of 9/11. I get it.

Immediately following the attacks, the country was thrust into upheaval, and mass paranoia set in. People were buying plastic wrap and duct tape to cover their houses, and boycotting every last convenience store because they were supposedly underground funding coffers for terrorist organizations. If you were any color but white, you were essentially fucked. God help you if you wore a turban or a burqa or attended services at a non-Christian church.

Fast forward nine years, and where are we? There's still an overwhelming sense of paranoia and mistrust...and it's a MAJOR hassle to get anywhere. Flown anywhere recently? Domestic flights are just as bad as international ones (if not worse - ask my Indian-born brother-in-law). That's another post for another time, though. What I'm talking about here is border crossings for U.S. citizens who are trying to come home.

I live in Buffalo, NY. At certain points along the Niagara River, you could throw a rock from this side and hit Canadian soil. For years, Buffalonians and Canadians enjoyed a co-presence that involved crossing the border at any old time to do any old thing like shopping or sight-seeing or having dinner or riding rollercoasters, or less wholesome activities like gambling or drinking (the legal age is 19 in Canada) or attending the "Canadian Ballet" (a colloquialism for the strip clubs in which full nudity is legal). Prostitution is also legal in Canada, so...you know. Lots of reasons Americans might want to go up there. My point is that when I'm done shopping at Ikea or eating at Happy Jacks or showing an out-of-town friend around Niagara Falls or enjoying a lap dance at Mints (just kidding), I want to come home.

Home is Buffalo, New York, United States of America. It says so on my driver's license. I have a United States passport. My car is registered to me, in New York State, and the title is in my name. It's insured in New York State. I have a job in New York State. I was BORN in Buffalo. Should be a piece of cake to return home after some time spent in Canadaland, no?

No.

When you cross into Canada, this is the conversation that takes place with the friendly border patrol agent:

Border agent: Country of citizenship?
Me: USA

BA: Where are you headed today?
Me: The Butterfly Conservatory and a couple of wineries, maybe the Horticulture School and dinner at the casino if there's time.

BA: How long do you plan on being in Canada?
Me: Probably a good 6 or 8 hours, I would imagine.

BA: Are you bringing anything in?
Me: Just my personal effects and some spending cash.

BA: Okay, have a nice time.

Sometimes they'll ask if you're meeting anyone, but usually it's more or less, "Welcome to Canada, enjoy our lovely, clean country. We trust you won't fuck anything up here, eh?"

Coming back...a completely different story. You will be asked your country of citizenship, where you were, how long you were there, who you were with, what you did, and what you're bringing back. You will then be asked what you do for a living, who your employer is, where you were born, who owns your car, and you may be asked to recite your license plate number. This will all be asked with a suspicious scowl and an attitude like you're ruining the agent's day simply by existing. And no matter how cooperative you are, if he has a headache or was just dumped by his girlfriend, you are screwed, and you'd better hope you don't have any place to be that day because your ass is theirs now. You will be asked to pull over. Your car will be searched, and you will be subjected to an outright interrogation. I've only ever had the experience of having my trunk searched, but I've had friends and family members go through much worse.

This was my friend Megan's status update this morning:

We were pulled over for a random inspection returning to the US at 7am today. Had to drag sleeping child out of car so they could ask us a series of basic questions and rifle through our belongings.

What's so disturbing about this? Well, let's start with Megan. She is 41, a former political and economic relations officer for the Canadian Consulate who is now the Director of Government Relations for SUNY Buffalo. Her husband Brian, 43, is employed by the Canadian Consulate. They have a two-year-old daughter, are homeowners in Buffalo, and are both natives of this area.

Do you see where I'm going with this? Here it is, folks:

I'm sorry, but you know, I am having a harder and harder time living in a nation (and a developed one, at that) that makes it such a freakin' hassle for its citizens to COME HOME. Yeah, I understand that the best terrorists are probably indeed cleverly disguised as 40-ish Caucasian professional couples (WHO WORK IN GOVERNMENT AND IMMIGRATION) with napping toddlers in the back seat, but come ON! You live here, you're documented to the teeth, and you're squeaky clean. What more do they need?!

This will probably put me on some terrorist watch list, but you know what? I don't give a shit anymore. I'm so tired of our resources being wasted on ridiculous shit like hassles and random searches of U.S. citizens trying to return home. It's kind of hard to love a place that wants to keep you out in the interest of keeping it "safe." I could go on for DAYS about everything that's messed up here, but Megan's experience just boiled my American red blood. Maybe I'll just move to Canada.

Try this: The Greatest (and perhaps most absurd) Love Story of the 21st Century

2010-07-18T14:21:00.017-04:00

A few months ago, my relationship status on Facebook changed from "single" to "it's complicated." It stayed there for a while, then a few weeks ago it changed to "is engaged to Gregory Pleshaw." This, of course, sparked a shitstorm of comments on both his page and mine, people alternately offering hearty congratulations and expressing confusion. I mean, as far as most people in our respective lives knew, neither of us was dating anyone with any sort of seriousness or regularity, and now...engaged? To who? After the flurry of comments, we each decided to clear up the situation to those who weren't in on it. I wrote:

All right, everyone...look. Since Gregory cleared it up on his wall, I may as well clear it up on mine. I was hoping that the status about being a merry prankster would clue some in, but...really. We are NOT actually engaged. I'm NOT getting married. To him or to anyone. It's too hard to explain in any sort of detail to anyone who doesn't *know* Gregory or anything about the nature of our relationship, but we are involved in an online relationship that works for both of us on a level we each need it to for the moment. He's an *amazing* human being who has opened my mind and heart to things I never knew were out there, serving me a larger slice of life and teaching me some really neat stuff. I love him with all my heart, but it's not necessarily the most traditional or orthodox kind of thing. So...not nearly as detailed or eloquently conveyed as his description, but that's the nutshell version. Sorry to have gotten you all atwitter.

Gregory's explanation was much more involved than mine, really, and included more detail about his work and the part I play in it, but the basic sentiment was the same.

Okay, so hold on - Gregory who? And...what? Haha. Let me back up.

This is the story in a nutshell: Gregory and I have never met in person. We met online back at the end of March when we both commented on a mutual friend's status update. (Said friend actually does know him AND me in real life). Our exchange moved over to email, which segued into chats, which then became frequent and regular Skype/video chats. Through the course of getting to know each other on a cerebral level, we discovered some very significant and unusual commonalities. Without going into too much detail (because, honestly, I'm not trying to be coy or weird, but this stuff is really deep and private, which is one of the reasons we bonded so tightly over it), I will say this: somewhere along the line, we fell in love.

For real.

Some day I will tell the entire story, but I'm still trying to figure out how to write it myself. I'm attempting to decipher feelings I've never had before, or had so long ago I'd forgotten how to process them. All I know is that I am involved in a deep connection with another human being that is so intense it kind of blows my mind sometimes. Sounds perfect, right? It might be. But there's just one catch: he lives on the other side of the world. When we met, he was living in Thailand. Right now he's in India. It's just where his work (he's a writer) has taken him. He has no immediate plans to return to the United States. His plan is currently to stay in India until the fall, at which point he will return to Thailand to spend Christmas with his mother (she's an English teacher there), and then, if all goes according to plan, New Year's and a few weeks beyond with...me.

This is provided I can come up with the money to actually make it happen. But since he's a broke-ass writer, and I'm a broke-ass graduate student, we're having some trouble figuring that part out. So now I'm seriously considering holding a fundraiser type of thing to finance the trip. I thought, "Hmm...if I could get 2000 people to donate ONE DOLLAR, I could buy a plane ticket to Thailand and finally see if this thing is worth the emotional investment I've made, if it's worth the tears and the fluttering heart...if it's really, really REAL and can actually WORK on a physical level so we can figure out just what the hell to do with the damn thing."

Crazy idea? Sure. But really no crazier than anything else I've ever done in my life. Self-indulgent? No doubt. Risky? Uh-huh. But isn't love made up of these very elements by nature? The BIG question remaining, however, is whether or not we can actually make it happen.

Because, see, lots of people meet on the internet every day. Lots of relationships have been born on Facebook, Myspace, etc. So what makes ours so special, unique, or worthy of trying, that 2000 people with an extra buck would toss it our way to help make it happen? Well, there's the fact, first of all, that Gregory's current project involves LIVE-WRITING a book ON Facebook. He and I MET on Facebook. I'm part of the story. (As an aside, I'm also writing a book, the final chapter of which I'm planning on writing overseas). Consider it..."research."

As far as anything else goes, all anyone really needs to know is that he and I have this incredible, intense, and amazing connection that we have determined MUST be tried physically to see if it works in the "3-D" realm. It could be the most mind-blowing, happiest-ending thing ever, it could end up being the biggest carnage-strewn disaster in the history of mankind. Who knows? Nobody - until we TRY. But trying is gonna cost a lot of money that neither one of us has. And so this is where our "investors" come in. If it doesn't work, we call it a day and move on, and a couple thousand folks are out a dollar. Oh well. Better than me being out two grand that I don't have. And if it works? Two thousand people can take credit for it. Either way, they're off the hook for a wedding gift, ha.

And then what happens? Not sure. I had the idea that maybe we could take it even a step further and turn it into an "online reality show" of sorts. People are going to want proof that their dollar actually went where it was supposed to, so we could add that extra element. It could be in the form of a website, or even just an expanded Facebook fan page or something. We haven't gotten that far yet. I'm still deciding if I'm actually ballsy enough to try it. And yeah, I know - it's risky. But like I've always said, I'd rather die trying than die having not tried. I think he's worth a shot.

More than a Customer

2010-06-20T20:58:00.010-04:00

This past Friday afternoon I was about two hours from the end of my shift when one of my coworkers called me over to the front counter and gestured to a couple of women standing there.

The younger woman spoke. "Hi, do you remember me? I'm Patrick's daughter." Patrick was one of my most beloved regular customers, and I remembered having met her once a while back when she came in with her dad. We both went to Buffalo State, and we'd talked about school stuff. I said, "Oh, yeah, hey! How's it going?" She took a deep breath and offered forth, "I just wanted to let you know that my dad passed away on Sunday."

My jaw dropped, I gasped loudly, and my hands flew up to cover my gaping mouth. My eyes welled up immediately thereafter, and I just stood there, my hands clamped on my face, for what felt like several minutes. My supervisor came up behind me and said, "Why don't you go sit down for a bit?" I nodded my head and walked over to hug Patrick's daughter and offer my sympathy. She told me the funeral was the next morning, gave me the information, and I told her I would be there.

The cause of death is unknown. He went to bed Saturday night and just never woke up. He was 61 years old. Same as my father. Two years younger than my mother. And one of the funniest, friendliest, most appreciated customers I've had in the more than six years I've worked there. Patrick was smart, compassionate, and so fucking funny I used to burst out laughing just looking at him. Sometimes I'd start laughing as soon as I saw his car pull in. He stopped in several times a day. He was retired, but he'd been a USAF medic in Vietnam, and spent most of his time working as a VA Pathfinder, a veterans' advocate.

We used to talk for long stretches when it was slow, and sometimes he'd be in there when I'd stop in on a day off and we'd stand around and talk. We talked about cars. We talked about being Irish and our respective trips to Ireland. We talked about his kids. He shared off-color jokes. Sometimes our conversations got serious and deep, and we talked about Vietnam, and my dad, and my relationship with my dad, and I think in a lot of ways I kind of looked at Patrick as the kind of dad I wish I'd grown up with. I remember thinking how lucky his daughter (who is in her early 20's) was to have such a great guy for a father. My heart broke into a million pieces for her now. How could she be blessed with such a wonderful dad only to lose him so early?

Patrick was more than just a customer. He was a terrific human being. One day I had left work and was running errands when my car ran out of gas. I called the store to see if anyone was there who might be able to come and get me. Nobody was leaving any time soon, but Patrick was there. He got on the phone and told me to sit tight. A few minutes later he arrived to pick me up. He took me back home to get my gas can, then took me back to my car, waited while I put what was in the can into my car, and then followed me to the nearest station to make sure I made it okay. And at his service yesterday, I heard account after account of things like this that Patrick did for people. He was just that kind of guy.

Life hardly seems fair sometimes. I can think of at least a dozen douchebags I'd like to see drop dead, people I wouldn't miss for a second if they went away forever. But Patrick? He was one of the good ones. I know it seems strange that a customer's death would have such a profound effect on me; after all, he's not the first customer who's died. There have been a few others in the last 6-1/2 years I've been at this job. But none were such stable and enjoyed presences there as Patrick was. The others were daily customers, nice people whose deaths definitely hit me in the gut and sent a wave of sadness over me. But never until now have I actually mourned a guy whose lattes I looked forward to making.

Rest in Peace, Patrick Galvin. You will be missed dearly by everyone who was lucky enough to know you.

I Heart Brides in Flip-flops

2010-06-20T17:54:00.008-04:00

When my sister got married nine years ago, her wedding was a 500-guest, $50,000 affair that took place in a convention center, and involved two outfits for just about everyone (of which the bride's second weighed an estimated 50 pounds from all the embellishments). It also involved a lavish Indian/American spread, two cakes, and gallons of free-flowing liquor. For four days prior, there'd been a function every day and a house party (mini-mansion party, actually) every night. The party might have continued after the wedding, for all I know. I left the morning after their wedding on a 7:00 a.m. flight, finally getting to experience what a still-drunk hangover at 30,000 feet actually felt like (highly NOT recommended). Everything about this wedding was high-class, yet beyond fun (I'm not kidding - the Punjabis can party).

This is not what my sister had envisioned her wedding to be like. At all. Not just the cultural aspect, but the expense of it. It was truly over the top, and coming from the modest means we did, it was a little intimidating at times. But they got married this way because my brother-in-law's parents paid for it. At one point, they were ready to elope to Antigua because my sister just couldn't take the planning stage anymore - mostly because she wasn't doing most of the planning and her mother-in-law was driving her insane.

While none were as over the top as my sister's was, most of the people whose weddings I've attended have thrown relatively lavish affairs - high-budget events with a couple hundred people in attendance, a country club or four-star ballroom reception, and massive flower arrangements. There were some lower-budget ones, too, but still semi-formal events with DJs and open bars. And in just about every case, the parents had thrown down for the wedding.

Then for a while, the weddings tapered off and stopped altogether. I managed to go four years, in fact, without having to go to one. Now it's starting up again. But this time around I'm noticing a trend - the casual reception has become the thing to do. It could very well be that my friends are now older and are footing the bill themselves and/or feel silly putting on a big fairytale show near mid-life. But I've seen this trend with younger couples as well. I did some research, and found that the wedding industry is taking a huge hit during this economic crunch.

The next wedding I am attending is my cousin's, and if his fiancee's shower was any indication (um, catered sit-down lunch?), this is not a casual affair. But a large number of people I know getting married this year are doing it small; they're keeping guest lists limited to closest friends and family and having receptions in unlikely places like park pavilions and backyards, with "open bars" consisting of coolers filled with canned beer and soft drinks, h'ors d'oeuvres of cheese and crackers, and dinner being sit-wherever-you-want buffets with games of kan-jam going on in the background. The bride wears a (not white) sundress and the groom is in a Hawaiian shirt. The flowers are already growing where the party is.

Now guess which one I like best. Guess which one I think brings out the best in people and eliminates the discomfort of figuring out which fork to use. Guess which one is more likely a true celebration and not just a show. Guess which one I'm going to do if I ever get married (not likely, but still...). I'm not knocking big weddings, not at all. I've enjoyed myself at every wedding I've ever been to, and hell, I like eating gourmet food from time to time. But I also like how it's becoming more socially acceptable to have picnic food, and to be creatively budget-conscious while still throwing a hell of a fun party to celebrate a marriage. Because, after all, isn't that what it's all about?

