Live with it.

So Roommate decided it was time for me to get a haircut.  Normally, I am profoundly indifferent to hair, but at this point, my hair had gotten a little out of control.  After all, a woman of a certain age isn't always done a favor by longer hair.  The problem was, I hadn't decided on a hairstyle.

Again, normally, this isn't a problem.  The best haircut I ever got was picked out for me by my former coworker Paula and her stylist.  Paula had had a rough day that week and I told her she could pick out any hairstyle she wanted for me.  It sounds selfless and giving of me, doesn't it?

Yeah.  It isn't.  That's seriously how little I usually care about my hair, per se.  I want to look decent over all, but hair...meh.  It grows.  You get a bad cut and you hate it, it grows out.  You get a good cut and you love it, it grows out.
Anyway.  Roommate and her coworker Kelly [who does a very nice job cutting hair] flipped through some hair magazines and the snipfest began.  By the time Kelly was done, there was enough hair on the floor to make a whole new Lisa Marie.

And I had a hairstyle that makes Carol Brady

 look sexier than Salma Hayek.

Yup.  It's that...unsexy.  Seriously.  It is the hair equivalent of the mom jean.  It's not the length.  It's not the fact that my hair has a freaking mind of it's own.  It's that this cut, that looked adorable on the model in the magazine, makes me look like like Carol Brady's less appealing sister.

I'm never getting lucky again.

Ad nonsense

At what point, dearest, does one say to oneself, "I am just too freaking lazy?"

Oh, yes...when one is worn to a nub holding a book.

And look at that picture!  She's not even reading a book!  It's a couple of sheets of paper!  If she were reading the Oxford English Dictionary, maybe I could see it.  But come on!!!!

And she's got decent arms.  It's not like she's suffering some debilitating disease, fer chrissakes.

Look, I know I'm lazy.  I know I spend a fair amount of time figuring out ways of doing as little as humanly possible.  I know part of my hatred and loathing of the gym and all things exercise are related to my laziness.  But, again, come on!!!  Even I'm not this bad.

Ooo!  I just found a boundary.  How...unsettling, really.

I'd best go lie down until it goes away. 

The new addition!!!!

See, this is why I don't usually go antique shopping.

It's not that I needed another teapot.  I have...um...nineteen of them.  And while this wasn't an expensive teapot, I certainly didn't need to spend money on it.

But look at it! It's pretty and swirly and it has a comfortable handle! It's got the cool hook-y bit that keeps the lid on the pot while pouring. And it's a happy color. It goes with my growing collection of
of Paragon china, the commemorative pattern designed to honor the birth of Queen Elizabeth's younger sister.  Princess Margaret Rose.  It's so pretty, too.  It's got parakeets and rosebuds and the rosebuds are raised--

Never mind.  Here.  Look:

See?????

The soft yellow with the bolder yellow of the teapot?  And the center of the daisies?  How adorable is this?

It blends.  It looks nice with my pale green Depression glass.  Can't you just imagine coming to tea at my house and having your scone and tea sannies on this plate, your tea poured out of the sunny yellow pot?  Doesn't it just make you feel pretty?

Oh, don't be silly.  You are pretty.  Almost as pretty as my new teapot.

You know what?  I changed my mind.  I did actually need it.

"It's a simple question."

A few weeks ago, I saw my primary care physician. No, nobody likes it. I expected not to enjoy myself, and I wasn't disappointed in that expectation.  But that really isn't my point.

Yes, I do so have one.  Here it is--and you couldn't have waiting another two seconds?

Anyway.  During the Q&A session with the medical assistant, I was asked:

"Are you sexually active?"

Dearest, I was completely stymied.

After a few moments of opening and closing my mouth like a codfish, interspersed with furrowed brow and contemplation of the ceiling, as if it might hold the answer to this perplexing query, the medical assistant said rather sharply, "It's a simple question." 

I would have to disagree.  I would also submit the idea that this MA was, in fact, not single.

How long does one have to be celibate before one is no longer considered sexually active?  Where's the cut off, so to speak?  What's the practical and specific definition of "sexually active?"

It can't indicate awareness or thought about sex, can it?  Obviously, given the terminology, one must be actively involved with the process.  Of course, active involvement might preclude a fair number of married people whose response to sex is along the lines of, "...Fine.  Go ahead.  Whatever."

Ah, romance.  Some marrieds sure know how to live.

It also can't be willingness.  I'm willing to look exactly like Kathy Ireland, but that doesn't make me a supermodel, does it?

And it certainly cannot be about availability.  After all, the Mr-Right-Now dating site provides nearly endless opportunities for random and/or illicit sexual activity.  The twenty-somethings who are looking for a good time alone allow for numerous penises on call.

Yes, they actually put that on their profiles.  "Looking for a good time."  The penis on call designation is mine.  But really, wouldn't that be a useful box to check?  So to speak?

Oh, but let's not leave out my other source of readily  available potential partners, the STD patients!  My, what a fun group they are!!  If there's anything that makes me just feel pretty, it's the overly flirtatious STD patient.  I can't count the number of times I've said, "Here's your cup for gonorrhea and chlamydia testing, and yes, I am single, thanks for asking!"

I'm single.  But am I sexually active?

It's not really that simple a question.  And I have absolutely no idea.

And Cup Goes To...

The Los Angeles Kings. Yeah, I know. It's because I didn't bake yesterday. I blame myself.

Wait a minute. No, I don't! I blame whomever sold his soul to make this happen! [coughDarrylSuttercough]

But it's okay. The Kings won. Good for them. I wish them all the joy and satisfaction in the world. There can be no feeling like this, I imagine, and it should be cherished.

