Dr. Feelgood

It's official--cuddling and hugging are good for your health.

I still think you're using it incorrectly

To my dismay, iteratively is actually a word.

This is why I have a job.

Fever dreams

Shuttling back and forth between Lunchboy’s house and my own apartment, I sometimes lose a few things along the way. On Mondays, that thing is usually my brain. When he’s traveling, he’s out of the house at 5:15am and even though I fall back asleep, being awake briefly always plays with my head. Mondays are when I discover that I forgot to transfer my wallet from my overnight bag to my work bag, when I go looking for a piece of clothing and realize that it’s in a drawer a few miles away, when I spill coffee on my keyboard because I’m tired and in a rush.

Today is an honorary Monday in that way. The power went out at his place last night, but in dribs and drabs rather than all at once. A lamp went out in the bedroom, and then a few hours later all the lights in the kitchen and living room went dead. Lunchboy’s departure this morning was accompanied by phones ringing, lights flashing and cats crying. Then, about 20 minutes after he walked out the door, the power to the outlet running the AC went dead. Were it not a million degrees outside, this would have been less disturbing but since it was both hot and ridiculously, hair-curlingly humid outside, it was a problem. Somehow I fell back asleep and had weird, fever-like dreams in which I felt like I was being weighed down by layers of heat. Somehow my wallet found its way into my work bag and I didn’t leave my computer in the wrong house before I headed to work, but my eyelids are heavy heavy heavy.

So undignified

This is one of those things I hate myself for laughing at, but can’t prevent myself from laughing. Scully would never tolerate any of that. One year I tried to put a cat-size Santa hat on her for Christmas—pretty white cat with a Santa hat—and she had that thing on the ground in two seconds flat. She has, however, been known to get caught in paper shopping bags.

A day in the woods

Togetherness is a lovely thing, but so is alone time. It’s funny how it took me 29 years to really appreciate the whole “room of one’s own” concept, but now that I’ve picked up on it, I hold it close like my own version of Sue-Lynn’s secret in The Anything Box. It’s still hard for me to ask for alone time, but I’m better at it than I used to be. Maybe that’s because it took me a while to know who I am and recognize the need for time alone in order to stay grounded in myself. Good lord, I sound like a self-help book.

Anyway, today I spent the afternoon at Walden Pond and it was glorious. Except when exactly did the Parks Service decide to turn the pond into a police state? The main parking lot was closed and instead of letting us swimmers park near the high school and walk across Rt. 2, the park rangers were staked out near all the trailheads to keep people away from the pond. Seething, I hugged my beach bag and managed to slip past a guy on a horse. When I got to the pond, I realized why the rangers are being all militant. The water level is so high that there are virtually no beach areas outside the main bathing beach. As I picked my way down the pond path, I came across enclaves of beachgoers up in the woods, camped out on towels and folding chairs as if the loam had magically turned to sand. Luckily, I managed to find a little rocky spot that wasn’t mobbed with screaming 8-year olds. I put my stuff down and hopped in the water.

Walden’s a special spot for a lot of people. There’s something meditative and calming about the place that goes above and beyond what you normally find in a pond. Maybe all that transcendentalism leached into the ground back when Thoreau built his little cabin. Maybe it’s just one of those places that holds you in thrall for no apparent reason. I’ve been going there since I was tiny. My parents would take my brother and me down to Little Cove for the day when we were little, so we could splash around and give them ten minutes of peace to read their books. The distance between one side of the cove and the other always seemed so far, and the water seemed so deep. I used to do loopdiloops in the water and imagine I was a nyad (because I was a dork even as a small child), basking in the way the sunlight refracted in the pondy greenness. Glenn and I used to go there on the way home from work to do distance swims from shore to shore. But no matter who I shared it with, Walden always felt like my own place in a way that I’m sure a lot of people feel.

So Walden was a perfect place to go and be by myself today. I swam back and forth between the edge of Little Cove and the far side of the bank a couple of times, looking at the sky and letting the water hold me up. It’s a kettle pond, so by August the water has soaked up enough warmth that it feels like a heated pool. The last time I went swimming for real was at the public pool on Sepulveda in LA, although we did a bunch of paddling between the dock and the float up in Ossipee last month. It felt great to just let go and not have to think about anything or anyone.

