Lupe.

Wow. It has been a LONG time...a lot's gone down. And by a lot I mean I became a 'mom'.

Welcome to my world as a tiny puppy owner. Admittedly this was one of my brashest, unplanned actions thus far, and I'm a hell of a planner...but it was also one of the best decisions I've ever made. At three and a half months old, she is 3lbs, 3oz. She doesn't respond to her name, she likes toilet paper (thus it's been moved) better than any of her toys and she can only walk a block or two at a time. I've never had a dog. I have no idea what I'm doing. This is total madness and I've never been calmer.

So. There's my explanation for the hiatus. Here's to hoping we're back on track!

Love,
L and L

My! What Pretty Decorations You Have!

A couple days ago, I go to take my break and eat lunch on a swinging bench out front of my job. A little girl, about three years old, is swinging violently on the thing, so I ask her if I can join her (I like swinging, I can balance my soup, I want to be outside). She says YES!, so I sit. All of a sudden she's nearly in my lap, face about two inches from mine inspecting my nose and ears.

"What are those THINGS in your nose?!" She asks, referring to a couple of piercings.

"Oh, they're just decorations that some big people like to get." I respond.

"OH! Like a Christmas tree?!" She exclaims, she's getting louder and shriller now..."Like Christmas decorations for your NOSE!"

I am dying laughing. Her mother is dying laughing. I love kids.

Cut Me A Deal.

Picture the scene. After fleeing work 15 minutes after arriving (one of my compadres arrived, thinking he was opening...and I ran away) to FINALLY go to the doctor after a) having been in THE WORST PAIN I'VE EVER FELT (and I've felt some horrible pain) for four days straight and b) almost having dragged my unable-to-stand-straight body to the ER ten blocks from my apartment, I find myself in the fetal position in the office. The office of NOT my normal doctor. All is not lost, I am still finding comfort in the fact that the entire 'medical complex' looks like a ship from Star Trek. Love. It.

Back on track. The doctor, we'll just call him Dr. C, comes in...he starts poking and prodding like doctors are wont to do while I grimace and shudder. Test results come back (I'm an expert at peeing in a cup...less of an expert at giving blood samples) and he makes his diagnosis. I say blah. He says he can't give me painkillers though I KNOW FOR A FACT that anyone else would get demerol. I get it, I know why he can't prescribe me demerol (and honestly, I'd end up tossing it after a dose or two), but I still don't understand how he's just gonna send me home like this.

And here's where the real kicker comes in.

Dr. C, who is now sitting on one of those godawful roll-y stools, fumbles around in his pocket and pulls out a card.

"I am actually an acupuncturist on the side. I don't practise it here. I have a clinic....you familiar with Chinatown?"

Now, I'm all for alternative methods, really. And I love Chinatown...for dim sum and cheap markets that sell food items you can't find anywhere else. But he goes on...

After giving me specific directions to probably the busiest corner I can think of in Chinatown, and as I'm actually considering this as an option, I decide to ask about price. And this is where I swear to you Dr. C adopts an auctioneers voice:

"Anywhere else, 150 dolla...for you, you come today...60 dolla. Really a good deal."

I am...confused...floored...in too much discomfort to know what to do...I know my jaw dropped.

And upon my exit I found it absolutely, 100% necessary to phone a friend.

Five Year Plan.

The defining characteristic of my adult life has become very clear to me: this is all just a huge, complete and total crap shot. In the most positive way possible.

I'm a planner, I'm goal oriented and I don't like to not know what's happening at every moment of every day...for the next ten years. But that's not working out so much at this point in time and...surprisingly, I'm sort of beginning to embrace it. I have no idea what I'm doing tomorrow, except for a very loose skeleton of a to-do list that pretty much reminds me that I will show up to work (same place, same time, same tasks as every other Friday), I will workout and I might call to renew my renter's insurance. Duh. And you know what? It's not as scary as I thought. I actually don't even want to SPECULATE about what kind of madness will ensue tomorrow. This past week has been more than enough.

