Dear Carbs,
I miss you; do you miss me? You probably don't. You've probably moved on to others, and I understand. I would've done the same thing.
We've had some really good times, no? Pasta, do you remember how every time Smitty would go out of town, we would have our special time together because I didn't feel like cooking anything else? We would have wine, watch some DVR and really let our hair down. Mmm...I miss the taste of you mingled with marinara sauce. I dream about it.
Potatoes, I can't forget you. You soothed me when I was sick and couldn't eat anything else. Your loving starch enveloped me like a comfortable blanket and filled up my my empty places with buttery goodness. You are sometimes like the lesser-known friend talked about in "Wind Beneath My Wings." You fit into any meal with no aforethought as to whether you may have had something else to do, and you do it with aplomb and grace.
Rice and bread, how do you manage your adaptability? You can make a sandwich, and you can go underneath anything, respectively, to complete all of us. How many times has a sandwich hit the spot after a long day? And rice, you were a main component of my favorite dish growing up, pepper steak, and you can't be substituted for brown rice. Brown rice, I've met white rice, and you are no white rice.
I will be seeing some of you soon, although in smaller portions, perhaps with whole grains thrown crudely over your perfect forms, but I wanted you to know, that if you want to text me or friend me on Facebook, we could do that, but I can't make any plans to see you just yet.
I love you all,
Emily
Ahhhh...that was cathartic. When we went grocery shopping Sunday, I actually said to an inanimate potato, "I miss you." Smitty pretended not to know me. That's fine, I just wanted them to be aware. I nearly clawed the throat out of a co-worker eating a chocolate cookie, but it was a fleeting primal thing, like when you're waiting for a bus or train and briefly think about pushing someone in front of the bus/train. I fight these things. Occasionally, my inner censor fails, and I see a guy at a party wearing baggy, acid-washed jeans and a wife-beater, and I can't take it any more and ask, "I'm sorry, but what exactly were you thinking when you left the house?" And all my guy friends shrink away because they assume he won't hit me, but will hit them...and it works out fine, because he knows he's lame and just says, "I've been working out."
My point is, for the most part, I don't say or do the things I really want to. None of us do. I probably do more than others, but it's not really shocking from me anymore. We should all take a well-inked lesson from the "Simpsons" episode where Bart did whatever he wanted and the town followed suit. I think it causes cancer, or at the very least, wrinkles, to tell even white lies. That's how heart disease happens, people. Fly the blunt flag...or just do what I do and phrase it sarcastically so people don't know if you're serious.
Tuesday, July 27, 2010
Saturday, July 24, 2010
Welcome to Hotel Soda Detox
So, as many of you may've read, after starting the South Beach Diet, I felt phenomenal until yesterday, when I started feeling dizzy and off-balance..even more so than usual..and today, I figured it out. I'm not drinking caffeine any more after coffee in the morning. I was so geeked up on caffeine, and honestly, before starting this diet, I had even cut down, that I'm literally having withdrawals. Also, am still retaining water in my feet and now, hands, to the point that I look like Princess Cankles and the Mayor of Sausage Finger Village. Ugh...At this point, I haven't lost any weight and am somewhat dismayed because everyone who has tried this diet has lauded losing 5-8 pounds in the first week...well, there are two days to go, I've eaten everything I'm supposed to, and even exercised...sigh...alas, I'm not giving up, I just think, if we can put people on the moon, we can make diets that work instantly.
We're watching "The Golden Child," which never ceases to crack me up. It's nice to see Eddie Murphy when he was still funny. What happened to him? I think his last movie was "Daddy Day Camp vs. Dr. Doolittle: Electric Boogaloo." Sad..which brings me to...what ever happened to Jodie Foster, Edward Norton, Denzel Washington, Naomi Watts, and Nicole Kidman, to name a few...why aren't they making movies?
I have this mental list of productive things to do this weekend with my newfound energy:
1. Clean out my car. Any of you that have known me for at least 10 years know that I have a long-standing history of disgusting cars. The '93 Ford Probe I got when I graduated from high school wasn't a bad car, but for some reason, I chose to throw anything and everything into the backseat and floorboards of that car. My best friend Amanda once rode with me somewhere to meet mutual friends and secretly asked another friend to give her a ride back when something in the car bit her..(allegedly).
When I sold that car privately, there were books, my tennis racket, food wrappers, and possibly a small Mexican family living in it, but I couldn't clean it out because my ankle was broken, so my mom let the buyer drive away with God knows what. The funny thing was, that car also had about 5 bumper stickers on it which included, "It'll be a better world when teachers and schools have all the money they need, but the military has to hold a bake sale to buy weapons," "I'm Pro-choice, and I vote," and "Diva." A man in his 50s bought the car, and my friend Ellen saw it parked at Belk about 6 months later, and he had taken all the stickers off except for "Diva."
2. Straighten our bookshelf. Since I was 7, I've collected books. My grandfather got shipments of books from publishers and let us choose what we wanted, and he reviewed the rest for newspapers and the publishing companies. If I had to go to a desert island and choose only three books, I would die. Smitty had no idea what he was getting into as far as acquiring books along with a winsome bride. When my father died, I got some of the most precious books in the world, including his master's thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien and all of his Norton anthologies he used for teaching his literature classes. And the best part is that they're underlined with his favorite parts, some of which he and I used to discuss. I miss my dad.
