Every year at about this time, my insides start to swirl with a curious combination of personal joy and political shame. The personal joy stems from the fact that it's Christmas, and I love me some Christmas. I'm not going to lie to you -- I drove home from work today totally singing along to the LiteFM Christmas music channel, AND I own a Santa Claus decoration that talks and shimmies, AND I sent out a Christmas letter to far-flung family bearing a photo of my dog with a Santa hat photoshopped on. I do realize that this attitude is slightly sick and wrong and just generally antithetical to my anti-establishment street cred. But the shiny lights! The peanut butter cookies with the chocolate kisses in the middle! The tubes of precious life-giving Chapstick that will inevitably be individually-wrapped and placed in my Christmas stocking at my parents' house! The greed! The sloth!But oh, the political shame of the leftist feminist semi-activist who enjoys the mistletoe. And I get it, I totally do. And it enrages me even as I partake of another glass of egg nog. Like how all the sales clerks in the stores chirp "Merry Christmas" at you with no regard to whether or not you celebrate the holiday, and how separation of church and state is totally abandoned in favor of the postal service forcing Jews to adorn their mail with Santa stamps. Oh, and how people seem to think that the holiday offers them a free pass to spout ridiculous sayings like "Remember the reason for the season!" while simultaneously shoving toddlers out of the way in order to grab the last Furby.Still, though. I can't help but love a holiday that for years has brought with it my only guarantee of quality family togetherness. Granted, my family's togetherness looks a little different from the "It's a Wonderful Life" kind. Our celebrating has less to do with singing carols in front of the fireplace and more to do with eating my mom's favorite dip (made entirely of Velveeta and ground beef) in front of a "Happy Gilmore" DVD. But damn if it doesn't feel like "Ho ho ho" to me.Now, New Year's Eve? THAT's a holiday I can get on board with hating. All the pressure to have the most fabulous plans, to know about the best parties, to stay up past my normal Saturday night bedtime of 10:30. Last year, the husband and I stayed in with some friends on New Years Eve and watched a drunken mini-marathon of "Breakin'" and "Breakin' 2: Electric Boogaloo." With no more breakdancing movies in our collection, no boxed wine in the fridge, and minimal familiar faces in sight, I'm thinking our first New Year's Eve in Chicago might be even less animated that that.We're off to Indiana and Minnesota tomorrow for a week of much-needed family fun. I fear that the blogging is likely to be neglected in favor of fawning over our niece and nephew and eating the aforementioned Velveeta. So if I don't talk to you for a few days, shove some Christmas ham in your maw for me. Or, you know, don't. Happy consumerism-driven December holiday of choice to all!
Avert your eyes, all who are squeamish and easily offended. I have a bloody tale to share.A couple of months ago, I decided to end my very meaningful, very fulfilling ten-year relationship with the birth control pill. This was a difficult decision, as the birth control pill has been a steady and reliable friend indeed, contributing significantly to my personal happiness and fulfillment. For over a decade, the pill has allowed me to have teeny tiny monthly periods with minimal bloating and little-to-no cramps. I could predict the arrival of these periods not just to the day, but to the hour. I have not had a heavy or upsetting menstrual cycle since early 1995, back when I could still officially call myself a teenager, a virgin, and a fan of Andrew Lloyd Webber musicals. Back then, I used to have wretched, accursed periods that would send me straight to my bed for days, moaning and clutching my abdomen. Those were dark times, times I thought were in my past.So the first month of pill-free life seemed fine. I was a bit nauseous and sore for the first few days, but that passed. Then I skipped my period, but I remained unconcerned -- I had read somewhere that it can take awhile for your body to return to "normal" after a long stretch of hormone alteration. A few more weeks passed. And then...... well, the best I can figure is that someone snuck into my bedroom a couple of nights ago and severed one of my arteries because sweet holy mother on a stick, people: the floodgates have opened. In the past two days, my body has suddenly and disturbingly regressed to that of my 16-year-old self, and I'm not talking about feeling "younger than springtime" here. I'm talking about feeling so very fat, so very tired, and SO VERY VERY IN PAIN. I have pimples. I have to go to the bathroom 37 times a day. And I have to ask: how is it possible for a person to lose this much blood and still stand upright? HOW?? And how did I live like this for so many years? Because: oh. my. god. THIS SUCKS.Now, clearly, I'm not pregnant. Nor are there any plans for me to become pregnant in the immediate future. Or at least, I should say, there weren't any plans for me to become pregnant in the immediate future. But now that I've spent the past 48 hours essentially lying on a gurney waiting in vain for an emergency transfusion, I'm starting to think that anything - including but not limited to pregnancy, childbirth, and forcibly removing my uterus through my left nostril - would be better than this. Can you just imagine the inscription in my hypothetical child's baby book: "Dear Baby: You were conceived in love, and also to STOP THE BLEEDING."Too crass for you? Then I'd advise you to stay far away from me for the next 3-4 days. And god help us all if goes on for longer than that. I'm pretty sure the world doesn't have that much Advil.
