Monday, September 30, 2013

weekend awry and more reasons to wander locally

good morning biscay
I had intended to spend my weekend working on some projects that have gotten away from me. Mostly, work projects and missed deadlines. I had it all planned out. But, the thing about taking a bunch of prednisone to counteract the symptoms of a ruptured disc? Well... it makes it hard to focus. My plan was to work late Friday, work in the morning on Saturday, meet some friends at an opening at the Center for Maine Contemporary Art, spend the night at our family's lake house in Damariscotta, and drive home to work again on Sunday.

What actually happened is sort of a mishmash of late-night laundry, a solid 20 minutes tangled up with a duvet cover and a down comforter we don't even use, a few hours on the elliptical, a hazy night of bourbon, and a whole lot of wandering around Damariscotta during the Oyster Festival but never actually making it through the gate.

I did make it to the CMCA Hawk & Handsaw opening, where I had awkward conversations with a volunteer who was getting all kinds of nervous because they were running low on wine and all I could think was, dude, I'm not eating the cheese because I'm a shiny new vegan, but I'm having that glass of wine, god damn it.

I hate going to art openings and I love going to art openings. I like to see what people are doing; I like art. (I like men. I like to be manhandled.) But, I don't feel comfortable talking out loud for fear someone might overhear me. And, I have no poker face. So, when something really doesn't appeal to me, I sort of get all deee jong.

I wasn't grabbed by everything I saw, but I don't negatively judge art based on my interpretation of it. Sometimes there's something big going on and I'm just not receiving the message. That isn't necessarily the artist's fault. For instance, there's an installation at SPACE right now that I just don't understand, but I don't think it's my right to discredit an artist for my personal inability to receive the message.

At CMCA, there was this one installation of a giant Jacob's Ladder. (I can't believe I just found an instructional video on YouTube on how to handle a Jacob's Ladder. We are a nation of idiots.) On one side of the blocks, I saw the words, "come out virginia, don't let me wait. you catholic girls start much too late...." The entire song printed the length of the ladder. There was a pulley system overhead so you could pull (I was chicken shit and didn't pull them, but my friend did), and the blocks would flip to reveal images of people in what looked like pink jail suits or what the cook in Upstairs Downstairs (2010) refers to as "Dutch Pink." (I couldn't find a good hyperlink for Dutch Pink uniforms, but another video popped up in the search and I ended up in a weird little creepy somewhat disturbing wormhole and now I'm thinking about my Halloween costume. Enjoy.)

Back to the Jacob's Ladder, I'm not sure I understood its message but I loved the packaging.

I was totally sucked in by these etchings or watercolors by Emily Brown. I dislike linking artist sites because the online images never carry the same weight as the actual paintings or drawings. This woman's images were weirdly haunting but safe and familiar. I know somebody who looks at art and thinks, "Do I want this hanging behind my couch?" I don't think like that. I'm not trying to match a piece of art to my world. But, if I see something that makes me stare at it for any length of time, I definitely want it behind my couch because I want to keep staring at it.

I had the same reaction to Meghan Brady's painting Stranger. In person, the painting offers a different experience than the one online. I was looking at it and then I looked at the title and had that little "oh" jolt. I love when that happens.

And, yeah, I called looking at a painting an "experience." I'm vegan(ish) now. I can say a whole host of douchie things. What are you gonna do about it, tough guy? And, hey, whatever happened to all the macrobiotics from the '90s. What are they doing now?

Back to the art, please. Another new favorite of mine is Cole Caswell. I was at First Friday in Portland and saw his work at an opening at Susan Maasch Gallery and was just standing there staring at these prints. Again, the online imagery doesn't do it justice. The work showing at CMCA blew my socks off--I love that I wrote that, who am I Jimmy Stewart? But his photos are so disturbing in such a great way. I don't know much about technique, but I like what his technique looks like.

Of course, the reason I was at the opening at all was to support my friend Hollander who was showing portraits and a little more from Are You Really My Friend: The Facebook Project. If you haven't read about it, give it a looky loo. Since I've been talking with Hollander about this since the project's inception, it's difficult for me to write about it here. I've watched her artistic and personal evolution over the past couple of years, so my judgment is biased. I enjoy her work right now because I love watching the tug of war of a landscape photographer taking portraits. The images end up looking like people landscapes. And, when the images are hung in a grid on a white wall, such as they were at CMCA, the impact is stunning. If you're in the Boston area, she has an opening at Carroll & Sons on Friday. You should check it out.

