Woe Is Me: Doctor, Doctor version

29 August 2011

I'm still sick. By the look of the chest x-rays, it's officially bronchitis (with my fever returning for some sweaty fun). My throat is swollen. My eyes are bloodshot. I look beautiful. It looks like I may have to flush some additional PTO days down the Toilet of Life this week. Whoever owns my voodoo doll, I beg of you, please put down your pins.

Oh, Kids....

29 August 2011


{image: copyranter}

Internet Love

28 August 2011

Here's some love from the internet found while waiting out the storm. Enjoy!


Now, I am not saying you should construct the alphabet out of binder clips when bored at work, but I will let you know I have an overflow of them if you're interested.


A DIY Control key ring. Love!


Loose lips sink ships ;)


A perfect house in the woods! The older I get, the less I need the energy of the city;and the more I need the calm of nature.


Three amazing posters promoting Australian tourism! Visiting The Land Down Under is on my bucket list.


It's a dog! It's a Wookie! It's a Wookie-dog!


Continuing with my Star Wars theme, squirrels with lightsabers!! *giggles*

{images: ffffound.com}

Week In Review

28 August 2011

Monday: No sweat and the best day of the week, in hindsight

Tuesday:
Afternoon - A 5.8 Earthquake in Virginia means New York gets a little shake-up. I feel nothing, most likely because I am too busy ignoring the feeling my throat is quickly turning into sandpaper. I continue to hydrate in preparation for my 6 mile sprint in the park.

5pm - I cease all ingestion of liquids to ensure there are no accidents on my nightly run.

6:45pm - It is increasingly clear my sore throat is indicative of a sickness that is going to crumble my week. Determined or stubborn, depending on your viewpoint, I show up for my run.

6:54pm - Oh shit. I better stop drinking water at 4pm from now on. I have quite the situation on my hands one mile into my sprint. I have to use the restroom in the worst possible way. And my lips are as dry as my throat. The only reason I continue to sprint is because the faster I finish, the faster I can find a bathroom.

7:15pm - Make a note to email my city council representative and threaten to pull my vote unless I begin to see some additional public bathrooms in Central Park. Am now running at a 90 degree angle and loudly mumbling that I think I am indeed dying.

7:37pm - Now whimpering loudly, much like a puppy. Scream at a German tourist as she steps in front of me and breaks my stride. Begin a sharp descent into a dark depression realizing I am officially elderly if I am contemplating wearing Depends on my 19 mile run the following week.

7:45pm - Now finished with my run I am unable to stretch fearing any contortion of my body may result in a, ahem, bursting my very own Hoover Dam, if you will.

8:00pm - Relief.

Wednesday -
7:30am - Wow. My throat feels like it has sprouted porcupine spikes overnight. I crawl back into bed and relinquish my Perfect Attendance award (winner, 2010) as I email my boss. There are a few tears. I had a goal and I failed.

8:00pm - I briefly think I may have Parkinson's Disease. Why else would I be shaking so badly? I've feared a catastrophic illness ever since an erroneous self-diagnoses of Lou Gehrig's Disease back in the 80s. But, back to the shaking. It's as if I am in the midst of my own personal earthquake. I take some medicine, crawl into bed and sweat it out.

Thursday -
7:00am - I awake in need of another shower and a change of clothes. My fever (101 degrees) is making me a sweaty mess. I briefly calculate how many pounds I may lose in water weight. Will it be enough to get into my old jeans? Truth is, I look scary and like I've run the marathon already. My skin has a strange and ugly greenish tint to it. I use another PTO day and remain in bed.

1:00pm - All I want is some toast but I'll be damned if I am getting up to buy bread and make it myself. I order a bagel and juice via Seamless Web. 20 minutes later the delivery man arrives and shoots me a look of disgust because I've made him delivery a bagel one block south and three floors up. Giving in to a classic case of paranoia I begin to defend myself telling the little man how sick I truly am. He backs down the hallway and stabs the down button of the elevator repeatedly and rapidly. I shut the door and collapse onto my couch. It is times like these I thank my lucky stars for a good Law & Order marathon (yay, Lenny Briscoe!).

6:00pm - I awake not knowing where I am. What day is it? What is my name? This is it, I think. The fever has officially cooked me. What to do while I wait for my imminent demise? Order more food on Seamless Web, of course. I place my order for the same restaurant as the morning but this time I want soup, yogurt and tea.

6:45pm - The restaurant calls me to tell me they are out of soup. I am too delirious and busy planning my memorial service to care. I tell them the yogurt and tea will be just fine. There is a pause on the phone and I know an awkward pause when I hear it. It's the same little man, judging me for having a container of Fage yogurt and a green tea delivered. I hang up and move on. I've got an urn to pick out.

Friday:
9:00am - A brief remission in my illness leaves me a short window to run around and build an emergency supply kit for Ilene or Irene. I can't remember my own name, let alone hers.

9:30 am - I've got water, almonds, bread, peanut butter, jelly, batteries, apples and granola bars. If I make it until Sunday, I will be prepared, I vow.

