In 2001, my friend L and I were in our beloved India. We traveled around the north, to Rishikesh, to Delhi, to Calcutta... and even considered going up to Dharamasala, in hopes of asking the Dalai Lama a question. (But what to ask?! Readers: Tell me what YOU would ask the Dalai Lama, because I still harbor fantasies of asking him a question, and I could use some suggestions.)
We didn't though. And I regret it.
We also didn't go to the Maha Kumbh Mela. And I regret that, too. The thought of showing up at a place with so many millions of people, without a place to sleep, without an idea of what we'd be walking into... without a PLAN, scared me. There were so many things that could go wrong... And we were having such a good time that it didn't seem like a big deal. I remember shrugging my shoulders with a "We're in India. Does it really matter what, exactly, we do?"
That was six and a half years ago, and L and I, to this day, look back at that decision and ask ourselves: WHAT THE HELL WERE WE THINKING?!?! It was the freaking MAHA KUMBH MELA and we were IN INDIA.
I still regret that. So, we have promised ourselves that we'll go to India for the next Maha Kumbh Mela. (And we will also attend Satsang, but that's another story...)
Check out the naga babas, the naked men all covered in ash. I've seen some here and there in India, and I am fascinated by them. Naga babas are ascetics; they've given up EVERYTHING, even clothes. I can't imagine that. I can't even begin to understand how uncomfortable it must be to not have clothes - sunburn in the daytime, cold at night. How can they even sleeep? And they do it for their soul. I respect that.
Naga babas actually begin the Kumbh Melas by bathing in the river. (BTW, Maha means "great," and there is a BIG Kumbh Mela every 12 years, and a smaller Kumbh Mela every three years.)
Looking back at our visit in 2001, I think its kindof a good thing that we didn't head up to Dharmasala. Turns out that the Dalai Lama was at the Mela (along with 70 million other people), so we would have missed him. So the real WE MISSED OUT adventure was the Kumbh Mela. Excuse me, I mean MAHA Kumbh Mela. I miss India like an aquarium fish misses the reef, and although I plan to visit India before the next Maha Kumbh Mela in 2013, I certainly have that festival at the top of my DO IT DAMMIT list.
Wednesday, April 30, 2008
Monday, April 28, 2008
Gone fishing, take 3
So now I'm taking the Google approach to my hunt for a therapist. Which means that I've googled "Chicago therapist" and what do you know? People have rated therapists on Yelp. That's kinda creeping me out.
I mean, shouldn't some categories of stuff be unrateable? How do you rate a therapist? I think a simple, "After three visits, abandoned arson plans. Improving." would speak volumes of the therapists skills, but instead, I found this:
I ask you: A strudel in your noodle? Because this is helpful? Because an assessment of Dr. Perl's internal gardening credentials will empower me to face my demons?
I mean, shouldn't some categories of stuff be unrateable? How do you rate a therapist? I think a simple, "After three visits, abandoned arson plans. Improving." would speak volumes of the therapists skills, but instead, I found this:
Got a geranium in your cranium? A strudel in your noodle? Or maybe you just hate your mate. In either case, Dr. Perl is your girl.
I ask you: A strudel in your noodle? Because this is helpful? Because an assessment of Dr. Perl's internal gardening credentials will empower me to face my demons?
Friday, April 25, 2008
It couldn't have been scheduled for a better time
Lately it's taken more than a little self-talk to drag myself from my warm, comfy bed. The sad side of the scale has been a little heavier than the happy side. I know it shouldn't be that way, that I should focus on the positive, but, well, focusing on the negative is something I've practiced to perfection for 33 years. I gotta stop that.
So this weekend I'm going to float, and I'm going to spend some time walking around this glorious SPRING city. And I'm going to stop at coffee shops and write and think and just be glad that SPRING has, indeed, finally sprung.
I'm also going to marvel at boooooteeeeful things. My soul needs it. For me, when my soul needs nourishment, art galleries provide the cure. My love of art... it's something I don't talk about much. Me, who studies for fun, doesn't know that much about art history. I do know a bit about the artists that fascinate me (think Wikipedia-level understanding), but mostly, I know how art makes me feel. Those pieces that stop me, that take me outside of myself, that make me and my world disappear... that's pretty much all I know about art. It's enough for me.
So for the previous 12 months I've been thanking all that is great and good in the universe for Artropolis. I went last year, and have had it on my calendar since then. Artropolis is a series of art and antique fairs/shows. It is overwhelming, stunning, fantastic, amazing, and pretty much every other superlative rolled into several floors of the Merchandise Mart. And it's open to the public - for a mere $20. If you can squeeze it into your schedule, your soul will thank you for your attendance.
The artists at Artropolis range from the famous to the unknown to the long since dead to the ethnic. Last year, it seemed like every five feet I was saying, "Oh..." and falling deeply in love. I took notes. I actually took notes, because it would be such a waste to marvel at such creative genius only one weekend a year. And, since it is Friday, I'll give you, dear Internet, a pretty.
Markus Linnenbrink is a contemporary German artist who works with epoxy resin to create happiness. I "discovered" his work last year at Art Chicago, one of the art shows at Artropolis. If you want to buy some of his aMAzing work, head over to Chicago's very own Roy Boyd Gallery. Just make sure you bring a few mortgage payments with you. Wait, did I say mortgage payments? I meant to say a few mortgage DOWNPAYMENTS. You see, I just learned that the artwork, below, costs $28,000.
Shit. Whatever happened to starving artists? Markus Linnenbrink is still ALIVE. I thought you had to be dead to warrant such a price.
So this weekend I'm going to float, and I'm going to spend some time walking around this glorious SPRING city. And I'm going to stop at coffee shops and write and think and just be glad that SPRING has, indeed, finally sprung.
I'm also going to marvel at boooooteeeeful things. My soul needs it. For me, when my soul needs nourishment, art galleries provide the cure. My love of art... it's something I don't talk about much. Me, who studies for fun, doesn't know that much about art history. I do know a bit about the artists that fascinate me (think Wikipedia-level understanding), but mostly, I know how art makes me feel. Those pieces that stop me, that take me outside of myself, that make me and my world disappear... that's pretty much all I know about art. It's enough for me.
So for the previous 12 months I've been thanking all that is great and good in the universe for Artropolis. I went last year, and have had it on my calendar since then. Artropolis is a series of art and antique fairs/shows. It is overwhelming, stunning, fantastic, amazing, and pretty much every other superlative rolled into several floors of the Merchandise Mart. And it's open to the public - for a mere $20. If you can squeeze it into your schedule, your soul will thank you for your attendance.
The artists at Artropolis range from the famous to the unknown to the long since dead to the ethnic. Last year, it seemed like every five feet I was saying, "Oh..." and falling deeply in love. I took notes. I actually took notes, because it would be such a waste to marvel at such creative genius only one weekend a year. And, since it is Friday, I'll give you, dear Internet, a pretty.
Markus Linnenbrink is a contemporary German artist who works with epoxy resin to create happiness. I "discovered" his work last year at Art Chicago, one of the art shows at Artropolis. If you want to buy some of his aMAzing work, head over to Chicago's very own Roy Boyd Gallery. Just make sure you bring a few mortgage payments with you. Wait, did I say mortgage payments? I meant to say a few mortgage DOWNPAYMENTS. You see, I just learned that the artwork, below, costs $28,000.
