Because I Feel Like Whining

I've had a headache for five days in a row now. Here are the usual suspects:

a) stress
b) 7th graders
c) sinus problems
d) knots in back and resulting tension
e) lack of sleep

Solution: Pop some pills and keep at it. Have I any other choice?

All For A Friend in Need of Company

If you look closely, you can see the bump and burgeoning bruise on KC's temple.

She walked into the door on her way out of the house to meet me for paper grading and thesis writing.

Even though her head was throbbing and I was out of ibuprofen, she stuck it out and we both got some good work done.

Giving Thanks

I had several glasses of wine with my Thanksgiving dinner yesterday. I don't know if it was that I was so relaxed for once, among friends who are like family, or the fact that the guy I'm dating was there to meet the friends and stumbled through an explanation of how we know one another. . . we're. . . um. . .er. . .dating. It was better than I had done; I called us friends.

But when Jodi and I waited in line for a movie later, it was clear that the wine was still with me.

"EXCUSE ME! SOMEONE DROPPED A GLOVE," I shouted to a line of twenty people in front of us as we awaited our turn to purchase tickets.

"Yeah," Jodi whispered like a parent trying to quiet a child, "that's mine. Thanks."

"Oh." I whispered back. Then, "NEVER MIND!" I announced to the crowd because, I felt, they needed to know that the glove had been saved.

Luckily, the Milk Duds soaked up the rest of the alcohol and Jodi could enjoy Joaquin and Reese in silence. I never told her, though, that while she watched previews and I went out to get a treat, I chided the teenage sales people just short of asking for the manager because they didn't have Junior Mints. They duly noted my dissatisfaction and rolled their eyes, I'm sure.

I admit that when I imbibe a little alcohol I let myself say and do things that I wouldn't normally say or do. And because this happens so rarely, I am thankful for two things this year: wine and a friend who puts up with me when I drink it.

Don't Wanna Be A Diva

It seems that I sparked some interest in the DivaCup with an earlier entry. Let me begin by saying that I don't know much about it. Don't use it. Never have. Probably never will.

But like you, I am curious about this ancient, and yet so very new, method of, shall we say, monthly collection. The whole idea was introduced to me while sitting around drinking wine with some gal pals in the spirit of a good Sex and the City episode. We decided to learn more about this fascinating tool by making use of the wireless internet access of which I have grown so fond.

We had many, many questions about this device. How does one clean it? How often does one change it? How much can it hold? What does one do in a public bathroom? Does it leak? And so on and so on. To our surprise, the questions on the website were phrased almost exactly as our own and the answers were, well, sufficient.

Until we reached this one: What happens if the DivaCup gets stuck? Yes. Stuck.

Here was the response, straight up and to the point:

It is highly unlikely that The DivaCup™ will get stuck since the vagina is only around 4 or 5 inches long. If your DivaCup™ rides up and becomes harder to reach, simply push down (or bear down) on your stomach muscles (similar to having a bowel movement) and reach inside the vagina and pull on the stem until you can reach the base of the cup and squeeze it. Make sure that you are relaxed while doing this so that your vaginal muscles do not become tense. Once you have squeezed the base to release the air, pull the cup out on a sideways angle to allow more air to enter the vagina and it will come out no problem. If you still cannot reach The DivaCup squat on the floor and this will automatically lower the cup because this position pushes everything down lower.

The important thing to remember is not to panic, as this will make the vaginal muscles very tense and it will be harder to remove. If it feels too slippery to get a hold of the stem, wait a bit, relax, and try again by bearing down on the muscles, which will push it down to be able to pinch the base and remove. By following the instructions: making the cup rotate 360 degrees to make sure it has opened up and made the seal, and by wearing it low in the canal(not pushing it up high like a tampon), the cup should be very easy to remove. If it does ride up too high to reach, please call our toll free customer service line as our experienced staff can help.

I'm sorry, but I'm just not okay with that possibility. Plus, I am sure to panic and the image of my squatting self in the bathroom with laptop in one hand and phone in the other, makes me swear off the whole thing. Forgive me, landfills, but I won't be making the switch.

The "Good Lord You Have Giant Forearms!" Entry

It takes me longer than most people to leave my house. I can't really explain why, except that I find things that I think I need to do. Like today. For about three whole minutes I stared at my forearms in the full-length mirror wondering if they had always been quite so veiny. This was prompted, I am sure, by pal Josh's comment when he, his wife, and new baby were visiting last weekend.

"Good lord," he exclaimed. "Are you rock climbing now? Your forearms were never that big in college."

It'd be cool to be a rock climber. But I am not. I like to lift a weight or two now and then, but nothing that should make me look like Popeye.

So, all week I've been contemplating the forearms. Trying to detect any unusual sensations. Comparing them with the upper arm. Making sure everything is proportionate. Mostly, they seem normal to me.

But then, today, I noticed the veins. In just the right light, they seem extra blue and pop-out-ish. I certainly don't need something else to obsess over when I should be getting myself out of the house and into the world. But that won't stop me. I will think about the veins all week until some other perceived deformity takes their place in my mind.

I am open to suggestions.

This Happens Every Now And Then

I am obsessing. About the blog.

Nothing is good enough this week.

Not the DivaCup™ entry. Not the "Good Lord, you have giant forearms!" entry. Not the "Has anyone ever told you that you tend to over-analyze?" entry.

They've all been written and deleted.

I'll call this the "It's really important to me that you write every day" entry just to break the curse.

