You are currently browsing the monthly archive for January 2007.

Not so perfect:

- Waking up early because we only have one bathroom and Michael was working the same time I was today. And we both needed to shower. It actually makes sense that I shower first on days like this because when I’m done he gets in the shower and I do my hair and makeup. That way the mirror is free for him to shave when he gets out.

But 20 minutes makes a huge difference in your sleep pattern. At least it does for me. And now I have that tired headache behind my eyes.

- Attempting to make “real” oatmeal (not instant) without any directions because we need to go grocery shopping tonight.

- Shmutz on my sleeve. What the hell? Is it oatmeal?

Perfect:

- Not immediately turning the TV on last night and curling up on the couch to read a book, something I haven’t done in a very long time.

- Michael getting home 30 minutes later with a big smile on his face because “I missed you!”

- Smiling behind my book as Michael yelled at the TV during the State of State address.

- Reading my book in bed (ah the reading!) under the warm comforter and flannel sheets.

- Drifting off to sleep to the sound of Michael singing along to Dave Matthews in the next room.

Yeah, I guess life is pretty good.

I hate driving next to trucks on the highway. My friend’s mom was in an accident when she was in college caused by a truck moving into her lane without noticing her there. I think that story really scarred me. Even though she told it to me 20 years ago. I always find myself scooting alllll the way over to the side of the lane whenever a truck passes me.

I’m terrified of heights. I have no idea where this came from because I used to love roller coasters, trust falls and zip lines. A few years ago Michael and I were hiking in New Hampshire and came across an old fire tower that you could climb for a great view. We got half-way up and I started to shake. I couldn’t move. It took all I had to get to the top, where I basically huddled in a corner and held on for dear life. Getting down was even worse. Ever since then I avoid being up high at all costs. Except for flying. I have no fear of flying. Weird.

I’m afraid of something happening to my parents. Especially my mom, a breast cancer survivor. I refuse to watch “Step Mom” or any other movie where the mother dies. We made the mistake of watching “The Family Stone” at Christmas. I had already seen it, but forgot how it ended. I was bawling at the end and hugging my mom like there was no tomorrow.

I’m scared of wasps.

Especially big ones.

With stingers.

Are soy chai lattes caffeinated? Because if they are I think I’m going through withdrawal. After drinking way too many lattes this weekend I opted not to have any today. And now I have a serious headache. Connection?

I’m also starving and am looking forward to eating my lunch that’s in the fridge. Homemade lasagna and salad.

“Oh, you had time to make a lasagna this weekend?”

No, I did not. However Michael’s mother had time to make him a lasagna, a big salad, a pot roast AND a carrot cake yesterday. In between church and a 3 p.m. dinner. Which I decided at the last minute not to attend. Because I had “plans”. Which included CVS and the couch.

When he walked in the door that evening with heaping bags of food I felt the pangs of yet another jab at me.

I can’t compete with a four-course meal made with love, control and a dash of guilt.

And she knows it.

Mother: 1
Me: 0

- caused the laundry pile to take over the bedroom because I cannot bring myself to do laundry in these temperatures. Good thing it’s Friday because I am officially out of socks.

- made me look like and idiot starting my car. PJs, slippers, Michael’s huge coat and full-on work hair and makeup is quite the look.

- given me a severe case of Morning Brain. Driving to work I thought to myself, “Gee, my windshield is dirty. I should clean it.” It occurred to me only as the the wiper fluid was hitting my windshield that, huh, it’s below freezing. And, oh yeah, the wiper fluid is freezing to my windshield.

- made me (yes, it’s the cold’s fault) get two soy chai lattes in two days.

- made it necessary to wear gloves.

- one of which is now covered in soy chai latte that spilled as I was crossing the street.

- made by boss wear jeans. To work. I’m shocked!

- made me wear a (cute) hat which gave me (not so cute) static hair.

Oh, winter. Boo you.

My hair looks like crap today. I have a hair appointment tonight so you would think I’d be OK with my hair looking less than perfect now. But I’m not.

For some reason I think my stylist will judge me for having a crappy hair day. I feel like my hair should be voluminous and shiny and gorgeous to prove to her that yes, I take care of my hair! I’m not a shlub! I didn’t throw my hair in a ponytail when it was still wet!

It’s like making your teeth sparkle before going to the dentist or shaving your legs before a doctor’s appointment. You want to present yourself as the best possible You. The together, competent You.

I seriously considered washing my hair last night so I would have time to straighten and style it today. Of course I chose to watch The Hills instead (Those girls have good hair. Bitches.) and didn’t leave myself enough time to do it this morning.

Seriously, could I be wasting brain cells on a stupider problem? In a few hours I will be sitting smack in the middle of a salon and my hair will be sticking up in all directions between multiple layers of foil. In front of people. This does not bother me.

But a limp, semi-damp ponytail? Completely unacceptable.

Issues, people. Issues.

Michael had a meeting after work last night and afterwards was going out with some co-workers. I knew this a week before hand. I had no problem with it.