Shit. Whatever happened to starving artists? Markus Linnenbrink is still ALIVE. I thought you had to be dead to warrant such a price.
Thursday, April 24, 2008
In case you are wondering if I love my sister
I've been privately reminiscing of the time when my little bird was just a baby. Until today, I almost forgot about the story below. And that would have been a shame, because then I wouldn't have been able to tell it. And that would have been almost CRIMINALLY SHAMEFUL, because T is now able to partake of alcoholy goodness legally, and she'll need a drink after she reads this.
I was a 13 year-old girly-girl, and my little bird was just about a year old and normally as cute as a button. She was sick, and I was so worried about her that I didn't want to put her down. So I held her, and rocked her, and then, as her way of saying, "Thanks sis!" she gave a high-pitched cry from one end and a low-pitched rumble from the other end, and pooped all over me. And I mean ALL OVER ME. It was almost impressive in its violence. It went through the sides of her diaper and covered my clothes... and even got in my hair. (And let me make one thing clear: No amount shampoo or perfume or sandblasting can get rid of that stench. I smelled it for weeks.) It was like this once-darling little baby had become an EXPLODING POOP BOMB, and I was the unfortunate victim.
And you know what? I didn't sell her to the gypsies. I didn't even take out an ad in the classifieds. Now THAT is love.
Oh, and one more thing. Don't think for one second that I was clever enough to come up with the phrase "exploding poop bomb." Nope. It was OUR MOTHER, who gleefully watched the whole thing go down. She coined that gem while she was doubled over with laughter, spitting coffee through her nose and pointing at me. Because I was covered in baby poop and I was 13 a girly-girl and squeamish.
I was a 13 year-old girly-girl, and my little bird was just about a year old and normally as cute as a button. She was sick, and I was so worried about her that I didn't want to put her down. So I held her, and rocked her, and then, as her way of saying, "Thanks sis!" she gave a high-pitched cry from one end and a low-pitched rumble from the other end, and pooped all over me. And I mean ALL OVER ME. It was almost impressive in its violence. It went through the sides of her diaper and covered my clothes... and even got in my hair. (And let me make one thing clear: No amount shampoo or perfume or sandblasting can get rid of that stench. I smelled it for weeks.) It was like this once-darling little baby had become an EXPLODING POOP BOMB, and I was the unfortunate victim.
And you know what? I didn't sell her to the gypsies. I didn't even take out an ad in the classifieds. Now THAT is love.
Oh, and one more thing. Don't think for one second that I was clever enough to come up with the phrase "exploding poop bomb." Nope. It was OUR MOTHER, who gleefully watched the whole thing go down. She coined that gem while she was doubled over with laughter, spitting coffee through her nose and pointing at me. Because I was covered in baby poop and I was 13 a girly-girl and squeamish.
Wednesday, April 23, 2008
Breakfast of champions
What I’m about to say is going to disappoint you, dear Internet. I don’t mean to be such a pathetic fatty, but one cannot always account for one’s preferences. See, as much as I know I should, for whatever reason I just can’t seem to do what all fatties are supposed to do – sit around all day eating cake.
Oh, I have tried. I have attended birthday parties and had a slice. I even finished said slice of chocolate or yellow (is yellow even a flavor?) cake, so as to be polite. But the ugly truth is this: I don’t like cake. It’s good, but not something I’d go out of my way for [T: hee hee]. Especially chocolate cake.
Yes, I know. This makes me a bad fat chick. If I were a good fat chick, I’d eat an entire two-tier with a spoon for breakfast each and every Tuesday without fail. Sorry, I just can’t do it. Maybe in my next life I’ll be able to better play the role of Fat Chick.
And since I’m on the topic, I’d like to state my opinion on those ice cream cakes from Baskin Robbins: Boo.
But I digress.
So here’s the dilemma: I like to bake cakes. The saying, “If you are sad, bake a cake,” is the best advice for a foul mood on the books. I don’t know what it is, but the whole baking and smelling thing just fills my veins with sunshine and I get all bouncy. But then I’m left with a cake that I don’t care to eat. What to do?
When I first bought my condo, I went through a drawn-out buyer’s remorse jag that had my friends beating their heads against the walls to relieve the pain of my whining. During those few weeks (ok, months), I would bake cake after cake… and give them to the doormen of my building. The doormen loved me. It was almost Pavlovian – they’d see me, somewhere a bell would ring, and the drooling would begin. It worked for everyone involved.
Many moons have passed since those heady days of first-time home owner hell. I haven’t been bummed enough to bake a cake in over a year, but this weekend I broke the dry spell. The doormen love me again.
Oh, and do you know what over a pound of high-quality organic (read: overpriced. I mean, if farmers are saving money by not using pesticides, then shouldn't organic be CHEAPER?) chocolate, buttermilk, and various other ingredients make? Epicurious.com’s most popular recipe: The Mother of All Chocolate Cakes. It actually tastes like fudge, is so moist it’s difficult to cut, gives new meaning to the word “rich” and is just generally Death by Chocolate good.
Did you notice that? Me, BAD BAD BAD Fat Chick actually said that this cake is "good". And I will even let you quote me on that. To be even more shockingly honest, do you know how much cake the doormen received? All but 2 slices. One slice I ate right away, and the other slice I saved in the hopes that it will lead me on the road to being a better stereotype.
To sum it all into two sentences: If you like chocolate cake, then I’d definitely recommend it as a breakfast entree. Just make sure you have lots of milk on hand.
Oh, I have tried. I have attended birthday parties and had a slice. I even finished said slice of chocolate or yellow (is yellow even a flavor?) cake, so as to be polite. But the ugly truth is this: I don’t like cake. It’s good, but not something I’d go out of my way for [T: hee hee]. Especially chocolate cake.
Yes, I know. This makes me a bad fat chick. If I were a good fat chick, I’d eat an entire two-tier with a spoon for breakfast each and every Tuesday without fail. Sorry, I just can’t do it. Maybe in my next life I’ll be able to better play the role of Fat Chick.
And since I’m on the topic, I’d like to state my opinion on those ice cream cakes from Baskin Robbins: Boo.
But I digress.
So here’s the dilemma: I like to bake cakes. The saying, “If you are sad, bake a cake,” is the best advice for a foul mood on the books. I don’t know what it is, but the whole baking and smelling thing just fills my veins with sunshine and I get all bouncy. But then I’m left with a cake that I don’t care to eat. What to do?
When I first bought my condo, I went through a drawn-out buyer’s remorse jag that had my friends beating their heads against the walls to relieve the pain of my whining. During those few weeks (ok, months), I would bake cake after cake… and give them to the doormen of my building. The doormen loved me. It was almost Pavlovian – they’d see me, somewhere a bell would ring, and the drooling would begin. It worked for everyone involved.
Many moons have passed since those heady days of first-time home owner hell. I haven’t been bummed enough to bake a cake in over a year, but this weekend I broke the dry spell. The doormen love me again.