Did I mention it costs $625?
One last thing. If you're ever in Damariscotta, and you're making the rounds at Reny's for new Columbia gear, Carharts, and J.Jill sweaters, make sure you pop across the street to Se Vende. It looks like it's going to be a total hippy store and based on the logo you might think the shop carries flowy skirts, peasant shirts, incense, and friendship bracelets. But you would be wrong. It's hit or miss, but I found the most interesting and affordable jewelry in there, including the most beautiful necklace I could never, ever afford. When I told the shop owner that my neck isn't elegant enough to carry off such a fine necklace, she said, "The necklace makes your neck elegant."

For that reason--because she didn't say, "Oh no, you have a beautiful neck blah blah blah"--I will shop at her store. And she said, "You have wonderful taste," which flattered me to no end. And she made fun of people who walk into her shop and make the pickle face by saying, "You don't like what you see in here? Go back to the mall."

You think you'll ever get that kind of service at Wal*Mart? Nope.

Friday, September 27, 2013

Let's go for a walk

I'm hopped up on steroids and I have to tell you I can't even believe how unbelievable this is. That's a dumb sentence. I just mean, I mean, I crossed a page of "to do" items off my work list, I've done four loads of laundry, I cooked a vegan(ish) lentil soup (fat-free chicken stock has less sodium than vegetable stock...who knew?), I baked some more vegan cranberry/apple bread, I walked (did not run even though I really really wanted to) the Brunswick bike path, I brought a pile of laundry that has been sitting in the corner of the room gathering dust--I'm serious, it was dusty--to the dry cleaner, and now I'm sitting in my little home office, eyes wide open, sneakers still on, realizing I have to take two more of those little steroid tablets before I go to bed tonight. I may never sleep again. I am literally vibrating.

And, I forgot to eat the damn soup.

All right. I just took a quick walk up the stairs and down again. Fifteen times. I'm good. I can sit. But, my brain is moving too fast to write. I took some pictures along my walk today because it was a pretty day and it feels like I have company on my walk if I take pictures knowing I'll probably post them here.

Hunh I was made for social media. A total extravert but I don't want to actually interact with people face-to-face.

Moving on. For breakfast today, I ate fat-free plain yogurt (thanks Stonyfield) with honey, a banana, and some low-fat granola (thanks Bob's Red Mill even though you're not local but MoMunch doesn't make a low-fat granola...yet). Then I ate an apple for second breakfast. Then I had a slice of whole wheat bread (thanks When Pigs Fly for not using this stuff) with vegan butter (thanks Earth Balance) for first lunch lunch. Then I had another slice of the same thing. Then a soy latte (thanks Little Dog) for snack. Then a piece of cranberry/apple bread (thanks Vegan Cooking for Carnivores) for snack while making supper. Then some leftover bowtie pasta with spinach, chickpeas, and raisins (thanks Mayo Clinic, can't wait to try your prescription for barley and roasted tomato risotto) for second supper because I forgot to eat the lentil soup I made and is still sitting on the stove. Then a wee faux ice cream sandwich (thanks So Delicious even though you're not local and I'm sure I'll hear something bad about you at some point and I'll have to stop eating your foods like I had to stop eating Kashi waffles [thank you very much for reporting on that Cornucopia Institute] because they use GMOs and I don't really know what that is anyway).

Wow. I had vegan Thanksgiving today. Okay. Noted. Steroids make me snacky.

For exercise, I've been
walking
walking
walking
walking

Don't you want to sit here...


...right next to the highway...

 ...with a little bit of history...

...but seriously you're next to the highway...

....and still you get this gorgeous view?


Thursday, September 26, 2013

Not really vegan, more vegan...ish

I know I was all kinds of freaked out in my last post but lately I'm thinking, jeez. What a luxury it is to be able to afford, and be able to take the time to shop for, organic produce and cook vegan-ish foods. I started writing about minimum wage and how processed foods are less expensive and how people afford to live without support--like, how does a single mom with no family take care of her kid and work and afford childcare, medical expenses, rent, insurance, car payment, utilities? I might try to tackle that another day, but near as I can figure it, that single mom is trying to get by on about $70 a month after expenses and before buying food. It's too big a topic to just toss out there in a late-night blog post.