3. Washing our dirty, stinky dogs. Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, but they are both long overdue for baths. Every time I get out of my car and they ebulliently greet me, a wave of general outside stench and stinky dog washes over me. I know how Norton deals with baths (shakes uncontrollably while giving me a dirty look and trying to escape), but I haven't given Zooey a bath yet. Should be interesting. In fact, I believe I shall enlist Smitty to take pictures. I don't take enough pictures..and I would like a photographic measure of how much weight I will lose...it'll be like before and after pics involving dogs..perhaps there's a fetish site where money can be made....hmmm
We're watching "The Golden Child," which never ceases to crack me up. It's nice to see Eddie Murphy when he was still funny. What happened to him? I think his last movie was "Daddy Day Camp vs. Dr. Doolittle: Electric Boogaloo." Sad..which brings me to...what ever happened to Jodie Foster, Edward Norton, Denzel Washington, Naomi Watts, and Nicole Kidman, to name a few...why aren't they making movies?
I have this mental list of productive things to do this weekend with my newfound energy:
1. Clean out my car. Any of you that have known me for at least 10 years know that I have a long-standing history of disgusting cars. The '93 Ford Probe I got when I graduated from high school wasn't a bad car, but for some reason, I chose to throw anything and everything into the backseat and floorboards of that car. My best friend Amanda once rode with me somewhere to meet mutual friends and secretly asked another friend to give her a ride back when something in the car bit her..(allegedly).
When I sold that car privately, there were books, my tennis racket, food wrappers, and possibly a small Mexican family living in it, but I couldn't clean it out because my ankle was broken, so my mom let the buyer drive away with God knows what. The funny thing was, that car also had about 5 bumper stickers on it which included, "It'll be a better world when teachers and schools have all the money they need, but the military has to hold a bake sale to buy weapons," "I'm Pro-choice, and I vote," and "Diva." A man in his 50s bought the car, and my friend Ellen saw it parked at Belk about 6 months later, and he had taken all the stickers off except for "Diva."
2. Straighten our bookshelf. Since I was 7, I've collected books. My grandfather got shipments of books from publishers and let us choose what we wanted, and he reviewed the rest for newspapers and the publishing companies. If I had to go to a desert island and choose only three books, I would die. Smitty had no idea what he was getting into as far as acquiring books along with a winsome bride. When my father died, I got some of the most precious books in the world, including his master's thesis on J.R.R. Tolkien and all of his Norton anthologies he used for teaching his literature classes. And the best part is that they're underlined with his favorite parts, some of which he and I used to discuss. I miss my dad.
3. Washing our dirty, stinky dogs. Frankly, I don't know how I'm going to do it, but they are both long overdue for baths. Every time I get out of my car and they ebulliently greet me, a wave of general outside stench and stinky dog washes over me. I know how Norton deals with baths (shakes uncontrollably while giving me a dirty look and trying to escape), but I haven't given Zooey a bath yet. Should be interesting. In fact, I believe I shall enlist Smitty to take pictures. I don't take enough pictures..and I would like a photographic measure of how much weight I will lose...it'll be like before and after pics involving dogs..perhaps there's a fetish site where money can be made....hmmm
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
A farewell to ankles...and other lesser known classic tales...
So, apparently, it's 1987 because I used mousse this morning. The reason was twofold, 1. I didn't have time to dry my hair, and 2. I thought it might be nice to try and have wavy, beachy hair...Apparently, my hair is incapable of that because all the mousse did was make my hair look greasy, and it has that weird, somewhat hard texture that is what led to me not using any product other than shampoo, conditioner, and frizz control in the first place. I wish I had an off-the-shoulder sweat shirt, some leg warmers, and parachute pants to really embrace the look.
I am a South Beach diet dynamo...seriously, I've finally channeled my OCD into something positive. The weird thing is, I feel awesome. Seriously, this is only Day 3, but I have consistently gotten up all week at 7 a.m. so I can have coffee, watch "West Wing," (how I love you Bradley Whitford), work out and make breakfast before I go to work. I have energy, I'm in a festive mood all day without the use of narcotics or alcohol (not that I was doing that during the day before, I'm just saying I used to question cheerful people as being on cocaine), and I look forward to the smallest things, like "Total Eclipse of the Heart" came on the radio when I got off work, and I nearly teared up. That is one of my Top Ten all-time favorite car-singing songs. I sing so well in my estimation that I give myself chills. It's really emotional.
However....this morning I happened to look down and what used to be my ankles and thought, "Hmm...did someone replace my ankles with a misshapen pillow; what's happening there?" For whatever reason, I am retaining the hell out of some fluid, and I appear to have gained two pounds since last week, to which the old dark and twisty Emily may have responded to by quitting my little regiment and eating a bag of Oreos, but the new Zen Emily says, "Eh, it'll work itself out," which has also been my universal response every time I've gotten a bad haircut..I'm not kidding, my hair grows really fast. There's no hair disaster that can't be undone, except for the time I attempted to highlight/dye my hair blonde about 5 years ago. If your hair is starting to go dark, you should not attempt to dye it yourself. It will turn out a color that frequents the pages of Playboy and many a strip club stage, but doesn't so much work for the average gal.