After I swam, I sat on a rock with my legs dangling into the water and read for a while. The clouds came in later in the afternoon, so I drove into Concord center and got a snack at one of the cafes. Then I wandered through the Concord Bookshop and picked up the new Harry Potter and Thisbe Nissen’s latest book. My arms and legs were weighted down with that wonderful post-swim sleepiness, and I felt whole and centered. I think I needed to know that I could still have days like today. Like a good yoga practice, it renewed my faith.

Procreation does not equal superiority

When it comes to friendships and relationships, kids constitute the dividing line. I’m not just talking about the line of responsibility or the line of abrupt, complete life change that seems to (and should) accompany the creation of a family. I’m talking about the line between people who have kids and people who don’t. Sometimes it feels like a lot of women who’ve already crossed that line no longer have any interest is relating to women who have yet to reach the parental point of no return. And it’s infuriating.

Yes, I am 30 and I am unmarried. Quite frankly, I’m happy about that fact because if I were married it would be to the wrong person. But just because I have not settled down into a traditional family life complete with husband, house and children does not mean that my life choices are questionable or sophomoric.

If I seem angry, it’s because I’ve attended one too many parties recently where the guest list comprised married couples with children, and where the conversation was a little too Bridget Jones for my comfort. So here’s what I have to say to the Smug Married Parents:

You may think that I don’t notice the pity in your eyes when you ask what I do with my time, but I do. Children may be the light of your life, and I’m glad for you that they are. But you know what? I don’t envy you just because you’re bonding over bad daycare stories. I don’t feel badly for you that you have whiplash because your spirited son decided to headbutt you for the fun of it. Yes, it’s cute when Junior’s T-shirt gets caught in the cooler while he’s rooting around for ice to suck on and I’ll laugh with you, but deep inside I’m thanking my lucky stars that I can go home and giggle over the Chapelle Show while drinking a vodka cranberry and I don’t have to worry about listening to a baby monitor.

The fact is, I get a good night’s sleep every night. The only unexpected disturbances I have to deal with are cat- or roommate-related. My clothes are spitup-free. My vacations don’t have to be planned and budgeted around kids, and I can go on weekend trips whenever I so desire. Nights out with my friends? No problem—no babysitter necessary. Nights in with my boyfriend? Nothing but the cats to bother us. So pardon me if, behind your pity, I sense a reservoir of envy that you can’t bring yourself to acknowledge.

Don’t treat my relationship like it’s a silly high school romance just because I’m not wearing a ring and I haven’t lost my figure yet. I may not be a member of the married mommy club, but that doesn’t mean I’m immature or that I feel like my life lacks meaning. The fact that I’m unmarried and technically still on the dating market isn’t something I bemoan every morning when I roll out of bed. Now, when I reach the point where I’m ready to get married, I’ll know that I got every ounce of independence and growth that I could out of my single life before taking the plunge. There will be no question of maturity or impulsiveness. And when I’m ready to have children, I’ll remember not to ostracize my single friends just because we’re at different points in our lives.

To sleep, perchance to dream

Ah, sleep. You are like crack to me. I cannot get enough of you, no matter what I do. You rule my days like a persnickety hobgoblin on hormone therapy—cranky, fickle, never letting me entirely out of your greedy grasp. I give you 8 or 9 hours a night and still you want more from me.

I am always tired. Every time there’s a seasonal change, I tell myself that my sleepiness is due to the weather. In the winter this is usually true. When it’s cold and awful outside, there is no better place to be than in my bed, snuggled up in world-class flannel sheets and my down comforter. But it’s August and even though it’s hot and humid, I see no reason to be this tired. Heat is enervating but seeing as it warms me to the core, it’s a cozy enervation and one that I don’t fight. Really, what is there to fight about reading on the porch and enjoying the fact that you don’t have to move AT ALL.

But it’s a different story during the week. Mornings are my personal nadir. This is why, despite my best intentions, I have never been able to be one of those morning runners or morning yoga people. There are a lot of days when I can barely keep my eyes open, no matter how much caffeine I drink or how much protein I eat. My deep, dark, guilty secret is that, on the days when the exhaustion sweeps over me and I cannot shake it off, I go down to the parking garage and take a nap in the back seat of my car during my lunch hour. I live in fear of someone I know walking by the car and finding me out.

