My weekends are pretty fab.

So much to tell. So little time before I give up and fall asleep.

Bad stuff or good stuff first? Let’s be bad.

BAD STUFF:

Not really that bad. Just frustrating medical shizness. For one, after a decade of my mom and I being absolutely certain I had hypothyroidism (She has it, her mom had it, and I’ve had all the symptoms for years), my thyroid bloodwork FINALLY came back abnormally low twice in a row, so now I can officially get on treatment, pop my pills, and stop being tired and cold all. the. time. My manager will be SO happy when I stop turning our office into a sauna.

Second, the docs are confirming that I have white coat hypertension (Read: My blood pressure is normal, but my BP and heart rate spike up like I just ran a 5K when I go to the doctor’s office) and ruling out that the fluctuating BP could be anything else. That means lots of blood tests, an ambulatory BP monitor that my insurance company is trying not to pay for (bastards), and… an MRI. Now, I’m not freaked out by any of the usual things that worry people about MRIs. I’m not claustrophobic – if there’s an opposite of claustrophobic, that’s me. I have to get injected with some sort of sweet-ass contast dye halfway through the MRI, and even that’s not freaking me out (too much). No, I’m just upset about two things. 1) The MRI is at 8 AM on Christmas Eve. Meaning I can’t go home the night before, as I had planned. And 2) I start seriously panicking – lump in throat, eyes watering, the works – when I start thinking about hospital gowns and cold, sterile rooms and strangers touching me. THAT is what gets me, folks. I’m awful about emptiness and loneliness and people I don’t know and trust touching me – I’ve never even had a pedicure or an actual massage because of the touching issue. So, I recruited that certain guy we’re calling Trouble, who promises he’ll hang out with me the night before my MRI and spoil me rotten and distract me. That’s what Roomie and my male counterparts are great for – taking our minds off of any serious business or problems we have going on.

Which leads me to… GOOD STUFF:

I love our male counterparts. Our dudes. We all went out to Post to celebrate Roomie’s birthday on the 4th and had an awesome time. We came back to our apartment afterward for the now-standard woooo-frat-party, but brought along a fifth member of the crew this time. Big mistake. Number Five, whose name I kept forgetting (I kept thinking his name was Jerry. It’s not, but let’s call him that for kicks.), had a serious case of Tag-Along Syndrome. And his way of integrating into the group was by hitting on Roomie and me. First off, Roomie was clearly with her male counterpart (Have I given him his own little nickname yet? Let’s call him Shoes. Just trust me and go with it.), but the minute Shoes left the room, Jerry was all over Roomie. Not okay. So then Jerry starts putting the moves on me, and Trouble keeps rescuing me. Unfortunately, Trouble had about eight too many beer funnels and ended up shirtless, sockless, and wearing a party hat (We have pictures). He got a little aggressive, so Roomie and Shoes saved the day by tranq-ing Trouble with four Xanax (I SHIT YOU NOT) and driving him home. Which, if you’re keeping track (you’re not), left me alone with Jerry-kid, who had decided to crash at our place. I called it a night, closed myself in my room, and played Farmville – a pretty clear sleep on the couch and leave me alone if you ask me. Jerry asked to use my bathroom and then awkwardly sat two millimeters away from me on my bed and made the most awkwardly horrible moves possible. Thankfully, I’m a blunt drunk, so I have no problem saying, “I’m sorry, are you serious?” and kicking a guy out of my room.

I am also a chatty, affectionate drunk, which leads me to this past weekend. On Sunday, Trouble lived up to his promise to make me dinner (I had the option of going out to dinner, letting him cook – he’s a chef – or BOTH. I chose both.), and Shoes hijacked the evening and made it a double date. The boys came over, Trouble made some of the most amazing food I’ve ever eaten, and I drank a ridiculous amount of wine. Enough that, for the first time, there’s sections of the evening that I don’t remember… I’ve never been a black-out drunk, but this whole night was a grey-out. I remember some very unusual, personal conversations (Oh well), I remember getting kissy with Trouble in the kitchen (Oh no), and I apparently do NOT remember Shoes and Roomie sitting in the kitchen while this was going on (OH NO), but Roomie was kind enough to fill me in the next day. The boys stayed over (Thank God I sobered up and wore my usual eighteen layers of sweats to bed, so I didn’t wake up wondering, “Did we…?” Not that that’s ever happened before, you know.), I woke up every half hour, and I ended up deliriously tired the next day.

