MFA Mama

not dead (not quite, but hey STAY TUNED)

   I try not to disappear when something unpleasant is afoot, because I know y'all worry, but sometimes you should totally worry, because my new job is trying to kill me. My theory is actually that whatever badness has recently ruined my lower left quadrant is THE BEGINNING OF THE END in the form of my body rejecting the positivity and rampant civility. To wit:

*   I did something easy and straightforward a few days ago, something that is absolutely part of my job and kind of why I get paid to do it, and came in the next morning to a hand-drawn thank-you card taped to my cubicle.

*   The artist behind said card has been extra-super-nice in training me, as has one key other person, and yesterday? Geez, y'all, it's like I don't even know who I am anymore. I can barely even say it: yesterday I took them both jars of homemade preserves and made hand-drawn labels featuring both rhyming AND an office-related pun. I texted a photo of the adorable little jars to Token Guy Friend, with the caption "I don't see a bright light, so I guess hell is The South, cicadas, and a series of wardrobe malfunctions? Can't say I'm surprised."

*   I finally bit the bullet and hit Goodwill, after a particularly shameful incident involving grabbing the wrong pants, thinking I was bloated and wearing 12s, and finding out that in instead I had lost enough weight to close a pair of 8s and was the public face of cameltoe all day Tuesday. I should probably make the whole office an "I'm sorry" card about that...what rhymes with vulva? Anyway, so yeah I voluntarily went clothes-shopping yesterday and am somehow now the owner of someone's rich mom's wardrobe. Because I was mostly looking for a) businesswear, b) forgiving waistbands/shirts that can hide an early pregnancy or impending internal rupture, and c) nothing that would violate a) or show The Jew Tattoo (there is not an official tattoo policy at my new workplace, and in fact the lady in charge has a very girly, artsy tattoo that is visible most days, but as a temp who is hoping to end up sticking around I have decided to keep my not-so-girly, often-mistaken-for-offensive upper-arm ink under wraps, especially given that the average age in the office is AARP material). So yeah, HELLO LADY REPUBLICAN! The great thing about Goodwill is that when you live in an affluent area, you can spend less than seventy bucks and end up with five pairs of pants and seven shirts that are all Ann Taylor Loft, Polo by Ralph Lauren, Land's End, and the like. Plus a few pairs of shorts and a belt for various children and two Very Pretty Tops that totally show the Jew Tattoo in case you ever actually go anywhere other than work. So yeah...I am stylishly dressed in clothes that fit: third horse of the Apocalypse, pooping on the lawn.

*   Yesterday there was a celebratory free lunch at the office, and my incredibly nice co-workers went out of their way to make sure there were GF options for me. They were super-proud of themselves, and the food smelled delicious, so I strayed from the liquid diet I've been keeping to and OH MY GOD, YEP, DYING. I crashed last night before eleven and now I have to go get dressed for work. ONWARD!

*   How are all of YOU?

Tattoo and Culture Show

read the right bicep

   The other day, while I was on the phone with the 911 operator, I realized that if I'm going to be on my own against the world, without an emergency contact, I really ought to find some way of keeping my relevant medical information on me at all times. Because when you're in excruciating pain and on the verge of passing out, spelling the name of your connective tissue disease for the third time after coaching someone who really doesn't want to be responsible for the information through the problem of not having a field on their screen in which to type such things (to which I say, in general, why the hell not because things like blood type and collagen defects may not be relevant to the PHONE CALL but can be crucial once you've reached the HOSPITAL, and in specific, GET A PENCIL AND A PIECE OF PAPER, PLEASE) just seems extra cruel.

   I'm considering getting it all tattooed on the front of my torso. Because believe it or not, that is less expensive than having it engraved on an anklet, and also impossible to lose.

   I digress.

   My friend Dr. Anonymous deserves a medal for putting up with me. Not only did she handle the phone call on Friday with polite aplomb (after dismissing Hotter's suggestion to call an ambulance out of hand, because FUCK THAT GUY AMIRITE, and spending a further five minutes down at the workshop in screamy contemplation of my symptoms since Big Child was due home momentarily and I didn't think he ought to see me when he walked into the house, I realized that maybe I was not the best problem-solver and called Dr. Anonymous in as a tiebreaker) (I still feel bad about that phone call, because I was having an extremely hard time toning down the shrieking enough to form semi-coherent words and suspect I did a poorer job of it than I thought at the time), but she also gave simple enough instructions that even I could not find a way to weasel out of following them (it's like she knew I'd try to drive myself to the local teaching hospital and expire on a sidewalk somewhere after trying to parallel park a straight-shift car that does not idle rather than trust a valet or security person with the task if she left ANY room for interpretation), namely "Emergency room. CLOSEST emergency room. Now."