Oh, and do you know what over a pound of high-quality organic (read: overpriced. I mean, if farmers are saving money by not using pesticides, then shouldn't organic be CHEAPER?) chocolate, buttermilk, and various other ingredients make? Epicurious.com’s most popular recipe: The Mother of All Chocolate Cakes. It actually tastes like fudge, is so moist it’s difficult to cut, gives new meaning to the word “rich” and is just generally Death by Chocolate good.
Did you notice that? Me, BAD BAD BAD Fat Chick actually said that this cake is "good". And I will even let you quote me on that. To be even more shockingly honest, do you know how much cake the doormen received? All but 2 slices. One slice I ate right away, and the other slice I saved in the hopes that it will lead me on the road to being a better stereotype.
To sum it all into two sentences: If you like chocolate cake, then I’d definitely recommend it as a breakfast entree. Just make sure you have lots of milk on hand.
Tuesday, April 22, 2008
The most important day EVER
A very special someone turned 21 today. Considering that, many years ago, I held her in my arms, cooed little loveys at her, and didn't throw her out the window when she puked all over me (it was always a tempting option), I am feeling a little proud and a little nostalgic and a little confused as to why, exactly, I put up with all that puke in the first place.
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BIRD!!!
And readers: If you can remember your 21st birthday, let's hear it! How did you spend it? Who were you with? How much did you drink? And, most importantly: Did you get laid? Any advice for my LB, as she embarks on this new phase (legal drinking) in her life? And yes, seeing as how your answers may be a little... compromising... I'll allow anonymous comments***. Just for today, though. Consider it Little Bird's birthday present to us!
***Note: But if I don't like what you write, or if I don't like you personally, I'll delete your comment with a triumphant grin and a maniacal laugh and I'll snarl down at you as I sit upon my gilded throne which is the BIRTHRIGHT OF TYRANNICAL, DRACONIAN BLOGGERS EVERYWHERE!!! Mwaaaa haaaa haaaa!!!!
HAPPY BIRTHDAY LITTLE BIRD!!!
And readers: If you can remember your 21st birthday, let's hear it! How did you spend it? Who were you with? How much did you drink? And, most importantly: Did you get laid? Any advice for my LB, as she embarks on this new phase (legal drinking) in her life? And yes, seeing as how your answers may be a little... compromising... I'll allow anonymous comments***. Just for today, though. Consider it Little Bird's birthday present to us!
***Note: But if I don't like what you write, or if I don't like you personally, I'll delete your comment with a triumphant grin and a maniacal laugh and I'll snarl down at you as I sit upon my gilded throne which is the BIRTHRIGHT OF TYRANNICAL, DRACONIAN BLOGGERS EVERYWHERE!!! Mwaaaa haaaa haaaa!!!!
Monday, April 21, 2008
Gone fishing. Again.
As we have already established, my fail-safe action plan for finding a therapist... well, failed. So it was back to the drawing board, and I came up with:
2a. Go through (fucking) HMO book / online and get a list of therapists.
2b. Get a referral from my doctor to each. Continue with #3 from original plan:
3. Read "what to ask your therapist on your first date" how-tos (gotta love the internet), determine which questions are applicable and prioritize same, grill therapy-mongers when I meet them.
4. Based on answers to #3, choose a doc.
Again, fat lot of good it is doing me. Here's how it all went down:
2a. I couldn't find the HMO book, and so I contact HR to get another one. Turns out they aren't in print anymore, so I had to use the online system. In order to use the online system, I needed a password and login. That took 2 hours of being placed on hold, listening to orchestral renditions of 80s hair band muzak. (If I didn't need therapy before, trust me, those 120 minutes set me over the edge.)
When I finally got the ability to login, I realized I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how to search for a doctor. Then it dawned on me: There are no therapists that are listed on my HMO site, only family doctors and internists.
So, I proceeded with 2b:
2b. I called my doctor. The conversation went something like this:
Crazy Fat Chick: I'd like to make an appointment to get a referral.
Phone Captain: I'm sorry, Dr. Killyourself, MD is no longer accepting new patients.
CFC: I've been a patient for over a year.
PC: Oh, OK. May I have your name and birthdate?
CFC: Shannon S---. [Insert birthday here.]
PC: Oooo! You have a twin!
CFC: What? No, I don't. There's only me.
PC: Are you sure? We have her in our system. Her name is Sharon, right?
CFC: Um, I think that's me. I'd like to make an appointment.
PC: Sorry. Dr. Killyourself, MD is not accepting new patients.
CFC: But I'm in your system.
PC: No, we have a Sharon S---, not a Shannon. Sorry.
>click<
So now it's on to a new plan:
2i. Get a new doctor.
2ii. Look online for therapists that accept my HMO.
2iii. Eventually have my head examined.
More on this epic journey to sanity later.
2a. Go through (fucking) HMO book / online and get a list of therapists.
2b. Get a referral from my doctor to each. Continue with #3 from original plan:
3. Read "what to ask your therapist on your first date" how-tos (gotta love the internet), determine which questions are applicable and prioritize same, grill therapy-mongers when I meet them.
4. Based on answers to #3, choose a doc.
Again, fat lot of good it is doing me. Here's how it all went down:
2a. I couldn't find the HMO book, and so I contact HR to get another one. Turns out they aren't in print anymore, so I had to use the online system. In order to use the online system, I needed a password and login. That took 2 hours of being placed on hold, listening to orchestral renditions of 80s hair band muzak. (If I didn't need therapy before, trust me, those 120 minutes set me over the edge.)
When I finally got the ability to login, I realized I couldn't, for the life of me, figure out how to search for a doctor. Then it dawned on me: There are no therapists that are listed on my HMO site, only family doctors and internists.
So, I proceeded with 2b:
2b. I called my doctor. The conversation went something like this:
Crazy Fat Chick: I'd like to make an appointment to get a referral.
Phone Captain: I'm sorry, Dr. Killyourself, MD is no longer accepting new patients.
CFC: I've been a patient for over a year.
PC: Oh, OK. May I have your name and birthdate?
CFC: Shannon S---. [Insert birthday here.]
PC: Oooo! You have a twin!
CFC: What? No, I don't. There's only me.
PC: Are you sure? We have her in our system. Her name is Sharon, right?
CFC: Um, I think that's me. I'd like to make an appointment.
PC: Sorry. Dr. Killyourself, MD is not accepting new patients.
CFC: But I'm in your system.
PC: No, we have a Sharon S---, not a Shannon. Sorry.
>click<
So now it's on to a new plan:
2i. Get a new doctor.
2ii. Look online for therapists that accept my HMO.
2iii. Eventually have my head examined.
More on this epic journey to sanity later.
Friday, April 18, 2008
Depravity, perfected
Things like this make me wish I worked from home, or was a stay-at-home mom, or was independently wealthy (I never really wanted to be a productive member of society, anyway) or didn't fear people walking into my office without knocking:
Boing Boing Porn Game
UPDATE: The link above is workplace friendly - it takes you to an explanation of the game, not to the actual game itself.
Boing Boing Porn Game
UPDATE: The link above is workplace friendly - it takes you to an explanation of the game, not to the actual game itself.
Shake shake shake your body
The earth rattled and rolled this morning. Really, it did. I mean, it literally rattled and rolled. There was an earthquake!