Which reminds me… I need to pass out now if I don’t want to be laughing-inappropriately-rambling-nonsensically-tired tomorrow. Thanks for reading about me being a dumb lush. Was it good for you, too?

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Nodding Off and Knocking Off

I was so sold on telling you all about all the things I’m thankful for (although, does anyone really appreciate reading those things?) but it’s been a long day, and the food coma and turkey drug and shiraz are all dragging me down, and I’m in that tired, childish state of mind where you just want to sob – not cry, just dry sob or whimper – and crawl into bed and cling to a big, strong boyfriend-type (who somehow puts up with your dramatic tired dry-sobbing routine) until you fall asleep for 12 hours straight. But instead, I have my parents’ kitten and a body pillow and the remainder of my glass of shiraz, and that’ll have to do.

Tomorrow is a day for shopping, which makes my credit card cry. I’ve come to the brilliant conclusion that I need a new outfit to go with my Louboutin Bruges knockoffs.

The Real Deal

My Pretties

I need something that says Go ahead and buy me dinner, but don’t expect me to feel like I owe you anything, because yes, I am letting Trouble take me out, and Trouble is a fancy guy who hangs out in fancy circles and spends in one night what I make in two weeks. However, I need this magic outfit to look pricey but actually be cheap, not unlike my knockoff Louboutins, because… well, there’s a reason I’m wearing knock-off Louboutins.

YES PLEASE to all of these:

Drool.

And on that note, I’ve already crawled into bed beside my boyfriend called Body Pillow, so it’s time for me to dramatically dry-sob and fall asleep.

Sob.

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Hittin’ the Gym

Happy Tofurkey Day, bloglings! I’ll post something about all my thankfulness later, maybe, since that’s what all the cool kids are doing. But for now, I’m going to ride on the tails of Thanksgiving Eve. Today has been a day for the guilt-feeling of pre-gorging, not the giving of thanks.

Post turkey gorging and carbo loading, when I leave my parents’ place and head back to mine, first order of business needs to be getting a gym membership and being all over that shit. See, once upon a time, known as the first half of this year, I was on a whole health and wellness hippie trip. I ate well – I was all gung-ho about THE ZONEomgeveryoneshouldtryitwhyhaventyou. And I was all about this:

Oh yeah. I could totally do that.

I became a yoga maniac, and I helped my marathon-running boyfriend train. I rocked 5-Minute Abs. When all was said and done, I had dropped 30 lbs from my top weight.

Now that I’ve moved and started a busy job and left the marathoner, exercise is known as bus-surfing, and food is known as whatever’s cheap and available. And have I mentioned how free food has been EVERYWHERE? There’s a reason that I didn’t go on a real grocery shopping trip for the first month after I moved. Still, my pants fit and my scale read the same number day after day, so clearly I was invincible. Then my scale “broke” and mysteriously started reading 5 pounds heavier than it used to.

I would use the handy running/biking path that runs by my place, but the sun is long gone by the time I get home from work, and I’m all about avoiding muggings and rapings, despite knowing how to throat-punch and eye-gouge and flip would-be attackers (You hear that, muggers and rapists?).

SO, to the gym. And since I’ve written this on my blog, it has to happen now, right? Because if it’s on the internet, it must be true.

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H2Otown

Everyone should wake up to sun pouring in the windows and a tea kettle whistling on the stove, and start the morning by sitting out on a deck, drinking huge mugs of tea. If Bob Marley is playing in the background, even better. That’s how roomie and I started our day, and I’m on Mug #4 right now because I’d rather stay curled up in this moment than have to deal with fighting the crowds at Target or assembling a bookcase. No thanks.

The one productive, non-tea-drinking activity I’ve accomplished this morning is cleaning out my coffee maker, and I’m glad I chose a day when I could throw the doors and windows open, because no one bothers warning you that brewing potfuls of vinegar smells like Death slapping you across the face. Or, if you’ve worked in a biomed lab like I have, it smells like the cleaning solution we used that’s capable of KILLING HIV and causing IRREPARABLE EYE DAMAGE. Also known as Death. Gross.