I was down on the Cape this past weekend and visited a couple of local bookstores to see if I could find a good Mediterranean Diet cookbook or something that might pique my interest. The only book I found was called the "Mediterranean Prescription" written by someone or a couple of someones with a bunch of initials after their names. Nope. Wasn't gonna work for me.

I ended up at Books Books Books or Millions of Books or We Sell Cheap Books or whatever it is by the mall in South Portland and found a vegan cookbook "Vegan Cooking for Carnivores" written by Ellen DeGeneres and Portia de Rossi's chef (by the way, I dare you to try to spell either of their names without looking it up) Roberto Martin, photos by Quinton Bacon, which is just cruel. Unrelated, but I also bought a bargain hardcover color illustrated anatomy book. Fascinating. Bodies are fascinating.

Anyway, I stocked up today on legumes and soy-based cheeses and butter from Morning Glory in Brunswick. Tonight, I cooked up some pasta with chick peas, spinach, and yellow raisins. Sounds gross, was actually delicious. One word: GARLIC. And next time around I might add some lemon. I found the recipe at the Mayo Clinic website--gaw, I hate to think of food as medicine unless we're talking about a pint of ice cream after a terrible breakup or a celebratory sundae after the big game.

I've never been involved in getting sundaes after the big game because I've never really been involved in anything that would involve the words "big game" unless you count the time I spooked a moose while hiking in western Maine. And by hiking, of course, I mean, walking through the woods wondering when in the hell we were going to stop and crack the beers, god damn it.

But, thinking about food as medicine might be based on the fact that, for some people, some foods are actual poison. Oh dear. I don't want to think about butter and cheese and steak and hot dogs as literal poison.

Well, great. That made me noshy.

still such a good b-fast
Let's get back on track. I made a nice little cranberry/apple loaf from this Martin guy's cookbook and I'll tell you what. It was awesome. It's yummy. Especially with soy butter.

Hahaha. I'm an asshole. It was good, but who am I kidding? I'm feeling great because yeah yeah yeah the fat-free yogurt with honey (I know, not vegan or even vegan-ish, but soooo good) and the lowfat granola and fruits and vegetables and all the complex carbohydrates and food that's good for me is making me less hungry and snacky and blah blah blah, but I would totally eat a rare steak with a nice red wine reduction and sauteed mushrooms.

Soy butter. Honestly

I took this while waiting for the doctor.
Why is this guy standing on a rock?
And you know what else? I did not work out yesterday or today even though I really really really need to get some form of exercise or activity every day. I had a consult with a neurosurgeon yesterday who poked and prodded and stuck me with pins to confirm what I already know: I am losing feeling and strength in my left arm. But, bless his heart, he did tell me I need to figure out a way to get exercise, but he also told me there are limitations as to how much he could make me feel better. And, he told me I can't ski until this ruptured disc heals. And, if a new regiment of steroids (which I start tomorrow and I can't wait for the house to get clean) doesn't work, I get a steroid injection directly into my spine, before which I am not supposed to eat, drink, take aspirin or ibuprofin, and they will stick me with an IV "just in case," which isn't terrifying at all. But, I did get to see an MRI of all my back fat. So, in all, a really great day.

I don't know what you do after an afternoon like that, but I met a friend at El Camino where I drank a bunch of medicinal tequila, ate some chips and guacamole, and drove home to watch more Season Five of Breaking Bad.

Monday, September 23, 2013

Coming out

Ed Note: My brother just reminded me that this actually happened on Easter, which really adds to, as he put it, the "Yak Attack." 

This has nothing to do with anything, but I made a comment about reprimanding a Jew for eating shrimp in another post and I was reminded of a story about my dad. Way back in the '90s, my family met for Thanksgiving in Washington DC for supper at my dad's condo.

I arrived with my then boyfriend/now groom. My recently divorced brother arrived solo, or possibly with his two sons who would have been around tween age. My sister showed up with her boyfriend/now husband. My other sister arrived with her new boyfriend who was Jewish. And, my other brother brought along his new boyfriend after recently telling each of us that he was and is gay.

We were all sitting around the table, post "where's the gravy boat god damn it" argument, sipping the last of the wine and considering whether we wanted Sambuca or Frangelico and whether either really required coffee. (Answer: Seriously? No.)

My father had been making wise cracks to my sister's Jewish boyfriend, who I shall call "Paskudnyak" or "Yak" for short, about eating shrimp or cheese or mixing certain food items on his plate, like "Oh, so you're not really Jewish then" and "aren't you supposed to be wearing a hat of some sort?" It was brutal.