10:00 am - I begin to feel better and briefly regret missing my last weekend in the Hamptons. In usual life-kicks-me-square-in-the-crotch-style, my fever returns. The rest of the day is spent in bed, sweating.

Saturday:
10:45am - All I want is a green juice or a fruit smoothie. I take an ice shower to cool my body down and begin to forage through the streets of the West Village to find a store still open for business. The man at Juice Generation slams the door in my face as I whine, "Are you open?" I make a mental note that if I survive the sickness and the storm, I will never patronize Juice Generation again (we'll see how long that lasts).

11:45am - I finally find a coffee shop that makes smoothies. I return home in need of another shower from the sweat. I am also wheezing. It's difficult to breathe. Make note to get on Web MD and see if this is symptomatic of Parkinson's or if I am dealing with a different monster.

12:00pm - showered, I fall into bed, smother myself in Vick's Vapo Rub and sleep the day away.

7:00pm - The walls are closing in on me. It could be Cabin Fever or it could be the last stage of my illness. I'm not sure but I decide to get out of my apartment. I grab a bottle of rose out of my fridge and head to a friend's place to watch the Weather Channel and wait for the storm to hit.

10:00pm - A chronic cough has begun to annoy me so I cannot imagine what it is doing to the other three people I'm with. I pull on my Hunter's, trench coat and grab my ginormous umbrella and head home. If this disease doesn't kill me, maybe Irene will.

Sunday
8:00am - I awake to realize Irene is a total tease. Yeah sure, there's some wind and rain but I've had a tornado pass right over me, so this is child's play (oh yes, I was at the movies watching...wait for it...Spaceballs when a tornado ripped through the town and I heard and felt nada).

9:30am - Still feeling like death, and inspired by an episode of Law & Order, I begin to contemplate a respiratory system transplant. Do those exist? Google.com.

10:00am - Break into my Irene stash. Move into fetal position. Begin to play Scrabble on my phone.

10:05am - Curse my phone. Curse my immune system. Curse my life.

11:00am - B!tch about it here and then nap.

Another wonderful week, gone. Let's hope the final week of summer brings better fortune. To all my East Coast friends, stay safe. And if you need company, you know where to find me.


Worry Warts

26 August 2011


Tell that to all the New Yorkers running around buying up all the batteries, flashlights and bottled water around. I kind of like a good storm so bring it on Irene!

Goodbye

24 August 2011

{image: Apple Inc.}

Goodbye, Mr. Jobs. You will be missed.

Montauk

24 August 2011

One of my favorite pictures from my summer vacation. I cannot believe it is almost over....

Odd Couple

24 August 2011

(image via Terry's Diary}

Terry Richardson may be an awesome photographer but let's face it, the part of me that is always on-guard for people who just aren't right goes beserk when I hear his name. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end, my shoulders stiffen, the alarm in my brain rings repeatedly.

He is notorious for his perverted (to be kind) photo sessions. This is one of the kinder articles. Try this one from Dlisted; it is downright disturbing (you've been warned).

Terry is obviously as sane and rational as my 82 year-old grandfather, afflicted with Alzheimer's, who walked around for the last 10 years of his life with a 3x5 card in his pocket that said: "If lost, please return to...."

Earlier this week, news broke of Terry dating on honest-to-goodness real person, with a real job and a real brain. Are you baffled (as I scratch my head in disbelief)? What I do know is this city's single male pool must be dried up if an intelligent, coherent woman resorts to dating Terry Richardson. I can list a dozen or so other men I'd rather date (if a gun was to my head, of course). I would take Regis Philbin, Richard Simmons, Keith Richards, The Situation (oh man, I can't believe I put that in writing), Donald Trump, perhaps even Spencer Pratt over the dangerously pedo-looking Terry R. In other words, in my Fantasy Marry, Bang, Kill League, Terry always dies.

Now, off to shower the slime away. The research for this post has got me feeling grody....

Devastation

19 August 2011

{image: moi}

This morning I had breakfast with a co-worker at The Grey Dog a few doors down from my apartment. You know the place: hot hippies, good coffee, cute dogs and home of my beloved banana blueberry muffins. As I was handed my coffee I was also given some heart-breaking news: the shop is closing in September and relocating to Mulberry Street. Had I not worked so hard at perfecting my cat-eye liquid liner look a mere 8 minutes prior, I would have burst out into a puddle of tears, fellow customers be damned.

I was so stunned, I swear I had the vapors. Suddenly, I couldn't speak and the room began to spin. Where do the owners of The Grey Dog Coffee suggest I get my daily muffin fix now that they are up and leaving (don't even suggest I could do without a muffin or I might cut you)? I had given up hope for world peace, faithful men and a successful Obama presidency and now this?

How much more can one person take, I ask? Like the cancellation of The Cosby Show, I may never get over this.

Now where is the closest Think Coffee? I hear they make a mean scone....

A.R.T

14 August 2011

Also known as Assinine Repurposing of Tacky shit.

I really need your help tonight. The thing is, I am known to be the curmudgeon of the group. I always have a comment, snarky observation, or sarcastic jab to illustrate the cruelty which is life in New York. Tonight is no different. However, if I am wrong, let me know the error of my thoughts.