I’m really growing to love this town, my apartment, my roomie(s)… We live only a few blocks from the big, busy roads that lead into Boston, but our little street of Victorian houses is so quiet that you would never know. When I sit out on our deck and look at the town around us, I get hit with a feeling of nostalgia, like I miss this place even though I’m still here. I’ve never been good at staying in one place for a long time, so I think the feeling is from knowing that someday I’ll move on and leave this perfect little corner of Beantown behind. For once, I want to stick around.

Roomie and I have been battling our male counterparts (the same ones who I mentioned took us to Post and spent mad money on dinner about a month ago) since they accidentally left their beer funnel at our apartment. We’re holding the funnel hostage until they fix electrical stuff and do other manly work around our apartment. They have to make us dinner, too. It’s all written on a To-Do list posted on our refrigerator:

But instead, they decided to go out and make another funnel. We should have expected something like that, because clearly, these are some classy gentlemen:

I woke up Saturday morning, found this on the fridge, and died laughing. (Apparently they also wrote, “I ran the fucking dishwasher,” but roomie erased that, so I just woke up to find the dishes mysteriously clean.) The number (which I blacked out because I am a Nice Person) belongs to one of the guys, who we’ll call Trouble. This is Trouble’s way of wooing me, now that there’s no boyfriend to get in his way. As I said… high caliber gentlemen.

Think five mugs of tea would be overkill? I think so. Time to brave the crowds and the bookcases.

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the ex and The Ex

I ended things with Med School this past weekend. It was amazingly undramatic. Usually if someone told me a breakup was mutual, I’d say, “Oh, come on. It’s never mutual.” But this time… I think we were actually on the same page, after many months of being in entirely separate chapters. It’s also a little amazing that I’m the one who ended things. As much as I give off the no-one-leaves-me vibe, I’m awful at giving up on people.

So what was different this time? Let me tell you a story. I showed up to work one day a week or so ago, and a little window from one of my messaging services popped up on my computer screen and said “Someone added you to their contact list!” Fun! Then I took a closer look and saw that it was my ex. The Ex. For anyone new to that drama, he and I had a pretty epic relationship in 2005, crashed and burned in 2006, met up again for one week in 2008, and haven’t spoken since. We still haven’t had a chance to talk, but that little pop-up window got me thinking. My relationship with him in 2005 was the best I ever had – as Carrie Bradshaw would say, it was a “ridiculous, inconvenient, consuming, can’t live without each other” relationship. Now, before anyone follows this path in the wrong direction – no, I’m not interested in getting back with him. That’s not what I was thinking. What I WAS thinking was… if I’ve experienced something that great, why would I ever settle for less? Cue the lightbulb going off in my head.

This isn’t exactly new. It’s not like I never think about that relationship. I’ve been getting some of those memories back over the past year (Oh hey, have I mentioned I had memory loss? Chalk it up to mild PTSD. And probably my past life as a stoner.), which is kind of jarring. When I say ‘memory loss,’ I really mean that a lot of my memories from 2005/2006 are really blurry. I’ll vaguely recall them if I really think about it, but they seem distant, like they happened to someone else years ago and I only heard about it. For instance, I’ll think, “Oh, that’s right… he and I lived in Avery Hill for a month…” but I’ll only have half-memories of what it looked like or what we did there, and it doesn’t feel like it really happened. When I get a ‘flashback,’ one of those memories inexplicably goes back to feeling like it happened to me… in fact, it feels like it happened really recently. With Avery Hill, I suddenly could remember it all – I could completely picture myself taking the bus there from Greenwich, climbing the stairwell to his flat, walking down the road to Sidcup. I could remember the smell of his comforter and the breeze that would come through the window. The memories of sight and smell and touch and all the tiny, insignificant details become alarmingly vivid. So despite what LOST might show you, this is what having a flashback is really like, at least for me.

All that to say that I am once again a Single Lady, like Beyonce. Or like these guys:

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The Wicked City

I’m back, bloglings. It’s been a busy month, settling into the new apartment and the new job. I’m now a proud resident of the wicked city, as Grammy H calls it.

The PR gig is going well. Very busy (VERY BUSY. If I had been able to churn out reports and research and assignments at this rate in grade school, I would have been GOLDEN.) but I feel like it’s a really good fit. I like everyone I work with. And did I mention free stuff? Because there’s a lot of it. There’s so much free food going on that I went weeks without grocery shopping, which is good when your bank account goes weeks without a paycheck.