And you know what? It woke me up. It did! I sat up in my bed, some 9 stories above terra firma, and thought, "Jishin da!" Which means, "Earthquake!" in Japanese. The building swayed asymmetrically, the pipes were clamoring a fierce caterwaul, and my cats had the distinct countenance of felines being threatened with a bucket of water. And then I looked around the god-awful mess that is my bedroom (who needs a closet when you have carpeting?) and thought, "No, this is Chicago. I must have been dreaming of Sendai." So I went back to sleep.
And wouldn't you know it, but when I turned on the news a few hours later, there really HAD been an earthquake. Go figure!
And you know what? It woke me up. It did! I sat up in my bed, some 9 stories above terra firma, and thought, "Jishin da!" Which means, "Earthquake!" in Japanese. The building swayed asymmetrically, the pipes were clamoring a fierce caterwaul, and my cats had the distinct countenance of felines being threatened with a bucket of water. And then I looked around the god-awful mess that is my bedroom (who needs a closet when you have carpeting?) and thought, "No, this is Chicago. I must have been dreaming of Sendai." So I went back to sleep.
And wouldn't you know it, but when I turned on the news a few hours later, there really HAD been an earthquake. Go figure!
Oh Yeah? Well then, frak you too!
You know, when my mom died I went through this frakkin' awful grieving process-thing. It frakkin' sucked. I've never been so unhappy in my frakkin' life, and once I started to come out of that frakeriffic haze, I promised that I would never allow myself to be that frakked up again.
So I think its because of that promise to myself that whenever I'm really sad, or even a little frakked out, I start looking for things that make me giggle down to my hair follicles. And sometimes its stoopid things, like this YouTube that literally had me with my head on my frakkin' desk in hysterics after less than a minute. But now that I'm somewhat of a grown up, I know that I need to DEAL WITH my problems, not just say I'M CURED when I can laugh again... yeah yeah yeah.
Oh, and did you know that there is a certain famous (male) porn star who was on Battlestar Gallactica? Stephen St. Croix, except he had clothes on and he wasn't frakking anybody or anything. It's true, I swear it.
So I think its because of that promise to myself that whenever I'm really sad, or even a little frakked out, I start looking for things that make me giggle down to my hair follicles. And sometimes its stoopid things, like this YouTube that literally had me with my head on my frakkin' desk in hysterics after less than a minute. But now that I'm somewhat of a grown up, I know that I need to DEAL WITH my problems, not just say I'M CURED when I can laugh again... yeah yeah yeah.
Oh, and did you know that there is a certain famous (male) porn star who was on Battlestar Gallactica? Stephen St. Croix, except he had clothes on and he wasn't frakking anybody or anything. It's true, I swear it.
Thursday, April 17, 2008
Daily non sequitur
I saw this headline on CNN.com:
Faithful travel thousands of miles to see pope
And registered this:
Faithful travel thousands of miles to pee soap.
Faithful travel thousands of miles to see pope
And registered this:
Faithful travel thousands of miles to pee soap.
Gone fishing
As we have established, I am C R A Z Y which means I'm in the market for a therapist. Shrink shopping, if you will (and I just couldn't resist). Well, I was recently told by a friend that research analysts (my job - and my friend's job, too) tend to be hyperanalytical and hypermethodical. So, in an effort to more fully align myself with that stereotype, I wrote out a step-by-step action plan for locating a suitable head doctor. It went something like this:
1. Check into my company's employee assistance program.
2. Get a list of therapists that accept my insurance.
3. Read "what to ask your therapist on your first date" how-tos (gotta love the internet), determine which questions are applicable and prioritize same, grill therapy-mongers when I meet them.
4. Based on answers to #3, choose a doc.
Sounds easy, right?
I was hoping said action plan would a) lesson the opportunity for distractions (which is a nice way of saying "LIGHT! FIRE! UNDER! ASS!") and b) help me find the right person.
HA!
Fat lot of good it did me. Here's what happened, in the above-referenced order:
1. Found out I have 3 visits allotted to me. No biggie, three could work.
2. After listening to telemarketer ramble for a few minutes (the weather, how noisy it was in her "pod" - whatever the hell that meant), she informed me that they didn't know who accepted my insurance. I wasn't allowed to give her a list of candidate-shrinks for her to check to see if they were in her "system" (digestive?). I get what they give, ONE PERSON ONLY, three times, and that's that. The telejerk had the nerve to ask me what I was seeking counseling for. [T: PREPOSITION] I replied, "Well, you see... I've been having murderous thoughts. It's all those birds flying around, and you know, asking me about my singing potatoes... It's just GETTING to me, you know?"
Ok, so I'm lying. I didn't say that (but I wanted to). I said, very calmly, "Well, you see, I'm C R A Z Y." Some people really need to be reminded of BOUNDARIES.
So... new plan. More on this later.
1. Check into my company's employee assistance program.
2. Get a list of therapists that accept my insurance.
3. Read "what to ask your therapist on your first date" how-tos (gotta love the internet), determine which questions are applicable and prioritize same, grill therapy-mongers when I meet them.
4. Based on answers to #3, choose a doc.
Sounds easy, right?
I was hoping said action plan would a) lesson the opportunity for distractions (which is a nice way of saying "LIGHT! FIRE! UNDER! ASS!") and b) help me find the right person.
HA!
Fat lot of good it did me. Here's what happened, in the above-referenced order:
1. Found out I have 3 visits allotted to me. No biggie, three could work.
2. After listening to telemarketer ramble for a few minutes (the weather, how noisy it was in her "pod" - whatever the hell that meant), she informed me that they didn't know who accepted my insurance. I wasn't allowed to give her a list of candidate-shrinks for her to check to see if they were in her "system" (digestive?). I get what they give, ONE PERSON ONLY, three times, and that's that. The telejerk had the nerve to ask me what I was seeking counseling for. [T: PREPOSITION] I replied, "Well, you see... I've been having murderous thoughts. It's all those birds flying around, and you know, asking me about my singing potatoes... It's just GETTING to me, you know?"
Ok, so I'm lying. I didn't say that (but I wanted to). I said, very calmly, "Well, you see, I'm C R A Z Y." Some people really need to be reminded of BOUNDARIES.
So... new plan. More on this later.
Wednesday, April 16, 2008
Phone calls can be precious
Written Sunday, April 13:
You know, sometimes it only takes one phone call to pull a person back from the dregs of despair. As I have said in a previous post, my faith in humanity has been, shall I say, on shaky ground. I spent all of yesterday crying because, (somewhat) erroneously, I thought that 2 and a half years of hard work hadn’t appreciated. I’d watched as something I’d worked diligently to create, making many personal sacrifices along the way, was stolen from me in the most manipulative, backhanded way. And I recognized that part of the blame lay with me, yet this act of sabotage literally plummeted me to rock bottom, to feeling as though nothing would ever matter. Hard work, integrity, honesty, personal sacrifices: These things only count if one looks good in a bathing suit. Politics over substance. It broke my heart.
And then, in the middle of my despair, I got a text message. The man sending it is a Friend, someone who will criticize the hell out of me for allowing my personal flaws to affect others, but who does so with the kind of selflessness that only resides in the truly kind. The big-picture thinkers. Despite our differences of opinions (and there are many), I’ve always respected and admired him as a person with integrity, as someone who works for the good without seeking personal gain.