Cool gig

2010-06-14T02:38:00.002-04:00

In other news, I've been hired to do the logo for this year's Sigma Tau Delta (International English Honor Society) eastern chapter conference. The logo gets used on all print materials (fliers, brochures, posters), on t-shirts, and on the website. How fucking sweet is that?

Never underestimate the power of Facebook.

Thin Privilege and Fat Discrimination

2010-06-09T12:45:00.004-04:00

My friend Amanda posted this (click here to read it) on her Facebook wall a while back, and it's been resonating with me since then. I've been meaning to write about it for some time, but, you know...life happens.

While I can certainly understand the "feeling" of being fat, and I respect mostly every woman's opinion of her own body (because I get it, completely, and how you feel about your body is what matters, so if you're not happy with it, I fully encourage you to change it, whether you feel like you need to lose 5 pounds or 500 pounds, or tone your thighs, or Botox your forehead or whatever), Dolly really does hit the nail on the head with this.

Women who are thin and complain about "feeling fat" have NO idea what it is truly like to walk through life with the burden of extra weight. I remember being thin for about seven minutes in my 20's, and I can tell you from experience that LIFE IS DIFFERENT when you're thin. People's perceptions, reactions, and interactions with you are worlds apart when you're not packing muffin tops and an ass the size of Nebraska. And whether you choose to believe that or not, or want to bury your head in the sand and proclaim fat discrimination to be a figment of imagination or some made-up fear by those lacking self-esteem, it's the truth.

I'm actively losing weight (again - dieting seems to be somewhat of a lifelong sport for me), but I'm still a fat girl. I'm not going to list numbers and stats and all that, but suffice to say I'm "plus sized," even after losing 51 pounds. I would really rather NOT be plus-sized, and having been any number of sizes ranging from 6 to 22, I can tell you toward which end of the spectrum I'm happier on (hint: it ain't the double digits). And while I'll admit that a size 6 is dreamy, it isn't realistically maintainable; it requires me to dip down into the 120's, and honestly my body simply won't go that low and stay there for any length of time unless I decide I can subsist on iceberg lettuce and amphetamines. If history is any indication, 140 is about where I should be, where I've previously felt best about myself, and where I fit comfortably into a size 8 or 9. At that weight, I've "felt" fat (while standing next to a 120-pound, size-6 woman, usually), but I knew in all honesty that no one was looking at me in public and instantly branding me with the Fat Lady! label. And this is where Dolly speaks fucking gospel.

I'm not going to rehash all the points she already made. That's why I linked back to her blog. I can only tell you that when I was reading it, I kept thinking, "Oh, man...yes. Yep. Uh-huh. Yeah, that's how it really is." Spot. On.

You know, all things considered, I'm a relatively fabulous individual. I'm educated. I'm intelligent. I have a variety of interests that keep me busy. I have an enormous circle of excellent friends and an ever-expanding social and professional network. I'm employed, independent, and self-sufficient. I'm a decent conversationalist and I can hold a small crowd in social settings. I'm the "lively center of attention" type, the funny girl who isn't afraid to crack a joke at anyone's (including - and especially - her own) expense. I'm cute. I have nice eyes. My teeth are straight, white, and all there. I have great boobs. And I never, ever leave the house is pajama bottoms.

I'm also fat.

So when people see me in public (and you can deny this until you're blue in the face, but you'd be incorrect), I am willing to put hard cash on the bet that they aren't thinking, "Oh, that woman looks like a creative person" or "I bet that girl would be a lot of fun at a party." IF they're thinking anything at all (because, after all, there's no one quite as invisible as the largest person in the room), they're thinking, "Slob," or maybe "Jesus, I wonder how many eggs she eats for breakfast." (For the record: one. Over easy. With sprouted grain toast. Dry. And black coffee).

Okay, so maybe they're not even thinking that deeply. Let's forget for a second that we're talking about anyone with people-watching tendencies, and just go with first impressions. Or first descriptors. Do you think when people describe me they say, "the redhead with the glasses?" Of course not. They say, "The, uh, heavyset gal with the red hair and the glasses." They say, "That fat girl in my Animation class." Because I'm not the only redhead with glasses, but I AM the only fat one - or at the very least, the fattest.

I am sure that most of the people who are closest to me pay little attention to my weight. They know me, they like me, and while I have had some very close friends and family members express concern for my health, I like to think that none of them refer to me as "my fat friend/daughter/sister Deedee." But the rest of the world is not so forgiving. So rock on, Dolly. And those of you who feel fat in your single-digit sizes yet have never known the sensation of the floor shaking when you walk across it or endured the disparaging looks from random strangers, or been rejected by a potential date because of your size, suck it up. You're beautiful. And privileged.

Belated Golden Boot Ramble

2010-05-14T11:02:00.004-04:00

I posted this on Quitnet on the actual date of my anniversary (April 6) but just decided that I wanted to post it here so that it has a more permanent home.

The Golden Boot is the virtual award given upon the two-year anniversary of smoking cessation on the Quitnet website. Quitnet (known as "The Q" to its members) is not a daily part of my life anymore, but it was instrumental in the early days of my quit. Those of you who've known me for a while know that I've struggled with tobacco addiction pretty much my entire life. You've been through several quits and quit attempts with me. But here's what I wrote about this one:

My Golden Boot Ramble
From DeedeeRedux on 4/6/2010 9:58:43 PM

I don't come here very often anymore. I don't need to most days. But I wanted to share this with you, because it really does mean a lot to me to be able to slip my Golden Boot on and tell you about it.

I'm looking down and thinking, "am I really wearing this?" It's just a figure of speech, of course; the "Golden Boot" is just like the other "prizes" in Quitnet - the bracelet, the big kid pants, the T-shirt, et cetera. But it nevertheless represents a milestone I never, ever, EVER thought I would reach: TWO YEARS of smoke-free living.

I started smoking when I was 12. Not kidding. Twelve years old. My first quit attempt was at 18, and I lasted one day. Maybe two, I don't remember now. But I remember thinking, "the hell with this. I can't do it." I was a PROUD smoker, a DEFIANT smoker. If I walked into a restaurant and there were no smoking tables available, I went someplace else. Seriously, I was a serious, loyal, proud, and dedicated smoker. I loved my cigarettes.

My next quit attempt wouldn't come for another 10 years. At 28 I decided to get a handle on it once more, and I quit for 37 days. Then I tried again at 33. Lasted about two months. Tried again at 34. Lasted 11 months. I was so close to my one year and I slipped. Just one cigarette, but that's all it really takes. Stayed quit after that for another five months. I spent the next two years being an on-again, off-again smoker. Sometimes I'd go for a week or two, then I'd have one or two or an entire pack in a weekend, and it just didn't seem to be going away. And, yes, I was here on the Q most of that time.

Two years ago today, I was driving home from an early morning shift. It was around 10:00 in the morning, it was a Sunday, and I'd been feeling kind of crappy. I had a cold, a cough, and had seen the doctor that previous Friday and he'd put me on antibiotics for bronchitis. I lit a cigarette, and managed to smoke about half of it before I decided it was ridiculous. It was actually painful to inhale. I threw the cigarette out the window, promised myself I'd quit the next chance I got, and continued home. I didn't know it then, but I'd just made good on my promise.

That night, I felt worse and worse, and I started feeling really, really tight in my chest (I have asthma). I grabbed my inhaler and took a hit. No go. Got up and went to the bedroom and hooked myself up to the nebulizer. Again, didn't help. I was getting worse, in fact. Finally after about an hour of trying to get through it, it became apparent that I was about to have a full-blown major attack. I needed medical attention. By the time I got myself to the hospital, I was in serious distress. I was moving so little air, my fingers and toes were turning blue. They took my O2 sats, and I was at 86% and falling. My peak flows were practically non-existent. If you know anything about asthma, you know this is pretty bad. I ended up staying in the hospital for four days. Four days out of work, off from school...four days trapped between the same four walls hooked up to IV steroids and antibiotics, an O2 cannula strapped on my face...

They asked me, "Do you smoke?" and I said, "Not anymore." They asked, "how long ago did you quit," and I answered, "um...a couple of weeks?" Obviously I lied, but I felt like an ass for smoking. Meanwhile, there was a fresh pack of Parliaments in the car.

Now? Now I don't feel like an ass. I've got a frickin' GOLDEN BOOT on my foot, folks. I've since had one other attack, and when they said, "Do you smoke," I held my head up, and said, "NOT ANYMORE!" and when they asked, "how long ago did you quit?" I could say, a couple of YEARS!"

That's right. Two years.

And if you think you can't do it, if you can't see the benefits, let me tell you what they are. I smell incredible. And by that I mean I smell like my shampoo, my body wash, and my chewing gum, and not like stale cigarettes. And I SMELL better, meaning my nose picks up scents I didn't know existed until recently. Sometimes it's not always the best thing, lol. But holy cow, it's really something. Tastes? Everything tastes better. I thought there was a marginal improvement at first, but now two years in, stuff is so much more flavorful. Amazing.

Did you know that smoking affects your eyes? Since I quit smoking my prescription has not gotten worse, it's actually improved. My old glasses are too strong!

I can go anywhere in the world and not have to worry about when I'm going to have my next cigarette. I flew to Japan last summer, and it was such a difference from when I'd flown to Ireland a few years before. The flight to Japan was TWICE as long, yet I remember my flight into Dublin being racked with cravings and anxiety. My flight into Osaka was relaxed, laid-back, and devoid of any anxiety. I didn't immediately seek a smoking area the second I landed. The customs process was so much less stressful!

But anyway, I'm rambling. I know. Isn't that what you're supposed to do when you hit a big milestone like this?

My advice to you newbies - don't stop quitting. Just keep going. Despite all the positives, I did some damage that can't be reversed. My lungs are scarred from the asthma, the bronchitis, etc. If I'd quit while I was ahead, I'd probably be okay. I struggle with my weight because of the steroids. So for anyone who thinks quitting will make them gain weight, it's nothing compared to the weight gain when you have to be pumped full of prednisone and Advair to keep your lungs from taking a crap. Gain the five or ten pounds. It'll come off eventually. A lifetime of steroids is a whole other ball of wax. Don't go there. Just quit.

And if anyone needs some ass-kicking, just give me a shout. 'Cause not only will I do it, I can now do it with a GOLDEN FRICKIN' BOOT on.

Rock on with your bad selves, and KTQ!!!!!

Deedee
2 years smoke-free
$4000 richer
and 2 months 23 days longer for this world.

Dear Zen Tea Douchebag

2010-04-22T18:05:00.001-04:00

(as posted on Buffalo's Craigslist 4/22/10):

Dear Zen Tea Douchebag (Starbucks Drive-Thru)
Date: 2010-04-22, 5:59PM EDT

To the guy who threw his SUV in gear and peeled out of the drive-thru because we were out of Zen tea (Oh, the irony):

Dude. What is the matter with you? Listen, I know what a pain in the ass it is to have to wait only to be let down. It happened to me just yesterday at Kinko's, in fact. Waited in line for 15 minutes and left without what I needed. It sucks. I know. Everyone's time is valuable. I get that. And you most certainly had some important goings-on, judging by the way you were clutching that Blackberry.

Let me tell you something. I've been doing this for a really, really long time. So long, in fact, that I usually don't let douchebaggery get to me. Like water on a duck's back, that shit usually just rolls off. However, it never gets easier having to tell someone that they just waited in line for something that I discovered we're out of. I'm sorry about that. And I hope at least you recognized that when I looked at you and said, "Sir, I am really sorry, but I didn't realize when you ordered that we're out of what you wanted. Can I get you something else?" (which, incidentally, you would have gotten for free, such is my dedication to making it right), I was saying so with actual, genuine courtesy and regret. It was a tough day all around, really. Part of the reason you had to wait as long as you did was because we got new ordering system software, and like any computer upgrade, this one was not without its glitches. Again, I'm sorry. Honestly.

But do you realize just how reckless and dangerous and utterly careless your actions were? Do you also realize how FUCKING LUCKY you are that no one was walking through the parking lot at that time? Considering how busy we were, how full the lot was, Sir, I shudder to think what could have happened. The guy behind you said, "what was up with that guy?" And when I told him that you were upset because we were out of the tea you wanted, he said, "So he could have killed someone because of a $2 cup of tea? Wow." It's true. Had anyone stepped off the curb into the crosswalk that crosses the drive-thru lane at that moment, they would be dead. If anyone had been walking through the lot from our front door to their car at that time, they'd be dead. If anyone had been driving past at that very second, they'd be maimed at best. So much potential carnage. For a cup of tea.

My friend was inside at the time, with his 6-year-old daughter. Less than 30 seconds after you pulled your little stunt, they were on their way back to their car. When it dawned on me just what could have happened, I fucking broke down. I actually had to take my headset and my apron off, and go sit in the back to try and compose myself. Ten years ago I saw a dog get hit by a car. I screamed so loud and so long that I lost my voice for three days afterward. I was so traumatized that it kept me up at night for a long, long time. And to this day, ten years after the fact, I still have flashbacks. I'm pretty sure if the worst had happened today, I'd need institutionalization. The implications of your actions, sir, are far reaching indeed.

Yes, I realize that the worst DIDN'T happen, and for the sake of everyone who could have been affected, I am on my knees and thanking the universe for the fortuitous alignment. But I want you to THINK about it - about how life could have changed in the blink of an eye if someone had been in your path at that moment. And hell, since you seem to like to indulge in your own selfish behavior, think about how YOUR life would have been affected. The legal issues...the money issues...the impact on your marriage....on your kids....the jail time.... And above all, could you really have lived with yourself knowing you mowed down a kid, or someone's husband, or someone's mom...for a fucking cup of tea?

I hope you find some Zen very soon, indeed.

I am writing...

2010-04-20T18:44:00.004-04:00

...the most amazing love story.

Now I just need to raise $2000 to find out if it's fiction or autobiography.

Online Dating Lie #256

2010-04-19T11:32:00.003-04:00

"I'm not really looking for anything serious right now (even though I'm a paid member and have that little gold 'serious member' icon next to my profile)."

Guys, what the fuck? I mean, come on. Did you not notice that I'm 39 years old? This, in case you hadn't realized, means I was born earlier than yesterday.

But hey, thanks for the gentle let-down. I feel so much better knowing you think I'm an idiot than thinking I might not actually fall within whatever standards you've set for this stupid shit.

The glass is half full. And I'm still fat.

2010-04-17T19:19:00.006-04:00

Forty pounds is the weight of an average 5-year-old, or a Brittany Spaniel. Or an industrial-sized bag of...whatever. Impressive, right? Maybe not.

I'm trying to be optimistic, but trying keep this all in perspective, because, see, I went out last night, and photos were taken. Despite the fact that two people whom I'd not seen in months rushed me and told me how good I look, the proof is in the photos: I'm still a fucking cow.

Forty pounds is a big accomplishment. I get that. But in the grand scheme of things, really, it's nothing. It's a drop in the bucket. There was once a time in my life when a 40-pound loss meant big changes (and even complaints from the boyfriend about being "too thin" if you can believe that). But now...ugh. Okay, I know. I look better than I did 40 pounds ago, but it's going to be another 40 pounds before I really start feeling like I look good. And even 40 pounds from now I'll still be fat. In fact I'll still have 50 pounds to lose beyond the next 40. So...what the fuck. It all seems so futile sometimes.

Don't mind me. I know that every destination is reached not by giant strides but by baby steps, and that every pound matters, but I just hate it when I feel like I'm making progress and then I see a photo that screams "FATSO!" staring back at me. It's not exactly the most encouraging thing. I'm trying to love myself every step of the way, but it's not easy.