I didn't have to cook tonight, because we're having chicken with bones, which I refuse to touch. Well, it originally had bones. Smitty actually takes the bones and the meat out and cooks it so I don't have to touch it. Boneless, skinless breasts don't bother me so much as any bird with bones and bumpy skin...ugh...This is one of the many eccentricities that Smitty abides. God bless that tall drink of water.
Monday, July 19, 2010
If you like pina colada....and other mildly disturbing things..
I have been in a supremely good mood today; it's odd because A. I had less than 7 hours of sleep, B. I started my diet today, and C. It's Monday. I woke up at 6:30 for no apparent reason, made coffee, worked out on the Wii, made breakfast and got gussied up (I'm from Macon, Mississippi, leave me alone), and actually wore a dress to work. In a very un-New Age-like way, I figured, "I'm turning over a new leaf, new diet, new outlook on life and my chi and feng shui and all that, by God, I'll wear a dress." And I honestly felt better..perhaps my grandmother is right, "If you just put on lipstick, it'll all be okay."
I heard the "Pina Colada Song" on the way home from work, and I know it has another name, but I can't remember it. However, I'm very torn about this song. On the one hand you get to hear lyrics like "I'm not much into yoga....I am into champagne," but on the other hand, the douche bag narrator of the song is skimming the Personal Ads, and he, by his own admission, lives with someone...at the beginning he says, "Me and my old lady had fallen into the same old tired routine." Oh, you're kinda bored? Well, that makes cheating perfectly acceptable. It's just like that Fleetwood Mac song, "Love the One You're With." I HATE that song. Waaay before being married, when I was a teenager and first heard that song, I thought...hmm..that doesn't seem right; why would you be with someone you don't love...and why does this song seem to encourage that?
Also, I didn't know the song "Lola" was about a she-male until I heard the entire song at karaoke about 7 years ago. I truly had never listened to all the lyrics because I liked the fact that incorporated, "lalalala," which I think is underused in songs. The closing lyrics are "because I'm a man and so is Lola...lalalala Lola." I remember sitting at the Sports Page in Columbus, Mississippi, a bar that is literally a double-wide trailer on cinder blocks, and thinking..."Wait, Lola was a man?!?!" And now that I've actually paid attention to the lyrics, I think I might be mildly retarded for not knowing that already.
So, on day 1 of the South Beach diet, it seems I have turned my neurotic, mildly OCD tendencies into a can-do attitude for weight loss. I am obsessed. Clearly, waking at 6:30 should be proof enough for those that know me well. I leave you with the wisdom I've absorbed on Day 1:
1. Pureed cauliflower is nothing like mashed potatoes. You can say "South Beach mashed potatoes" and try to pretend like we can still call Fox News a "news channel," but at the end of the day, it's mutton dressed as lamb.
2. You really do feel better after you do some physical activity. Oh my Lord, how I hate to exercise, but after I played Wii tennis for 40 minutes this morning, even though those little cartoon bastards beat me, I genuinely felt kind of invigorated..stupid endorphins.
3. I'm not going to eat fruit, but I still maintain, the Lord made the fruit. How can we deprive ourselves of the Lord's bounty? I'm not saying the diet creator is going to hell...but it's a fine line, Dr., I'm just saying.
4. Rosemary can make anything taste better. I'm not kidding, it's like the chocolate of spices...it's soothing, multi-purpose, and it smells so good, you could probably put it on spinach and it would taste good...which brings me to.....
5. Spinach -- You are my culinary white whale. You and any manner of green, collard, mustard, turnip...yard grass...Prior to now, I can eat spinach when it's drowned in sour cream and artichokes...it makes a heavenly dip. Other that that, no, thank you. So, this morning, I dipped my toe into the spinach wading pool. I made these breakfast quiche cups with eggs, spinach, onions, and skim mozzarella cheese...and I can honestly say, not bad..it made a nice melange that made me forget that the leafy predator was taking over everything in the quiche. It was like a Stepford quiche, but the other ingredients held their own. Sooo, tomorrow night, I'm actually making steamed spinach. I feel it will likely be drenched in hot sauce so I don't taste that sweat-sock spinach taste, but at least I will stare it down and say...."Bring it, you Jolly Green Giant wannabe."
I heard the "Pina Colada Song" on the way home from work, and I know it has another name, but I can't remember it. However, I'm very torn about this song. On the one hand you get to hear lyrics like "I'm not much into yoga....I am into champagne," but on the other hand, the douche bag narrator of the song is skimming the Personal Ads, and he, by his own admission, lives with someone...at the beginning he says, "Me and my old lady had fallen into the same old tired routine." Oh, you're kinda bored? Well, that makes cheating perfectly acceptable. It's just like that Fleetwood Mac song, "Love the One You're With." I HATE that song. Waaay before being married, when I was a teenager and first heard that song, I thought...hmm..that doesn't seem right; why would you be with someone you don't love...and why does this song seem to encourage that?
Also, I didn't know the song "Lola" was about a she-male until I heard the entire song at karaoke about 7 years ago. I truly had never listened to all the lyrics because I liked the fact that incorporated, "lalalala," which I think is underused in songs. The closing lyrics are "because I'm a man and so is Lola...lalalala Lola." I remember sitting at the Sports Page in Columbus, Mississippi, a bar that is literally a double-wide trailer on cinder blocks, and thinking..."Wait, Lola was a man?!?!" And now that I've actually paid attention to the lyrics, I think I might be mildly retarded for not knowing that already.