I’m loving my apartment and bonding with my roomie and her VERY needy, VERY vocal cat. Roomie finally deemed me ready to meet two of her loud, outrageous best guy friends on Friday night. From the way she talked about these friends, I assumed we were going out for a crazy night of clubbing, but instead we all went to Post, a trendy, upscale restaurant/bar in the middle of the city. One of her friends is a chef, and the other is a serious foodie, so before long we had calamari, scallops, a huge cheese plate (although there is no cheese plate on the menu) and a few entrees on the table. Some strong $12 martinis, too. The guys asked our waiter to recommend a bottle of champagne that would really break the bank – I assumed they were still joking around. I realized they were NOT joking when I caught a glimpse of the bill and saw that the four of us had racked up over $600. SIX HUNDO, my friends. I’ve never seen a number like that on a restaurant bill, not even when 12 of us gorged at Mad Mex during senior year. Thank goodness one of the guys footed the bill without batting an eye, because I would have sobbed hysterically in the middle of the swanky bar if I had been asked to pay 1/4 of that. Afterward, we went back to our apartment, where these same guys that discussed at length the notes of apple and honeysuckle in the champagne funneled cheap beer with us until 5 AM. Good times. Headaches the next morning, but good times that night.

On Sunday, roomie and I headed back into the city and wandered around some more. We bought paninis and wee fancy desserts and big cups of hot cider at Cafe Vanille (seriously recommended) and picnicked on the Esplanade. I’m determined to like this city, and with a little more time I think I will.

Med School ran his marathon and placed FOURTH… I’m just a little proud of that, you know. So proud that I put up with him whining like a bitch about how much it hurt everytime he moved for the next 48 hours. I would pat him on the head (the only place that didn’t hurt) and whisper, “You ran a marathon!” whenever he whined. Eventually, it gets annoying enough that you stop whining, apparently.

I have my office all to myself tomorrow and I plan on Pandora-ing myself into a stupor. But first, sleep. Enough for tonight. Basta.

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Being a Grown-Up is HARD

Yes, yes it is.

To my coworkers (FORMER coworkers! Take that!) who think I’m taking it easy and sitting pretty during my week off between jobs, allow me the opportunity to shake my head at you and rant about the wee bit of stress I’ve experienced this week:

1) Remember those dress pants that all need to be taken in? Exciting, right? Yes, but also frustrating when I call many tailors, explain my plight, and have them all tell me that they don’t do fittings, so I need to figure out inches and measurements and whatnot on my own. Easy enough with hemming, but waist reductions? Based on my very technical, very accurate method of pinching the fabric at my waist, I’m thinking maybe 2″. But I’m also imagining my pants all coming back to me with much-too-tiny waists. As much as I hate belts and never wear them, they’re looking pretty good right now.

2) I have a darling 2004 Honda Civic with a measly 40,000 miles on it. I love it dearly. To reward it for gifting me with 40ish MPG, I follow its maintenance schedule. I brought it in today, expecting an oil change and maybe a wheel alignment… so imagine my surprise when the mechanic calls me with a laundry list of problems. Not only did he want to change the oil and align the wheels, he also wanted to replace the tires AND the brakes AND the battery. The grand total? $918. So instead of panicking and getting all wobbly-voiced*, I told the kind mechanic to please finish the oil change and then give me my car back. Thank goodness my Pops taught me a thing or two about cars and showed me the wonders of buying parts on your own. TireRack, here I come.
*Oh wait, no, I totally did that.

3) Stressful but successful:  This week, I sweet-talked my current doctor’s office into giving me a quick appointment today, found a promising doctor in my new neck of the woods, and had my records fowarded. I win. I also left a honest (read: unflattering) review of my old doctor on a couple of websites.

4) Another win:  After nagging for a week, my realtor’s assistant finally remembered to write up my lease and send it. Always a good thing.

So here’s my game plan: Learn to love skirts. And belts. Drive sparingly. Deal with the tailoring and car maintenance bit by bit over the next month, instead of trying to get it all done in one day. And for the rest of the day, curl up on the couch with a crappy book and a pumpkin spice latte until the FringeForward’sAnatomy extravaganza of Thursday night television. McDreamy, take me away.

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