Fresh on the ADDled Brain: My frustration with mental health care...and why Julie rules

2010-04-15T17:00:00.013-04:00

All right, Blogwatchers, this is raw. This is real. This is from the heart. I am frustrated and angry and annoyed and irritated and anxious and all kinds of other stuff right now. If you don't want to read a personal rant about mental health and my absolute hatred of the system at this time, I suggest you leave. Close the door quietly behind you, though. I'm feeling a bit punchy at the moment.

There is NO DOUBT - in my mind or by others who know me - that I have some attention deficit issues going on. As a kid I had trouble sitting still, paying attention, and following through. Always a procrastinator, never on time for anything (see old post on polychronism), and always in some other world half the time. I've pitched tantrums when I can't find something because it's not where I thought I left it. Crying fits because I can't get my shit together long enough to figure out what to eat for dinner...and scorched small appliances when I figure it out but forget I've left it cooking. As I've gotten older, it's only gotten worse (ask me how many tea kettles I've destroyed by dry-boiling them for HOURS. Go ahead - ask. THREE). I make jokes about it, I hide it behind this "scatterbrained creative" curtain, and sometimes I come right out and make direct reference to it. But the fact remains, my attention span is deficient and it is a daily, no - HOURLY - struggle to keep my shit together most of the time.

I don't make a big secret of the fact that I've been in and out of therapy and on and off meds for years. You'd be, too, if you grew up with my parents. But the attention thing was never addressed, except once after it cost me a job several years ago, but even then I never followed through and got the necessary assessments done. Therapists can't assess or prescribe, shrinks can't (or are paid too much to need to) counsel. At one point I was into a psychiatrist for close to $400, and all I ever did was walk into his office a few times, sit across a desk, answer 10 questions about my medication and my opinion on whether I thought it was the correct dosage, and walk out. No more than ten minutes each time. Three times at $97 a pop. For what? THEN I found out that my primary could prescribe my meds. ADHD meds, however, are a different story. As controlled substances, they're not as indiscriminately prescribed. And for good reason.

Now. After realizing that much of my frustration this semester could have been alleviated by counseling and/or medication for my attention issues, I talked to my doctor. "I told you several months ago to go see Dr. Levy," he said to me today. "You clearly have symptoms of attention deficit, and I strongly feel you need to be assessed."

Fine. So I called Dr. Levy. No answer. Closed for the day. Whatever. I pulled up the list on my insurance company's website, and set my fingers dialing. Elmwood Health Services. No answer. Grider Street Counseling Center. Answering service. Buffalo Psychiatric Associates. Answering machine. Lather, rinse, repeat about 16 times. The same greeting over and over again: "Thank you for calling XYZ Psychology Place. Our office is currently closed. Please call back during normal business hours, blah blah blah blah...."

Yeah, see...here's the thing. One of the reasons I never called Dr. Levy back in October was because I forgot. If I didn't get hold of someone TODAY, I was not going to address it again for a while. I HAD to get this done. (This is another symptom of ADHD - the inability to delay gratification in just about any capacity, then a total lack of follow-up).

So anyway, I finally - FINALLY - got someone to answer the phone, and I'm pretty sure Julie was sent from heaven. So unbelievably patient, so unfazed and unruffled by my outbursts and rantings, particularly when we got to the part about how I was going to have to pay $200 for my ADHD assessment, and insurance wasn't going to cover it. Jesus. Like I have an extra $200 lying around. Good thing I'm selling a bunch of my crap off this summer. Maybe that should be the theme of my yard sale:

"Come and buy my stuff so I can afford to pay attention!"

Hee!

She even stayed calm when I yelled, "For Crissakes, I could buy a LOT of Adderall on the street with $200!" I'm not entirely sure if this is true, of course, since I've never actually tried and am not interested in amphetamine treatments anyway (they have alternatives which I am going to look into). But damn, this woman was so fucking compassionate, I just wanted to cry. No one - NO ONE has ever treated me so nicely like that on the phone when I first call. All the ones I've ever dealt with have been rude, patronizing, disinterested bitches. They all hate their jobs and take it out on you, especially when you first call, which is the worst. I mean, you're SO fucking vulnerable, you're finally reaching out for help, and you get treated like a nuisance. I had one receptionist ask me one time "So...What's wrong with you?" I shot back, "If I knew the answer to that question, I wouldn't need therapy, would I?"

But Julie was a friggin' STAR. So I made the appointment, and, well, we'll see. I've quit no fewer than EIGHT therapists (maybe more) in the last 15 years, for various reasons but mostly because I've traditionally felt like a cog in the wheel of a big shrink-mill and always started feeling after the second or third session like I was spinning my wheels. I have been assured, however, that they are a small, independent, caring, and compassionate outfit, and that the doctor I'd be seeing was highly qualified and acclaimed for his patient relationships. Their office is in a little house in the Elmwood Village and not in a strip-mall clinic, a hospital, or a suburban brick box - a good sign.

So, we'll see.

I kind of feel better already. But I still think Blue Cross can suck it.

Blogger Envy

2010-04-14T23:00:00.006-04:00

I have someone new in my life. Don't get too excited, because it's not like that. Sure, he's fabulous and smart and funny and adorable and all that fun stuff, and no doubt the boy invokes some serious squishiness within, but he's on the other side of the world in Asia and will likely remain there for a very long time. He has, in fact, no plans to ever return to the United States. So, sure, he's awesome, but he's, you know, not here. Whatever. My point is that I've been inspired a great deal by this person.

He is a master blogger. Serious, serious blog action going on with this guy. He has dozens of blogs; public blogs, private blogs, blogs that tell stories, blogs that spill his deepest thoughts, blogs for commentary, blogs for opinion, blogs that chronicle his journey, blogs that highlight his work, et cetera. I'm just blown away.

I look at my little blogs (I have this one and then a couple of school-related things out there, too) and then I read his, and I'm like, "oh. I kind of suck a little." And it's not only Asia Boy, either. I put myself up against the other bloggers I follow - Jen over at All Things Jennifer, Sally at Unbrave Girl, Shaun at Me On a Diet, etc (see my roll), and I realize how woefully inadequate I am when it comes to this practice. It is, in part, because I simply do not have TIME to deal with the blogging thing every day. It's also in part because brevity is not my strong suit (really? Tell me you hadn't noticed) and so I find it hard to just pop in and tap out an entry on the fly. I take some time to think about what I'm going to write, and honestly, I think my "drafts" list is just as long as my "posts" list. I tend to get going on something, not know how to finish it, and then abandon the effort. So while it may appear that I don't update for a really long time, I really am sitting here basking in the glow of my 24" iMac and typing out my thoughts. Just some of them never make the cut.

I should work on that, really.

Oh, and check it out: I've lost 40 pounds as of yesterday. Go me!

Why I eat out a lot

2010-04-07T18:12:00.001-04:00

That, my friends, was my toaster oven. The little black things inside? Leftover crab rangoons from my weekly Tuesday post-weigh-in Chinese dinner. It's become a bit of a tradition (the Chinese food, not the appliance-scorching), but last night I ordered a little too much food, so I had a lot of leftovers.

This morning I decided to skip class (I just needed a break) and thought, what better way to spend a drizzly, gray day than catching up on homework and snacking on Chinese leftovers? It was just a couple of crab rangoons - nothing to go firing up the big oven for. So I popped them in the toaster oven, turned it on, and walked away. I sat down at the computer, chatted with a friend for a few minutes, got up and went to the bathroom, and then went into my bedroom to change. One of my cats was laying on the bed looking really cute, so of course I had to lay down next to her and cuddle for a minute until she got annoyed and ran off. I changed my clothes and went back out to the dining room to get back to work on my paper that I was writing. Suddenly the smell of burnt something came wafting my way and when I looked up I saw a haze of smoke hanging out by the kitchen door. Oh, shit. I forgot all about the toaster oven. When I ran in to the kitchen, there were flames licking up at the top of the oven, and when I opened the door they roared out at me. I really thought, "oh my god, I'm about to burn down my entire house." I'd bought a box of baking soda a few weeks ago in a fit of "I need to learn to cook" grocery shopping, so I grabbed it, opened it, and threw it on the fire. Flames were quickly put out (thanks Arm & Hammer!) and I just kind of stood there for a second, not really knowing what to do now.

I'm so inept in the kitchen I can't even heat up leftovers. But hey, at least I got to use the baking soda.

On Spinsterhood - and Embracing the "Stigma"

2010-03-24T18:14:00.001-04:00

Oh, boy. http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/36007620/ns/health-behavior/

I'm turning 40 in 14 months. While it may seem far away, 14 months really isn't a long time. Fourteen months ago I was preparing to start the last semester of my undergrad at Buff State, and getting ready for my senior thesis exhibition. Fourteen months prior to that I was meeting Henry Rollins and saying goodbye to my dog. Fourteen months before that, I was enjoying my first summer vacation after starting back to school. And 14 months before that, I was gearing up to quit my job to go back to school. It flies by, people. And considering it was 10 years ago that I was flipping out a little about turning 30...yeah. Here I am.

When I was in my 20's I thought I had plenty of time to figure things out. I remember being worried when my long-term relationship ended at 25 that I would end up a "spinster." But my attempts at dating right after that were not really successful. I needed more time. It took close to a year and a half before I even gave it any kind of real effort, and I suddenly discovered what a fucking production it was. Dating, for those of you who might not know or remember, is a hassle of insane proportions. Everyone kept saying, "you have to get through a couple of bad apples before you find the good one" or some such ridiculous cliche. So date a few bad ones I did, and in between I would swear off men for a while, get my act back together, and then put myself out there again.

So, I remember thinking that turning 30 and not being married was a small issue, but not the end of the world, since I hadn't really ever planned on having kids before my 30's anyhow. Then it started occurring to me that maybe I didn't really want kids anyway. I wasn't adamantly "anti-kid," I was really just kind of on the fence about it. I figured if I met someone with whom I'd like to raise a family, then I'd give it a try, but it's not like my biological clock was ticking. It was more an "if it's meant to happen, it'll happen" kind of thing. I liked the romantic aspect of creating a new life with someone you love, but I wasn't all that sure I'd be a good parent (considering my role models and genetics, I had every right to be concerned). Not to mention the idea of childbirth made me a little squeamish.

I never imagined, however, that I'd be still single at 40. Child-free, sure. I'd sort of figured on that. But still single? Could it be I'm destined for...spinsterhood?

It's not the same as my other single friends who are single because they've gotten divorced (or in one tragic case, widowed). My divorced friends can't get it, no matter how much they might try and relate. My coupled friends can't understand, no matter how much they might relate their lack of a ring to my lack of a partner. It's really not the same.

Am I complaining? Maybe, a little. There are some days that I would like to have at a steady partner. There are times I think about taking a trip and wishing I could have a ready-made travel companion. There are some times that I look at my married friends and envy some of what they have.

But then I realize that I've been single for, well, 40 years. I've not been in a committed relationship for over five years. Eight, if you don't count James. And I'm quite set in my ways. I like things a certain way, I cherish my freedom, and I covet my privacy. I rather enjoy being able to do what I want, when I want to do it, and with whomever I choose to do it. And maybe, just maybe, I'm meant to be one of those women who really is meant to just go it alone.

It doesn't bother me, other than...well, stuff like the really morbid conversation with my mother about how I've been shopping for a mausoleum niche for my ashes. See, when I die, there's no one to take care of business. No husband, no kids, no next of kin other than my mother and my sister. If they're no longer around, then it falls on my nieces. And it's not exactly the kind of thing you can say to your friends, "Hey...who wants to be in charge of my dead body when I croak?" Not that I'm anticipating dying any time soon, but you never know. This is the kind of stuff I think about when I "worry" about being a spinster. Not that I'll never know the joy of putting on a fluffy white gown and walking down an aisle, not that I'll never know the bliss of birthing and raising a child, but that I might end up an Eleanor Rigby, or one of those unfortunate crazy old ladies who dies in her sleep and is found after the neighbors complain of the smell.

Okay, okay. I'll stop. My point is that I'm going to embrace Spinsterhood and enjoy it for all its wonderful properties - the freedom, the independence, the drama-free living, the privacy, the bathroom that's open whenever I need it, and all that room in my queen-sized bed. I can eat dinner at 11:00 at night and I can eat ice cream for breakfast. I can stay out until 3:00 a.m. and sleep until noon. I answer to no one, and do my own thing. My life is all mine, and it's all fabulous. And it'd take one hell of a really special dude to get me to give it all up.

Dating on teh interwebs

2010-02-21T22:23:00.004-05:00

This is the first entry in a number I want to do about things I wish were simpler and/or wishing I'd lived in a previous era.

Back in the days before the internet and before one would be considered "desperate" enough to need to place an ad in the local singles section of the classifieds, there was a thing called "every day life." You'd go about your business, go to school, go to work, partake in the activities that brought you enjoyment, and somewhere within this life stuff, you'd cross paths with someone who tickled your fancy. Maybe it was that cute boy who came through your checkout line at the supermarket where you worked. Or maybe it was that attractive classmate who liked the short story you wrote in Advanced Writing Seminar. It might have even been that guy with the prematurely receding hairline who started showing up at the bar you frequented every Friday.

Whoever it was, you felt a certain "something" when they'd come around. Maybe it was the way they smiled at you when you looked at them, or maybe it was the way their eyes lit up when they saw you. Whatever it was, it made you both a little weak in the knees and wish you'd put on a nicer shirt that day.

From there you'd go out on a date, then another, and then another. A period of time would pass and you'd suddenly realize you'd spent quite a lot of that time together, and then you'd think, "hey, I really like this person!"

During this time you'd have learned about their hobbies, their habits, their quirks, and their warts. And for some reason, you stuck around. And the next thing you know, you're in a relationship. What level the relationship ascended to and how long the relationship would run its course would, naturally, depend on your level of tolerance for this person's snoring, or their secret stash of porn, or their dreadful taste in magazines, and equally on how tolerant this person was of your personality makeup...and of course it all balanced on each other's accommodation of the other's tolerance.

Eventually the relationship would blow up, die a slow, painful death, fizzle and fade, crash and burn, whatever; it would simply cease to be for one reason or another. Aaaaand then you'd bury your sorrows in a pint of ice cream and some bad movies, get back out and live your life, and sooner or later the guy who came in to fix your computer at work would strike up a conversation, and you'd discover that you both really like flea markets and B-movies, and away you'd go...

Now? It's like "designer dates." Like designer babies, where parents pick and choose their baby's traits like one might custom order a car's trim level, people can now plug in their desired traits and find someone who "fits" perfectly. Only trouble is, you can only learn so much from a profile. You can look at a photo and think, "ew, s/he's fat," or, "ugh, he likes Bruce Springsteen. FAIL!" But what you don't see is the way his eyes dance when he laughs, or the endearing way her nose crinkles in disgust at the mention of tomatoes. You can't study the grace of her hands as they flutter around a conversation, or watch as he becomes a caricature of himself while recounting his favorite funny story. You can't get a sense of nuance, of idiosyncrasies, of animation, of the lilt in her laugh, the resonance of his voice.

In other words, I'm NOT a fan of the instant partner, and fully believe in developing a friendship first, regardless of where it may end up. Some people are meant to be in your life, others are not. But you never know until you try, and what online dating does is it makes people expect others to be everything they want or it's no dice. The level of expectation has gone so high that people just brush off those who are less than perfect, who don't complete the laundry list of height, weight, eye color, and interests. And that sucks.

Whatever happened to "Boy Meets Girl" and courtship? Is it truly dead?

One week in...

2010-02-10T11:28:00.003-05:00

11.6 pounds out. Woo-hoo!

I suddenly feel like nothing can stop me now. I know you always lose more in the beginning, and I understand that this will slow down significantly, but what a great kick-start!

More later. The week of insanity rolls on...