So, on day 1 of the South Beach diet, it seems I have turned my neurotic, mildly OCD tendencies into a can-do attitude for weight loss. I am obsessed. Clearly, waking at 6:30 should be proof enough for those that know me well. I leave you with the wisdom I've absorbed on Day 1:
1. Pureed cauliflower is nothing like mashed potatoes. You can say "South Beach mashed potatoes" and try to pretend like we can still call Fox News a "news channel," but at the end of the day, it's mutton dressed as lamb.
2. You really do feel better after you do some physical activity. Oh my Lord, how I hate to exercise, but after I played Wii tennis for 40 minutes this morning, even though those little cartoon bastards beat me, I genuinely felt kind of invigorated..stupid endorphins.
3. I'm not going to eat fruit, but I still maintain, the Lord made the fruit. How can we deprive ourselves of the Lord's bounty? I'm not saying the diet creator is going to hell...but it's a fine line, Dr., I'm just saying.
4. Rosemary can make anything taste better. I'm not kidding, it's like the chocolate of spices...it's soothing, multi-purpose, and it smells so good, you could probably put it on spinach and it would taste good...which brings me to.....
5. Spinach -- You are my culinary white whale. You and any manner of green, collard, mustard, turnip...yard grass...Prior to now, I can eat spinach when it's drowned in sour cream and artichokes...it makes a heavenly dip. Other that that, no, thank you. So, this morning, I dipped my toe into the spinach wading pool. I made these breakfast quiche cups with eggs, spinach, onions, and skim mozzarella cheese...and I can honestly say, not bad..it made a nice melange that made me forget that the leafy predator was taking over everything in the quiche. It was like a Stepford quiche, but the other ingredients held their own. Sooo, tomorrow night, I'm actually making steamed spinach. I feel it will likely be drenched in hot sauce so I don't taste that sweat-sock spinach taste, but at least I will stare it down and say...."Bring it, you Jolly Green Giant wannabe."
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Weighting on Godot and the other flashes of brilliance that run through my head
So, the other night, I decided to turn up the '80s station on digital cable and jam out while I was making stir-fry. What initially caught my attention was Billy Ocean's "Get out of My Dreams," and I was set. However after that song and "Electric Avenue," this super slow song came on that I knew I recognized, but couldn't place until I heard the chorus, "How can I fall...how can I fall, when you just won't give me reason, when you just won't give me reason...at alllll," and I was instantly transported to riding around Macon, Mississippi, in my sister's '77 powder-blue Chevette (HAHAHAHAHA...I got a way newer car when I got my license, although it was an Oldsmobile Firenza that I think they recalled, but I know they don't make anymore.
I digress...actually, we had to have been in a car with a working tape player, so it may've been my mom's car, but my sister had met some guy who was somebody's cousin, his name was Thad, that's all I can remember, but she was quite the smitten kitten. But Thad didn't call...so she changed to words to Breathe's song "How Can I Fall," to "How could I fall, how could I fall when he just won't write or call me....when he just won't write or call me....at alll..." She is going to kill me for that, but I had to get it out, because it really disturbed me that I knew the words to that song.
I am a beached whale....I found out at my yearly check-up the other day that I have gained TWENTY-FIVE pounds in the span of a year and three months...That's like three newborn babies...although I'll tell you what it is...it's Emily refusing to exercise unless at gun point (now THAT would be boot camp), gall bladder surgery, which threw my eating habits and digestive system completely out of whack, and my father going from sick to sicker to death's door and beyond, and my eating to fill that hole I felt while he was getting worse and after he died. I'm not making excuses, God knows, it's pure sloth and Emily that led to this, but, by God, to quote my favorite President, "Yes, we can." (insert eye rolls here)
I am starting the South Beach Diet on Monday, and I am serious about this. I'm making a grocery list, although requiring that you keep salmon on hand is a bit short-sighted in this economy, and I am doing this. I don't want to be a size 4 again, it's been 13 years since that happened, but I want to be healthy and not get out of breath when I walk across a room, and I want to see one chin and one chin only when I happen to look down. I will fit into clothes I fit into when I lived in Pennsylvania when I lost weight, and I was a size 8. I am perfectly happy, and I don't even care about the weight. I care about the fact that my arms do that old-lady turkey-neck jiggle thing, I have gone up 3 sizes in 4 years, I abhor taking pictures because there is hard evidence that will last for infinity that I am a fatbody, and I want to have a baby in less than 2 years, and I do not want to start off at my present weight of 187..yah, that's right. I said it, because I want public accountability.
I am still super hot at this weight, but can you imagine the pure magnetism if I get back down to 130, which is my ideal goal weight? Kingdoms will fall...no, seriously, I don't feel bad about my appearance so much because I have the love of a person who genuinely doesn't care what weight I am, but I want him to know that I care how I look to him and to myself, and frankly, those are the only two people who matter.
So, possibly, as I cut out pasta, rice, bread, fruit (what kind of diet restricts fruit? It's from the Lord, I'm just saying...), and they said alcohol, but I'm omitting that one...oops, my book smudged that word, it looked like pine and beets, not wine and beer, so I'm going to interpret it my way....I may be writing about why I'm going to hunt down Mr. South Beach and force him to eat Twinkies...stay tuned.