But anyway. I began to laugh about the whole idea of a five-year-plan since, quite frankly, nothing is set, nothing is certain and nothing really matters in my life right now. I could decide to pack my shit and leave tomorrow and it simply would. not. matter. The joys of having no spouse, no children and very few commitments I suppose. And while I say that nothing is set, nothing is certain and nothing really matters, I still have to remind myself that I have very real goals that I am ridiculously attached to.

So, without further ado...here is my (part honest-go-God, part tongue-in-cheek) 5-year-plan (sans timeline...too uncertain...).

-Go to Graduate School. Accrue many student loan debts. Live off of scraps in bad neighborhood. Love every minute of it.
-Get Pitbull. Name it Jolene.
-If dog is decidedly too big/too scary (lets be real, I'm terrified of dogs)...get new parrot instead. Name it Jolene.
-SHOOT! As in complete the huge notebook full of photo series' I've mapped out, sketched out, written proposals for etc. etc. etc.
-Get a job with benefits. That doesn't require working weekends.
-Get job where I run the show.
-Run the show.
-Go on a date with someone worth going on a third date with (you know, since two dates is protocol with me...UNLESS I come to find out on date one that you've just been released from a 12-year stint in the Federal Penitentiary. THEN I think a second date is really not necessary...)
-Learn how to sleep.
-Be able to afford a GREAT studio space. That isn't in my apartment.
-Get back in as-close-to-my-competitive-dance-years shape as I can possibly get without being able to be a competitive dancer.
-Work up the courage to touch a banana without cringing, hyperventilating and ultimately making someone else do it.
-Have long hair again. So I can realize how much I hate having to deal with my long hair and chop it off again.
-Tell everyone who needs to hear it to 'shut up and let me go'...and not care what they'll do.
-Have a job where I can both afford and have a REASON to wear fancy clothes. Have a fancy job.
-Finally get around to deleting all the Cure off my computer. And the Daft Punk. And the Radiohead. Talk about things that totally kill the mood when they come up on iTunes shuffle.
-Find a way for it to be appropriate and acceptable to wear more super sparkly things.

That's all I've got for right now. I think it's time to lay in bed and THINK some more. Not dream...cause one would have to be asleep to dream. Please refer to 5-year-plan.

Déjà Vu

My father is a PhD chemist, I grew up on college campuses and constantly (as a small child) became the entertainment for my father's post doc students. I used to supply the Chemistry Department with girl scout cookies and drawings in red, black, blue and green dry erase on a regular basis. At dinner parties, I, the only child until my younger brother came around, was the cute thing for everyone to coo over and talk to awkwardly. I adore when people who don't know how to talk to children TRY to talk to children. It always ends up more than a little...weird.

In one such incident, one of my father's students decided that asking a 4-year-old ME what I wanted to be when I grew up was a good idea. Generally, when you ask a little kid this, they'll say something like 'ballerina' or 'fire fighter' or 'astronaut.' GENERALLY. By age 4, I had been taking ballet and creative movement classes for about a year and was VERY into them. I LOVED dancing.

Not only did I love dancing, but on the way to and from church, we had to pass a Déjà Vu. Yeah, the strip club with the garish legs in fishnets on a huge ass billboard on the side of the road. The one with the legs THAT LOOK LIKE BALLERINA LEGS. Let me reiterate...I was four and I loved. to. dance.

So...how did I respond to this twenty-something's question? At one of my father's dinner parties? With about 15 students around? I'll tell you how. Loudly. Hands on hips. Proudly:

I WANT TO BE A Déjà Vu GIRL!!!!

All I remember is being confused when everyone laughed and later my mother explaining that those girls didn't wear clothes...

Words: Mindf*&k of a Five-Year-Old.