Why I'm doing this

2010-02-08T02:23:00.005-05:00

Okay, so I know I said I wasn't going to turn this into a diet blog, and I promise I'm really not. It's just, well, it's fresh and it's on the front of my mind, and I have thoughts running through my brain that need to come out somewhere. And when that happens I have a couple of choices. I can talk to someone about it either directly or through some type of electronic text communication, or I can broadcast it in my blog. Seeing as it's 2:30 in the morning and even Christopher has probably hit the sack, I'm going to go with door number two on this one.

Why am I doing this? I outlined it a couple entries ago, about not wanting to die of a heart attack or some other obesity-related malady, but it's way more than that. Singer Alison Moyet recently lost over 100 pounds, and when she was interviewed and asked about it, she said that it had come down to her greatest fear: loss of independence. I thought, "man, you know, that's MY biggest fear, too!"

I live alone. I've lived alone now for just over 14 years. February 1, 1996 was the day I moved into my first solo apartment, and I've never once regretted it. It took some getting used to initially, but that had more to do with the reason behind the move (the dissolution of a 4-year live-in relationship) than it did the actual living solo part. If you recall, I really dig my privacy. For me, privacy and independence go hand-in-hand. And what does all this have to do with my weight?

Everything.

I live in my own little world, a messy little microcosm full of clutter and pets and dirty clothes on the floor and soap scum on the tub faucet, with only my thoughts, my music, pet noise, and my self-engaging conversations to fill the air. To some this may sound lonely. To me, it is paradise. The thought of succumbing to some disease or illness or injury that renders me incapable of living like this sends me into a panic. The idea that someone would have to come in here, occupy my space, and touch my stuff practically gives me an anxiety attack. And the thought that I might not be able to feed, bathe, or dress myself? Call Kevorkian. There's no way.

But even before it comes to that, there's the other stuff that has crept up on me along with the number on the scale. I can't kneel for very long. My joints hurt and my knee aches constantly. My back, which sucked even when I was thin, is buckling under the weight of the abdominal mass tugging on it. My feet hurt all the time, and something that used to give me great pleasure - feeding my shoe habit - is a chore because even my feet are fat. It's a struggle to tie my own shoes, let alone try any on in a store. My chest hurts a lot, and my asthma is poorly controlled. That's a big one, and it's kind of a catch-22 and a cruel irony; the medicine I take for my asthma promotes weight gain. I get out of bed in the morning and I feel like I'm 80 years old. All of this stuff is pointing toward the direction of eventual dependence.

And this, my friends, is what is going to keep me focused on the prize this time. Sure, the cute clothes will be a bonus, but I'm more concerned with keeping myself out of a hospital gown. Or at least not have to wear two of them to completely cover up.

Wristwatch

2010-02-05T23:51:00.002-05:00

I have freakishly fat wrists.

Actually, I don't think it's technically the wrists, but rather the ends of my forearms. But regardless, they're bizarre. When I went to visit Chris this past summer, he was intrigued by them. It was like he couldn't help himself, and I'd catch him out of the corner of my eye reaching over to touch them. He continually and compulsively poked, prodded, and pinched my wrist fat, and when I protested he answered, "but...they're just so puffy and...I mean, well...do they hurt?"

They don't hurt, but they are kind of painful to look at. I mean, they're very puffy and swollen-looking. My whole life has been a battle with my weight, and I always have little markers to indicate that I'm gaining. The button on the jeans starts to strain, or my thighs start to look like overstuffed sausages in the casings of my pant legs, or my bra starts digging into my back. Then there's the whole tight underwear problem (and ain't nothin' right when your underwear is tight). But then years ago I figured out that I could tell I was really crossing a line on the scale when my wrists would get fat.

The first time I noticed it I'd thought it was a side effect of medication, or simple water retention, but then I noticed it wasn't going away. A friend of mine remarked shortly before I moved back to Buffalo that I looked "swollen," to which she added, "oh my god, look at your wrists!" She meant it in the nicest way, of course, concerned that perhaps there was something wrong with me. She, too, thought it was a fluid retention issue. But seven years later, they're still fat. Only fatter. I have wrist rolls. Who the fuck gets rolls of fat on their forearms? Seriously? What a freak!

Forget pounds. I'm gonna keep track of my wrist measurements instead.

Point(s) of No Return

2010-02-05T00:39:00.003-05:00

I did it. I took the plunge. Realizing that my life was never going to improve until I got a handle on my weight, and fearing my anxiety about turning 40 would be moot if I ended up dropping dead of a heart attack before I even get there, I joined Weight Watchers.

Some of you know that I had been going through the preparatory process for Lap-Band surgery and that I was initially pretty excited about it. However after the first few steps it became evident that the money was going to be an issue. Between that and the fact that it stopped being an exciting prospect and turned instead into a terrifying one (the whole internally-placed foreign object thing was really starting to weird me out), I ultimately decided to not go through with it. This did not, of course, change the fact that I still needed to lose weight, regardless of by what method. I assuaged my doubt by reminding myself that band or no band, I was going to have to follow a strict diet and exercise regimen to achieve my goals. The only difference between what I'm doing now and what I would have done is that I won't have a piece of plastic clamped around my stomach, and I won't be going every 6 weeks to have a needle stuck in my gut. Oh, and I'll be saving myself about $5000, too.

So, yeah. I'm a Weight Watcher. Points. Meetings. Weigh-ins. Portion control. And all the fun, emotional-rollercoaster-y stuff that goes with that.

But here it is, folks. Some of you might remember my old diet blog (that I have since dissolved into the internet ether) where I talked all the dramatic crap about not wanting to die, wanting to be healthier, and wanting to fit into normal sized clothes. You might remember that I made great progress for a while, losing close to 60 pounds on the Pure Weight Loss program. Then my dog died, the holidays rolled around, Pure closed and ran off with my $700, and then I got sick. All that weight came back in no time. And then some.

In the last couple of years, it's really become apparent that, more than ever, I need to get a handle on this. This is not a matter of no longer fitting into my jeans, but rather a matter of fitting into life like a normal human being. I'm at a size now where I've become that person I always wondered about....that woman that has to squeeze through turnstiles, who waddles when she walks, who pants and wheezes going up one flight of stairs, whose ass takes up the whole seat and then some, that woman whose neck is so fat her necklaces look tight. I'm her now.

But not for long if I have anything to say about it. I'm not going to turn this into a diet blog, but I'll warn you - this whole Weight Watchers thing is kind of amusing, and I fully plan on making fun of it every chance I get. All in good humor, of course.

With that, I must go research the activity point value of blogging.

The silver lining at the end of my 30's

2010-01-07T01:31:00.009-05:00

Earlier this evening, feeling a little restless and low on deodorant, I decided a little retail therapy was in order, so I headed over to my trusty neighborhood Target. While I was wandering around avoiding the practical purpose for my trip - shampoo and windshield washer fluid and the like - I found a dress that I liked. It was a relatively simple black dress that promised a "built-in slimming effect," but the best part was that it was my size AND it was on clearance! Bonus! So my happy li'l self waddled into the dressing room with my cute not-so-little black dress and tried it on. It fit and it looked as nice as a size 2X dress can look on this tub-o-lard, even with said built-in slimming effect which, incidentally, is created by sewing the fabric equivalent of a sausage casing inside. So while the dress appears to drape gracefully over one's, ahem, curves, it's really compressing the fat and crushing her internal organs in an armpit-to-thigh tube of spandex.

Standing in front of the mirror I thought, "hmm...this could be my new go-to dress. Or maybe I could just wear it to Nicole's wedding next month." I mean, it was only eight dollars, so even if I wore it once and threw it away afterward I'd have gotten my money's worth. Or if I died from the collapsed lungs caused by the slimming effect, I could be laid out in it. As I stood there mulling the possibilities of this versatile and tremendously discounted (and slimming!) garment, I caught a glimpse of my hair. Roots needed attention, to be sure, and in fact my last trip to Target had netted a box of Clairol Root Touch-Up which is still sitting in the bag on the dining room floor. I made a mental note to take care of that tomorrow morning. Taking one last look at myself, I checked to see if this dress's slimming effect camouflaged my back fat well enough (it didn't), and then...a glimmer. I stepped closer to the mirror to make sure I was just seeing things, and then again the light caught it, gleaming like a beacon on top of my head...a silver hair.

Silver. As in GRAY.

I promptly proceeded to isolate it, grab it, and yank it out by its root. Then just to be sure, I started weeding through the top of my head looking for more offenders when I found what I was looking for (but hoped I wouldn't find) - another one. This one took me a little longer to grab, though, and I started worrying that the fitting room attendant was going to wonder what was taking me so long to try on one dress. I pulled it out and my eye started to water (why does it always hurt the most when it's just ONE hair, anyway?) so I decided to stop looking for any more.

I've found what appeared to be gray hairs a couple times in the past, but I was never quite sure if they were gray or just lighter than the rest of my hair. In retrospect, I'm sure the latter was the case, because the ones I found this time were distinctly gray. There was a definite line between the gray and the red, almost as if the top inch and a half of the hair had been dipped in silver paint. There was no doubt about it this time around.

So how do I feel about this? Well...not great. I'm not handling this aging thing all that well, and "gracefully" is probably the last word one would use to describe my process. I have a tendency to forget that I'm hurtling mercilessly toward 40, and with this comes the natural progression of things like gray hair, wrinkles, and the urge to tell the generation behind mine that they're clueless. In my mind I'm still 19, but my body has chosen to tell me otherwise. I still go out, but my tolerance for booze - and large crowds of those who've overindulged in it - has waned considerably. There are times I stay out until 2:00 in the morning, but it takes me an entire day to fully recover - even if I've not had anything to drink. I spend most of my days on a college campus where I'm surrounded by kids half my age. Nothing like a 20-year-old size-2 hottie to remind you of what you're not - nor have ever been.

I guess what bothers me the most about it is that I feel like I'm still waiting for my life to start. I know...they say "you're only as young as you feel," and I can feel 19 as much as I want - until I find gray hairs while trying on a dress with a built-in girdle and have to face the college kid manning the fitting room on my way out. "They" also say that life begins at 40, but I don't want to wait that long. And so I've decided it begins tomorrow. With a root touch-up.

Living at home and why I don't understand it

2009-11-15T20:20:00.005-05:00

A young woman I know recently grappled with a decision over her choice of colleges. She'd attended one here in Buffalo for her freshman year, but had decided that she wanted more than what was being offered. So she applied to a few other places, and, being the intelligent and accomplished student that she is, was accepted to just about all of them. Among these were three schools in Chicago.

She mulled her decision for months. Columbia? Loyola? UIC? I don't remember what her major was; I just remember feeling a sense of envy at how brightly this kid's future was shining. Chicago! Everyone who knows me knows how much I love that city and how I really do consider it my adopted hometown. The thought of being 19 and going to college there...man, how exciting! I thought it was a no-brainer, myself. She, however, had different thoughts on the matter. And her source of hesitation? Moving away from her mom.

What?

Okay, now...I love my mother as much as the next girl, but one thing I have never been able to understand is people who (a) continue to live with theirs beyond the standard 18-21 year-old stage and (b) people who freak out about having to move out of their parents' homes.

I think I was about 12 when I started fantasizing about the day I could finally pack my bags and get the hell out of that house and away from my parents. Like a prisoner doing time, I kept a mental tally on an imaginary wall, daydreaming about my eventual sweet freedom. Every time a rule was enforced, or I was grounded for some ridiculous thing, I'd curse them under my breath and flip through the Brand Names catalog picking out furniture for my future apartment. I'd think about moving to California, or Hawaii, or someplace as far as I could get. I went to my guidance counselor and asked for information on UCLA. What was her name? Mrs. Kardani I think. Anyway, I remember her telling me, "well, Sweetie, this is only junior high. Your high school will have that information." Now, of course, there was no internet, and finding information was not as easy as Googling it. And so I waited, and as soon as I got to high school I started plotting my escape for real.

My high school years were a nightmare. Now, okay, I know there are a lot of kids who had it WAY worse than I ever did. I had a roof over my head, I had three squares a day, and a guaranteed college education. What I had very little of, however, was privacy. And that's all I ever wanted. Just some privacy, and a little freedom to be myself. I wasn't asking to be allowed to stay out all hours of the night. I wasn't asking to be allowed to have boys in my bedroom. But my mother would routinely go through my things, throw away clothing she didn't like, snoop through my drawers, read my diary and my letters, and I was forbidden to lock my bedroom door. And there was no knocking. So it didn't matter what I was doing. I could be stark naked, and she could just walk right in.

"You have nothing to hide," she told me. But what she failed to understand was that it wasn't that I wanted to hide anything, I just wanted to be left the fuck alone sometimes. In my mother's defense, she was trying to ensure that I wasn't in there smoking my lungs out, but most of the time I wasn't looking for privacy to smoke; I wanted to be able to read, do homework, listen to music, draw, paint, talk on the phone, nap, or just stare off into space - alone and uninterrupted.

My dad was a tyrant, a lunatic, and generally insane. But at least he never barged in on me. He would always knock and say, "Are you decent?" At least he did one thing right.

As it turned out I didn't go to UCLA. My college choices ended up being a little closer to home, but I ultimately chose the one that was the farthest - about 500 miles away, nearly an 8-hour drive. And the sad part is, I didn't choose Franklin Pierce for its programs, or its academic reputation, or its campus life, or anything other than it was the furthest, of all my options, from my parents that I could get.

I think one of the main reasons I have to live alone and never got married or had children is because I am SO protective of my personal space, the very thought of having to share it with someone actually sends me into a panic. So to hear someone say, "Oh, I can't bear the thought of moving out of my folks' house" is so unbelievably foreign to me. I'm not knocking people who want to live at home forever; I just, from my experience and perspective, can't understand it. You mean there are people out there who like their parents so much that they actually VOLUNTARILY live with them? There are people whose parents are so non-invasive and easygoing that living with them isn't a constant source of stress and mental trauma? Damn. Even when I would come home for vacations, my mother and I would fight. It wasn't until my parents got divorced when I was 20 and my mother started living in a different place that we started getting along - for it was no longer a matter of me coming "home," but rather a visit to her apartment, where I was not an occupant, but a guest. The paradigm - and the rules - shifted at that point.

To this day she will tell me, "you are welcome in my home any time. You may stay with me as long as you like. But do not EVER think about moving in with me. It will not happen."

So if you tell me that you don't want to move out of your parents' house, or are moving back in with your parents, now you know why I'm making that face.

Sirius-ly amusing (warning: explicit)

2009-10-30T22:38:00.007-04:00

I have Sirius/XM satellite radio in my car. I usually only listen when I'm on long drives or am bored with the selection of CDs in the car, but when I do listen I'm a little overwhelmed by all the choices. Not unlike satellite television, it's essentially 300 stations with nothing on.

Tonight, though, as I was scrolling through while stuck in Boulevard traffic among the other last-minute Halloween shoppers, I stopped when I thought I heard the woman say "Pyrex glass dildo."

Now, I don't have the best hearing in the world, so I thought, "no, that can't be right. She probably said, "Fine, let's ask Bill, though." Or something. I mean, with my hearing (or lack thereof), it's entirely possible I'd heard it wrong. So I backed up and continued listening. I hadn't heard incorrectly. It was the "OutQ" station, the LGBT channel, and it was some sort of sex show. So of course I had to listen.

In my younger days, I used to listen to Dr. Ruth, huddled in my room with the radio under my pillow, or with the earphone in my ear (does anyone remember those primitive "ear bud" style mono earphones?) lest my parents hear what I was up to. Much of what I learned about sex I learned from Dr. Westheimer, in fact, and I can still remember as a young woman fumbling around with my boyfriend and thinking, "Oh, I remember this from Dr. Ruth!" But really the point I'm trying to make here is that I'm morbidly curious when it comes to other people's sex lives. Not people I know, though, so please don't tell me about yours, thanks.