He had called and texted me previously, but I told him that I was too sad to talk about things. Maybe in a few weeks I’d feel better able to share. This particular text, though, was a bit more insistent. I’m making assumptions here, but I think perhaps the gossip mill had been churning. He wanted to hear my side of the story.
And when I called him back, and told him my perspective, he responded with compassion and an overarching message that he would continue to work towards the good of the group in question. And for that, I am so very grateful. And I am also grateful that he, in his direct and kind way, shook me out of my self-pity. He, and many others, appreciate the hard work I’ve put into this group, he told me. It has not been forgotten or overlooked, and for that, too, I am grateful beyond words.
I have been guilty of self-pity. I have wallowed in it for several days now. But what has come out of my weekend of solitude will, I believe, make me a healthier, more open person overall. I need to focus on me now, and making my body, mind, and soul whole. My Friend understood, shared some personal insight, and through his simple act of loving kindness – listening and understanding and critiquing without judging – has given me a little bit of strength and hope. Most importantly, my Friend has reminded me that there is no basis for losing faith in humanity. Individuals may choose to act against their nature, but, their nature is always pure and light and goodness regardless. It is choice, not nature, that can cause pain.
I wonder, how many times has someone needed me to make that call? More importantly: How many times did I actually follow through and be the Friend that was needed?
You know, sometimes it only takes one phone call to pull a person back from the dregs of despair. As I have said in a previous post, my faith in humanity has been, shall I say, on shaky ground. I spent all of yesterday crying because, (somewhat) erroneously, I thought that 2 and a half years of hard work hadn’t appreciated. I’d watched as something I’d worked diligently to create, making many personal sacrifices along the way, was stolen from me in the most manipulative, backhanded way. And I recognized that part of the blame lay with me, yet this act of sabotage literally plummeted me to rock bottom, to feeling as though nothing would ever matter. Hard work, integrity, honesty, personal sacrifices: These things only count if one looks good in a bathing suit. Politics over substance. It broke my heart.
And then, in the middle of my despair, I got a text message. The man sending it is a Friend, someone who will criticize the hell out of me for allowing my personal flaws to affect others, but who does so with the kind of selflessness that only resides in the truly kind. The big-picture thinkers. Despite our differences of opinions (and there are many), I’ve always respected and admired him as a person with integrity, as someone who works for the good without seeking personal gain.
He had called and texted me previously, but I told him that I was too sad to talk about things. Maybe in a few weeks I’d feel better able to share. This particular text, though, was a bit more insistent. I’m making assumptions here, but I think perhaps the gossip mill had been churning. He wanted to hear my side of the story.
And when I called him back, and told him my perspective, he responded with compassion and an overarching message that he would continue to work towards the good of the group in question. And for that, I am so very grateful. And I am also grateful that he, in his direct and kind way, shook me out of my self-pity. He, and many others, appreciate the hard work I’ve put into this group, he told me. It has not been forgotten or overlooked, and for that, too, I am grateful beyond words.
I have been guilty of self-pity. I have wallowed in it for several days now. But what has come out of my weekend of solitude will, I believe, make me a healthier, more open person overall. I need to focus on me now, and making my body, mind, and soul whole. My Friend understood, shared some personal insight, and through his simple act of loving kindness – listening and understanding and critiquing without judging – has given me a little bit of strength and hope. Most importantly, my Friend has reminded me that there is no basis for losing faith in humanity. Individuals may choose to act against their nature, but, their nature is always pure and light and goodness regardless. It is choice, not nature, that can cause pain.
I wonder, how many times has someone needed me to make that call? More importantly: How many times did I actually follow through and be the Friend that was needed?
Tuesday, April 15, 2008
My beloved India
One of the absolute bestest things about the public internets is all the great writers out there. Are you sitting down? Because what I'm about to type may shock and astound you: I love to read travel writing. Can you believe that? Who would have ever thunk it.
This is a great piece on traveling to India for first-timers. The first time L and I went, we went with a hand-holding tour group (which didn't take kindly to our meandering, laughing ways - they nearly LEFT US once), and I have to say that going with a group does have its advantages. For example, you can get back to the hotel quickly to wash the cow poo off your ankles in Varanasi.
Ahhhh... I need to go back to India. India is good for the soul.
This is a great piece on traveling to India for first-timers. The first time L and I went, we went with a hand-holding tour group (which didn't take kindly to our meandering, laughing ways - they nearly LEFT US once), and I have to say that going with a group does have its advantages. For example, you can get back to the hotel quickly to wash the cow poo off your ankles in Varanasi.
Ahhhh... I need to go back to India. India is good for the soul.
A confession
Written Saturday, April 12:
As I type this, the wind is howling and my windows are being pummeled heavily by rain that sounds more like semi-trailer trucks than tiny droplets of water. I wish I could say that the weather outside mirrors what is going on inside me. I wish I could write, like all those famous poets before me (not that I am or ever will be famous, unless you believe a certain palm reader from Calcutta) and say that my soul is like a tempest. The truth is this: My soul is not like a tempest. Not at all. It is more like a lump of brownish-blackish mushy goop.
Maybe I’m being all melodramatic and pathetic and self-pitying, but for the past few years I have felt my soul, my very soul, dying. It’s like a gradual not caring that has taken over all of me. Where before I used to smile for no reason, now I only smile when there is a reason. Where before, I would crack myself up, now I only laugh when there’s a good joke or chemical influences involved. Before, I was passionate and not at all articulate. I had fabulous successes and spectacular failures and shrugged them all off with, “that’s life, isn’t it?” But now… I feel beaten down, and when yet another blow comes, I just wait for it and smile ruefully because I just expect it. I’ve become bitter and cynical; I just can’t take on anymore god-awfulness challenge. It just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Here I am, at a time in my life when I should be jumping up and down over recent successes, I am, instead, sobbing along with a blustery SPRING storm. I am unable to feel joy.
And I’m not claiming to be a victim, either. I have brought all this on myself. I have surrounded myself with poison. As I type this, I want to rant and rave and rail against a specific person who has caused me enormous pain over the course of many years. I want to be very clear, and tell the world exactly what this person has done; a long list that would stretch back to my childhood and employ the most creative invective. This person has betrayed me, taken pleasure from causing me pain, and has used my greatest need as a source of power and leverage to control me. And I have given this person that power simply because I hoped a false hope. I hoped that there was a chance for love, for family, for togetherness.
It’s as though years of heartache have finally caught up with me: Betrayals from X, my parents’ lives and deaths, leaving the one man who truly loved me because the people who derived pleasure from destroying me told me I had to come home from Japan. (What the hell was I thinking?!) People who called me “friend” but were indifferent, who viewed my pain as weakness and inconvenient and more than a little embarrassing. I have watered my garden with poison, and now I’m crying because there aren’t enough flowers. Now, I don’t hope anymore. Now, I rage.
But that isn’t what I really want; it’s what maybe feels satisfying at this moment. When I think about it, I don’t want to rage or rail or sob or even sniffle. What I really want, what I really need, is to move forward. And, in order to move forward, I have to let go. I have to let go of all that darkness, that false hope, that PERSON, and get healthy.