I digress...actually, we had to have been in a car with a working tape player, so it may've been my mom's car, but my sister had met some guy who was somebody's cousin, his name was Thad, that's all I can remember, but she was quite the smitten kitten. But Thad didn't call...so she changed to words to Breathe's song "How Can I Fall," to "How could I fall, how could I fall when he just won't write or call me....when he just won't write or call me....at alll..." She is going to kill me for that, but I had to get it out, because it really disturbed me that I knew the words to that song.
I am a beached whale....I found out at my yearly check-up the other day that I have gained TWENTY-FIVE pounds in the span of a year and three months...That's like three newborn babies...although I'll tell you what it is...it's Emily refusing to exercise unless at gun point (now THAT would be boot camp), gall bladder surgery, which threw my eating habits and digestive system completely out of whack, and my father going from sick to sicker to death's door and beyond, and my eating to fill that hole I felt while he was getting worse and after he died. I'm not making excuses, God knows, it's pure sloth and Emily that led to this, but, by God, to quote my favorite President, "Yes, we can." (insert eye rolls here)
I am starting the South Beach Diet on Monday, and I am serious about this. I'm making a grocery list, although requiring that you keep salmon on hand is a bit short-sighted in this economy, and I am doing this. I don't want to be a size 4 again, it's been 13 years since that happened, but I want to be healthy and not get out of breath when I walk across a room, and I want to see one chin and one chin only when I happen to look down. I will fit into clothes I fit into when I lived in Pennsylvania when I lost weight, and I was a size 8. I am perfectly happy, and I don't even care about the weight. I care about the fact that my arms do that old-lady turkey-neck jiggle thing, I have gone up 3 sizes in 4 years, I abhor taking pictures because there is hard evidence that will last for infinity that I am a fatbody, and I want to have a baby in less than 2 years, and I do not want to start off at my present weight of 187..yah, that's right. I said it, because I want public accountability.
I am still super hot at this weight, but can you imagine the pure magnetism if I get back down to 130, which is my ideal goal weight? Kingdoms will fall...no, seriously, I don't feel bad about my appearance so much because I have the love of a person who genuinely doesn't care what weight I am, but I want him to know that I care how I look to him and to myself, and frankly, those are the only two people who matter.
So, possibly, as I cut out pasta, rice, bread, fruit (what kind of diet restricts fruit? It's from the Lord, I'm just saying...), and they said alcohol, but I'm omitting that one...oops, my book smudged that word, it looked like pine and beets, not wine and beer, so I'm going to interpret it my way....I may be writing about why I'm going to hunt down Mr. South Beach and force him to eat Twinkies...stay tuned.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Night Moves and Terrors and Screams
So, it's no secret I have had some issues sleeping. Either I can't go to sleep, I can't stay asleep, or when I do go to sleep, I have terrifying dreams involving trying to keep my father from dying. It is what it is, I'm pledging allegiance to Cymbalta and I'm doing okay..really..but the going to sleep and staying asleep is still an issue...
Soo.....Smitty and I had a brilliant idea..herbal supplements, i.e., Valerian Root and St. John's Wort. Seemed like a viable and reasonable option. However, the directions on the bottle, not kidding, say to take 3 caplets of Valerian Root 30 minutes before sleep. I followed their instructions dutifully and lo and behold, about an hour later, got as drowsy as I would've if I'd taken a bunch of Benadryl..
Sometime later, I was shaken awake, both by Smitty and my own screaming. He asked me what I was dreaming about, and I thought I said "A demon," but he claims I said "A poltergeist." Either way, he had to wake me up six times that night, and when I wasn't screaming, I was kicking and flopping around and snoring loudly enough that I did wake myself up. When his alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., I said, "Did you have to wake me up?" And he unleashed in a sleep-deprived rant, "What is WRONG with you? I had to wake you up six times. You need a doctor because you have problems. You are not normal," and then left the room, which led to my not speaking to him all day until he sent me a text message asking me if I was okay.
In retrospect, I would've probably stabbed him in his sleep if he had done that to me, although I would've gone to the other room ..which he could've done and admitted he could've done later that day when he apologized to me for blaming me for having nightmares. If I could control that, I'd be making some money.
So, herbal meds are great, but I don't know who the heck could take the recommended dosage and not be a. in a coma or b. a raving lunatic. I have scaled back my intake and so far, so good, although I still don't understand why I can't sleep at night. I love sleep. I think we should adopt the Mexican and European tradition of a big lunch and a nice afternoon nap. We'd be far more productive..something to hope for, anyway.
See you in my dreams, although for your sakes, I hope they're the good ones and not the ones where I was involved in a gang war or where the demon/poltergeist was chasing me.
Soo.....Smitty and I had a brilliant idea..herbal supplements, i.e., Valerian Root and St. John's Wort. Seemed like a viable and reasonable option. However, the directions on the bottle, not kidding, say to take 3 caplets of Valerian Root 30 minutes before sleep. I followed their instructions dutifully and lo and behold, about an hour later, got as drowsy as I would've if I'd taken a bunch of Benadryl..
Sometime later, I was shaken awake, both by Smitty and my own screaming. He asked me what I was dreaming about, and I thought I said "A demon," but he claims I said "A poltergeist." Either way, he had to wake me up six times that night, and when I wasn't screaming, I was kicking and flopping around and snoring loudly enough that I did wake myself up. When his alarm went off at 6:15 a.m., I said, "Did you have to wake me up?" And he unleashed in a sleep-deprived rant, "What is WRONG with you? I had to wake you up six times. You need a doctor because you have problems. You are not normal," and then left the room, which led to my not speaking to him all day until he sent me a text message asking me if I was okay.