So I'm listening to this show, and the hosts (two women) are casually and matter-of-factly dishing out advice to gay, lesbian, and straight callers alike, and not mincing words or hesitating to toss out slang in the process. They discussed proper sanitation techniques for toys (don't put latex in the dishwasher, folks - it's porous and will degrade quickly), positions when one is partially incapacitated with a broken limb (draw your own picture on that one), and demographics of their listeners (3:1 male to female - big surprise, heh). Then I listened intently as one woman explained the mechanics and logistics of the cock ring to a gay man whose partner was having, you know, issues. Man, this was WAY better than Dr. Ruth. But of course after a while my attention started to waver, so I decided to make my way up the dial.

Imagine my amusement when I discovered the very next station up was Radio Disney. Ha! From cock rings to the Jonas Brothers. Awesome. The next channel up from Disney...KidsPlace! Even funnier! But just when I thought it couldn't get any more hysterical, I clicked on to the next channel and it was...

The Catholic Channel.

Heeeee!

It was a good thing I'd gone to the bathroom at Target, because I think I would have wet myself. Man, irony rules.

Dear Insomnia

2009-10-06T04:26:00.003-04:00

Dear Insomnia,

Look. I understand why you like to hang around. I don't do a whole lot to discourage you. I mean, I'm up at 3:45 a.m. one day and up 'til 2:00 a.m. the next. Sometimes I pull an all-nighter, although with age those have gotten fewer and farther between. Between a job that goes anywhere from 4:30 in the morning until 11:30 at night, and two classes that meet until 9:00 p.m., I'm all over the place. Then sometimes I do something silly like drink a 20-ounce Mountain Dew at 10:00 the night before I'm having surgery on my mouth. As if worrying about teeth and gum tissue being dug up and rearranged (and the cost of said procedure) weren't enough to keep me tossing and turning! You hardly needed any help with that one, did you?

*Le sigh*

Even when I try and get a full night's sleep, you're there, waiting in the wings to pounce on me before I can get to the REM stage. Almost like clockwork, you shake me awake every 3 hours. But Insomnia, you're never around when I need to be awake, are you? Nope. Where the hell are you when I'm nodding off in class, snapping at a co-worker, or nearly driving my car into a tree? You're probably taking a nap. Asshole. Oh, and hey - thanks for those dark circles under my eyes.

Not too long ago I got some painkillers from the doctor. They were the kind with an orange label, and I thought, "YAY! These will knock me out!" Then I found out that they have a potentially fatal interaction with one of my other medications. Well, you know how I'm always saying, "I'll sleep when I'm dead?" I decided to hold off on that one for a while. Insomnia: 1, Deedee: 0.

Well, I guess at least I could thank you for the many sunrises you've allowed me to see. Sunrises are beautiful, you know. I just wish I could enjoy one after a full night's sleep. Could you cut me a break one of these nights? Please?

Thanks.

Love,
*yawn*
Me.

For the love of a building, Part 2

2009-09-15T17:19:00.010-04:00

I put off writing this entry for as long as I could, mainly because I couldn't bring myself to do it without breaking down every third sentence. My previous entry about Russell was sad enough; to write one in the same vein but closer to my heart was more than I could bear.

On August 27th, quite suddenly and unexpectedly, my friend (as well as loyal blog-watcher and frequent commenter) Mike Miller passed away. He was just 51.

What made his death even more tragic was the irony of it happening on the heels of losing Russell, the man whose post as CTRC president Mike had taken over just last year. Mike had so much to say about Russell's wake, and how beautifully it was handled and arranged, and a few short weeks later we were saying goodbye to Mike himself in the same spot. I didn't think I could cry so many tears. That little pocket-pak of Kleenex I took to the service didn't stand a chance.

I've said a lot of what I had to say about the Central Terminal in the previous post, so I won't get into that. I will say, however, that it was Mike who was instrumental in getting me involved as deeply as I am. He was the first person I talked to about becoming a volunteer, about donating materials from my job, and about my instant love for the building. He got it when I told him the building had "spoken" to me. He was the one who told me I looked like the illustration of the Bier Wench on the Oktoberfest poster and convinced me to dress up in the costume. He'd said, "Come on, dress up! You look just like her! You have the same hair, and you have the boobs for it!" I told him only he could get away with saying that, and I agreed to dress up.

Mike loved the Central Terminal more than anyone I know, and felt such a bond to the place due to it being the very thing that caused his existence in the first place (his parents met while working there together). His energy and dedication radiated onto everyone around him, and it was hard not to share in his enthusiasm, and even harder not to smile when you saw him.

Not only was Mike dedicated to the Terminal, he was dedicated to preservation in Buffalo. A founder of Broadway-Fillmore Alive and the recently appointed president of Preservation Buffalo Niagara, Mike loved this area. Mike loved a lot of things, in fact. Mike was full of love - for his family, his friends, his colleagues, his causes. "What a great guy" doesn't even begin to describe it. He was a constant and reliable source of encouragement, support, and friendship to me, and I never heard him utter an unkind word about anyone. Even those he might not have agreed with, or who had transgressed in some way, Mike could spin everything into a positive light - with a smile.

We're all going to miss him more than words can say, and the entire Buffalo-Niagara region will forever feel his absence. The Terminal will never be the same without him walking around. I worked the train show this past weekend and without thinking, I kept looking for him in the crowd, kept waiting for him to come into the gift shop. Then I'd remember.

This blog will never feel the same, knowing he's not reading it, knowing I'll never see another comment from him. He used to tell me all the time how much he enjoyed reading it, and how he couldn't wait to read the next entry. He told me one time during a particularly stressful time in my life (and a coincidentally dry spell of writing) that I needed to "vent my spleen," and that became the title of the next entry, the very next day. Even if he didn't comment here, he'd make sure to tell me the next time he saw me. In fact, one of the last things he said to me in person was "I loved that entry about the Quirkyalones. I could totally relate." And then he said what he always said to me. "But don't worry, Deedee, you'll find someone when it's the right time. You're too fabulous to be alone."

Well, Mike...I know wherever you are you're among friends and are at peace. Because you, no matter here or hereafter, are too fabulous to be alone.

Michael J. Miller
1958-2009
You are loved and missed by many.

For the love of a building

2009-08-12T21:41:00.004-04:00

Five years ago, my sister called me and said, "Hey, I saw in the paper that they're doing tours of the Central Terminal. We're going to go. Want to come, too?"

I replied, "What's the Central Terminal?"

She was aghast that I didn't know of it, but to be fair, I'd moved away at 18 and growing up, my experience with the East Side of Buffalo had been really limited to trips to the old Rockpile for ball games. By the time my sister started breaking in there to hang out and drink in high school in the late 80's/early 90's, I was grown up and gone out of the house, moved out of state, and more or less completely detached from any Buffalo interests. And even if I had known about it when I was a teen, chances are slim I would have actually been able to escape the iron fists of my parents long enough to actually check it out.

I went on the tour with my family, and what happened that day will forever be etched in my memory because it was so profound. As we approached the building from Memorial Drive, the tower loomed in the near distance, rising above the surrounding neighborhood. At that moment, something about it just hit me like - dare I employ a really bad pun here - a ton of bricks. I've always been interested in architecture, particularly that of the late 19th and early 20th centuries, and this Art Deco masterpiece literally took my breath away. How was it that I lived in Buffalo for the first 18 years of my life and had never even seen this building?

The approach, however, was just the beginning. After we parked and walked up to the building, we were met outside by our docent, the president of the Central Terminal Restoration Corporation, Russell Pawlak. Russell started the tour outside, explaining the history of the neighborhood (he'd grown up there) and the history of the Terminal's inception, construction, and eventual decline. I couldn't wait to get inside, and kept wishing he'd hurry up and take us in, but this guy knew his stuff, and he wasn't going to just let us loose in there until he was damn sure we knew it, too.

When we finally got inside, this is when it happened. We were treated to a brief video in the entrance, and then led into the concourse. All at once, as the concourse opened up in front of me, I was filled with a feeling, overwhelmed with a connection to this place. It was as if the building itself spoke to me and said, "I need you here. You belong here. This is your cause." I literally fell in love. Right then, right there, I knew I'd found something really special. It makes sense, really, if you think about it; both my late grandfathers were railroad engineers. Grampa Jack drove for Erie-Lackawanna, and Grampa Ed drove for Conrail. Both of them undoubtedly passed through the building many times, and it's consistent with my beliefs as a Spiritualist that they'd be hanging out in there now, or would have at least stopped by to sway me in the CTRC's direction that day. As my mom pointed out, trains and spirits are in my blood. It all came together.

Over the next five years, I would volunteer as much of my time as I could (which, as I would unfortunately discover, wasn't a whole lot between working multiple jobs and then working and going to school full time). I've been the Oktoberfest Bier Wench. I've sold merchandise. I've scraped paint. I've stacked chairs, collected trash, served hot dogs, and this year designed the poster for the anniversary. I never feel as if I could ever do enough. This is love, remember.

The CTRC is made up of an incredible group of dedicated and passionate individuals, and through the organization's efforts the building has undergone an astounding transformation. What was a dilapidated, abandoned, and largely unusable old train station has become a gorgeous work in progress on its way to restored splendor. Throughout the years and through the tireless efforts of the group, numerous events have been held there, from weddings to picnics, parties to art shows, car shows, concerts, ghost hunts, theatrical performances, festivals, and train shows.

Today, it held a wake. Russell Pawlak passed away on August 8, at the much-too-young age of 59. His untimely death comes just a year after stepping down as the CTRC's president, and though he was no longer involved, he was still close to the cause. Passion and dedication such as Russell's doesn't fade. And as I walked into the Terminal this afternoon and saw how beautifully everything was arranged, transforming the beloved building into a stop on Russell's journey to his final destination, I remembered that day five years ago, and I fell in love all over again.

Thank you, Russell. Rest in peace, and I'm sure we'll be seeing you.

The War on Stuff

2009-07-26T20:14:00.001-04:00

Earlier this year I committed to reducing my clutter, thanks to the introduction by my sister to the show "Clean House." She was going to nominate me for the show, but I decided to take matters into my own hands first. While it might be kind of fun to have a TV show come in and document my compulsive hoarding issue and give me a new lease on life by showing me the way of the cleanly and well-organized, I didn't think I could actually wait a year for the whole process to come to fruition. I also wasn't keen on the idea that the whole world would get a bird's-eye view of my clusterfuck of a living space. It's...well, it's embarrassing. I will say, however, that watching the show has opened my eyes to one oft-forgotten fact: I am not the only one who struggles with this thing.

So...the first step, I decided, was to start purging - also known as "Operation Project Toss," sort of my own mini-version of "Clean House." This is not the first version of said operation (as you may well know if you've been a part of my life for any length of time) but it's definitely the most serious. It's a tough battle to wage, this battle against Stuff, since it requires a lot of letting go and overriding of emotions, but I entered into it with the best intentions and a fair amount of aplomb, and have spent the year fighting the good fight. The fight has since escalated into a full-blown war, complete with trenches, foxholes, and a few allies called in for reinforcement. One yard sale, a couple good-sized donations to charity, and several ebay auctions later, I’m winning. I think. But it’s a slippery slope, indeed.

It's unbelievable how much crap I've accumulated in the six-plus years I've been in this house. As someone who spent ages 18 to 32 moving every couple of years and still had the uncanny ability to accumulate junk, one can only imagine the havoc wreaked in six years. I mean, it's really astonishing.

See, I like Stuff. No - I love Stuff. I’m rather addicted to owning Stuff, in fact. However as a compulsive hoarder, I have a tendency to let the Stuff own me. It grows and reproduces. Little piles creep over to other little piles, which soon spend the night together and spawn more little piles. Soon these little piles grow up and form giant communes of piles. I don’t know what to do with all of it, and usually end up walking away in defeat, resolving to deal with it some other time as I climb over more stuff just to go to the bathroom.

My point? I have come to the conclusion that there can be no more extraneous Stuff. I’ve put a moratorium on Stuff. I have set very specific guidelines about what can and cannot come into this house. I have strict policies regarding the intake of Stuff (i.e. nothing comes in unless something goes out). In the past I have been an avid collector of Stuff, but at this point in my life, as I look toward potentially downsizing my life in a move (or just in an attempt to preserve what shred of sanity remains in my head), I have to put my foot down.

Every year my mother says, "This is going to be a lean Christmas!" Every year I respond, "That's fine, Mom. I don't want a lot of things anyway." Every year I put together a wittily-worded, graphically-enhanced list of things I want and/or need. And while it's never a particularly Stuff-heavy list, I nevertheless always end up on Christmas morning with a bunch of Stuff. Apparently my mother's idea of "lean Christmas" is different from mine. This year, she's getting a list with specific instructions, worded as gently as I know how, to knock it off with the Stuff. I understand that in my family Christmas is all about the obscene amount of gifts lining the walls and stacked to the ceiling on Christmas morning, but as I've gotten older (and as new little members are added) I take less joy in ripping open package after package, and instead derive most of my holiday cheer from sipping coffee, eating cinnamon rolls, watching snow fall, and lounging in my pajamas with my family.

But I digress. Must stop blogging and resume purging (and painting and ripping up carpet, etc). I will be back with updates as they come. In the meantime, enjoy this lovely photo of approximately 80 pounds of my boxed up, unwanted Stuff.

Even Quirkyalones get the blues

2009-06-16T19:50:00.005-04:00

I had a conversation with an acquaintance recently about my perpetual state of singlehood, during which I explained the concept of the "Quirkyalone" to him. His argument had been, up until that point, that I didn't have to be alone, if only I'd relax a few of my "stringent" standards and requirements (which, if you know me, include such outrageous requirements as an education, a brain, and absence of offspring). After passionately explaining to him that it would be better to be alone than to back down on things that I hold important, I think it finally dawned on him that there are single women in this world who would actually prefer to be single over being coupled for the sake of being so.

The Quirkyalone, for those of you who are not familiar, is explained best by the Quirkyalone.net website:

Quirkyalones are people who enjoy being single (but are not opposed to being in a relationship) and prefer being single to dating for the sake of being in a relationship. It’s also a mindset. It’s about being present to both the wonders and possibilities in being deeply single or deeply in partnership. It’s also a mindset that recognizes the power and value of significant others, plural: our friends.

Quirkyalone is not anti-love. It is pro-love. It is not anti-dating. It is anti-compulsory dating. We tend to be romantics. We prefer to be single rather than settle. In fact, the core of quirkyalone is the inability to settle. We spend a signficant chunk of our lives single because we hold relationships to a high standard.

Are quirkyalones loners? Not necessarily. Quirkyalones often value friendship very highly. We’re often very social people. But we do value occasional solitude. Quirkyalones are often creative and need time alone to allow thoughts to fully form.

Fundamentally, quirkyalone isn’t so much about being alone as it is about connection: with yourself and others. It’s about liberating yourself from the expected road maps to discover your own. It’s about developing comfort with aloneness and recognizing that comfort is crucial to being with someone else.

The quirky in quirkyalone is really about authenticity. It’s about accepting yourself in all your quirky glory, and being fully yourself, whether you’re single or in a relationship.

The alone part is about willing to stand out from the crowd, to go to a wedding alone rather than go with a date, for example, out of social obligation. It’s about resisting the tyranny of coupledom, the prevailing notion that you must be in a relationship at all times in order to be happy.

It’s about preserving solitude in an era of hyperconnectivity so that you can be comfortable and full alone, and therefore fully present with another human being.

That said, I will confess to having periodic bouts of melancholy, wistful sadness when it comes to being alone. Today being the 8th wedding anniversary of my sister and her husband, and realizing that I've not been in a "real" relationship in that entire time...well, it kind of makes me wonder what the fuck I'm doing. I guess I've always thought that if I live my life the way I want to live it, that someone special will come along and fit right in. Well, it's been eight years since my last relationship (I don't really count James, because he was a long-distance thing, and, well, it was never really a committed thing, at least not on his end) and I'm starting to think that there really is no lid for my pot.