Two months ago, Lunchboy and I went to give blood at the local blood drive across the way. They did the little finger prick test and ushered him over to a table, where they stuck a fat needle in his arm and drained a bag of blood from him in like 5 minutes. After they pricked my finger, though, they sat me down and told me they couldn’t take my blood because my blood iron levels were too low. The Red Cross, which always wants people’s blood, turned me down. Not that it was a surprise—I’ve suffered from chronic anemia for as long as I can remember, even though I stuff myself with multivitamins and try to eat lots of iron-rich foods.

Okay, jelly beans have no iron. But still.

The anemia is probably the root of all evil when it comes to my energy levels. There are days when it feels like I could sleep for 13 straight hours and still be tired when I woke up. I know this because right after I graduated from college, I came home to my parent’s house and for the three weeks before I moved into my first apartment, I slept for 13 hours a night and still needed a nap during the day. Same thing after grad school.

This past weekend, I stocked up on iron pills at Trader Joe’s and am on a mission to banish the exhaustion. Sleep is already a carefully horded commodity for me. As anyone who has lived with me, stayed with me and/or hosted me knows, I am the ultimate sleep dork. Every night at bedtime, I break out the construction-grade earplugs and my beloved black satin sleep mask, all the better to block out errant noise and light. Woe is he/her/it that wakes me up before the alarm goes off.

My hope is that the iron pills will make a difference. I am tired of being tired.

Victory!

#433234 on the list of things I never expected to happen: My mother calling me after an episode of Entourage to say,

“Oh my god, it was like my life was onscreen!”

My mother, whose only contact with the entertainment business was when she was friends with a guy who starred in a Hallmark Hall of Fame TV movie. My mother, who watches way, way, WAY too much cable TV. She counts on HBO and Showtime to keep her hip. It’s touching, really, because she watches this stuff in part to understand the world my brother and I inhabit. But sometimes it gets disturbing, like the time I told her about seeing Glenn last August and she asked, “Does that count as a deja-fuck?” That was when I took the remote control away from her and hid it in the basement.

Anyhoo.

The real reason she said that, of course, was ComicCon. My mom’s been attending similar conventions for years because, in her spare time, she writes science fiction. She’s pretty good at it—two of her books were published when I was about 13. For a while she let my brother and me tag along when she hit NorEasCon or Arisia and, once, WorldCon when it was in the booming metropolis of Springfield, Mass. You really have to see these conventions to understand what they’re like. Hotels full of people dressed up as their favorite book/movie/TV show characters. Lots of elf ears and Vulcan ears. Ballrooms full of vendors selling chain mail, authentic Star Trek uniforms, fantastical jewelry and things like stuffed dragons that are based on creatures in the Anne McCaffrey books. It’s pretty amazing and scary and impressive. And scary.

My father thinks the whole Con thing is nutty. He watched the Entourage episode, too. He got on the phone and asked one question: “Where are all the fat, unhappy people?”

I hung up before my mother could bring up the Pussy Patrol, or the strap-ons. Really, mom, I don't want to KNOW.

Tummy crust

The NY Daily News has created a name for that unlovely roll of flab that blooms over the top of people's jeans. The whole naming of the muffin top phenomenon is less shocking to me than the fact that, according to the article, men actually like it. Not that I'm judging anyone for what they weigh, but I'm a line freak and I just think the muffin top thing looks sloppy. Anyone can look great as long as they wear clothes that fit, and by "fit" I mean "not 2 sizes too small." This is not a Dr. Seuss story.

Review

This weekend, in addition to sleeping like a champion, watching untold hours of TiVo and avoiding my roommate’s birthday bash, I clocked a record 30 sets of stairs at the stadium, a feat for which I am proud but also for which the lower half of my body is now paying dearly. There are 37 sets in the Harvard stadium and by god I will get through the whole thing before winter if it’s the last thing I do. Being short (5’3”), I can’t run the big steps so I climb them instead. Running the little steps bugs the hell out of me. There are days when I wish I could be one of those lanky, athletic types who can lope up the steps with both elegance and strength but clearly it’s not in the cards.