After supper, with bellies full of turkey, stuffing, potatoes, squash, spanakopita (we grew up in a Greek neighborhood), apple pie, pumpkin pie, and bottles of gin, vodka, whiskey, and wine, my father surveyed the table with his eyes. His gaze lingered on my brother and his new boyfriend, watching them carefully for signs of affection or flamboyance. My father wasn't anti-gay or as is more fashionably stated, "homophobic," and even though he raised all three of his daughters to have opinions, be independent, and absorb as much information about the world as we could, he was an old-school man. Strong middle class women who fight back when they see something wrong? He had that down. A preppy, somewhat elitist, son who paid attention to fashion and liked to kiss boys? Foreign territory. In my father's defense (that sounds like the title of a book about a bad man being defended by his daughter), he processed the information he was given and chose love over adversity. He chose to see his son as his son and not as simply a gay man. He did what every parent should. He loved his son.

I mean, it's not like he came out as a Republican or anything. That would have been a deal breaker. And, when my sister voted for Jerry Brown, I thought my father was going to disown her. But, gay? Meh.

We were at the table with my father watching his "well at least he isn't a republican" son with his very good looking boyfriend and I saw him switch his judgment off. I mean, his face almost clicked, and his eyes darted over to Yak. He watched as Yak, a lanky dark-haired man nearly a decade younger than my sister (also not a problem), sipped his wine and ate his food, cheese and shellfish and all. He watched as my sister and Yak canoodled at the table, freshly in love in their early 30s and early 20s respectively. I remember my father had a quarter in his hand that he was flipping on the table with his right hand, balancing it on its edge, flattening it out, rolling it under his index finger. I thought fleetingly of Commander Queeg as my father leaned forward and said the safest thing he could, "Tell me, Yak. Have you ever even considered Catholicism?"

I immediately looked at my brother and whispered, "Get your boyfriend out of here. Now."

The doctor says...

I'm sitting in a house that smells like bacon. Normally, that would make for a spectacular morning--locally cured bacon from a pig farm in the western part of the state? Hell yeah. But, I got some disturbing news.

Let me start by admitting I haven't written much this summer because I haven't had much to say. With the ruptured disc--and it is confirmed by the way. The jelly doughnut has left the building. I repeat. We have a ruptured disc--I can't do much. The nefarious part is that I feel fine when I exercise on the elliptical or when I go outside for a walk/run. But, at the end of the day or sometimes the next morning, it feels like I got 16 flu shots and a tetanus shot for good measure in my left arm. Is it livable? Sure. Is it annoying? Absolutely. I tend to squirm like a four-year-old who refuses to use the restroom.

You know what didn't help my situation? Taking a "nap" in the moss outside my friend's cottage last week after a long night of Manhattans and weird shots that required two glasses and tasted kind of like apple cider but not really. When I got out of the taxi (See how I did that? I mentioned that nobody drove. You like that?), I started walking backwards and couldn't stop--whaat is happening.... It was just one of those nights. I'd like to blame it on the fact that I saw a former boyfriend/fiance--someone I hadn't seen up close in 25 years--and I was feeling overwhelmed and nostalgic, but the truth is, I was just having a good time while holding my stomach in, maintaining excellent posture, and pretending I didn't see the former boyfriend/fiance I hadn't seen up close in 25 years. The hangover I received after such a night was trumped by the ruptured disc because as it turns out, mossy earth isn't the best place for sleeping. Noted.

Or, I may have had too much to drink because I met with my PCP (that's primary care physician, not angel dust, which is how I interpret it every time I see it, which is disturbing to read in all the pamphlets and wall flyers about good health while I sit on the examining table with that awful restaurant paper under my legs in an ill-fitting johnny and remembering my former boyfriend/fiance is named John and it's very likely I will see him tonight. No, it didn't bother me at all seeing him. No, that's ridiculous.

Back to the PCP. (Ha! That's what the junky said!) The other day, prior to meeting up with friends and having the best night ever I swear to god, I met with my PCP to hear the results on some standard, annual exam blood tests. You know, the cholesterol, sugar, heart attack numbers. The numbers were so bad, I kid you not, the doctor tried to make me feel better by telling me I definitely don't have diabetes. That was the good news.