This, dear blogwatchers, is what's got me down today.

That, and I make a mean sundae pie, and sometimes I wish I had someone to make one for. I can't make one for myself; I'll eat the whole damn thing, and then I'll just feel worse. So does anyone want one? Name yer flavor. :-)

A little pomp with a side of circumstance

2009-06-09T20:23:00.008-04:00

Sorry about being so absent lately, but it really has been a whirlwind of insanity - albeit the good kind - around these parts.

So what's going on with me? Well...

I graduated! Well, sort of. I mean, my name was in the program as an August 2009 graduate, and I just have one last loose end to tie up before I technically earn my degree (my summer internship - more on that later). I could have walked in the ceremony if I'd wanted to, but I didn't. You might think that after everything I went through to get this degree I would have wanted to march proudly across that stage, but there was just something about getting all suited up in the regalia and going through all the pomp and circumstance for my second undergraduate degree that felt a little wrong, perhaps a little dishonest - especially considering the degree wasn't actually finished. To those who couldn't understand why I felt this way, I likened it to a middle-aged bride wearing a fancy white gown with a full train and walking down the aisle of a cathedral in front of thousands of guests for her second wedding, and doing it without a marriage license. Not necessarily wrong, but just somehow...out of whack, against tradition. And as much as I buck tradition otherwise, there are just some things I like to keep in order on a personal level.

Despair not, however. All of you who were hoping to see me in my cap and gown will get the chance to do so in a couple of years when I get my MASTERS DEGREE! I've been accepted into the graduate program for a Masters of Science in Creative Studies at Buffalo State, so I'll be heading back to the hallowed halls at the end of August. I opted to go straight in, rather than taking any kind of break. Am I worried about burning out? A little. But the course of study is so different (a lot of theory and critical/abstract thinking) from the hands-on world of design that I think it won't really matter. I'll continue to freelance (and hopefully work part-time in a design capacity) while I go to school, though, because I don't want to lose my skills as a designer. The whole idea is to use my experience as a Creative Studies major to enhance my career as a designer, so I must strike a balance somewhere. Ah, the life of a professional student.

So then...roping this back in a little, for those of you not in the know, I'm interning this summer in the art department at Artvoice. If you're in Buffalo, you know what that is. For those of you not in Buffalo, it's our free news and arts weekly paper. I do ad layout and design for them, and I must say it's a fantastic gig. I'd said a few years ago that I never wanted to do print work, but I will extract my foot from my mouth long enough to tell you how wrong I was about that. I absolutely love it. I'd love it more if I didn't have to pay almost $1500 in tuition to be doing it, but I love it nonetheless. I do that two days a week, and will continue to do so until mid-August.

When I'm done with my internship, I will officially have my B.F.A. and THEN there will be pomp and circumstance - in my backyard! Invitations forthcoming, so save August 15th on your calendar, because if you're local, you're invited!

Thanks for all your loyalty and support these last four years, everyone!

Dear Chicago

2009-04-29T21:08:00.003-04:00

(As published on Chicago's Craigslist in the Missed Connections section):

Dear Chicago,

On this, the eve of the 6th anniversary of our parting, I have a few things I'd like to say to you. I know I haven't been back to visit you as often as I should, but I have a reason. Trust me on this, okay? You'll understand once I explain.

Chicago, I fucking miss you like I have never missed anything in my life. I miss you so much that the one time I came to visit you a few years ago, I cried almost every minute because all my visit did was remind me that I am no longer yours. Like an old lover who can no longer face her ex, it broke my heart to see you so alive, so happy, so bubbling, so...not my home anymore.

This is not to say that I'm not happy where I am now. I am, of sorts. I've met with marginal success, have been able to live within my means a little better, and have furthered my education in preparation for the day I come back to you. The best part of where I am now, really, is that I've reconnected with dear old friends and the tiny bit of family that I have left - something you weren't able to offer me. That wasn't your fault. Making friends within your area was a little difficult sometimes, but again, you just weren't stocked with people from my past, so it wasn't your fault. Toward the end there I was getting pretty bitter and unhealthy about life (you really had started to throw some shit my way), and you just didn't have the support network I needed. Everything was falling onto the shoulders of the two last friends I had there, and I didn't want to lose them, too, so...I left.

Since the day I pulled the U-haul out of the alley behind my old apartment, I have missed you. My move, while somber at the core, held a lot of promise at the time and has come with many perks. I have a lot more space where I am now, and things like parking and rush hour are cakewalks compared to what I dealt with when I lived in you. I can register my car for a fraction of what it costs in Illinois, and I don't have to carry my groceries up three flights of stairs. In fact, I don't have to carry them far at all; I park 6 feet from my front door. Off the street. I have a house with a garden and a yard and my own washer and dryer in the basement, a basement which is providing a home for all the crap I've managed to accumulate (I haven't moved since I left you, and you remember what I was like, always hoarding, purging, and moving every couple of years, so you can imagine just how much shit I've piled up by now). Heck, I even have an attached studio space! I have more room than I know what to do with! And therein, Chicago, lies the problem.

You contained me. You kept me in check. Nothing could get so out of hand when I lived in those little apartments. My weight stayed down thanks to those sojourns to the grocery store and back, from those metabolism-raising trips to Bubbleland, from those "fuck this traffic" bike rides to work. I couldn't ever accumulate too much crap because there was only so much room, even with a storage locker in the basement. Now, I'm like a goldfish placed in a huge pond. I just keep expanding to fill the space.

But that's the least of my worries. Because you see, while my girth and my useless collection of possessions and ephemera keep growing, my love life shrinks. Well, maybe not shrink so much as never existed here in the first place. Why? It could be because I'm fat and miserable, sure, but I'm pretty convinced, Chicago, it's because where I live now is not filled with progressive, forward-thinking, educated single males like you are. In fact it's devoid of them. See, whereas I could spin around on any number of your crowded streets with my eyes closed and run an 80% chance of pointing to someone who fits the 30-45, child-free, educated demographic, it's a completely different story here. Here, I run about a .8 chance, if that. More than likely the odds are in my favor that I'm going to wind up pointing to (a) a bar filled with nubile and entitled co-eds, (b) a sedan containing a married father of three who's on his way to pick up his mistress, (c) a single dad schlepping off to his second-shift warehouse job to make the child support payment, or (d) a homeless guy. On the rare chance I do find one that's single, he drops me like a hot potato when he figures out that I'm old meat who's never gonna oblige him with loin-fruit. Or he's a flake with commitment issues who's still single because he lived at home until he was 30 and has yet to find his replacement mom. More than that, where I live now sports a mind-blowing shortage of men with any kind of taste in food, clothing, or music. My perfect date is an afternoon wandering a museum followed by a Thai dinner and - if things go well - a nightcap over some original live music. Not here. Now, please don't get me wrong, Chicago, I live in an area that boasts a great arts and music scene - it's just impossible to find a man who enjoys these things as much as I do. Single dudes here are all about pepperoni, cheap beer, football, and cover bands. And I, unfortunately, have become all about my cats.

*sigh*

But I digress.

I miss your giant burritos at 4:00 a.m. I miss flying directly to anywhere in the world. I miss not having to drive if I don't feel like it. I miss the elote cart and his wonky little horn, the jingle of the Good Humor truck, and the United Nations buffet of dinner choices, especially Ethiopian food. I miss taking the bus and not feeling like a degenerate. I miss Green River and Swedish Flops and bean pies. I miss real baseball. I miss old, authentic, re-mantled Irish pubs. I miss walking down the street and having people actually be walking with me. I miss drivers who know how to navigate buses and cyclists at the same time. I miss the Trib crossword. I miss broasted chicken. I miss the rattle of the El. I miss the smell of Lake Michigan as it comes to life in early summer. I miss hailing a cab with the flick of a wrist. I miss the beach. I miss the skyline and how it rose up all important-looking yet friendly and welcoming from the flatness around it. It never failed, in all nine years I lived there, to take my breath away.

There is much I don't miss, of course, like the traffic, and the insanely cold winters and equally brutal summers, and the crime, and the expense, and the parking. But these are sacrifices I willingly made, hassles I put up with in order to be a proud denizen of Chicagoland.

But sometimes I wonder if I miss you, or miss the life I wanted to have with you. Toward the end there, it was bad, remember? I couldn't find a job anywhere within 50 miles of you. I had no more friends. Even if I did, I didn't have any money to do anything with them. Things got ugly. I hit bottom. I had to go.

Do I regret moving? Sometimes. When I look into the faces of the people who are happy to have me here where I am now, who are glad to spend time with me, who understand me and cheer me on and support me as only my friends can...no. I do not regret it. But when I think about what could have been with you...yes. I do.

So I'll tell you what, Chicago. I'll come back. I actually never doubted in my mind that would be back, it's just taking longer than I thought it would. Things will be different next time. I'll be older, wiser, and a little more relaxed. Hopefully I'll be a little wealthier, too, because my days of living in the ghetto are behind me, I'm afraid. I'll have to downsize and learn how to live on less, but that's okay. My only request is that you have a sunny apartment and a smart guy who likes Ethiopian food in my near future.

All my love,
Me

The road to hell is paved with insurance claims

2009-04-28T22:05:00.002-04:00

WARNING: This (very long) post contains some rather graphic, albeit humorously pathetic, material. If you're short on time, or averse to bathroom references, bodily functions, or negativity against the franchise that is the American Health Care Machine, you might want to skip this one.

+++++

Remember last year when I landed in the hospital for four days with the mother of all asthma attacks? I drove myself to the ER that time, as I'd done twice before during such incidents.

Last week, however, I didn't even have time to do that. About five minutes into what I thought was "routine" tightness in my chest resulting from any number of possible environmental and/or physical triggers (can't say for sure which one), I was on my front porch, gasping for air, and begging the 911 operator to send an ambulance. The operator was having trouble understanding me (more on that later), and at that point I thought to myself, "this is it. This is the story that everyone reads about in the paper, the asthmatic who had an attack, didn't get attention in time, and died." The very thought was enough to send me into bodily-function failure, and I, well, I crapped myself. As if standing on my porch, leaning over the railing, shaking, and hoarsely shouting "HURRY!" weren't enough, I had to do it with a full diaper, too. Lovely.

A neighbor on the next street heard my cries and shouted over the fence asking if I needed help. Now, all right, I don't mean to look a gift horse in the mouth, and I'm certain that under the circumstances he simply misjudged, but honestly - you have a neighbor who is desperately gasping for air and panting "asthma....help...hurry..." into a phone while hanging over a railing...I think it's pretty obvious she needs help. And if that weren't enough, he called 911 (who had, by this time, figured out what I was saying and dispatched the ambulance) and told them I looked to be "about 45" and then also misinterpreted the situation as some sort of domestic dispute, which is why, as I later found out, the police showed up. Wow. Scratch that guy off the summer BBQ party list.

So...I suppose I should back up a bit and tell the story from the beginning, to shed just a little more light on things. About 10 minutes after I got home from work, I started feeling tight in my chest. I took a hit off my inhaler and went on my way. After a few minutes I was feeling even worse, so I sat down to give myself a nebulizer treatment. After that was done, I still felt no relief. I took another hit off the inhaler and started worrying that this was going to grow up to be an exacerbation. I thought some fresh air might help, so I went outside. Within 30 seconds I felt as if my lungs were made of wood, and it became clear that I needed medical attention. I started feeling dizzy and out of control. I came back inside, grabbed my phone and my wallet, and went back outside and called 911. This is the moment at which I thought I was going to die...

"911, what's your emergency?"
"Asthma...help...asthma...help..."
"You're having trouble breathing, ma'am?"
"YES! Asthma! Attack!"
"Ma'am what is your address?"
"Eight....teen..."
"Eight, what street?"
"No! Eight...teen...Hoyer"

Now, "Hoyer" came out more like a loud whisper, which is all I could get out at that point. If I tried to talk any louder, it was even more broken and incomprehensible. So "Hoyer" came out like "HOE...Yer."

The operator didn't understand. She kept telling me to speak up, I kept telling her I couldn't. Had this woman (a) never taken a call from an asthma patient before and (b) not familiarized herself with the streets of Buffalo? In all fairness, my street is tiny, but when you're dying and someone is prolonging the agony, you tend to not cut them so much slack. We went through just about every word that rhymes with "Hoyer" - even with me spelling it out - until she finally got it, and by the end I was barking, "HURRY! PLEASE HURRY!"

Insert neighbor guy here.

After calling 911 as well, the guy came over with his dog. I cried out, "OH NO!" which prompted him to say, "Oh, don't worry, she won't hurt you!" I didn't have the breath or the energy (or the desire) to explain to him that my interjection was not due to a fear of his little dog, but rather because at that very moment, I lost control of my bodily functions, and didn't want him to come near me. And since I'd never met this guy before, even if I could talk I didn't really feel comfortable saying, "Hi, how are ya? My name's Deedee. Your dog is cute, and I would pet her if it weren't for the fact that I can't breathe, can't move, and I just crapped my pants." Sure, it'd make for some great storytelling in the future, but not exactly how I wanted to waste what little air I was able to take in.

I'm really being hard on this guy, I know, but when you hear what he said to me next, you'll completely understand.

"You're about 45, is that right? Because that's what I told them."

Yes, yes, I know. It was chaotic. I was in the throes of an attack. He was across the street. I was bent over and he couldn't see my face. And everyone knows that all fat women are about 45.

I just looked at him and said, "I'm 37" in a voice that more or less sounded like my head might start rotating. He stepped back. Where the hell was that god damned ambulance??

As I started to fade out, I heard the sirens. A firetruck and a police car were the first to arrive. What the hell? My house wasn't on fire, my fucking lungs were. The firemen ran up on the porch and put an oxygen mask on me. This was NOT a good idea. When you have an asthma attack, you feel as if you're suffocating -- because you are. There is no air moving through, in or out. The LAST thing you want is something on your face. Normally in the hospital they put a cannula under your nose, but I guess it's different in on-the-go situations. So I started to panic some more, clutching and pulling and scratching at the mask. There were faces. Lots of faces. And voices. I handed someone my wallet. I started to cry. I begged them to help me. I told them I couldn't breathe. They told me I could, but that I had to calm down for it to happen. I heard someone say, "You're breathing, ma'am, you ARE breathing, you're just not doing it well. Hang in there, hang on..." and two men picked me up under my armpits and put me on a stretcher. In the upright-seated position I felt like I had a three-ton weight crushing my chest, and I panicked again. "Icantbreatheicantbreatheohmygodicantbreathe..."

Every bump felt like another blow to my chest, and when they lifted me up into the ambulance, the only thing that kept me from believing I was going to die was the face of the paramedic waiting inside. I was glad it was a woman. I was already full of injury and insult; I didn't need more self-consciousness heaped on top of that. I was immediately stuck with an IV full of steroids and someone put a nebulizer mouthpiece between my lips. I breathed rapidly, watching the long puffs of steam curl out from the other side. Inoutinoutinoutinout...

I kept trying to sign to the paramedic, hoping she knew ASL, because it would have made communication a little easier. Between the fact that my normally bad hearing was made worse by the stress and the background noise, and having a mouthpiece firmly clamped in my teeth, communication wasn't going well. Eventually I was able to breathe well enough to take the mouthpiece out and answer her questions. Within fifteen minutes I was pumped full of steroids and breathing well enough that I could say full sentences, refuse a ride to the hospital, and apologize for pooping my pants (which, mercifully, the ambulance staff dismissed as something they see all the time). And in half an hour I was laughing and cracking jokes. (Come on now, did you really think I could sit in an ambulance after a near-death experience with shorts full of shit and NOT find some humor in it? If you did, then you don't know me very well).