I’m considering running a ½ marathon in San Francisco this November. Not only does the course look spectacular but I realize that I miss having an athletic goal—besides fitting into my clothes--to work toward. Do I like to compete? No. But the having of the goals is nice and productive.

This past week, Lunchboy finally got me to the theater to see Revenge of the Sith. At no point did I ever intend NOT to see this movie, but considering how awful the previous two installments were, I had no intention of dropping $10 to endure 2.5 hours of George Lucas-inflicted pain. But, like most people said, it wasn’t as bad as Attack of the Clones. Somehow the end tied up nicely and lead to the original series quite well. But I live in the hope that George Lucas will never again attempt to depict emotion on-screen. Watching EVERYTHING involving Padme and Anakin was like giving myself paper cuts with badly written Hallmark cards.

Shout out

Megan, GOOD LUCK on the bar exam!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

The check is in the mail

Yesterday I got a call from the jewelry store where I consigned my engagement ring, telling me that the ring had been sold! Woohoo! No more ring in the store. I will never see that wretched thing again. Plus, the fact that it sold makes the consignment check significantly fatter.

$$$ for Moxie.

Chapter closed, right? Well, it turns out the ring sold back in April, but for some reason they never sent me a check. They only realized the mistake when I went into the store this past Saturday to inquire about the ring’s status. No harm, no foul. It just made me laugh because nothing related to the ring was easy. It’s only fitting that the process of closing the very last door on the entire episode should be complicated.

It’s a little weird to think that some random woman out there is wearing that ring, but I’m glad it’s making someone else smile. I hope it brings her and her fiancé a lot more happiness than it brought me.

Lay it on me

An interesting look at why people kiss.

If he can keep a sense of humor, anyone can

Seen on a sign held by a panhandler near the Alewife interchange during this morning's commute:

"Need $$ for LSD and guns"

Do not underestimate the cats

Last month, Lunchboy and I had dinner with my good friend L and during the meal we got to talking about introductions—how important or unimportant they are, how they can be uncomfortable, the role they play in life and relationships.

There’s the friend introductions, the parental introductions and maybe, if you’re lucky, the grandparental introductions.

But one thing everyone forgets to take into account are the pet introductions. If you’re a pet parent, having your baby meet your SO’s baby is a BIG DEAL. I mean, what do you do if they don’t hit it off? It’s not like you can sit them down and say, “Just give him/her a chance. They’re a good person, I promise.”

Well, if you’re me you can still say that, but there’s no guarantee that your pet will understand. If I recall correctly, Scully listened and then decided it was time to have a snack. You could fit her attention span inside a pistachio nut.

Since my lovely roommate is having her horde of drunken friends over to our place on Saturday night, Lunchboy was kind enough to offer a safe haven for both me and my put-upon kitty. But we thought it would be smart to introduce Scully to his two cats before having a full-on feline pajama party. We did a ton of research on how to introduce cats without inducing hissing, spitting, wall-climbing fits of wigging out, but somehow all our research fell by the wayside. Instead of keeping them separated, we just plopped Scully’s carrier in the middle of his living room, unzipped the front and hoped for the best.

For future reference, NOT a good plan of attack.

Scully has moved around so much and met so many strange cats in her travel adventures that almost nothing phases her anymore. Lunchboy’s cats are sisters and they’ve never met another cat before. At first they were nonchalant, but once they figured out that another feline had materialized in the midst of their territory, they proceeded to flip out in gold medal-winning fashion. Griffin crouched low to the ground and shadowed Scully as she explored the house, growling and hissing whenever Scully came too close. Cringer started meowing and hissing as soon as Scully went into the bedroom, and still hasn’t stopped. Eventually, Scully flopped on the living room floor and took it easy. She didn’t go after Griffin & Cringer’s food or water, and she stayed out of the bedroom after Cringer let her know that wasn’t cool. She was a champ.

I took Scully home after about a half hour, but Lunchboy’s cats are still upset. Griffin is back to her friendly, curious self but Cringer is still traumatized. Whenever Griffin comes hear her, she starts hissing and growling and then she hides under the bed. It’s like she doesn’t recognize her sister anymore. Lunchboy is beside himself. Needless to say, we scrapped the overnight kitty stay.