As soon as I type things about my misery, there is a rather loud voice in my head that screams, “What about your little bird? What about NK? And AM? And DN? And LS? They don’t know what the hell indifferent even means! They love you completely and want nothing less than your self-realization!” Yes, there is a whole heck of a lot of wonderful in my life. I know this, and I am going to hold on to those wonderful bits and darlings with every ounce of my strength. I believe that this is the part of me – that voice and the people who truly love me – that will get me through this. Eventually, I will be OK, healthier than I’ve ever been. Whole, not whole with a hole. I will get there. Eventually.
And I know that my soul isn’t dead. Not entirely. Exhausted, yes. And fatigued and oh so weary. But not dead. It’s still alive enough so that I can recognize what I need: Healing. Healing that will involve therapy and soul work and floating and weeding out the people and the resentment and the anger and the pain and the rage that has slowly and steadily eroded my very essence. I’m scared. I have held onto this illness for so long that I can’t imagine being whole. I can’t imagine a me that is not broken inside.
Again, I want to be very clear: I am not a victim. There is only one absolute truth in all of this great big mess: I chose all of this. How am I ever going to learn to choose differently? How am I ever going to learn to choose that which brings me closer to the Divine, when for so many years I’ve chosen that which locks my heart against love and joy? How? How can I, when even thinking about what love was like has broken open a hole in me that has made every hurt come rushing back? This is the real reason I haven’t written or spoken about Sato-sensei: It cripples my defenses and brings me to my knees. It’s a destructive path, leaving love for hatefulness. It still amazes me, that, since returning from Japan, I have actually created a world that makes me miserable, chosen relationships that cause me pain and suffering. And gained 50 pounds in the process. And all because I hoped a false hope. How could I do this to myself? How could I make choices that made me lose faith in humanity? How could I choose to kill, rather than nourish, my own soul?
In closing, I apologize, but I’m not going to allow comments for a few days, maybe longer. I need to say this to the world, but I also need to begin the path to my own recovery privately. I appreciate that my readers are compassionate, wonderful people. I have felt it in your comments, have read it in your emails. But for a little while, I have to go this alone. But I promise that I won’t be silent. I’ll write more of my journey that maybe I have or haven’t started yet, my pain and what has caused it, and Japan, and Sato-sensei (maybe), and India, my beloved India. To use a Dooce-ism, I will get naked on the Internet. (Or as GW would say, the public internets.) I can’t keep it inside any longer. I just can’t. It is too heavy a burden to bear.
One last thought, to be explained later: The next time I step foot on Indian soil, I am going to kiss the ground.
As I type this, the wind is howling and my windows are being pummeled heavily by rain that sounds more like semi-trailer trucks than tiny droplets of water. I wish I could say that the weather outside mirrors what is going on inside me. I wish I could write, like all those famous poets before me (not that I am or ever will be famous, unless you believe a certain palm reader from Calcutta) and say that my soul is like a tempest. The truth is this: My soul is not like a tempest. Not at all. It is more like a lump of brownish-blackish mushy goop.
Maybe I’m being all melodramatic and pathetic and self-pitying, but for the past few years I have felt my soul, my very soul, dying. It’s like a gradual not caring that has taken over all of me. Where before I used to smile for no reason, now I only smile when there is a reason. Where before, I would crack myself up, now I only laugh when there’s a good joke or chemical influences involved. Before, I was passionate and not at all articulate. I had fabulous successes and spectacular failures and shrugged them all off with, “that’s life, isn’t it?” But now… I feel beaten down, and when yet another blow comes, I just wait for it and smile ruefully because I just expect it. I’ve become bitter and cynical; I just can’t take on anymore god-awfulness challenge. It just doesn’t seem worth it anymore. Here I am, at a time in my life when I should be jumping up and down over recent successes, I am, instead, sobbing along with a blustery SPRING storm. I am unable to feel joy.
And I’m not claiming to be a victim, either. I have brought all this on myself. I have surrounded myself with poison. As I type this, I want to rant and rave and rail against a specific person who has caused me enormous pain over the course of many years. I want to be very clear, and tell the world exactly what this person has done; a long list that would stretch back to my childhood and employ the most creative invective. This person has betrayed me, taken pleasure from causing me pain, and has used my greatest need as a source of power and leverage to control me. And I have given this person that power simply because I hoped a false hope. I hoped that there was a chance for love, for family, for togetherness.
It’s as though years of heartache have finally caught up with me: Betrayals from X, my parents’ lives and deaths, leaving the one man who truly loved me because the people who derived pleasure from destroying me told me I had to come home from Japan. (What the hell was I thinking?!) People who called me “friend” but were indifferent, who viewed my pain as weakness and inconvenient and more than a little embarrassing. I have watered my garden with poison, and now I’m crying because there aren’t enough flowers. Now, I don’t hope anymore. Now, I rage.
But that isn’t what I really want; it’s what maybe feels satisfying at this moment. When I think about it, I don’t want to rage or rail or sob or even sniffle. What I really want, what I really need, is to move forward. And, in order to move forward, I have to let go. I have to let go of all that darkness, that false hope, that PERSON, and get healthy.
As soon as I type things about my misery, there is a rather loud voice in my head that screams, “What about your little bird? What about NK? And AM? And DN? And LS? They don’t know what the hell indifferent even means! They love you completely and want nothing less than your self-realization!” Yes, there is a whole heck of a lot of wonderful in my life. I know this, and I am going to hold on to those wonderful bits and darlings with every ounce of my strength. I believe that this is the part of me – that voice and the people who truly love me – that will get me through this. Eventually, I will be OK, healthier than I’ve ever been. Whole, not whole with a hole. I will get there. Eventually.
And I know that my soul isn’t dead. Not entirely. Exhausted, yes. And fatigued and oh so weary. But not dead. It’s still alive enough so that I can recognize what I need: Healing. Healing that will involve therapy and soul work and floating and weeding out the people and the resentment and the anger and the pain and the rage that has slowly and steadily eroded my very essence. I’m scared. I have held onto this illness for so long that I can’t imagine being whole. I can’t imagine a me that is not broken inside.
Again, I want to be very clear: I am not a victim. There is only one absolute truth in all of this great big mess: I chose all of this. How am I ever going to learn to choose differently? How am I ever going to learn to choose that which brings me closer to the Divine, when for so many years I’ve chosen that which locks my heart against love and joy? How? How can I, when even thinking about what love was like has broken open a hole in me that has made every hurt come rushing back? This is the real reason I haven’t written or spoken about Sato-sensei: It cripples my defenses and brings me to my knees. It’s a destructive path, leaving love for hatefulness. It still amazes me, that, since returning from Japan, I have actually created a world that makes me miserable, chosen relationships that cause me pain and suffering. And gained 50 pounds in the process. And all because I hoped a false hope. How could I do this to myself? How could I make choices that made me lose faith in humanity? How could I choose to kill, rather than nourish, my own soul?