After close to an hour, my peak flows were back up and I could breathe again, and I was exhausted. They let me out, and I went back into the house. Crisis averted, my life spared. But instead of feeling relieved, I felt angry. Betrayed. Gypped. I should have gone to the hospital, but you know what stopped me? Partly, it was my messy house and my pets. I didn't want to leave them for an unknown amount of time with no caregiver. I had one rat, in fact, who was dying. I couldn't leave her. I didn't want to subject someone to navigating the minefield of my mess. I didn't want to arrive at the hospital in poopy pants. I didn't want to miss school or work. It's the end of the semester, and I'd never catch up if I missed any classes.

But mainly, I didn't want to go because I didn't have the money. I'm still paying off last year's hospital bills, and with my summer tuition and possible graduate school looming in the near future, I simply couldn't afford another several thousand dollars. I do have health insurance, but it only covers so much. And this is what pissed me off.

Here it is, people:

There is something fundamentally wrong with a country that makes its citizens choose between their credit ratings and their lives.

If you've ever seen Michael Moore's "Sicko," then you know. And even if you hate Mr. Moore, even if you think he's an egotistical spin doctor with an agenda, you cannot deny there is truth to his mission. I have lived it, over and over again. I have scrimped and pinched for it. I have ruined my credit rating with it, I have filed bankruptcy against it, and I have subsisted on ramen noodles in its name.

This. Is. Wrong.

Now I'm sitting here, battling the side effects of the medication that keeps me breathing, and wondering where the vicious cycle ends. Does it end when I get better insurance? When the privatization of health care ends? When I make more money? When it finally gets to be too much and the ambulance doesn't get there fast enough? Or when I claw my own eyes out while climbing the walls hopped up on corticosteroids? When?

I didn't want to turn this into a political entry, honestly, but the more I think about this, the more I realize that I am just one in MILLIONS who has to face choices like this EVERY DAY, it makes me livid. It makes me want to do something. It makes me angry, and it makes me ashamed to be an American. I'm not saying I'd want to live anywhere else (if only Ireland didn't have that pesky left-side driving weirdness...) but it breaks my heart that I live in a place where people are forced to choose between money and life on a regular basis. And I just can't believe that more people aren't up in arms about this.

We should be revolting! CEOs of the health insurance companies are the new tea. Throw them overboard! Hope that they can't swim, and then tell them they need to cough up a year's salary in order to buy the little Styrofoam ring that will save their lives. Fuck them!

There is most certainly a special layer of hell reserved for the health insurance folks, and I take comfort in believing that these assholes will be eternally subjected to every single illness they have ever forced the "little people" to live with (and die from), and will be made to do nothing but decipher claim forms forever and beyond while they struggle to breathe through acrid hell-fire smoke, waiting for the ambulance that will never get there in time.

But in the meantime, I sit here stewing, wondering what I can do, trying not to let the anger overshadow my joy and relief at having made it through my experience with nothing more than a few scars on my lungs and a dramatic story to tell.

I just hope my luck doesn't run out.

It's not over 'til it's over...and God only knows when that'll be.

2009-04-21T01:51:00.006-04:00

I know - it's been a long, long time since I laid any type down on Planet Deedums. You all know, though, that I've been preoccupied with other things, and hopefully you still love me. If the turnout at my show was any indication, I've got a wonderfully diverse and fabulous group of folks in my life who, at the very least, like me.

So. The show is over. I'm really surprised at how well I managed to pull it all off, particularly the reception (especially considering the formidable list of obstacles preceding it), but I had a good deal of help and support from my family and friends. At the end of the reception, I had planned to go home, have myself a hearty, deep-cleansing cry, and sleep off the remnants of the nerve-soothing wine. It didn't quite happen that way, though. I ended up stopping by a friend's reception elsewhere in town because I had enough time to do so, after which I went and got myself a cup of coffee and a snack. (I heard, by the way, that the food at my show was excellent. I was too busy trying to manipulate a glass of wine, hugs, and handshakes with my hands to hold a plate, and too busy running my mouth to actually put anything in it).

When I got home, I kicked off my 4-inch heels, which had become instruments of torture at that point (my feet STILL hurt), wiggled out of my fancy dress, put on my sweats, and sat on the sofa. I waited for the tears to come, for the release of many weeks of hard work and anxiety through my eyelids, but they didn't show. I think the real torrent will come when I finally have that diploma in my hand.

Before I can have that, though, I have to get through the next two weeks of classes, during which I also need to secure an internship, wait for the grad school decision letter, and learn Flash Animation, which I am convinced was invented for the sole purpose of making my life a living hell.

That said, I can't guarantee it won't be another four months before the next post, but I will certainly try to keep everyone updated on the goings-on here. And thanks to everyone who came out to Impact - it meant the world to me!

x365 Redux: Bonita

2009-02-28T15:25:00.001-05:00

You’re gone too soon, the sweet voice silenced, but no one who ever knew you will ever forget you. It didn’t matter if we knew you for a day or a lifetime; you will be missed dearly.

Original Post

Now, I don't claim to be an A student...

2008-12-19T11:42:00.008-05:00

The official Fall '08 Semester Recap!

So I'm back after that intense whirlwind of cramp-inducing, junk-food and caffeine-fueled all-nighters. And it was worth it - after what I was sure was going to be a really horrendous semester, I ended up earning a 3.25. Not bad, considering I was actually saying things at midterm like, "I don't think I can do this after all" and "maybe design isn't really what I'm cut out to do," and "I should really think about trying for a promotion at Starbucks."

I'm not kidding. I was looking at throwing in the towel. I considered dropping out at one point, thinking perhaps my head wasn't in the right place and feeling like my heart had taken leave. Perhaps these things were true, but I soldiered on nonetheless, and here I sit now, staring in disbelief at my grade report and the A- next to Graphic Design, a class which had at one point made me feel doomed as a designer, a class in which I was sure I wouldn't end up with more than a C.

I have to say I was a little disappointed in the B in Advertising Design. See, when I started on this venture, it was in the interest of becoming an Advertising Designer. That, boys and girls, was what I wanted to be when I grew up, what I'd dreamed of becoming at many points throughout my life, and ultimately the reason I went back to school. Yes, I know, a B isn't anything to sniff at. I've gotten lots of Bs in my lifetime, and in fact I am pretty much a straight-B student - always have been (my cumulative hovers around a 3.3 these days). I think I just would have felt better if I'd gotten a slightly higher grade. Then again, I was pouring so much sweat into the Graphic Design stuff that maybe my Advertising work suffered in the shuffle. Well...I'd stick with that theory if it weren't for the fact that the stuff I did get great grades on in Advertising was the stuff I pulled out of my ass the morning of the due date. Go figure. I should just resign myself to the fact that if I am going to pursue a career in design I'd better get used to sleeping for 45 minutes a night on metal-frame pleather loveseats.

The A-minus in Sign Language was no surprise, and I'll be offering commentary on that one in another post (addressing my most recent audiogram and the fact that it's a really good thing I'm learning ASL), and the B-minus in Jewelry Design was pretty much what I'd expected, although the instructor's final critique surprised me. I'd made no secret of the fact that I thought he was a douchebag, and had essentially stopped showing up for class because I resented having to get up at the crack of dawn and drive to campus and then walk half a mile just to be told my designs were "too predictable and symmetrical." In the end, though, he was happy enough with my work, so I'm not complaining. I'm just glad it's over.

And now? Now I get to have a "break" wherein I scramble for the next month trying to get through the holidays, finish the new book, and get the house painted and the carpet ripped out. Alas, this is my last winter break, as next semester is my final one, so I will relish it with all I can.

And just for good measure (and because Mike asked me to), I'm including this fine photo of me "enjoying" a bowl of borscht.

(Kind of like that photo of the bunny with the pancake on its head, you know, when you don't know what else to say).

Coming up for air...

2008-12-03T21:50:00.004-05:00

I know I promised all kinds of witty commentary, product reviews, x365 redux entries, and nonsensical ramblings, but the fact of the matter is I'm buried in other ventures at the moment.

So I just wanted to post very quickly and tell you all that I've not forgotten about the blog, or about you (because you are, of course, my loyal fans and I cannot forget such); I'm simply too busy right now to update. This is actually a shame, as I frequently throughout my days will see something, ponder something, read something, and think, "Oooh, I need to blog about that!"

Unfortunately, as these things go, finals are coming and I'm way behind, so the blog is just something else that's going to have to get shuffled around on the proverbial stove, relegated to the back burner for now.

See you all in a couple of weeks!

Japan Photos are up!

2008-11-22T14:21:00.004-05:00

Finally! I had to whittle 810 photos down to a more manageable size (I ended up with just over 350), organize them into chronological albums, and caption them. And this, my friends, took a fair bit of time. I'm sorry for dragging my feet on it, but hopefully you'll enjoy them nonetheless!

Click HERE to see!

New Project

2008-11-12T00:04:00.002-05:00

Well...all is not lost. I've been given a new assignment by the author, and this one sounds like it won't be as labor-intensive as the last one. I will keep you all posted with new developments.

x365 Redux: Tall Mild

2008-11-11T11:08:00.004-05:00

You’re actually not half bad. Maybe it’s because our regular brew is a mild now, but not long ago I decided you weren’t deserving of my contempt after all, and I stopped splashing decaf in your cup.

Original Post

---

A note about the x365 Redux

As you all know (unless you are brand new to the blog), I had promised to some "redux" posts where I go back and rewrite some entries based on the present day's perspective. Not everyone will get a redux, and the blog is no longer dedicated solely to the x365 project. Not every day will have a redux entry, and their order will be random for the most part (in other words, I won't necessarily be doing the reduces in the same order the originals were posted). I will also include a link to the original post with each one as well. So, yeah. That's what that's all about. Enjoy!

Disappointment

2008-11-09T08:33:00.005-05:00

I don't know how else to say this. I've been removed from the book project. Fired.

Long story short - the author wasn't happy with my first round of illustrations. She wasn't happy with the revisions. And rather than try to get me to do them yet again, she pulled me off the whole thing. There will be a different project for me in the future, according to her, because I have, after all, been paid. Unfortunately, after all is said and done, I will have essentially paid her. The hours, supplies, and energy invested in the project have far outspent what I was paid in salary or any residuals I might have received.

I'm trying really, really hard right now to talk myself into believing it's not because I suck. It's that my style wasn't what she wanted. It's not a matter of technical ability, not a matter of creative talent - it's just that what I do is not what she wants.

This is the first of many lessons I am going to endure in the journey toward professional creativity. And frankly, I don't know if I can do this. A quiet career in academia might be in order, with my creative energies more suited for personal projects. As I wind down my B.F.A. pursuit I realize I'm no better at what I do now than I was three years ago. I hate to think that I'll be now saddled with more student loan debt for a degree I won't use, but...it looks like that might indeed be the case.

See, here's a little secret about your beloved Deedums that you might not know: I am truly a creature of positive reinforcement. And every time I am dealt a blow in the form of criticism, I die a little inside and my confidence shrinks. This is why my upcoming gallery hanging is giving me hives just thinking about it. This is why I've never really displayed anything I've done. And this is why getting pulled off the book is enough to make me want to crawl back into bed right now and stay there until Christmas.

And yet - here comes the second twin rearing her head - part of me wants to take these drawings, change the story line, and publish my own fucking book. I own the images, and as long as I rewrite the story, I can do with them whatever I wish. When I was in college, I wrote two children's books. Both professors urged me to publish them, telling me that the stories and the illustrations were publish-worthy. Perhaps I'll resurrect them.

But right now? I'm just going to go back to bed.

The Smarties House

2008-11-07T17:23:00.005-05:00

I took advantage of the nice weather today and took down my Halloween decorations. It was a bittersweet moment, because I really, really like Halloween, and it also reminded me that we're now a week into November, which only serves to cause me to freak out over the rapid passage of time. But while I was tearing down fake webs and packing away purple lights and plastic skulls, I started reflecting on some stuff.

I had a good turnout on Halloween this year. I don’t know if it was because Halloween fell on a Friday night or if it was because word is finally getting out that people actually live on my street (there are only six houses on it, and if you blink while driving past, you’ll miss it), but I actually ran out of candy this year. Naturally, I’d helped myself to some of it beforehand, but I was still looking forward to having some left over. It was good candy! I always give out good candy, and this is why:

Halloween has traditionally been my favorite holiday (after Christmas, of course). From the time I was born until my 12th birthday or so, my mother would browse the patterns in the fabric store, and whip up some elaborate costume that would put all the other mothers to shame. No store-bought masks here, no cheap plastic capes. No pre-fab, pre-packaged ensembles for me. Everything was sewn and tailored to size, and my makeup was applied with fastidious attention to detail. I was amazed at some of the stuff she would come up with.

I can’t sew to save my life – never could – but I am a creative, so at least I know where my crafty genes came from. They certainly didn’t come from my father who, despite his best efforts to appear handy, was not exactly Bob Vila. On Halloween, his job was to take us out trick-or-treating while my mother handed out the candy at our house.

If there was one thing you didn’t want to be on Halloween, it was the house that gave out shitty candy. I grew up in such a house. As if my childhood weren’t already fraught with bullying and relentless teasing by every kid in existence, I was forced to endure the stigma of being a resident of the ”Smarties House.” Every street has one, as well as the “Bit-O-Honey House,” the “Stale Gumball House,” and the worst offender of all, the “Religious Tract House.” In fact I think the Smarties people are only one step above the “Are You SAVED?” whack-jobs. I mean, come on. Kids are coming to your door dressed as goblins and hobos and Star Wars characters with bags bursting at the seams with stuff that’s going to wind them up and drive their parents crazy later, and you’re going to drop a folded piece of paper in their bag? And a folded piece of paper that tells them they’re going to hell for crimes such as…gluttony? Then the next house drops in a narrow little tube of compressed sugar pellets that taste like sweetened colored chalk…it’s really enough to drive a kid off the edge. Or at least enough to give the offspring of said house a beatdown on the bus the next day.

Surely it needs no explanation, but look: nobody likes Smarties. Nobody. Anyone who says they do is lying, and is more than likely a sugar addict who has a stash of old Smarties in the cupboard for those emergencies when no other sugar is available. Much like an alcoholic will drink mouthwash to get a buzz on in his most desperate moments, so will a sugar junkie eat Smarties at his lowest point.

Smarties are nasty. Smarties are cheap. And Smarties are made of God-knows-what. In this day and age, they’re probably made, like everything else, with Melamine. But on second thought, they’re probably not even made anymore. The Smarties being sold today are probably the same Smarties that my mother bought in 1979, dusted off a little and repackaged to look fresh.

“But Mom, you DON’T understand!” I would wail as I watched her bust out the big bag of Smarties every year. “I’m gonna get killed!”

She’d flash her trademark look of disdain and disbelief, roll her eyes, and say, “Did you get killed last year? Or the year before that? Or any of the years before that? No? Then knock it off. Smarties are all we can afford.”

I wanted to call bullshit on this so many times, since how much more expensive could the good stuff be? I mean, if the Rudnickis with their nine kids and rusted-out 1966 Dart Swinger could afford to give out bite-size Snickers, then how was it we couldn’t afford to give out at least Mallo Cups or something? What about Tootsie Rolls? They weren’t chocolate, but at least they were flavored like chocolate, so they were still higher on the candy chain than fucking Smarties. It didn’t matter; arguing with the woman was pointless, as I would discover over the eighteen years I lived under her roof. And yes, I did consider that maybe we couldn't afford better candy because all our money went to making those awesome costumes, but we often recycled the costumes, since my sister could usually fit into something I'd worn a few years prior, so technically my mother was only making one costume most years. And then when we got older and started making our own costumes out of thrift-store finds and old sporting goods, there was virtually no money coming out of the candy fund for them. So I stand my ground in proclaiming my mother's statement total baloney.

