The Curse

Apparently there are forces at work against me in this universe. Specifically, these forces seem to take issue with my owning a vertically striped scarf, procured in a spanish-speaking country, with colours of a reddish variety.

I had one a few years ago. My cousin bought it for me as a gift from Spain. I wore it to my local bar one night and left it draped over the back of my stool--under my leather jacket. At the end of the night the jacket remained, but the scarf had vanished, never to be seen again.

This summer, I bought another one in Peru. Not identical, mind, but similar. I wore it today--with the same leather jacket--to the second day of my conference. I took it off in my last breakout session, as we were jumping around and I was getting hot. I remember being on the opposite side of the room and seeing it sitting on top of a pile of leftover green fabric, and thinking to myself "I musn't forget to grab my scarf on the way out..."

So guess what I did?

An hour after the session ended, when we had eaten cheese, had a raffle, and listened to a retirement tribute to a woman most of us didn't know, I was getting ready to leave and realized... shit! My scarf!

I ran back down to the room where I had left it, but it was already set up for another event, and when I asked the people there if they had seen it, they told me they had been banished from the room during setup.

I checked at the Operations office. No luck, nor could they locate the cleaning lady.

I checked the coat room for the conference, but to no avail.

I found the people who had facilitated the workshop where I'd lost it and asked if they'd seen anything. Apparently they recalled someone picking it up and asking "Is this yours?" but the memory ends there. (Though one of them did ask for my phone number... and I think he was only half joking. Too bad it wasn't the guy from yesterday.)

I asked the conference coordinator. She said a red scarf had been handed in, but when we went to find it, it was gone. "It must have been someone else's," she said.

I went back to Operations and waited... and waited... and still they couldn't find it. A lady took my name and number.

I talked to the cleaning crew when I went to make a final check upstairs. They were adamant that they'd found nothing.

So my question is: who the fuck would steal a scarf from a freaking CONFERENCE? A conference of Arts Educators, no less? I mean, I know we're all poor, but is this really what it's come to? Stealing from one another?

And more importantly: why doesn't the universe want me to have a red scarf? Particularly one of sentimental value?

If I weren't such a damned cynic, I'd think it was a metaphor for something larger... like my inability to hold onto love, or some shit.

Really, though, I think it's just the universe fucking with me.

I wish it would stop.


__________________

UPDATE: I just received an email from the guy running the workshop (whom I emailed last night in desperation) and my scarf has been found! It got mixed up with their loose fabric and ended up in their suitcase. HOORAY!!!

Somewhere Between Here and There...

My brain feels a little mushy today.

Yesterday was entirely lost to a hangover of such magnitude as I have not experienced in a very long time. I attempted to rouse myself twice before nightfall, failing miserably when overcome by nausea within 20 minutes of becoming vertical, forced to flee to the heavenly feather-filled nest that is my bed until well after sundown. Apparently, hangovers can turn you in a vampire.

It was nearly 7pm by the time I was able to successfully consume solid food--at which point I decided to go for broke and order a pizza. My neighbors were having a party which left my bedroom smelling like smoke from the smokers on the stoop, and I finally fell back asleep somewhere around midnight.

I spent all of today at a conference, to which I will be returning tomorrow, and which has left me in need of some advice.

You see, one of the presenters in my first breakout session this morning was pretty damned cute (to my geek-lovin' eyes anyway), and I stuck around to talk to him for a few minutes after the session ended, but then I needed to head downstairs and find coffee before the keynote address, and he was leaving. I couldn't quite muster a reasonable excuse to give him my card, but he did say "Well, you can always reach me through [Company] if you want to talk about Shakespeare or... anything."

His email address is in the conference materials. Do I email him? If I do so, do I need to come up with a reasonable conference-related excuse for doing so, so I'm not blatantly hitting on him? Having never found a conference presenter attractive before, I am unclear on the etiquette in these situations.

What are your thoughts?

Adventures in Red Hook

So…

Today I decided that it was finally time to bite the bullet and wash my non-tumble-dry-able sofa slipcover because it was, in a word, disgusting.

I removed it, found some sheets with which to cover my now naked couch, applied stain stick to the more profound spots of grime, double-checked the washing instructions online, went searching for quarters, realized I was out of laundry detergent, went out to buy more, came home, lugged everything to the Laundromat, and washed the slipcover.

When I pulled it out of the washing machine half an hour later, it looked worse than when it had gone in. One of the back cushion covers was now an interesting shade of yellow, none of the afore-mentioned grime appeared to have gone anywhere, and in fact some of it appeared to have spread. I pointed this out to the man working at the Laundromat, who said it was my fault for not using bleach. When I explained that the washing instructions specifically stated not to use bleach, he mumbled something else and wandered away.

Perfect.

So I loaded the still-filthy mass of formerly white fabric into my laundry bag and lugged it home. However, before attempting to find some way of air drying the sodden monstrosity, I decided to check IKEA’s website to see how much a new slipcover would cost.

Lo and behold! Since I am apparently one of the only people crazy enough to actually have a white couch, the white slipcover was on sale for $49! I figured it would cost me at least that much to attempt to dry-clean the current cover back into some semblance of decency (if it didn't succumb to mildew during the drying process), I decided it was time to take a trip down to the new IKEA that was recently built in Brooklyn—in Red Hook, to be exact.

One train and one bus later, there I was… and let me tell you, I have been a customer in several IKEA locations, and am used to their labyrinthine floor plans, but good grief!