Having bad numbers like that is embarrassing to me. It says, "You don't work out enough (I don't) and you eat crappy food (I do)." It's hereditary in my family to have hypertension and bad cholesterol, heart attacks and stroke and autoimmune disorders, and we're all pretty much functioning alcoholics, and as much as I'd like to lean on that, I need to be held accountable. I make bad food decisions. Like, eating a pile of locally cured bacon from a farmer in the western foothills (which I repeat I can smell right now but I didn't have any and I'm certain Groom didn't either). Just because it's local, that doesn't mean it's healthy. I know this. I've always known this. But, that little voice in my head kept saying, "At least it isn't processed crap coming out of a box!"

I'm going to admit something and I can't believe it. The doctor did one of those heart healthy or cardiovascular risk tests on me. I'm guessing they take your numbers and put them into some crazy program and a risk number pops out. It's a scale of 1 to 10 with 1 being "look at the adorable newborn baby," 5 being "fella, you might want to take a few walks around the block," and 10 being James Gandolfini. (Too soon?)

I'm a 9.1.

Oh my god I can't believe I'm admitting that. And, no, that doesn't give you license to reprimand me when you see me grab a small piece of cheese when I'm feeling a bit peckish, the same way it's rude to reprimand a Mormon for drinking alcohol or a Jew for eating shrimp or a Catholic for eating meat on Friday. As a former Catholic with a current looming heart condition, I now have the urge to eat steak frites every Friday from now until I have the stroke.

So, things are changing around here. I have to take cholesterol medication, but it's not a life-long med sentence if I take better care of myself. Even though I have that weird feeling of middle-aged mortality, the point here is that I'm avoiding mortality, not staring down the barrel of mortality.

On this medication, I might add, I'm not supposed to eat grapefruit--it interferes with the something to do with the something that clears your arteries or something? That's not even a burden. I like grapefruit but I won't miss that bitter sour fruit. The other thing I need to avoid is limes, or so the doctor said. That caused me great concern.

"How much lime?"

"Well, I doubt you eat enough lime for it to be a problem."

I paused again. "Yeaaaa...but how much lime?"

"Why?"

"In the interest of full disclosure, doctor, I will tell you the only thing that makes my back and arm pain go away is tequila."

"And you drink that with limes. Right. How much tequila?"

"Enough for me to be concerned about limes."

"As much as I'd like to prescribe tequila to my patients with chronic pain, you really shouldn't be treating pain with booze," the doctor said to the Irish Catholic girl who was about to see a former boyfriend/fiance she hadn't seen in 25 years and who she was remembering as being very size-ist and judgmental.

Moving on to food, the lovely doctor recommended I go vegan. It took him, literally, half a second to read my face and change course. "Maybe you could try the Mediterranean Diet."

"Is that the olive oil diet? I'm in."

This week I've dedicated some time to researching heart-healthy diets. I've seen materials on the China Study, which is interesting, but I'm really not a plant-based eater and I know I can't change my lifestyle like that. The Med Diet seems to fit nicely. Basically, fruit, vegetables, good grains, and maybe some fish or chicken. I can get behind that. I can avoid animal-based products but I can't remove them from my diet altogether. You know how I quit smoking? I never quit. If I want one, I can have one. And, guess what? I don't. (Well, I do sometimes. I had a few the other night when I was not thinking about that former boyfriend/fiance and not thinking about how I'm basically turning into a solid because I love to eat cheese so much.)

Today, as I mentioned, I woke up in a house that smells of bacon. The fridge is packed with yummy cheese and butter and sausage and the aforementioned bacon and eggs and frozen Snickers bars and cookies and homemade apple pie.

As I dumped some fat-free plain yogurt into a bowl, peeled a banana, and sprinkled some granola with honey on top, I reminded myself that if I want to eat all those yummy things ever again, I have to get this under control first. I've never been goal-oriented, always deadline-oriented. This nebulous sense of having to someday get things under control does nothing for me. Knowing my blood will be tested on November 14 and I will be held accountable to the man with the clipboard on November 21 is enough incentive. I won't be embarrassed like that again.

As for exercise? It's a bit of a roadblock with this back problem. I have a consult with a neurosurgeon this week and I'll discover whether a Cortisone shot will ease the pain; I'll find out whether working through the pain will make things worse; and just maybe I'll walk away with some ideas for ways to keep up the exercise without aggravating an already aggravated situation.

For now though? It's the bacon that's aggravating me. Who sneaked into the house and fried up a pound of bacon last night? Wait. Am I having a stroke right now? Do you smell oranges?