I got home from work, made myself some dinner and settled in to read Real Simple and watch a new (finally!) episode of Gilmore Girls. The dog was being good, I was cozy in my PJs. It was a nice evening.

Around 10 I decided I was ready for bed. I did my routine, put the dog to bed and snuggled under the flannel sheets, anticipating dozing off before the end of the Law & Order: SVU re-run.

Instead, I tossed and turned, unable to get comfortable. Hot, then cold, then hot again. First the pillow was too hard, then it wasn’t hard enough. And I was so thirsty but didn’t feel like getting up for a drink.

A little after 11 I finally fell asleep. I woke with a start around 12:15 and realized Michael wasn’t home yet. While this wasn’t cause for concern quite yet, I couldn’t help worrying. He had to work early the next day. The meeting was far away. What if he drank too much? What if there was an accident? Why isn’t he home yet?

Toss. Turn. Toss. Turn.

Just as I was debating calling him, I heard his car pull up. Phew.

He got in bed, spooned me and gave me kisses.

I was sound asleep in five minutes.

Growing up I was always very thin. So thin, in fact, that an 8th grade french trip to Quebec was nearly ruined by a group of girlfriends who turned on me and told everyone I was anorexic. Which I was not.

I started dancing when I was three and by 17 I was a thin girl with a dancer’s body. But I never really thought much about my weight. I was how I was.

And then came college. And the late nights and the dining hall food and the drinking. And consequently, a few extra pounds. I started working out and got healthy again, but the body I had in high school is long gone. I enjoy the curves that come with being a woman, and I get compliments on my body, but every now and then I am find I’m still unhappy with it.

I know I’m going to get flack for this. Michael will tell me I’m crazy. Friends will tell me that at 24 I wouldn’t want the body of an 18 year old. And maybe it’s true that only I hate my thighs.

A friend of mine is coming to visit this weekend. I am so happy that she will be here but a part of me is apprehensive about it. She’s tiny…just over 5 feet and has lost a lot of weight since college. She looks great and I’m happy for her. But there’s that voice in the back of my head that won’t stop comparing myself to her. When she’s around I feel like a house despite my 5’6”, size 6 frame.

Do men have these issues or is it reserved strictly to women? Because it really sucks.

Dear New Guy,

You’re outnumbered 4:2.

Please put the seat down.

Thanks.

One thing I’ve learned from having a dog is privacy goes out the window. Especially when the bathroom door doesn’t lock.

Imagine my surprise the first time he pushed open the door as I was sitting on the toilet. He walked right up to me, squeezed himself into the tiny area between my feet and the wall and lay down. It’s amazing how vulnerable you feel, even in your own home, with the bathroom door wide open and a big animal at your feet.

Or the time no one was home and I was taking a shower and nearly DIED when a big black nose suddenly thrust itself past the shower curtain. Trust me, nothing prepares you for that.

As time went by, having Kodiak in the bathroom became more and more routine. We actually wait a minute before undressing or sitting on the toilet because we know it’s just a few second before he pushes open the door and does a trademark FLOP on the floor.

To non-dog people this might sound gross or annoying, but to us it’s perfectly normal. He’s a love, a real people dog. He just wants to be where we are. When we take a shower, he takes a steam. When we do our business, he takes a nap.

It’s actually very cute.

Except for that nose in the shower thing. I don’t think I could survive that again.

My first day on the job was spent running around with CNN.

A few weeks later my boss received a letter from a man in Ohio who had seen him on TV. In almost un-legible handwriting he wrote of his interest in our company, his life in the Navy and his past vacations to New England. Enclosed was a photo of him standing by a flower bed. The note on the back read “I am 79 years now. I was 58 in the photo.”

His name is Norm.

My boss had no plans of writing back to him, but the letter struck a soft spot in me. Maybe this man lived alone with no family. Maybe his hobby is watching the news and writing to people he sees. Maybe he’s waiting for someone to write back.

So I did.

And what developed was sort of a pen pal. Every so often I receive a letter from Norm. Most take awhile to get through since his handwriting is so bad, but they are always amusing. He’s told me about his hobbies (woodcarving and NASCAR), his family(“Got a nephew around those parts”) and his friend’s pool (“It’s very cool and relaxing.”) He writes without rhyme or reason, underlining certain passages or writing some in red ink. (“I’ve always liked to watch the Friday night fights from Foxwoods”, “I bought a Japanese truck…a Tundra.”)

He’s sent me postcards of Ohio, stickers and another photo (again of him at 58, not 79.) I keep the conversation light, talk mostly about the weather or ask him questions about himself. Maybe it’s because I’m cautious (or paranoid?) or maybe it’s because I’m a New Yorker, but I never divulge anything very personal about myself.

Or maybe it’s because he kept asking for a photo and was trying to guess what movie star I looked like.

The creepy old man stuff aside, I like hearing from Norm and I like to think that my letters bring him some joy.

I haven’t heard from Norm in awhile and whenever a long stretch of time passes I wonder if he’s still alive. I know that sounds morbid, but he is getting up there. And if he does pass, will I ever know?

I like to think that he’s just very busy making his wood carvings and driving his Japanese Tundra.

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