Here at Anything Said, we have a relatively staunch commitment to keeping most matters relating to my career off-limits for blog discussion. This is due not so much to my respect for the sacred space of the workplace, but more to my desire not to get dooced. Today, however, I will break the rules to share with you on two points:Point A: I am newly employed! I'm working part-time as a reference librarian for two different public libraries, with the possibility to add an internship doing outreach and programming for the children's department at the library in my town. The part-time schedule is good in that it allows me to enjoy the occasional lazy morning while still honoring my indenturehood to the puppy's bathroom schedule. I have wanted to make the switch to public library work for some time, and now that I've done it I feel like I've been initiated into some kind of private club. A very nerdy, very literate club. Where the members get to keep their library books out as long as they want, with no fines. And where everybody sits together in the lunch room but they don't talk, they just quietly read.So now I am unemployed no longer, which leads me to...Point B: During the process of filling out paperwork for one of my new jobs, I endured an excrutiatingly awkward 30 minutes with Inappropriate Human Resources Lady. What is it about people in Human Resources? Why do they never seem to have any, you know, resources for dealing with, say, humans? At one of my previous jobs, the Human Resources guy had exactly zero friends and ate lunch by himself in his office every day, surrounded by a collection of small plastic toys. In the case of my present employer, Inappropriate Human Resources Lady seems less into collectibles and more into cringe-worthy conversational tics.Take for instance, her description of the library's employee assistance program as a service for "people with problems." She handed me a colorful brochure and pointed out the toll-free number listed on the cover, encouraging me to call if needed: "We've all got issues, right? And hey - I'd much rather you call this number than go off and do something awful like shoot yourself."Now if this had been said in an attempt at making some kind of ambitious off-color joke, I could have felt some respect. I myself know the agony of crass humor gone unappreciated. But she was painfully serious, her Christmas tree earrings dangling as she leaned forward in concern, willing me to realize the extent of my life's inherent worth.She then handed me a form to fill out that would authorize the library to do a criminal background check on me, assuring me that I had nothing to worry about: "We just do these because there are kids in the library, so we need to weed out the perverts." At this she met my eyes and smiled knowingly, as if we shared a secret.It went on. Sexual harassment policy? Don't mind if I do: "We've really got just about every shape and color here, so just be careful 'cause you never know which people are the overly sensitive type."What about dress code? "Skintight shorts might make your legs look cool, but looking cool is not the business we're in."And the piece de resistance: the drug-free workplace policy: "We all like to have fun on the weekends. Just make sure that you're not still high when you come in to work on Monday morning." Wink.Now let me get this straight: I'm supposed to give this woman my social security number?Maybe I should just shoot myself instead...
"What's that beeping noise?""The old phone we disconnected yesterday.""Oh. Why is it beeping?""I don't know.""Well, where is it?""In the bedroom, under the covers.""Why is it under the covers?""It wouldn't stop beeping at me.""Did you try taking out the battery?""Yes. It wouldn't stop beeping at me.""What do you propose we do with it when we want to get under the covers ourselves?""Maybe it will stop beeping by then."
... upon stubbing your toe, you start to shout "Fuck!" but instinctively stop yourself when you see the dog peering up at you. You don't want her to learn bad language, after all. Because a dog that as of yet fails to comprehend Sit, Come, Stay, Roll Over, Drop It, No!!, and Good Dog, will no doubt respond to Fuck!