   I just opened up the Facespace to a message from Dr. Anonymous; a mutual friend of ours has been trying to talk me into accepting a loan and pursuing COBRA so that I can try to get some more medical treatment and I've been saying that no, I will not borrow more from a friend than I will realistically be able to pay back and wouldn't invest in COBRA right now if I had the money anyway because my car is on its last legs and my almost-eight-year-old is still sleeping in a toddler bed. Said mutual friend brought Dr. Anonymous into the thread as an appeal to authority, and Dr. Anonymous instead said something along the lines of "oh holy shit I didn't even KNOW about Hotter and I am SO SORRY all of this is happening right now," and I replied with "oder gor oder gornit."

   The tattoo on my right arm is less specific than the one I'm considering with all of the medical information, but it's a lot more succinct.

 

   For those who have been asking, the most likely cause of my physical misery seems to be adhesions from previous surgeries, which isn't something emergent enough to fix on an uninsured patient so the hospital sent me home with strong narcotics and instructions to take them with Miralax, and I am no longer in acute agony but am still distinctly unwell. Eschewing solid foods makes it bearable and I think I'll be okay for work tomorrow.

trivia

Factoid of the day: energy-saving lightbulbs make blood look neon orange. This information brought to you by a minor scrape, an energy-efficient bathroom, and ten minutes' panicked Googling.

my anaconda don't want none...

...UNLESS YOU'VE GOT BUNS, HON!

   Everyone in the comments of the previous post and on Twitter agrees:

Figure One: Smart lady!

   "They're all wrong!" Hotter insisted.

   So I sent him a picture from Kroger:

Figure Two: BUNS.

   "This is the South. Y'all are ignant," he replied. "I WENT TO THE CULINARY INSTITUTE OF AMERICA."

   So yeah, Hotter decided to go down with his ship, and we're having hot dogs for dinner.

P.S. Hotter says he never did like any of us. 

I'm right, you're wrong!

   Enough about how we're all going to die if I don't find a job. Let's talk about something REALLY important. Marinka of Motherhood in NYC has a regular feature on her blog called "I'm right, you're wrong" that I'm totally hijacking borrowing today.

   My recent unemployment has allowed for Hotter and me to spend lots and lots of time together. It's great when we're doing things like sleeping in with the dog and all four of her stiff, stabby-clawed legs between us and having sex, but not so much when we're talking about what to make for dinner, because one of us is fundamentally wrong here. You be the judge!

The Dilemma: What do you call those bread-things you put your hotdog inside?

The disagreers: MFA Mama, a.k.a. The Voice of Reason, and Hotter, a.k.a. Mr. I Went To Culinary School But Still Don't Know What Those Bread-things Are Called.

The positions:

1. We are out of hot dog rolls, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.

2. We are out of hot dog buns, so we can't have hot dogs for dinner because the kids hate it when we use slices of bread.

   What say you?

prose-poetry of a Sunday afternoon

Sometimes life pulls you out of yourself with its ordinary beauty,
the stumbled-upon poetry about the agony of knowing on social media,
walking out to the backyard beehive with an emotional sweet tooth and a spoon,
and just for a moment you forget everything but the perfection of metaphors.

always look on the sunny side of life *whistles*

*   The bills are paid but the checking account is in the red; I never seem to forecast things correctly, fail to wait on what can wait, and it bites me in the ass. Part of this is lousy math skills, part of it is idiotic optimism, part of it is just life. I'm sure the ADD doesn't help. But my next check will cover everything and have a little left over, which is enough for me for the moment.

*    It's not enough for Hotter, who I think has started to see me as a walking dollar sign, with the balance on my forehead dipping disgustingly every time I selfishly buy something that is just for me either because no one else wants it, or because I keep it for my own. I do this for myself occasionally, get me a little treat to make life temporarily enjoyable, and I feel like it's allowed. Thank goodness I've reached a point of not letting someone else's disapproval ruin the scant few pleasures in my existence, because it sucks more than usual right now.