Wire Free and Loving It

Except that I'm beginning to wonder if one can be qualified as having OCD for clicking and clicking and clicking on blogs only to find that they have not been updated since the last time you clicked approximately forty seconds earlier. Or, is this just what it's like having internet access all day, every day with no plug in requirement?

It's a bad sign, I think, when I go to Google and then run through the alphabet in my head to land on a topic that I haven't already Googled. Astrology. . . that one is bookmarked. Back pain. . . already practiced the stretches. Chronic gas . . . been there and nothing is working. Dinosaurs. . . because who doesn't want to learn more about them?

At this point, though, it seems more appropriate to search for people who never finished their thesis papers and still managed to live happy lives.

A Pluck Pluck Here. . . A Pluck Pluck There

I have long hated my eyebrows. They are thick and bushy and not very lady-like, I'm convinced.

I've been known to examine them in the rear-view mirror when driving long distances, and when best pal Jodi is along for those rides, she has to listen as I contemplate my plans to reshape them and subsequently better my life.

"They are fine," she says. Over and over.

But last weekend when I took the tweezers into my own hands and plucked out globs of eyebrow hair in an attempt to thin them out, her response was different.

"Is it just me or did I create a bald spot on each eyebrow when I plucked today?" I asked.

"Yeah," she chuckled heartily. "I can totally see them." And then, she was gone. Buckled over with laughter.

"It's not funny!" I shouted.

"Trust me," she could hardly get the words out. "It's hilarious."

I learned two things from her that day: 1) I'm going to shut up about the eyebrows, and 2) I'm going to get myself an eyebrow pencil.

There's No Fun In Fungi

For weeks, maybe months, I've been meaning to remove the dark spots from the outside of the Nalgene bottle that hydrates me daily. I figured I had gotten some marker on it and that it just needed a good scrubbing -- something I'd get to eventually. As I attempted once again to rub the spots with my finger tonight, I had an epiphany. It's not marker. It's mold. Growing on the inside. Many, many spots of it.

Promptly, I threw the whole thing away. And at almost the same instant I began to feel my throat close from the fungus that is surely growing there as well. Soon it will likely make its way into my lungs and stomach. I never thought it would all end this way, but if it has to, someone, please, nominate me for the Darwin award.

Dating in the 21st Century

Despite my many attempts, I cannot get the guy I'm dating to read the blog.

"It's private," he says.

"Um. No. It's public," I respond.

"Yeah, but it's like reading your diary," he continues.

"No. It's like reading my blog," I counter.

"I'd rather read writing of yours that's more crafted and polished," he states matter-of-factly.

I pause.

He doesn't realize this is grounds for a break up, but I remain calm and point out that he cannot know how crafted and polished the blog is if he isn't reading it. And in that moment, I decide it's best that he doesn't read the blog so that I might rally the blogging troops who will wonder with me, WTF?

Perhaps. . .

I will finally get the raking under control.

Today, I am 31.

I don't really have a feeling about that number. Doesn't feel like much of a turning point.

Deciding it would be a good idea to take on a new challenge for the new year anyway, I talked best GF, Jodi, into taking a swimming lesson with me. Together, we could swim away the winter woes and all would be swell.

We met at the pool yesterday in matching blue suits (not planned) and instructor Margaret had us plop into the shallow end. "What would you like to learn?" she asked. "Front crawl," I replied confidently. "We want to be able to swim laps."

It didn't take long for me to remember why I can't already do the front crawl: I panic underwater.

Coordinating the breathing and the strokes and the kicking and the keeping of a straight line -- how does anyone do this? Actually, I could have asked Jodi for the answer to this question because she was moving along like a torpedo while I coughed and spittled after every second stroke. And even though my panic made me forget them all the instant my face went under, Margaret kept giving pointers. "Breathe in and out slowly. Count your strokes. Keep your ear in the water," she said. But even louder, my body told me, "THIS IS NOT NATURAL."

After taking in my fifth gallon of water, I did it. I gave up. Just like that. I looked at Margaret and said calmly, "I can't swim. I can't do this." She knew I meant it and didn't ask me to try again. More importantly, she didn't say a real coachy thing like, "You can if you put your mind to it!" She had seen my sorry attempts, after all.

So, I didn't learn to swim yesterday. Perhaps it's a bad omen for my 31st year, but I prefer to look at it this way:

Every now and then, it feels really GOOD to give up. For once, under all the stress of teaching, writing a thesis, and owning a home, I could admit, with certainty, I can't. Someday, maybe, I'll try again, but for now, I don't have to, I don't want to learn one. more. thing. I can't.

And I know that I will still move forward as a 31-year-old woman -- I'll just be doing it on dry land.

I Think I Can

Meeting with advisor yesterday was a success. She thinks I'm doing okay on the Big-Ass Paper, but must keep plugging along. Writing is slow. Writing is hard. She confirmed these things for me.

The good news is that she thinks I can finish in December . . . the bad news is that she thinks I can finish in December.

So. Goodbye November. I won't have time to enjoy you, but I'll think fondly of you now and then.

Getting Old Is Gross

The Big 3-1 is just days away.

I'd like to glide into this new year of my life in a state of grace and tranquility, but the fact that I had to Google "really bad gas" first thing this morning makes me think it's going to be a turbulent and noisy transition.

The Big Adjustment

Lil sis spent big bucks on photography school this past summer. Understandably, papadoc turns to her when he has any photo-related question.

"Cass, what's wrong with my camera. Why is it all black in this corner?" he inquired after snapping a photo of his daughters.

"Let me see," the expert responded. "Ah. Yes."

We awaited the diagnosis.

"That's your thumb."

Now that she's moved to Connecticut to become a nanny, how will he get by?