In retrospect, I would've probably stabbed him in his sleep if he had done that to me, although I would've gone to the other room ..which he could've done and admitted he could've done later that day when he apologized to me for blaming me for having nightmares. If I could control that, I'd be making some money.
So, herbal meds are great, but I don't know who the heck could take the recommended dosage and not be a. in a coma or b. a raving lunatic. I have scaled back my intake and so far, so good, although I still don't understand why I can't sleep at night. I love sleep. I think we should adopt the Mexican and European tradition of a big lunch and a nice afternoon nap. We'd be far more productive..something to hope for, anyway.
See you in my dreams, although for your sakes, I hope they're the good ones and not the ones where I was involved in a gang war or where the demon/poltergeist was chasing me.
Friday, July 09, 2010
Pop culture runs my life...maybe we'll just focus on music and TV
I am voracious when it comes to pop culture: TV, movies, books, music, not so much art, although I guess art isn't pop culture, unless it's pop art, and I frankly am not cool enough to know what constitutes actual art and pop art...smug artists can judge me now if they'd like.
I am presently watching the lost footage of the "Real Housewives of NYC," because this series makes me so happy. I don't watch the Atlanta version, and I'm not wild about the prospect of the DC version, but I'll give it a chance. It's seriously the guiltiest pleasure I have, except maybe my love of board games, but I dunno that loving board games is trashy and mindless like reality TV. If I liked Pictionary, maybe, but I'm addicted to Trivial Pursuit and Smitty will NOT play with me. I like to think it's because he's scared, but it's actually because he is irritated by all board games, except Risk, which I bought him recently and takes 9 hours to play. What a brilliant idea that was.
Music defines my life in a lot of ways. I say that I have a monkey DJ in my head, because, frankly, I do. Well, really Smitty says that because it comforts him to say that rather than to say "Emily is a schizophrenic; I've made an awful, awful mistake," because at any given time, I will just sing whatever pops into my mind. Recently, it's been Carrie Underwood's song about her scratching her name into her cheating boyfriend's truck...can't remember the name. That's the thing, often, I can't remember the names of songs or the correct lyrics, which is why Smitty and my song is "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake or White Lion or Great White or whoever, because not long after we started dating, we were coming home from a party, and I was singing at the top of my lungs, "Cos I know what it means, to walk along when love is sweetly dreamed." (Actual lyrics: 'Cos I know what it means, to walk along the lonely street of dreams.') There was silence in the car and then "WHAT did you just say?" and it pretty much set the precedent for road trips with me singing at the top of my lungs and his looking sideways at me because I even know the lyrics I just sang aren't right, but I just don't care.
Besides random incorrect lyrics, bizarre songs just pop into my head. There was a song from a hotel commercial from when I was little, and it went "We're almost there, I want to go swimming....we're almost there, I want to watch TV." Also, any song from the "Three Amigos" or "The Princess Bride" or "Labyrinth" is burned into my brain. There is simply no way to undo it. If I ever get Alzheimer's and I so don't mean to joke about that, but it will end up with me quoting movies and singing the best of Wilson Phillips.
There was also this song from a completely ridiculous movie called "Summer Camp Nightmare" that my sister and I watched one Saturday while she was babysitting me while my mom was getting her Master's. Incidentally,during one of those babysitting adventures, my sister also broke my pinkie toe when she dropped a giant saucepan on it....because my sister in the kitchen is scary, then, now, and forever. Nonetheless, this movie had a song that the campers sang for a talent show or something that just went "Beef, beef, beef, beef baloney, beef, beef, beef, beef baloney," while grabbing his crotch and dancing around. It was horrible and horrified my sister, which is why I think I chose to hang onto that image and song, because I would torment her with it for a while after that. But, these are the things that creep into my head, unwarranted, that and Barenaked Ladies and Jane's Addiction and Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel, ad nauseum, I'm just giving you a glimpse into my psyche...it's scary and cold there, and the music is constant. This is why I need a Swedish team of people studying me. I could be on Oprah, I'm just saying.
I am presently watching the lost footage of the "Real Housewives of NYC," because this series makes me so happy. I don't watch the Atlanta version, and I'm not wild about the prospect of the DC version, but I'll give it a chance. It's seriously the guiltiest pleasure I have, except maybe my love of board games, but I dunno that loving board games is trashy and mindless like reality TV. If I liked Pictionary, maybe, but I'm addicted to Trivial Pursuit and Smitty will NOT play with me. I like to think it's because he's scared, but it's actually because he is irritated by all board games, except Risk, which I bought him recently and takes 9 hours to play. What a brilliant idea that was.
Music defines my life in a lot of ways. I say that I have a monkey DJ in my head, because, frankly, I do. Well, really Smitty says that because it comforts him to say that rather than to say "Emily is a schizophrenic; I've made an awful, awful mistake," because at any given time, I will just sing whatever pops into my mind. Recently, it's been Carrie Underwood's song about her scratching her name into her cheating boyfriend's truck...can't remember the name. That's the thing, often, I can't remember the names of songs or the correct lyrics, which is why Smitty and my song is "Here I Go Again" by Whitesnake or White Lion or Great White or whoever, because not long after we started dating, we were coming home from a party, and I was singing at the top of my lungs, "Cos I know what it means, to walk along when love is sweetly dreamed." (Actual lyrics: 'Cos I know what it means, to walk along the lonely street of dreams.') There was silence in the car and then "WHAT did you just say?" and it pretty much set the precedent for road trips with me singing at the top of my lungs and his looking sideways at me because I even know the lyrics I just sang aren't right, but I just don't care.