In closing, I apologize, but I’m not going to allow comments for a few days, maybe longer. I need to say this to the world, but I also need to begin the path to my own recovery privately. I appreciate that my readers are compassionate, wonderful people. I have felt it in your comments, have read it in your emails. But for a little while, I have to go this alone. But I promise that I won’t be silent. I’ll write more of my journey that maybe I have or haven’t started yet, my pain and what has caused it, and Japan, and Sato-sensei (maybe), and India, my beloved India. To use a Dooce-ism, I will get naked on the Internet. (Or as GW would say, the public internets.) I can’t keep it inside any longer. I just can’t. It is too heavy a burden to bear.
One last thought, to be explained later: The next time I step foot on Indian soil, I am going to kiss the ground.
Monday, April 14, 2008
Really, you gotta try it
I often try to encourage friends to float. It does wonders for the mind, body and soul. No matter what I need, or think I need, when I go into the tank, I always get exactly what I need from spending an hour or so with no external stimuli.
I floated on Sunday, and boy did I need it. It has been several months since my last trek to SpaceTime Tanks. Much too long. I was actually a little nervous about going; I spent most of this weekend sobbing uncontrollably and was worriend that I would go in there and spend the entire hour... well, sobbing. Not exactly something to look forward to. [T: Sentence has ended preposition with.] On the other hand, I knew I needed to get in there, to let my mind go silent (if possible) and still (didn't think it would be possible) and just be (LAUGHABLE). During the ride to SpaceTime, I fought back tears the whole way, and seriously considered turning around and going back to my comfy bed. I just wasn't fit for public consumption, no way.
But you know what? I was able to quiet my mind. I was in there over an hour, but it felt like 5 minutes.
And you know what else? I didn't cry at all in the tank, and I haven't cried since. I haven't needed to. [T: I did that on purpose.]
Like I said: I always get what I need.
More on this later. I wrote some posts this weekend, and will post them over the course of this week.
I floated on Sunday, and boy did I need it. It has been several months since my last trek to SpaceTime Tanks. Much too long. I was actually a little nervous about going; I spent most of this weekend sobbing uncontrollably and was worriend that I would go in there and spend the entire hour... well, sobbing. Not exactly something to look forward to. [T: Sentence has ended preposition with.] On the other hand, I knew I needed to get in there, to let my mind go silent (if possible) and still (didn't think it would be possible) and just be (LAUGHABLE). During the ride to SpaceTime, I fought back tears the whole way, and seriously considered turning around and going back to my comfy bed. I just wasn't fit for public consumption, no way.
But you know what? I was able to quiet my mind. I was in there over an hour, but it felt like 5 minutes.
And you know what else? I didn't cry at all in the tank, and I haven't cried since. I haven't needed to. [T: I did that on purpose.]
Like I said: I always get what I need.
More on this later. I wrote some posts this weekend, and will post them over the course of this week.
Friday, April 11, 2008
The golden triangle
Can you have it all? Like, can you have a great home, a great guy, and a great job all at once? Is it possible? Because I wonder, and I really don't think so. Maybe you can have one, or maybe, just maybe if you are a really really good girl (cosmically speaking, of course), then you can have two. But not all three, nope, no way, no how. And if you did, somehow, find yourself carpooling to a great job with your great significant other who lives with you in a condo in the sky, well, then, chances are a piano will fall on your head. It just doesn't happen any other way.
Let me explain my perspective a bit:
I love my condo. It has a great view and is so gosh-darn cute. So wouldn't you know it, as soon as I'm REALLY loving my condo and dating someone interesting, I learn that the plumbing from the upstairs bathroom is imploding and I'll soon have raw sewage coming out my faucets. Ok, maybe that's a slight exxageration, but considering it's a $7,000 repair AND requires remodeling, then goddamn it THERE HAD BETTER BE SEWAGE SOMEWHERE.
Or that things are going really well with my quasi-career right now, so of course my personal life is currently residing in the plumbing of my upstairs bathroom.
You dig? Two of the three.
Dammit.
Let me explain my perspective a bit:
I love my condo. It has a great view and is so gosh-darn cute. So wouldn't you know it, as soon as I'm REALLY loving my condo and dating someone interesting, I learn that the plumbing from the upstairs bathroom is imploding and I'll soon have raw sewage coming out my faucets. Ok, maybe that's a slight exxageration, but considering it's a $7,000 repair AND requires remodeling, then goddamn it THERE HAD BETTER BE SEWAGE SOMEWHERE.
Or that things are going really well with my quasi-career right now, so of course my personal life is currently residing in the plumbing of my upstairs bathroom.
You dig? Two of the three.
Dammit.
Thursday, April 10, 2008
Cute Things My Cats Do: Hooghly
Hooghly is brain damaged, and I attribute her bizarre bad habits to this unfortunate consequence of her difficult birth. She is a strange one, my kuma-chan.
I call her kuma-chan because kuma means “bear” and “chan” is a term of endearment in Japanese, and when she sits a certain way her tummy makes her look like a little gray bear and it endears her to me. When she’s my little kuma-chan, I poke her belly and say, “Poke her belly! Poke her belly!” and then she bites me. Only hard enough to make me stop annoying her, and then she goes back to being cute and purring because she likes sitting with me.
I call her kuma-chan because kuma means “bear” and “chan” is a term of endearment in Japanese, and when she sits a certain way her tummy makes her look like a little gray bear and it endears her to me. When she’s my little kuma-chan, I poke her belly and say, “Poke her belly! Poke her belly!” and then she bites me. Only hard enough to make me stop annoying her, and then she goes back to being cute and purring because she likes sitting with me.
Wednesday, April 9, 2008
Like throwing a party
So, Internet, I told you I wrote an article. And yes, I'm boasting. I'm proud. And thrilled. And... well, more than a little surprised that I could, you know, DO IT. I think that was the biggest thrill of all, that I DID IT. I actually WROTE the thing, as in I didn't stare at the computer screen or play spider solitare or call anyone. I actually performed a task, did a verb, active voice and alls what not.
Later, I was walking through my office, and saw one of the most successful people I have ever known. He's one of those people that you'd never expect it from; he's down to earth, funny, modest, and just an average Joe. At least he seems like an average Joe. I told him about the article, and the subsequent BIMONTHLY COLUMN and CONTRIBUTING EDITORSHIP and BOARD OF EDITORS POSITION. He smiled, and said, "Forward the article to me. I'd like to read it."
Now, Internet, you may be wondering why I titled this "like throwing a party." ??? Well, it's not what he said, exactly. It's what he did. The most successful person I have ever met, the man that is known everywhere in his field, who people admire and respect like nobody else... His eyes lit up when I told him about my silly 1310-word blathering. He didn't say it, but I know he's happy for me and proud of me.
And that, dear Internet, really was better than a party any day.
Later, I was walking through my office, and saw one of the most successful people I have ever known. He's one of those people that you'd never expect it from; he's down to earth, funny, modest, and just an average Joe. At least he seems like an average Joe. I told him about the article, and the subsequent BIMONTHLY COLUMN and CONTRIBUTING EDITORSHIP and BOARD OF EDITORS POSITION. He smiled, and said, "Forward the article to me. I'd like to read it."