Sigh.

And now begins three long and painful months...without hockey.

Sniff. No, no. I'll be okay.

Sniff.

Comment Theory Update

I baked chocolate cupcakes and shortbread...

...the New Jersey Devils won game five against the Los Angeles Kings.

Coincidence?

The Difference

Dearest one, have you ever wondered what fine line separates a normal person from a complete freak? No? All right, then, stop reading immediately. I won't say anything further.

I'm kidding, of course. I'm always going to say something further.

I had a little experience yesterday that made me pause and recognize this line, this delicate demarcation of character. This is what happened.

Tuesday was a truly hideous day. Honestly ghastly. Seriously craptastic. And as we stood together at the end of it, X-ray babe Nina, Nurse Wendy and I, the lab rat, as we stood trembling and shell-shocked from the horrors of the Tuesday that was, Wendy offered a theory.

The day was terrible, she claimed, because of an insufficiency of sugar and treats.

Neither Nina nor I disagreed with her. After all, this is health care. Snacks make everything better. Not saying the cancer goes away, but chocolate is still good.

Anyway. It was suggested that goodies should be part of Wednesday in order to make it all a bit more bearable. How could I argue with such logic, dear one? How, I ask you, could anyone?

So we finished our work and we left for home and, my dear invisible friend, this is where the reality of differences in sanity were made abundantly clear.

Wendy stopped at Safeway the next morning and picked up doughnuts.

I went home after fifteen hours in the workplace and made this:

It's a rhubarb-cream cheese pie.

No, I never made the recipe before. Yes, I was tired. No, I didn't just say, "Screw it. I'll bring in that box of graham crackers and some jelly." I looked up a brand new recipe, precooked the rhubarb, baked the fruit layer, whipped up the cream cheese part, baked the cheesecake layer, cooled the pie in a draft-free area for thirty minutes then chilled the pie overnight in the fridge. Then I washed the dishes and went to bed.

See how clear all of that is? I did all of that. Wendy brought in doughnuts.

Because Wendy is a normal person. I am a freak.

Excuse me?

The Kings beat the Devils again tonight. The Kings are leading the Stanley Cup Finals three games to nothing.  3-0.

Three.

To.

ZERO.

One more win and the Los Angeles Kings will win the freaking Stanley Cup. If that win happens in the next game, they will have swept the New Jersey Devils.

My world has been turned upside down. I have no words.

Gym Hatred

Darling one, you've heard me whine countless times about my hatred of all things exercise.  You know how I feel about it.  You know I have no sense of decorum when asked about it.  Surely, then, you will feel no surprise when I tell you that I am unhappy about my current exercise situation.

But you might consider acting surprised.

Pfft.  Fine.  

Since visiting the trainer, Sandy the Sadist, was waaaaaaaaaaaaay too expensive and sadly, since exercise is required for continued weight loss, Roommate and I had to find another was to get this hideous activity in.  We...sigh.  We found a gym.

[Pause for sobbing.] 

Anyway.  On Thursday evening, Roommate dragged me, kicking and screaming, to a local gym and forced me to sign up.  Okay, she didn't actually drag me.  I did walk in.  And I wasn't actually kicking or screaming, but I was irritated, sulky and snotty about it.  And while she didn't actually hold a gun to my head, there was a beating.  Okay, there wasn't a beating.  But she wanted to.  I could tell. 

What?  You want me to lie?

Back to what I was saying.  John, the gym's manager, signed us up rather gleefully for our membership which included a free training session/orientation.  Roommate chose Monday evening, while I'm working my long shift, and I had the choice of the next day [Friday] or Friday the following week.  What would be the point, I wondered, of waiting to be shown around this den of torture?  Fine, I said to John, who was grinning like the Joker.  Tomorrow.  Gah.

Great! John exclaimed cheerily.  Nine AM?

Nine AM?  Are you kidding?

See, Friday is the day I get to sleep in.  The day when Roommate goes to work without me, rather than dragging my butt in an hour and a half earlier than I need to be there just so we can freaking carpool, get better parking and preserve the damn planet despite the fact that I'm barren and have no reason to care about the damage done to the planet by extra cars on the road--

---But I digress.

Begrudgingly, I agreed to a nine AM appointment.  Then John informed me that I needed to eat a "protein" meal an hour-hour and a half before my appointment.

[THUNK.]

But I agreed.  And the next day, I did everything I was told.  I stomped into the gym about ten minutes before my appointment.  I waited until everyone in front of me was taken care of.  And then...

I was told that no one was there to meet me for my appointment.

Yeah.

The gym bunny behind the desk waved her arm rather dismissively at the treadmills and other implements of Satan and told me to "go ahead and warm up and Tony would be here soon."    Despite the fact that she had no idea if I knew anything about operating one of these machines, she felt comfortable not worrying about my well-being at all. 

Now, did I start screaming?  Did I snap her scrawny neck like a twig?  No.  I went over to the [curses deleted] treadmill.  And at nine-thirty, I walked back over to the desk.  And, as you may have guessed, Tony the Trainer still wasn't there.

I went home.

Tony the Trainer called later, to apologize and offer me three free training session.  As I was about to leave for another appointment, I told him I would call him back later to discuss the situation.  At this point, I have no idea why I would want training sessions, free or otherwise, with someone who may or may not show up.  I have no idea why I have a membership with a gym that has such horrible customer service.  I have no idea how I got talked into this freaking exercise crap to begin with!

Oh, wait.  The last one, I know.  It's because my ass has its own zip code.

Sigh.  Exercise.  Gyms.  Trainers.

Maybe I'll just stay fat.