On a more pleasant note, I took LB to meet my parents last night. We were all tired after a long weekend, but it went well. The evening seemed fairly tension-free. We ate a lovely dinner of grilled swordfish and steak on my parent’s back porch, and watched the resident blue heron poke around the pond behind the house. After the kitty introduction, everything else feels easy. How fucked up is that?

It ain't easy being a woman

They say time heals all wounds and when it comes to a bikini wax, they aren’t kidding.

No sane woman would subject herself to such a procedure more than once unless she’s given enough time to forget about the pain and humiliation of the previous month’s waxing. Somehow, three or four weeks is just long enough for the mental scarring to fade, never mind the physical side effects, so that you can venture back to the spa and undergo what is likely the most humbling of aesthetic augmentations.

With a beach day looming on the horizon and the knowledge that days of shaving just weren’t going to cut it (no pun intended), I gathered my strength and my sense of optimism and headed off the day spa down the street. Somehow I’d managed to banish the memory of a Brazilian bikini wax I got as a lark a couple of years ago, when my ex-best friend talked me into trying it after she’d read one too many copies of Glamour. All I remember is that I paid $75 to have a strange woman up-end me like a baby that needs a diaper change and inflict the worst pain of my life on my private parts. Thankfully, I’ve blocked the pain out. Unfortunately, even though I didn’t opt for the Brazilian option, this time wasn’t much better.

There’s nothing fun about a bikini wax. First, there’s the lack of privacy. You’re spreading your legs for a complete stranger, someone who probably sees upwards of 10 hoohas a day and yet lacks the practiced, clinical approach of an ob/gyn. And it’s not just the leg spreading, it’s the leg adjustment—the technician lifts you and twists your legs around so she can get a nice, clean line and that means you’re doing more contortions than the Kama Sutra but without the pleasant association. In order to get that clean line, the technician also uses her hands to lift, push and spread parts of the anatomy that only myself, my doctor and my boyfriend are allowed to touch. You are On Display and there’s no curling up to conceal yourself on account of the Hot Wax. Which is in places that Hot Wax should not be. Ever. And then it gets ripped off, leaving you gasping in pain and seeing stars in the air.

While I was lying on the table at the spa on Friday, I couldn’t help but wonder what the hell the technician was thinking. How did I compare to the other girls she waxed that day? Was she as grossed out and embarrassed by the whole thing as I was? Did she think cotton Hanes Her Ways were ridiculous for a 30-year old woman?

The things this woman must see.

She kept talking about how much easier it would be next time, and all I could do was think, “I’ll do whatever it takes to make the pain STOP. What makes you think there’s going to be a NEXT TIME???”

Clearly, I cave easily in torture situations.

In case you wondered

Someone finally created a list of 40 things that only ever happen in the movies.

I would like to add the following:

--Broken hearts always mend within a few days, and best friends are always willing to sit up all night handing out tissues.

--People earn entire degrees without doing an ounce of visible work.

--Men and women hold down high-powered jobs without adhering to any kind of schedule.

Got any more?

A tangled web we weave

Workplace romances are now being bound by legal agreements to prevent sexual harassment lawsuits.

Both Lunchboy and I feel pretty strongly about maintaining a professional demeanor in the office. Other than sneaking a few kisses in the stairwell when we first started dating officially, we usually do our utmost to behave as if we don't know each other in a personal capacity when we're in the office together. Sometimes it works and sometimes it doesn't, but I'd like to think romance isn't something to be legislated, regardless of where it blooms.

Under the spell of the Goblin King

The Jim Henson Company is turning 25, and in an homage to the great Muppet master, the Brattle Theater is showing a double feature of two of Henson's classic fantasy movies: Labyrinth and The Dark Crystal.

Skeksis! Oubliettes! The Bog of Eternal Stench! Jennifer Connelly in her first leading role! I'm so there.

No way to avoid the "beam him up"

In a sad development, James Doohan, who played Montgomery Scott on the original Star Trek, died today. I met him once at a book signing when I was little. He was very nice for a man who had spent many hours at a table dealing with Trekkies. But apparently he couldn't take anymore, Cap'n.

He will be missed.