Last night the husband and I took an ill-fated trip to the Lincoln Park Zoo to see a holiday lights show (ill-fated because it was cold and snowing, there were no animals, and it cost $12 to park for 35 minutes at the "free" zoo. Meh.). In the car on the way home, we listened to a show on Chicago Public Radio called Sound Opinions. A rock and roll talk show, Sound Opinions features Chicago music critics interviewing musicians and reviewing albums. Last night's episode was a "Best of 2005" list show, with the two hosts showcasing and arguing over their favorite albums from the past year. Essentially, this boiled down to an epic battle of "Who Is The Coolest," which proceeded pretty much as follows:
Critic A: "Ok, Number 5 on my list is the latest release from X, an underground British ambient-jazz duo. Don't worry about it if you haven't heard of them; most people haven't."Critic B: "What a quaint choice. Me, I prefer something a little different. For my number 5 pick, I've selected the debut album from XX, a Zambian pop ensemble backed by bongo drums and autoharp. Their self-titled record is only available on vinyl. Fortunately for me, that's my format of choice."Critic A: "Interesting to hear you say that, since I myself happen to have downloaded a podcast of that album. I found it heavy-handed... unlike my choice for number 4 on my list: the new record from XXX, a post-alternative trip-hop preverbal children's chorus who began recording this masterpiece of an album while still in utero..."And so on and so forth. The husband and I find such King of Hip Mountain exchanges fun to listen to in a bemused bystander kind of way, as both of us are tragically missing the "It factor" gene. If I were to assemble a list of the music that I enjoyed the most over the past year, it would include a lot of Johnny Cash, the Talking Heads, Kelly Clarkson, and Toto. I mean, seriously: have you listened to "Hold the Line" lately? Do it: you won't be sorry.Really, though, the "Sound Opinions" show got me thinking about how few albums I've purchased over the past year. I am someone who loves music, and listens to it all the time. I have about a million CDs, and I used to buy them at a highly alarming rate. But now I listen to most of my music online, either legally through Rhapsody or other streaming music services, or illegally through, well, illegal sources. Sometimes I feel bad about this, but mostly I don't: CDs cost an arm and a leg these days. The money I used to spend on purchasing them now goes toward seeing live music, or feeding my Diet Coke habit. Sure, I'll buy the odd disc at a show, or from a local artist I enjoy whose music isn't available online. But honestly, I think I can count on the fingers of one hand the total number of albums I actually purchased this year.This is weird. If I love music as much as I say I do, should I be buying more of it? Or do my monthly subscription to Rhapsody and many concert tickets "count" as buying music also? Isn't simply listening to the radio, which is a free service, a means of supporting music and the arts? And what about the membership dues that I pay to the Bon Jovi fan club??Wait. Was that out loud?
Growing up in northern Indiana, trudging through snow in the winter was a way of life. It was assumed: it's January, and therefore white stuff falls from the sky. As a kid I spent many mornings glued to the television on snowy mornings, desperately hoping for a school cancellation. From time to time I would be rewarded with a half-day or a two-hour delay, but more often than not I found myself switching off the television with a scowl on my face, resigned to my fate of strapping on a pair of snow boots and stomping the five or six blocks between my house and school. After all, it was winter, and we were in the midwest. Life would go on.Then I moved to the northeast. I spent my first year out of college living in Washington D.C. Our nation's capital is equipped to deal with many things: national crises (allegedly], hoards of foreign tourists and eighth-grade history class trips, stupid presidents. But drop some fluffy white snow on the ground? And thousands of wealthy, educated political wonks and assorted hangers-on lose their collective shit. The first snowstorm of my winter in D.C. brought about one inch of loose powder to the city; consequently, the federal government shut down and all non-essential employees (me) were sent home. My roommate and I struggled to find enough snow in our yard to build a tiny snow turtle. The city's estimated 3 total snowplows spent a couple of hours driving around in circles before giving in to general bewilderment and calling it a day. People abandoned their cars and wrung their hands in despair. Women swooned.Then I moved to Boston. There are snowplows in Boston, and people there have generally lived through a blizzard or two. Yet still, in each of the five winters I spent living in the area, people seemed to mark the months of December through March with a kind of snow-drunk frenzy. Neighbors rushed to the grocery store to stock up on canned goods and bottled water upon a forecast predicting three inches of accumulation. Nearby suburbs like the one I [and my friend Dori, as she points out] imposed ridiculous and oppressive parking regulations in order to clear the streets that they would later neglect to plow. People working in my office would take the day off of work rather than travel the 2-mile distance between their home and place of employment.Over the course of five years, I slowly came to adopt this attitude as my own. A light snowfall in February found me cursing aloud, faking sick-days, nervous to venture outside of my apartment. No, I could NOT run to the grocery store: it's SNOWING for fuck's sake. I cancelled social plans because I was too afraid to drive on snowy roads. I complained to anyone who would listen about the deep backache I suffered as a result of shovelling off the three front steps that led to my door.Now, I am a born-again midwesterner. This requires some readjustment. Yesterday, we got a nasty snowfall. Imagine my shock when I, upon grumpily shovelling a stretch of sidewalk, reached out to a neighbor and fellow shoveller for support. "Nice weather, huh?" I offered with a sarcastic shrug. The man looked up from his work and smiled widely. "Aw yeah, "he chirped. "I just love this time of year. It's beautiful!" I was all "ha ha ha, oh, wait, you're not kidding. Um, yeah, Merry Christmas!" And then I retreated inside to hibernate in shame.My shock deepened this morning, when my 9:00 AM appointment was not only not cancelled, but also not even rescheduled. I got into my car and ventured out onto the already fully-plowed streets, unsettled. It was as if these people actually anticipated the change of seasons!In a lot of ways, the transition back to living in the midwest has been pretty natural: part of me feels like home. The other part of me is curled up in a blanket, watching the Weather Channel and waiting for the world to end.