Besides random incorrect lyrics, bizarre songs just pop into my head. There was a song from a hotel commercial from when I was little, and it went "We're almost there, I want to go swimming....we're almost there, I want to watch TV." Also, any song from the "Three Amigos" or "The Princess Bride" or "Labyrinth" is burned into my brain. There is simply no way to undo it. If I ever get Alzheimer's and I so don't mean to joke about that, but it will end up with me quoting movies and singing the best of Wilson Phillips.
There was also this song from a completely ridiculous movie called "Summer Camp Nightmare" that my sister and I watched one Saturday while she was babysitting me while my mom was getting her Master's. Incidentally,during one of those babysitting adventures, my sister also broke my pinkie toe when she dropped a giant saucepan on it....because my sister in the kitchen is scary, then, now, and forever. Nonetheless, this movie had a song that the campers sang for a talent show or something that just went "Beef, beef, beef, beef baloney, beef, beef, beef, beef baloney," while grabbing his crotch and dancing around. It was horrible and horrified my sister, which is why I think I chose to hang onto that image and song, because I would torment her with it for a while after that. But, these are the things that creep into my head, unwarranted, that and Barenaked Ladies and Jane's Addiction and Frank Sinatra and Billy Joel, ad nauseum, I'm just giving you a glimpse into my psyche...it's scary and cold there, and the music is constant. This is why I need a Swedish team of people studying me. I could be on Oprah, I'm just saying.
Wednesday, July 07, 2010
I can't even escape to the East Coast to get away from the heat
I am hot. It's virtually all I think about all day long. I drink coffee out of my snowman mug so I can pretend it's winter..or that I'm a snowman. It's like every summer I suffer amnesia over the heat produced in the Deep South. At some point in winter, I know I say, "I wish it was summer." I feel it's safe to say after this summer, I will never utter that phrase again. And while I used to daydream about moving back to Philly to escape the heat, nope, not gonna happen, it's hot as hell there, too. Only there, when it's hot, this fetid smell comes from the steam grates in the street. I never experienced the heat there like they are currently experiencing, so that weird gas smell combined with men peeing in front of me in the streets kind of robs the romanticism of that notion.
Also, if it's so hot, why are my allergies going nuts? Doesn't heat kill things that make you sneeze? I mean, I'm no ENT, but I thought that was how it worked. Cold = dead sneezy causers, and Hot = dead mucus-producing trees...that's pretty much the equation that used to allow me to go outside in extreme heat and cold. Now, I'm popping Benadryl, Claritin, Allegra, Mucinex and various unmarked medications I find in my purse, and I still cannot breathe, have itchy eyes and throat and am snoring due to stuffiness to the point that I wake myself up. Don't talk to me about snore strips. All those do is misshape my nose to the point that I look like a Jim Henson creation.
In light of the overtime I have worked in recent weeks, I would like to take this time to apologize to the customer service staff at AT & T that I yelled at when they told us we were signed up for DSL, charged us for it, and then told us it wasn't available in our area. I can't remember their names, I even wrote them down, as I was going to send a letter to someone reproaching their behavior, but I got bored with it and apparently lost the torn napkin I was going to use to get revenge. After working in customer service, it is amazing the level to which you will acquiesce to even the most incompetent customer service personnel. Recently, at a department store, there was this couple checking out in front of us, and it was like double coupon day, and additional 30% off if you're name was Maria or something, so they were taking FOREVER, and when we finally got up to check-out, the girl apologized like 5 times and we both said, "It's fine; it's totally not your fault," and she was so glad that we weren't jackasses, she gave us an additional 15% off. It pays to be nice to your customer service folks, I'm just saying.
Songs I'm currently unable to get out of my head (in no particular order):
1. Carrie Underwood (I think) -- that song about the guy cheating and she keys his "pretty little souped up ride"
2. Sugar Ray - Every Morning...and I LOATHE Sugar Ray
3. Wilson Phillips - Hold On
4. Ryan Adams - Cracks in a Photograph
5. Laura Branigan - Gloria
6. Frank Sinatra - My Way
The monkey DJ in my head has multiple personalities.
Also, if it's so hot, why are my allergies going nuts? Doesn't heat kill things that make you sneeze? I mean, I'm no ENT, but I thought that was how it worked. Cold = dead sneezy causers, and Hot = dead mucus-producing trees...that's pretty much the equation that used to allow me to go outside in extreme heat and cold. Now, I'm popping Benadryl, Claritin, Allegra, Mucinex and various unmarked medications I find in my purse, and I still cannot breathe, have itchy eyes and throat and am snoring due to stuffiness to the point that I wake myself up. Don't talk to me about snore strips. All those do is misshape my nose to the point that I look like a Jim Henson creation.