Wednesday, September 4, 2013

the thin blue line

I'm going to state right away that I'm writing this under the influence. I just got back from having an MRI (I did not drive), and I'm all kinds of relaxed from the Valium. I was so nervous about sticking my head in a tube and honestly thought of preparing for it by diving headfirst into a mummy sleeping bag but that freaked me out too much. I needed a little pick-me-up or rather a bring-me-down.

But, you know what? It's not that bad if you keep your eyes closed (or he said). I'll spell this out for you, in case you've never had an MRI before and people tell you horror stories like they told me horror stories, the worst of which involving an oxygen tank and a time of death (courtesy of friend who cut my hair into a mullet).

During the screening, the tech will ask you standard and predictable questions like whether you have a pacemaker or metal screws in your body. Okay fine. Then comes the whammy question. "Do you currently have an eye-puncture wound?"

I'm sorry? What? No. What? Why? Can this imaging test cause my EYES TO EXPLODE? But then I remembered something, again courtesy of friend who cut my hair into a mullet. (I should mention he's a doctor. He was a doctor in training when he cut my hair. I have to assume he makes much better decisions when he has someone's life in his hands. Actually, if I lived in his area, I'd probably choose him as a PCP or at least recommend him to my friends. He strikes me as a good diagnostician. And I can also see him doing this, which makes me want him as my doctor even more.)

Anyway. He told me that professional welders need to be careful about getting an MRI because the magnetic...ism?.... will rip the metal out of their eyes.

Oh dear lord. Even typing that...Hold on. I need a moment.

Okay, I'm back. I'm not a professional welder so I removed my wedding band (which I'm not convinced is actual metal anyway) and my belt and climbed on the gurney into the tube. I had been asked on my pre-reg form what kind of music I wanted to hear while in the tube and all I could think to write was "Not Yanni," so they gave me headphones with some classic rock and I was on my way.

Like I said, it's not bad if you close your eyes. And the tech is always talking to you over the headset, like "This test is going to take three and a half minutes. You'll hear some buzzing sounds." Then, you get a moment to move a little before you give the okay and then the tech will say, "This next test will last six minutes. Let me know when you're ready." It's all fine and I even tried to convince myself I was in a massage tube like you see at the mall. Plus, the tech hands you an emergency LET ME OUT bulb that you can squeeze if you really start to freak out.

Side note: I hopped into one of those aqua massage units while I was in Vegas with some friends. My friend Caroline (Watson in this post and wife to guy who cut my hair) got into the machine facing up. Can you see why I like hanging out with these people?

Back to the MRI. At one point, I opened my eyes and realized the top of tube was literally inches from my face, which got me a little nervous, which forced me to swallow hard, which I wasn't supposed to do because I had to keep my neck completely still, which made me think only about swallowing, which made me swallow again, which made me think about how I wasn't supposed to move, which made me think about that itch on my nose, which made me want to move my arms, which made me realize I couldn't move my arms because I was in a coffin a real coffin and the sides were closing in and why isn't this Valium working the way it's supposed to and how am I supposed to scratch this itch on my nose oh crap now my ear is itchy and I hate Styx why are they playing Styx on the headphones and just open your eyes open your eyes it's okay open.... then I saw it. A thin little blue line running down the length of the tube. It gave me perspective and something to focus on. I was calmed almost immediately. (Yes, I see it. This entire paragraph is nearly one entire TWSS.)

I took a deep breath (but not too deep don't move your neck or throat oh my go--thin blue line look at the thin blue line).

Styx stopped playing and a gentle voice came over my headphones. "Okay, we're done with that test. We're moving onto the next one. Why don't you stretch your fingers and take a deep breath, clear your throat, and you let me know when we can get started again. This next test will be three minutes long. You're doing great."

I closed my eyes. I felt for the tiny bulb in my hand. I took a deep breath. "Ready."

And before I knew it, the test was over.

If you ever need an MRI, I can tell you. It's not that bad. It really isn't.


Tuesday, September 3, 2013

a superficial life

I don’t want this to turn into a blog about pain and sickness, so I'll say upfront and only once, just walking an hour a day relieves a lot of the discomfort I’ve been experiencing because of my back. The other day I dove my head under water (oh, yes, I’d been practicing the swimming before NeckGate started) and pain shot right down my neck and into my arm, so for now, swimming is out.

Sort of related, aren’t you sick of people adding “-gate” to scandals?

I’ve decided to focus on the things that cause zero pain. I’ll make a list for you right now.