Damn. This "having a dog" thing is exhausting. Before we brought home our little bundle of joy, pug puppies to me were nothing but googly eyes, squashed faces, and curly tails. Now, I know the truth: pug puppies are nothing but googly eyes, squashed faces, curly tails, and oh my GOD how many times can one tiny beast have to pee in one day, SERIOUSLY?I mean, I thought I was prepared. I read Pugs for Dummies. I pug-proofed my house. I bought age-appropriate Nylabone toys, healthy puppy chow, stainless steel dishes, ear cleaning solution. But still, I was blindsided. For instance, the aforementioned ear cleaning solution does not have a disclaimer printed on the bottle under "Instructions for Use," reading: "Hire ten men to secure your 8-pound dog on all sides, as she will suddenly acquire Herculean strength when approached with a cotton swab of this fucking solution." Pugs for Dummies does not feature a section on "What Happens to Your Dog's Poop When She Eats Guinea Pig Bedding and Half of a Rope Toy." (Hint: if it did, it would say: roll up your sleeves, cause you're pulling it out, sucker. what? you're the one who wanted a dog.)My friend S. back in Boston is a long-time dog owner, and she responded to my plaintive cry of "Why didn't you TELL me???" with the following words of wisdom: "I could not tell you about the hours of love and steamy baggy-holding that are at least 75% of the joys of dog-ownership for two reasons: 1. you would never believe me. 2. it doesn't make a difference anyway." True, that. But still. Sometimes a girl needs a warning.The dog is slowly learning commands. She responds to her name, and she knows that "sit" means "touch ass to ground just long enough to obtain treat." She knows that "OK" means that it is permissible to cross the street -- or, rather, to get halfway across the street, stop, and start licking a clump of dirt. She also know that the grass outside of our apartment is a fabulous place to pee and poop; she just hasn't quite grasped that other places, such as her bed, the couch, and the living room floor, are less appropriate places. She has learned that the toilet is an exotic place of hidden mystery and forbidden intrigue, and as such she has made it her young life's mission to climb inside.And next week she gets spayed. Let the licking of wounds commence. (I'm not talking about hers.)