*   I think I had invested too much of myself in my marriage. I guess I was guilty of something I rarely hesitate to poke fun at in others: I started to see Hotter's and my love as somehow greater than what most people shared with another human being, as A Wonderful Story, as something timeless and epic and lots of other Lifetime Movie Channel buzzwords (do you kids still have that channel?). It's not. It's really a very ordinary cleaving together of everyday losers.It's like a pair of work-pants you buy at Goodwill; it serves the purpose but nobody envies you over it. And that's fine. So what if it wasn't such a hot bargain; I have it now and it gets the job done, and at the end of the day I'll wash it and wear it again. Whatever.

*   Food, y'all, I just don't even know. My eczema is flaring and I'm itchy quite often. Honestly I could use a go-round with a competent allergist, but failing the time and money for such a thing, I think I'll have to try going off dairy. Which: noooooo. But hey, I bet I'll lose even MORE weight!

*   Work is still wall-to-wall bullshit. I, however, have ceased to care. I am one of the Little People, and things change very little for us even if there's a shakeup at the top of the food-chain. I have adopted a few lines of Virginia Woolf's Professions For Women as my personal motto at work and in general of late, those having to do with The Angel in The House. Yesterday I got a raise, so I think it's working (yeahhhhh suck it, all of you who still sell your souls for LESS than a $0.20/hr increase!).

*   I really, really, REALLY want another tattoo. But of course it'll have to wait. Which means that I'll be really, really sure when the time comes, so that's all to the good.

*   How are all of YOU? In case you couldn't tell I am desperately unhappy at the moment, but I'm sure it will pass. ONWARD!

this is so funny I almost died

   My friend K is pretty hilarious, and sometimes her very best stuff doesn't even make it to the innernet (I am thinking of a particular story involving stairs and manties...). Today she posted this .gif though, and...well, I can't even. You just have to go and look (yes, really, I'm making you click ALL THE WAY OVER THERE because I can't copy the thing).

   I don't even know what that thing is, but I'm pretty sure it's my spirit animal, y'all. I watched that clip and laughed and coughed and wheezed and cried big salty involuntary tears until Hotter became legitimately concerned for my wellbeing. 

   It's a pretty accurate portrayal of what I'm like when I'm coming off a round of steroids. Except I don't have a tail.

   And how are all of YOU?

it's not WHY I married him, but it's part of why I stay

    So whenever I haven't been at one of the three jobs, for the past week I've been cleaning. My back may be permanently effed. We're all shopped for the holidays, but haven't had time to celebrate any. And then in the middle of everything, as I'm butchering a rabbit in the kitchen sink in between dumping Andes crumbles (for baking, but HAHAHA right, I'm totally doing that this year!) down my carb-hole, Hotter will go "hey--" And I'll turn around and--

   *maniacal laughter*

   "You've kinda gotta take a sec and ADMIRE the bat-wing. It's so VEINY!" 

   He got me with "the brain" yesterday, too. I'm just calling it a win if we get through this real-estate emergency without "the goat" making an appearance, because if I go back to work limping nobody will ever believe me when I tell them the REAL reason my ass is bruised.

   Also, you kind of have to admire the balls of any man who'd do that to a frantically stressed-out woman wearing a rabbit as a puppet and brandishing a boning knife.

relapse

   Hotter is sorting, making bundles of recyclables, kids' clothes for Goodwill, burnables, and just junk. I am scrubbing and shopping and baking and setting up.

   We're gonna make this place look GOOD for the holidays, and if we end up having to pack up and restore to move-in condition, well, it'll be that much easier.

   I've kind of come to a place of being okay with whatever 2013 brings us. When I got home from work Hotter was like "are you on drugs?" And I said "well, I used to be the only one at work who did it, like I'd sneak off by myself to keep from going crazy, but then I got Co-worker and Boss to try it and now all three of us will nip out to an empty meeting room and do it together, and it helps, because our job is really high-stress and physically demanding, and we're crabby and we hurt...today we really needed it with this holiday function thing..."

   Hotter's eyes got bigger and bigger. I work with some crazy people, folks who'll do ANYTHING.

   "I showed them how to do Sun Salutations, and we'll just all hit the deck for five reps and then we rock and roll. I'm doing yoga again."

   Ho ho ho!

   How are all of you?