Things that cause me no pain
Lying…laying…lying…laaaay…ing…?... flat on my back
Tequila

Things that cause me pain
Figuring out whether a verb should be lay or lie
The morning after a night of tequila

Right now I’m in bed after a night of tequila, so I’ll put the pain level at about a 2. It’s totally livable and mostly self-inflicted.

For a local activity, Groom and I went to see Steve Jones play at Schooner Landing in Damariscotta (local music, local restaurant) where we ate Pemaquid Oysters and I drank a wee bit too much tequila (could have been locally distilled in Lewiston because I drank well tequila. Note to self: stay away from well tequila).

I woke up thinking about a tequila-laced conversation I had with a friend of mine who told me someone had described my life as superficial, or more accurately, had described me as a person who lives a superficial life. This someone who perceives me this way isn’t a someone whose opinion matters a great deal to me, but the observation bothered me nonetheless.

It got me thinking about another friend who went through a peer review at work recently. I bring it up here because this friend was described by one of her peers as, in a word, selfish. The actual quote in the review was scathing, brutal, and very, very mean. It was an attack. My first instinct was to tell her to dismiss such a mean-spirited and personal attack in a work review. But, thinking about it further, I realized there had to be a reason someone would perceive her that way--doesn't matter whether it’s because this person doesn’t like her, or because her actions are misinterpreted, or maybe she simply has bitchy resting face (she totally does, by the way). It doesn't matter. There is always merit in examining one’s own behavior.

But then, I’m also reminded of another time, in my early 30s, when I let my friend Hugh cut my hair into a mullet before heading to the Poconos for a weekend party with some old friends. The mullet was part of a Halloween costume. I think I was supposed to be, I don't know, someone with really low self esteem? Hugh and his wife Caroline dressed as Sherlock Holmes and Watson while my friend Liana arrived as Elian Gonzalez—a costume that somehow incorporated a kiddie pool, but I can’t remember why.

I dropped my chin to make myself seem really fat.
Yet another bad idea.
When I showed up at the party, nobody laughed at my hair. At best, I was making people uncomfortable. And that started to affect my behavior. I felt disliked. I felt ugly. I felt vulnerable and self-conscious and awkward. I spent most of that Friday night of the weekend, sitting in the corner, by myself. At one point, Liana sat next to me and laughed as she explained that another friend at the party had asked her, “How long has Devlin been wearing her hair like that?”

People thought I was serious, that this wasn’t a costume, that I had changed my look. I was horrified and already so far removed from everyone, I couldn’t pull myself out of this downward spiral into self-loathing.

At about 2am, Liana settled me into a chair in the middle of her kiddie pool and cut the rest of my hair. She started with a pair of dull child scissors and moved on to a serrated bread knife until that dang mullet was gone. Once I was in my normal hair, I was able to enjoy the party and my friends again. (When we held the party again the following year, I arrived in a gown.) (And, I didn't realize until now that I had no idea how to spell "serrated.")

[HA! I found some old prom pictures. This is me and my date to the senior prom. He had a spectacular mullet. My dad is clearly not impressed.]

So, here I am, at 6am, the morning after too much tequila, and I’m thinking about this superficial life. I know part of that assessment stems from my desire to keep people engaged but at a distance, which makes me pretty good at cocktail parties but not very good at conversations about the meaning of life with people I know only superficially.

Ah, there’s the word again. Superficial. I lived pretty close to the bone while I was in my 20s, always striving to get to the root of life, always pushing people to see what kinds of reactions I would get, and always pressing on some emotional bruise that would have served me better if I had just let it heal.

Whether it was a conscious decision or not, I know I intentionally engage certain people only superficially. I’m ridiculously happy with this life, this groom, this family. And, I know I will continue this shallow blog filled with superficial lifestyle nonsense because it’s fun to do. So, while I appreciate having an opportunity to examine my superficial life, I still won’t let one man’s perception ruin the party for me, bad hair and all.

Ah, but yes. That isn't what this blog is about. Jesus, I can go on sometimes. Okay, on the docket for today: a one-hour walk and oatmeal for breakfast. Plus, I am on day two of no caffeine. (Mmmm...Maybe I'm not all that ridiculously happy with this superficial life right now. I do love coffee.)

And, if you think I'm not going to eat the leftover ravioli sitting in my fridge from Ports of Italy in Boothbay, you, my friend, are sadly mistaken.