Ok, gross. Mildred, one of our guinea pigs, is sporting some serious flesh-eating demon sores. They are red and huge and STARING AT ME. The husband discovered the sores on Saturday night, when he was clipping the pigs' toenails. (Further proof, if any was ever needed, that we do indeed live life in the fast lane.) He was all "um, what the hell?" and I was all "what? where?" and he was all "feel this right here" and I was all "EW!!" So it was off the exotic pet vet we went.Or rather, I went. This evening, to be exact. And it sucked. Did you know that exotic pet vets are better, more virtuous, more compassionate, more humane, and just all-around more profoundly awesome people than you or I? No? Well neither did I, until tonight that is. But tonight that fact was made abundantly clear to me by one Exotic Pet Vet Extraordinaire -- we'll call her Dr. Fancypants.Mildred's appointment was scheduled for 5:30 PM. Dr. Fancypants marched into the exam room at precisely 6:25. Apparently not one for apologies or pleasantries, Dr. Fancypants greeted me by grunting the words "skin lesions?" in my general direction. Not sure how to respond to such an opening, I blinked a couple of times and then began to explain Mildred's sores and how we had found them. Dr. Fancypants listened for a moment as I explained Mildred's living environment, all the while tapping her fingers on the exam table, impatient. Periodically she would interrupt:"You feed her lettuce? [Insert exasperated sigh.] Lettuce has almost zero nutrients. Would you like to eat lettuce for every meal?""Pine bedding? Well, I'm not sure that's what I'd use, but I'm sure you have your reasons.""Um, wait. You're saying you DON'T change her water bottle every day? Ok, tonight why don't you chew up some food, spit it into your glass of water, leave that glass of water on your nightstand, and then give it a taste in the morning. Sound good to you?"I resisted telling Dr. Fancypants that while no, I certainly do not want to eat lettuce for every meal or drink old water with crumbs in it, I also don't live in wood shavings, chew on hay, or eat my own poop, so I don't know how comparable my preferences and the preferences of my PET RODENT really are. Instead, I nodded a lot and said "I understand." After each of these exchanges Dr. Fancypants would stare at me as if in disbelief, reach down to pet the diseased and whelping Mildred, and utter (in exaggerated baby-talk) something grating and passive-aggressive like "Oh, poor little piggy. Sometimes we people just don't get it, do we?" Then she would try to burn me with her eyes. This went on for another 30 minutes or so. Dr. Fancypants knew everything; I knew nothing. Dr. Fancypants could communicate with dogs and cats and read the minds of snakes; I ignored the cries of cherished pets. Dr. Fancypants loved my guinea pig with a burning passion; I was a soulless scar on the earth. Dr. Fancypants ordered up a slew of tests. Dr. Fancypants wrote up an estimated list of charges for me to approve before moving forward. Dr. Fancypants dared me not to sign the consent form by referring to it as "the go-ahead to give this poor cutie some relief." Dr. Fancypants gave my pet guinea pig a shot of cortisone, two kinds of antibiotics, and then she gave me a bill for $185.00. No, that is not an error in decimal placement. Dr. Fancypants accepted my check. And then Dr. Fancypants instructed me to "PLEASE be diligent," and left the room without so much as a wave goodbye.I am sad that my guinea pig is not feeling well. I am also sad that I have to apply salve to her scaly skin. But I am not at all sad to be paging through the yellow pages, looking for a new exotic pet vet for all my pig-treating needs. Spreaders of pig propaganda need not apply.
Me: [upon my ears becoming filled with the squeals of justifiably enraptured passers-by] Are you aware just how much of a chick magnet this dog could be for you?The husband: What do you mean "could be"?
This past week I was on my first-ever business trip, to Cleveland. While some people might find it odd that my first-ever business trip occurred during a period of profound unemployment, I find it quite fitting within the confines of Melinda's Life Where Things Are Backward and Weird. The purpose of my trip was to serve as a library consultant for my former employer, an organization with a satellite office in Cleveland. Essentially, I went to help them organize shit. As this was my first-ever business trip, I was a little unclear on the rules and expectations. Was I supposed to be like Donald Trump, appearing by speakerphone to bark orders to my minions back at the home office? Or should I play it more Romy-and- Michelle, all "I'm a BUSINESSWOMAN on a BUSINESS TRIP. Do you have any BUSINESS lunch specials, you know, for BUSINESSWOMEN?" I never did settle on a particular affect, but I think I did ok. At the very least, no one seemed to be laughing or pointing. So with no standard for comparison, then, I can only assume that the average business trip bears the following characteristics:1. A hotel that gives out free cookies and "in-room fitness kits" containing yoga mats and pilates straps, but that is located in an alleged downtown so desolate that there is no dinner for you but room service. Seriously. There will be a Burger King nearby, but when you drive closer you will see that it is boarded up.2. Work for which you can show up late, claiming that you missed a turn on the way, when in reality you were watching "Meet The Fockers" in bed on your free HBO.3. Colleagues who are nice to you and who take you out to lunch because they are grateful you flew to their city to help. This is a nice change from the standard-issue colleagues who greet you with a squint of acknowledgement and ask if they can "eat the rest of that" because you live around the corner from work.4. Thirty minutes of driving around lost, during which you call a colleague and find out that you have somehow transported yourself to "the hood."5. Ten minutes of repeatedly circling the same traffic rotary while waiting for said colleague to come retrieve you from "the hood."6. A blizzard. No snow-scraper in your rental car. A two-hour twenty mile drive to the airport. And a double-booked seat on your return flight home.