I am five years old, sitting quietly in the backseat of 'Jenny', the gunmetal grey '87 Camry (we are rather Toyota loyal, aren't we?). My mother is driving. We're headed down Lake City Way towards home, we've just passed Deja Vu (which is another blogpost entirely) when mom cranes her head around to me at a stoplight.

She begins to explain, completely straight faced, that 'they' (who? Oh...just nonspecific powers greater than ourselves) have decided to change the meanings of many words. What? She goes on...from now on, the words I HAD a concept for would no longer mean or stand for what they'd meant or stood for yesterday. I don't remember if she gave examples or not, but I do remember the panic that ensued internally for the next few hours...

As a small child I immediately began to worry. I started with my own example, I thought about a sandy beach and a bowl of soup. What if soup means sand and sand means soup and I don't know it and therefore nobody knows what I'm trying to say when I'm talking?!

I thought further about soup and sand...and how sand would make really gross, gritty soup and soupy sand would really just defeat the purpose of whatever I was supposed to call that junk at the beach! We got home and I was quiet for hours, pondering the possibilities...more like just being terrified to open my mouth.

My mother insists to this day that she was just playing around, just enhancing my higher-level thinking skills. Perhaps just trying to get some peace and quiet (come on, those of you who know me wouldn't BLAME her in the least)?? Whatever it was, I find it hilarious.

Hello? Ambien Walrus?!

I don't sleep. No really...I slept an HOUR AND A HALF TOTAL the other night. After much coaxing from some close friends I decided to go to the doctor. You know, cause the insomnia's only been going on for, what, ten years now? Well...this spell has been particularly long and ridiculous, so I went.

I went armed with my list of failed sleep-inducing activities, a timeline of the past four or five months, and an honest to God need to get some ZZZZ's. I got through maybe a paragraph's worth of explanation before my doctor looked at me, in shock, and told me she'd be right back.

Within 15 minutes I held in my shaky little hands an Rx for Ambien and a referral for a sleep study. 45 minutes after that (I did an awesome arm and ab workout at the gym) I walked home with my sacred little pharmacy bag.

It has been so long since I've slept normally and for a legitimate amount of time that, now that I have the little pill to put me there, I'm terrified to take it. I'm not really sure what I'm afraid of...perhaps losing the POWER I feel I have in being awake all the time. Or maybe its just all the Ambien horror stories PLUS the hilarious and extensive medication guide that came with this junk. The first item in a list of "reported activities" while on it is:

DRIVING A CAR ("sleep driving")

Are you KIDDING me?! ThankyouJesus I don't have a car. Also included in the list were (in parentheses, see my thoughts):

Making and eating food (Dear God I'm going to burn the building down)
Talking on the phone (Dear God this sounds worse than drunk dialing)
Having sex (Dear God...oh dear God)
Sleep Walking (Dear God I am going DOWN)

In talking pretty extensively with my roommate about this stuff, he has assured me that if I'm going to do any 'sleep activities' they'll generally be something I already do rather frequently. To which I responded with my list:

SLEEP WORKING OUT (or walking to the gym)
SLEEP WALKING TO MY JOB
SLEEP CLEANING MY KITCHEN
SLEEP TEXTING
SLEEP EATING KASHI GOLEAN AND PLAIN NONFAT YOGURT
SLEEP PAINTING MY NAILS
SLEEP BEATING PEOPLE UP

Obviously some of these are WAY more of a problem than others. If I wake up in my pajamas on the streets of New York because I 'ambiened' myself out of bed and to the gym or work at 2 o'clock in the morning I will be...I don't even know. Impressed? Mortified? Terrified? Amused?

Bottom line, this bottle is going untouched tonight. I think I'll have one or two last hurrah nights with my insomnia. I'm going to embrace it and appreciate it, love it and cherish it. And then I'm going to kick it outta bed like I do to most men (what what?!).

Okay and now for one more comic...cause both of these made me smile big time.