In light of the overtime I have worked in recent weeks, I would like to take this time to apologize to the customer service staff at AT & T that I yelled at when they told us we were signed up for DSL, charged us for it, and then told us it wasn't available in our area. I can't remember their names, I even wrote them down, as I was going to send a letter to someone reproaching their behavior, but I got bored with it and apparently lost the torn napkin I was going to use to get revenge. After working in customer service, it is amazing the level to which you will acquiesce to even the most incompetent customer service personnel. Recently, at a department store, there was this couple checking out in front of us, and it was like double coupon day, and additional 30% off if you're name was Maria or something, so they were taking FOREVER, and when we finally got up to check-out, the girl apologized like 5 times and we both said, "It's fine; it's totally not your fault," and she was so glad that we weren't jackasses, she gave us an additional 15% off. It pays to be nice to your customer service folks, I'm just saying.
Songs I'm currently unable to get out of my head (in no particular order):
1. Carrie Underwood (I think) -- that song about the guy cheating and she keys his "pretty little souped up ride"
2. Sugar Ray - Every Morning...and I LOATHE Sugar Ray
3. Wilson Phillips - Hold On
4. Ryan Adams - Cracks in a Photograph
5. Laura Branigan - Gloria
6. Frank Sinatra - My Way
The monkey DJ in my head has multiple personalities.
Saturday, July 03, 2010
I would buy you a monkey; haven't you always wanted a monkey?
I've been meaning to write all week, and I'm having one of those crazy Faulkner-thoughts weeks. I'm all over the place. This is partially due to the fact that I feel like I've been living at work what with required overtime for the past three days and getting ready to have my mom and brother come visit. I spent two hours tonight cleaning the kitchen with so much Clorox, it made me dizzy and a little nauseous...I guess that's how you know stuff is clean.
I've been thinking about my dad a lot this week. I always think about him, even if it's not at the forefront of my mind, but I guess with my mom visiting, I wish he was coming, too. It's so hard for me to realize and fully accept that I'm never going to see him again. I can be perfectly fine and then his face appears in my mind's eye, and I hear him calling me "little girly," and I have to use a great amount of social appropriateness not to start crying. I also think I'm more than a teensy bit neurotic about something happening to Smitty and other people I love. And this just manifests in my internally freaking out over every health thing Smitty mentions to me, so I don't tell him, or he'll stop telling me things...that's totally healthy, right?
On a related note, I can't stop reading Jodi Picoult books. They're sad, gut-wrenching, someone either dies or has some horrible disease, or both, yet, I'm strangely drawn. Don't get me wrong, she's a brilliant writer, which is one of the main reasons I think I keep reading them. Plus, I think I'm hoping that she'll write one where everyone is healthy, happy, and in love, and they go live in Never-Never Land. Fingers crossed. Maybe I'll just re-read the "Bell Jar" to cheer me up.
I am a disgrace to Netflix. I've had "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" for 2 weeks. I want to watch it, but I feel guilty kicking Smitty out of the living room, and for some reason, he refuses to watch it. This, after he made me watch "Avatar," "Death Race" (which I actually liked, but that's besides the point), all of those stupid "Underworld" movies, so I think he could at least try to watch it...but he's cute, so I'll forgive him.
I have this weird OCD thing with having to use straws for all drinks, and now, as a new development, I can only use straws that are in a complementary color to the cup...Before thinking about it, I asked Smitty if that seemed odd...you want to guess what he said? Yes, that Swedish psychiatry team should be calling anytime now. They could spend a week on the straws and refusing to use white washcloths or plates and having to have all of the froth from brushing my teeth wash down the drain before I can leave the bathroom...Have I mentioned I'm on medication?
I've been thinking about my dad a lot this week. I always think about him, even if it's not at the forefront of my mind, but I guess with my mom visiting, I wish he was coming, too. It's so hard for me to realize and fully accept that I'm never going to see him again. I can be perfectly fine and then his face appears in my mind's eye, and I hear him calling me "little girly," and I have to use a great amount of social appropriateness not to start crying. I also think I'm more than a teensy bit neurotic about something happening to Smitty and other people I love. And this just manifests in my internally freaking out over every health thing Smitty mentions to me, so I don't tell him, or he'll stop telling me things...that's totally healthy, right?
On a related note, I can't stop reading Jodi Picoult books. They're sad, gut-wrenching, someone either dies or has some horrible disease, or both, yet, I'm strangely drawn. Don't get me wrong, she's a brilliant writer, which is one of the main reasons I think I keep reading them. Plus, I think I'm hoping that she'll write one where everyone is healthy, happy, and in love, and they go live in Never-Never Land. Fingers crossed. Maybe I'll just re-read the "Bell Jar" to cheer me up.
I am a disgrace to Netflix. I've had "The Fantastic Mr. Fox" for 2 weeks. I want to watch it, but I feel guilty kicking Smitty out of the living room, and for some reason, he refuses to watch it. This, after he made me watch "Avatar," "Death Race" (which I actually liked, but that's besides the point), all of those stupid "Underworld" movies, so I think he could at least try to watch it...but he's cute, so I'll forgive him.
I have this weird OCD thing with having to use straws for all drinks, and now, as a new development, I can only use straws that are in a complementary color to the cup...Before thinking about it, I asked Smitty if that seemed odd...you want to guess what he said? Yes, that Swedish psychiatry team should be calling anytime now. They could spend a week on the straws and refusing to use white washcloths or plates and having to have all of the froth from brushing my teeth wash down the drain before I can leave the bathroom...Have I mentioned I'm on medication?
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