So off into the dusk I would trundle with my giant plastic handle-bag and my elaborate home-made costume, cursing my mother under my breath, and praying that Scott Oxendine and his posse would go easy on me this year. Anyone who’s ever disputed that whole “sins of thy fathers” stuff was never a chunky, pig-nosed loser whose mother who gave out Smarties on Halloween, because they would understand the validity of that statement, and how the sin of my mother’s Smarties distribution would be visited upon me many times over by way of lunchbox keep-away, hat-snatching, and other bullying tactics of your average 10-year-old.

I would come home from trick-or-treating and dump my bag out in the middle of the living room. My sister and I would trade each other for stuff we liked more, and my parents would casually pick through the pile looking for razor blades, pins, and hits of acid mixed in with the Reeses’ cups and Kit-Kats and mini-pamphlets adorned with photos of clouds being pierced by sunbeams. Occasionally they’d find a piece of candy that was open – more likely the result of having 30 pounds of pressure applied from the other candy in the bag than a nefariously-placed instrument of torture. But no razor blades, which was actually kind of disappointing. I could have used a razor-infused Milky Way on the bus.

We had various things we liked to do with the candy we didn’t want. Sometimes my dad would take the gumballs or the caramels, and my mom would always take the Sugar Daddies. One year my sister and I made an entire chain of Bit-O-Honeys and Mary Jane Candies by pressing them together end-to-end and stuck it around the perimeter of our bedroom, much to my mother’s chagrin (we never imagined it would take the paint off when we took it down). But after all was said and done, you can take a wild guess where our Smarties ended up.

Trick or Treat!

What now?

2008-11-05T03:56:00.000-05:00

Well, I will say this: lots of folks got left out.

Maybe it's Facebook and the sudden mass convergence upon my life lately by people I'd all but forgotten that made me realize this, or perhaps it was my impulsive nature that caused me to write posts about random strangers with ugly babies and rude cashiers instead of randomly remembered high-school acquaintances and childhood friends, I don't know. But the whole idea of the x365 was to write about individuals who were memorable in some way - whether that memory was a result of a fleeting slight against my intelligence by some nameless asshole, or a lifelong resonating influence by a teacher who gave me the chance I needed.

Quite honestly, I have very few regrets about this past year (in terms of my blog entries, anyway). Oh sure, I wonder from time to time if I shouldn't have included every former boss, or more former co-workers, or every employee, or Barack Obama ...but the fact is, I didn't. That's the trouble with a project like this - there are only 365 days in a year, and I've met way more than 365 people in the last 37 years.

So. What's next? Well, over the last year some things have changed. There are a number of posts about folks which, if I'd chosen to write them today, would be written differently. So for a little while I'll be peppering in some "x365 redux" posts among my regular musings. So look for those, as well as some new stories and commentary on stuff I find annoying, confusing, or just plain weird (Budweiser-Clamato Cocktail in a Can comes to mind).

I've missed "regular" blogging. And it's not that I didn't want to blog like a regular human being, it's that the x365 project sort of sapped what little creative energy I had left between school, freelancing, and trying to piece together a semi-clean outfit from the bedroom floor.

I hope you've all enjoyed my participation in the x365 experiment, and hope you'll continue to be regular visitors on Planet Deedums. And if you didn't make the list, again...I'm sorry.

With much love,
Deedee

David Sedaris

2008-11-05T03:28:00.000-05:00

365x365
The first time I met you was in a cozy Chicago bookstore with a handful of people. The second time was in an arena with hundreds of fans. Your fame is well-deserved, and you’re an enormous inspiration.

Dino

2008-11-04T05:21:00.001-05:00

364x365
I’ll never forgive you for firing me. If I’d screwed up alone, fine, I’d own it. But you signed off on my mistake, and I took the fall. I loved that job. Losing it was totally devastating.

Grace

2008-11-03T04:45:00.001-05:00

363x365
You were so damn much fun to work with. I loved your free spirit, your even temperament, and the almost hedonistic way you approached life, and yet, you were one of the most grounded people I knew.

P.J. at Nietzsche's

2008-11-02T01:34:00.000-04:00

362x365
There's something oddly comforting and delightful about a bar doorman who hugs his regular patrons. There’s something really devastating about finding out that doorman is fighting cancer. Fight the good fight, my man. We need you back.

Shirley D.

2008-11-01T05:33:00.000-04:00

361x365
You hated the thought of me living on cheese sandwiches all summer, so you invited me into your home. I got to be part of a family where fear didn’t run the show, and it was awesome.

Donny K.

2008-10-31T04:03:00.001-04:00

360x365
How can the guy who made it possible for me to meet my hero NOT get a mention here? Seriously, it meant the world to me, and I’ll never be able to thank you enough. Rock on.

Randy

2008-10-30T05:12:00.001-04:00

359x365
You’re a little bitch. Maybe it was from growing up with nine sisters, but dude, you DON’T play nice with others. How many band members will you go through before you figure it out? Get over yourself.

Damon

2008-10-29T05:51:00.000-04:00

358x365
I knew the second I saw you exchanging numbers with S it was a disaster in the making. It’s tough being in the middle between friends, but with all due respect, you did act like an asshole.

Danielle C.

2008-10-28T06:45:00.001-04:00

357x365
You and I were “best friends” only because your grandparents lived next door. We fought constantly and I disliked you most of the time. Your thumbs were huge, like big toes, and you had no coordination whatsoever.

Kari V.

2008-10-27T06:44:00.002-04:00

356x365
We stole butts from our parents’ ashtrays to “smoke” behind our garages. Whose idea was that? We were so young, we didn’t know what we were doing, but I unfortunately figured it out a few years later.

Sheryl

2008-10-26T05:01:00.002-04:00

355x365
It’s weird how some people click right away, but you and I did just that. And I always know that no matter how long we go between chats, we’ll always pick up right where we left off.

Pat Barry

2008-10-25T05:25:00.001-04:00

354x365
You and John were my first landlords, and I’m glad my first renting experience was positive. Plus you let me work off my rent at your catering business, which was not only cool, but prevented starvation, too.

Norine

2008-10-24T06:24:00.001-04:00

353x365
It all started twenty years ago at Bells. You are the definition of a true-blue friend. How else to define someone who drives 1000 miles on their wedding anniversary to help a friend pack up and move?

Gramma Audrey

2008-10-23T17:21:00.001-04:00

352x365
“Flower Gramma,” you never lost your Canadian-ness, even after forty years in the States. You used silly words like “veranda” and “oleo,” and said “eh.” Colleen and I still laugh about your thumbs on the steering wheel.

Michael

2008-10-22T06:20:00.000-04:00

351x365
Growing up with you was a lot of fun. Fond memories abound, with inside jokes that have lasted a lifetime and never get old. I’m glad we’ve stayed close; being a grown-up with you is fun, too!

Thomas

2008-10-21T04:19:00.000-04:00

350x365
You’re so lucky to have turned your incredible talent into a lucrative career, and I’m immensely proud of you. But I wish you’d lose that grudge against C. It was more fun when we all got along.

Eve

2008-10-20T07:13:00.000-04:00

349x365
I’m all about religious freedom, which is why people like you piss me off. I’m quite content in my beliefs. So, no, I don’t want you to tell me about your “really cool Christian church, “ thanks.

Mr. Getman

2008-10-19T12:27:00.002-04:00

348x365
Nobody hated you because you were fat, we hated you because you were a nasty, sadistic bastard with a fat complex who threw stuff at us. The fact that you were a math teacher didn’t help, either.

Mr. Graff

2008-10-18T12:08:00.000-04:00

347x365
You were my first male teacher. I was nervous. It kind of broke my heart when I ran into you two years later and you didn’t remember me; I’d tried so hard to make a good impression.

M.O.

2008-10-17T12:06:00.001-04:00

346x365
The adorability factor works in your favor most of the time, but some days I just can’t deal with your shit. Being cute does not give you license to do whatever the hell you feel like doing.

Rich Silvestro

2008-10-16T04:19:00.000-04:00

345x365
You were a funny little man, quiet but wry when the moment called for it. You could build amazing things out of nothing, and you taught me more about power tools than any shop teacher ever had.

Wendy Dwyer

2008-10-15T07:23:00.000-04:00

344x365
I danced like a moose on sedatives. Your words, but I agreed. We worked with what I could do instead of focusing on what I couldn’t. The wheeled cage for 3PO was my crowning moment. Freaking awesome.

Dr. Preston

2008-10-14T00:22:00.001-04:00

343x365
I was afraid to tell you I was leaving your program, because I worried you’d take it personally. Instead, you gave me your blessing and told me it was the best choice you’d ever seen me make.

Lee Dunholter

2008-10-13T06:13:00.001-04:00

342x365
You put me on a team with two guys who weren’t even theatre majors, and then called my presentation “cavalier.” You looked like Santa, spoke in monotone, and were impossible to understand under all that facial hair.

Bob Alvin

2008-10-12T21:03:00.001-04:00

341x365
You crotchety old coot, we all loved you, despite the fact that you made that difficult sometimes. You knew your shit, you taught us a lot, and I don’t think any of us will ever forget you.

Nancy Stone

2008-10-11T21:02:00.000-04:00

340x365
You were so happy and encouraging when I changed my major to Theatre. It was the first time in my life I felt like someone believed in me. I can’t begin to describe how much that meant.

Bob Weiner

2008-10-10T20:57:00.001-04:00

339x365
My whole life I’d wanted to act in a play, and all I needed was that one person to give me that chance. When you cast me in WSS, you became that person. It changed my life.

Magdalene H.

2008-10-09T12:50:00.000-04:00

338x365
Every day you hand us your credit card and a quarter for the tip jar. It’s small but thoughtful nonetheless. And hell, it used to be a dime, so we must be doing something right by you.

Jesse

2008-10-08T20:43:00.000-04:00

338x365
Bullshit artists are bad enough. Bad, cocky ones are the worst. Your mother isn’t in the Guinness Book as the oldest menstruating woman alive, and I bet she’d be mortified to know you’re telling people she is.

D.Y.

2008-10-07T10:02:00.001-04:00

337x365
You were a pathological liar with a sweating problem; older, overweight, and constantly and desperately hitting on anything with a pulse. I tried to be friends with you, but you just annoyed the shit out of me.

Andrew

2008-10-06T10:01:00.001-04:00

336x365
I harbor this weird little crush on you, though you’re totally NOT my type. You probably think I’m just being nice, though. And maybe I am. But I would definitely say yes if you asked me out.

"Venti Guinness Latte"

2008-10-05T09:29:00.000-04:00

335x365
We all hate you. The only reason you’re allowed in is because we have different management now, but don’t get too comfortable. You’re a racist, an asshole, and a creep; we’ll get you re-banned sooner or later.

Malka

2008-10-04T09:28:00.001-04:00

334x365
Did you know that your husband refers to you as “El Groucho?” You always look at me suspiciously ever since that day he complimented my eyes. Believe me, lady, you’ve got absolutely nothing to worry about there.

Yosef

2008-10-03T09:27:00.000-04:00

333x365
You’ve heard “stereotypes exist for a reason,” right? Way to perpetuate yours, with your constant haggling and your incessant attempts to get something for nothing. Honestly, it’s tiring and downright rude. It’s Starbucks, not a street market.

Vic

2008-10-02T01:18:00.001-04:00

332x365
What man breaks up with his girlfriend because her mom has cancer? Having to be nice to you at Starbucks SUCKS. We should have a rule that we’re allowed to be rude to friends’ jerky asshole exes.

Bob

2008-10-01T10:36:00.002-04:00

331x365
Please don’t break S’s heart. I think you’re really cool (even though you were mean to me once). She’s really into you. You make her happy. Please don’t ruin it; she deserves to be cherished by someone.

Andrea O.

2008-09-30T11:20:00.000-04:00

330x365
I hope we’ll stay in touch after I graduate next year. You’re a great person and a wonderful teacher. I feel like you’re really going to be able to help me navigate the world of Deaf Services.

Tommy Manzi

2008-09-29T23:06:00.001-04:00

329x365
I was hoping you’d be at last night’s show, but I didn’t know if managers actually travel with the band, so I didn’t ask. But thanks so much for hooking me up. Further evidence that Cake rules.

Louis

2008-09-28T23:00:00.001-04:00

328x365
I didn’t pick you for any other reason than you were sitting closest to me. Your girlfriend seemed pissed at first, but hopefully I made it clear that I was addressing the entire group, not just you.

SPCA Lady

2008-09-27T22:59:00.000-04:00

327x365
I could understand if you’d confused a rat for a mouse, but you seriously thought Phyllis was a guinea pig? I should tell everyone I have 13 guinea pigs instead of rats and see how reactions differ.

John E.

2008-09-26T00:12:00.001-04:00

326x365
I’m completely convinced there’s nothing you can’t do. Honestly, I’ve not had one class with you where you didn’t kick serious ass. Your future is very, very bright, kid. I’ll know you’ll do great things with it.

George Foreman

2008-09-25T05:50:00.001-04:00

325x365
I know I’ve never met you, but I just want to say that your grill is like the best fucking thing ever. I’m kicking myself for not having bought one earlier. I mean, I actually cook now.

Ke

2008-09-24T06:51:00.000-04:00

324x365
You were this quiet little Asian kid who worked hard, loved his sporty import ride, and drank a lot of milk. Now you’re all built up and not so quiet, but everything else is still the same.

Tall five-sugar latte

2008-09-23T12:46:00.001-04:00

323x365
Why are you always so rude? Is it because you know we still, four years later, screech hysterically about the time your tube top fell down? You know Ke is scarred for life because of that incident.

William "18 pump raspberry latte"

2008-09-22T12:45:00.000-04:00

322x365
You order so much sugar in your beverage that I often think we should make you sign a waiver. No wonder you’re so miserable – your blood sugar is probably off the charts.

Sara Parsons

2008-09-21T12:19:00.000-04:00

321x365
I’m so psyched to have an astrological compatriot at work. Maybe my behavior will make a little more sense to everyone now that there are two (or four, if you want to get technical) of us there.

Kacey

2008-09-20T10:41:00.000-04:00

320x365
Remember how you used to be really uptight and how we used to not get along? I’m glad those days are over, because hanging out with you is fun, even if we don’t do it very often.

Ron G.

2008-09-19T07:01:00.000-04:00

319x365
They started not scheduling us on the same shift because we were so obnoxious together. But I couldn’t help it; you brought out my inner 10-year-old. I’m psyched for you that your band is doing so well.

Dave M.

2008-09-18T07:00:00.000-04:00

318x365
That you stood up for me when I was being railroaded spoke volumes about your character, even if you were a pain in the ass to work with sometimes. Thanks for all those awesome back rubs, too.

Patti D.

2008-09-17T06:59:00.001-04:00

317x365
I like you so much better than Lisa. I’m still slightly afraid of you because you’re the DM (and as such can tank my job if you want), but you’re much more approachable than she ever was.

Patty R.

2008-09-16T06:57:00.000-04:00

316x365
At first I wasn’t sure how we’d get along, but I think being the same age has worked to our advantage. I like that you treat me like I know what I’m doing. Because, well, I do.

Katie

2008-09-15T18:56:00.002-04:00

315x365
You’re like the nicest lady ever, but you evidently haven’t taken a shower in years. Is the weird crusty skin thing the reason you don’t bathe, or is not bathing causing the weird skin thing? You stink!

Trash Guy

2008-09-14T15:55:00.001-04:00

314x365
Why are you an asshole? I never caused you any trouble, yet you’ve thrown away two of my city totes, one galvanized can, and two recycling bins. What the hell? What did I ever do to you?