Now, Internet, you may be wondering why I titled this "like throwing a party." ??? Well, it's not what he said, exactly. It's what he did. The most successful person I have ever met, the man that is known everywhere in his field, who people admire and respect like nobody else... His eyes lit up when I told him about my silly 1310-word blathering. He didn't say it, but I know he's happy for me and proud of me.
And that, dear Internet, really was better than a party any day.
On writing an article
Me: Writing an article is like taking a big dump after being constipated for like a month. Except there is no relief because the big mean scary editor may reject your masterpiece.
T: So there's no relief because the toilet might not flush?
T: So there's no relief because the toilet might not flush?
Bitterness
For a male, the perception of right and wrong does not hinge on who or what was, in fact, right or wrong. Rather, the key to "rightness" is to look good in a bathing suit.
Friday, April 4, 2008
Happy Friday!
What an intense week! It's been a professional and emotional (funny how those two are becoming more and more intertwined) rollercoaster and SPRING HAS SPRING. One thing went well, another was a colossal disappointment. Such is life. INTENSE!
But today has wrapped up - and summed up - the week nicely. With wine. Free wine. AND SPRING! See, I grabbed a colleague and we went to this lunch for law firm marketers and event planners. I thought it was going to be a restaurant feeding us well IN SPRINGTIME so that we'd be good and delighted and choose them for ALL of our catering needs. Boy oh boy was I wrong BUT ITS SPRING... as my colleague reminded me several times ON A GORGEOUS SPRING DAY. Turns out it was a restaurant pitching its catering AND a group of conference-hosting resorts selling their aMAzing amenities in lovely Tampa Bay, Florda (Have you been there? I have it on good authority that you'd love the palm trees.) SPRING!
When we first walked in, I refused the wine I had been offered. I mean, come on, it may be Friday AND SPRING but it was still in the middle of the SPRINGY school day. Once the scenario melted through my SPRING-A-LING-LING thickness, though, the tee-totalling angel sitting on my shoulder had been shoved aside by an alcoholic demon raging for the hard stuff. Fuck the vino. And that was in the first few minutes of the two-hour salesfest. Ick. BUT SPRING!
Still, I can't say it wasn't worth it. There is something decidedly naughty about SPRINGTIME IN CHICAGO and coming back to work after a 2.5 hour lunch slightly toasty. That, and...
Seeing as how SPRING HAS SPRUNG! it is, of course, time to consider my birthday dinner. I had, up until today's luncheon, thought I'd be dining at Vermillion. However, today I met a woman who promised me BOOTH ONE at The Pump Room. Dude, I'm so there.
But today has wrapped up - and summed up - the week nicely. With wine. Free wine. AND SPRING! See, I grabbed a colleague and we went to this lunch for law firm marketers and event planners. I thought it was going to be a restaurant feeding us well IN SPRINGTIME so that we'd be good and delighted and choose them for ALL of our catering needs. Boy oh boy was I wrong BUT ITS SPRING... as my colleague reminded me several times ON A GORGEOUS SPRING DAY. Turns out it was a restaurant pitching its catering AND a group of conference-hosting resorts selling their aMAzing amenities in lovely Tampa Bay, Florda (Have you been there? I have it on good authority that you'd love the palm trees.) SPRING!
When we first walked in, I refused the wine I had been offered. I mean, come on, it may be Friday AND SPRING but it was still in the middle of the SPRINGY school day. Once the scenario melted through my SPRING-A-LING-LING thickness, though, the tee-totalling angel sitting on my shoulder had been shoved aside by an alcoholic demon raging for the hard stuff. Fuck the vino. And that was in the first few minutes of the two-hour salesfest. Ick. BUT SPRING!
Still, I can't say it wasn't worth it. There is something decidedly naughty about SPRINGTIME IN CHICAGO and coming back to work after a 2.5 hour lunch slightly toasty. That, and...
Seeing as how SPRING HAS SPRUNG! it is, of course, time to consider my birthday dinner. I had, up until today's luncheon, thought I'd be dining at Vermillion. However, today I met a woman who promised me BOOTH ONE at The Pump Room. Dude, I'm so there.
Thursday, April 3, 2008
Hooghley and purses
Hooghly needs love. A lot. When she’s particularly freaked out (she has cat fits a lot and the walls tend to upset her) she yelps and jumps around and can’t calm down unless I talk to her about useless trivia and the fact that one can never have too many purses, shoes or jewelry. It brings her back to reality, and then the white walls quit harassing her. And I know she knows what a purse is because when I say “purse” she’ll look over at the shelf on my closet where I keep all my purses.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Yumitude
I've recently joined a foodie blog because, well, I like to write, I like to eat (don't all fat people?!), and so I thought the two would go well together. It's called 5 Star Foodie, and below is my first real post. Yes, this is totally cheating (double dipping?) but I don't care. I intend to double dip as often as possible.
Review: Lao Sze Chuan
Even the picture is a feast for the eyes...
Review: Lao Sze Chuan
Have you eaten the hot pot at Lao Sze Chuan? Have you? Because if you haven't, then you should. In fact, you should reevaluate your New Year's resolutions to include "Eat the hot pot at Lao Sze Chuan." I mean it. It's that good.
Even the picture is a feast for the eyes...
It's the kind of tasty goodness that makes me want to wait until the wind builds to a scream and icicles form in my nose before I make the trek to the land down under Madison Street. Then, when the Weather Channel confirms it's the month of February, I plan for a late lunch and don't eat breakfast because I want to be good and empty so that 1) I can eat more and 2) it just tastes better when I have earned it, say through short bouts of hot-pot-inspired fasting and the extreme endurance sport that is called February in Chicago. It really is that good, I'm not kidding.
There are three choices of broth, but I've only had two: The consommé and the hot spicy. The consommé is neutral, while the hot spicy broth provides just the right amount of heat, reaching that sublime balance between pleasure and sadism that is found only in Asian cuisine. Yum. Yum, yum, yum. Oh, and, um, yum.
The list of ingredient options, much like my dating history, has great variety, is at times confusing, and has several choices of meat. (And vegetables.) I can't even begin to say, "Choose X." Once I try them all (including the pork blood cake, yippee!!!) I'll make some recommendations. So far, everything I've sampled has merited worshiping Chef Tony Hu as a demigod of hot-pot-o'liciousness. I've even considered rushing home and building a shrine.
Well, after I take a nap, of course. All that hot pot makes me warmy-swarmy inside and the only cure is a leisurely nap with the cats, so the altar will just have to wait awhile.
There are three choices of broth, but I've only had two: The consommé and the hot spicy. The consommé is neutral, while the hot spicy broth provides just the right amount of heat, reaching that sublime balance between pleasure and sadism that is found only in Asian cuisine. Yum. Yum, yum, yum. Oh, and, um, yum.
The list of ingredient options, much like my dating history, has great variety, is at times confusing, and has several choices of meat. (And vegetables.) I can't even begin to say, "Choose X." Once I try them all (including the pork blood cake, yippee!!!) I'll make some recommendations. So far, everything I've sampled has merited worshiping Chef Tony Hu as a demigod of hot-pot-o'liciousness. I've even considered rushing home and building a shrine.
Well, after I take a nap, of course. All that hot pot makes me warmy-swarmy inside and the only cure is a leisurely nap with the cats, so the altar will just have to wait awhile.
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