My neighbor, I'll call him Pony, fancies himself one of cultured, refined, urbane tastes. I tend to think I had better taste in art when, at 15, I purchased a Vincent Van Gogh Sunflowers print (gag!) in the Musée d'Orsay, carried it across an ocean, framed it in a $9 brass frame, hung it in my room and pointed my desk lamp at it in an attempt to "light it properly."

Imagine my absolute shock when I opened my door one morning last year and was greeted by this on the wall next to my door:



I recoiled in fear, dropped my keys and clutched my heart. The proportions of her neck! Was she a descendant of some sort of mutant giraffe-human-Maria Callas hybrid? Turns out Pony had some extra "art" around his studio and decided, rather than throw it away, he'd grace the residents of the 3rd floor with his interpretation of fine art.

Weeks went by and I got kind of got used to Scary Lady in Hallway. Waiting, as I was known to call her. On my darkest days I'd glance up at her and share a forlorn glance, a drawn-out sigh, a defeated shoulder shrug. I had just gotten used to SLHW when I awoke one morning to find this piece displayed on the far wall:


Admittedly, I do not know Pony well at all but what kind of 40-year old man has a poster like this hanging in his apartment, I ask? It's either pervy, creepy, highly regressive or screams "I have Norman Bates Mommy Issues." Either way, not a comforting sight at any time of the day. In fact, I've avoided looking to the left as I exit my apartment so much, I've developed a crick in my neck from the strain.

Try explaining these pieces to people visiting you for the first time. Do you warn them about the pictures at the same time your warn them the scary Law & Order elevator only stops on the floor below and above your actual floor? Or, do you let your guests stumble upon the disturbing images for themselves and use it as a conversation piece when you crack that first bottle of wine?

I hadn't quite formulated a plan of attack when this beauty popped up this morning:


This is where I put my (platformed) foot down! I've got Hedda Lettuce staring at me every effing day! He/She looks like he/she just completed a Project Runway challenge involving a kiddie pool and floaties purchased at the Toys R Us in Times Square. If you can bear, here's a closer look:


What kind of meth is Pony cooking that makes him think the other eight residents of the floor want to see the overruns from the Pride section of art.com on a daily basis? Am I overreacting? Should I retaliate and begin hanging the art of my friend's two year old daughter along side these masterpieces? Should I just appreciate Pony's desire to decorate the common areas of the building, pop a Xanax and c'est la vie? I am so torn and so fearful of the next installation....

Moment of Silence: Apartment Edition

14 August 2011

Shut your trap for one moment and revel in what is the most amazing ottoman...ever. I'm sure it costs an arm and multiple legs but one can dream. The fabric reminds me of flocked wallpaper circa 1973. There were remnants of it in my childhood home before it was ripped down in favor of some country-chic floral wall paper monstrosity that defined the 80s (and my mother).

I digress.... Here she is (and she is AWESOME!):

{image: A Casa da Vá}

Taking the Plunge

12 August 2011


I did it! 6 inches...gone in the snip of the shears.

Advice From Chuck

07 August 2011

After finishing a 12-mile run, heading to the beach for less than 24 hours and having an amazing dance party with new and old friends, I head to bed tonight with a grin from ear to ear (and two ice packs down my pants - no joke). Tuesday night, I am replacing my training run with a wine and cheese class at Murray's Cheese in the West Village. As much as I love the endorphins from a good run, I'll take a stinky Époisses any day.

In short, life is good. And on that note, I leave you with a quote from Chuck Palahniuk. Check in this week and see what disasters await!
{image: I Can Read}

Chop. Chop

05 August 2011

Next Friday is the big day for me. I know Tony and Kristy will do their thing; I just hope I'm ready to go where I haven't gone in a while. Here's a preview of the cut (the color I already have but it needs refreshing):

Marathon Training

02 August 2011

I will tell you more later but the quick and dirty is I am up to 12 miles this week. And, it hurts. On Sunday night, I crawled into bed with two ice packs stuffed down my pajama pants to help my aching leg muscles. There's a mental picture for you.

The physical barriers I have to break down are daunting but, even scarier are the psychological obstacles facing me every time I lace up my sneakers. While researching some relaxation tips for runners, I came across this story about a Cherokee Chief and his grandson and it is the story I will tell myself over and over tonight (no iPods are allowed) as I do six miles of sprints through Central Park.



An old Cherokee is teaching his grandson about
life. "A fight is going on inside of me," he said to the boy.


"It is a terrible fight between two wolves.
One is evil - he is anger, envy, sorrow, regret, greed arrogance, self-pity,
guilt, resentment, inferiority, lies, false pride, superiority and
ego." He continued, "The other is good - he is joy, peace, love, hope,
serenity, humility, kindness, benevolence, empathy, generosity, truth,
compassion and faith. The same fight is going on inside of you - and
inside every other person too."


The grandson thought about it for a minute and
then asked his grandfather, "Which wolf will win?"


The old Cherokee simply replied, "The one you
feed."


Tonight, I feed the good wolf.

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