After finding out where to get my slipcover, getting lost in a maze of closets, picking up a few other items along the way (who? me?!), and getting acquainted with the backs of the heads of the other customers in the TWO open check-out lanes, my mission was a success!

My couch looks brand new… and I have a wok, an apron, some new oven mitts, a lifetime supply of tea-light candles, and two new glasses… one of which I just discovered is cracked.

Guess I’ll have to go back to IKEA.

Snippets

Can I blog and watch "The Colbert Report" at the same time? Time to find out!

There was a whole bunch of crap in here, and I just deleted it. For some inane reason, I was convinced that I needed to write a post prior to midnight, so that it would show up as "today" (Monday) as opposed to "tomorrow" (Tuesday). What the hell is wrong with me?

Why is it okay to say "jag-off" on TV, but not "jerk-off"? They mean the same thing, and neither one is technically obscene.

Colin Powell has endorsed Obama! I would too, if the NYS Department of Elections would send me the damned voter registration card I requested 2 weeks ago that was supposed to have been mailed within 3 days--or so I was told by the pre-recorded voice that asked me to state my name and address after the beep. Seriously, the fact that it is impossible to get a human being on the phone, EVER, at any government agency these days makes me wonder: Where the hell has all the government's money gone, anyway? It's certainly not paying for receptionists.

The idea of NaNoWriMo is still niggling at the back of my mind... Anyone else indulging in this particular breed of madness?

Speaking of madness, I've got about 24 hours in which to come to my senses and cancel my Match.com account without having to pay any money. I mean, seriously... do I really want to pay $24 a month to reinforce the fact that I can't find a date?

Why am I asking so many questions tonight?

Wynton Marsalis is so cute.

Two-minutes to midnight... Inane Mission Accomplished! G'night y'all!

Am I Insane?

My craptastic attitude has been put on the backburner for the weekend to marvelous effect. That may have something to do with the fact that I spent most of yesterday sleeping off an Out-Till-4am-With-The-Lovely-Miss-A-Hangover, and I was therefore too braindead to really feel anything one way or another :)

Last night I had the joy of attending a Jazz concert at Carnegie Hall. I'd never been before, and got to sit in the Executive Box, no less! (I have a friend who works there). Good music and great seats, not a bad way to wind up a crazy hungover day.

So, on to my potential insanity. A friend from high school just Facebooked me with an invitation to join NaNoWriMo... and I'm almost considering it. There are several reasons why this idea is pure lunacy:

1. November is already going to be the month from hell. Why on earth would I add on another, totally voluntary, stressor?

2. I'm already neglecting the hell out of my blog. What on earth makes me think I can write a freaking novel?

3. See Reason 1. Rinse. Repeat.


And yet... it's oh-so-very-tempting.

These masochistic tendencies always get me into trouble.

Oh Good Grief...

After months of threatening, I finally did it.

I put a profile up on Match.

I'm chalking it up to temporary insanity... but I've got 7 free days in which to come to my senses and cancel before being charged whatever ridiculous sum of money for the membership.

I was surprised to see how many genuinely attractive men currently have profiles posted. It makes me wonder what their fatal flaws are that leave them single.

Then again, I am also single, and by my own logic I am therefore also fatally flawed. I suppose the goal then becomes to find someone whose flaws off-set my own.

Either way... should make for some interesting blogging. One can only hope.

Am I Depressed?

After calling and hounding my doctor for my blood test results, yesterday I received the following email.

"Your lab results were essentially normal."

Essentially? What the fuck does that mean?!?!

Way to inspire confidence pal. I love the fact that I practically had to hunt you down with a spear to get this little nugget of information.

When I wrote back and asked if he had any advice considering the problem hadn't gone away, he told me to make another appointment so he could determine if I needed further tests or a referral.

You know, because he was so helpful the first time.

This is one of the many reasons I hate being poor. I hate having to go to Student Health Centers or, when I was on Medicaid, hospital clinics. The doctors there do such a piss-poor job of pretending to care, and an excellent job of relaying that you are totally wasting their time with your petty complaints.

Correct me if I'm wrong, but isn't the whole Being A Doctor thing about helping people? So could you maybe brush that chip off your shoulder and actually take me seriously? Thanks.

Anyhow, I think it's time to bite the bullet and go see a counselor.

Once again, this will be a Health Center counselor, which may just leave me wanting to rip my hair out even more than I already do, but here are the facts:

I have a hard time falling asleep.
Once I do fall asleep, I have a hard time waking up.
I am easily irritated. By everything.
I have a hard time motivating myself to do just about anything.
I am convinced that at least one of my friends is trying to friend-dump me.
I am totally stressed out over such facts as: the crumbling economy is going to seriously deplete grant-based jobs, so how the hell am I going to find work to utilize and pay for this insanely expensive Masters degree; and will I even be able to FINISH that degree considering I still don't have board approval for my thesis project and I have less than 2 months until I need to hand it in... AIGH!

So is that depression? I don't know. I don't have those mysterious aches and pains that those medication commercials talk about. I don't want to kill myself. And when something good happens, or I get distracted from my malaise, I will cheer up and feel like myself.

The rest of the time I feel like I'm trapped in my own skin, but have no idea where else I'd prefer to be.

So what the fuck is that?

Is Jon Stewart reading my blog?

I was watching The Daily Show this evening, and I couldn't help but notice that Jon Stewart stole my joke!

Okay, okay, so the leap from Joe Six-Pack to Jane Boxed Wine (or Wine Box) wasn't exactly all that difficult, but still... I thought of it first. (*pouts*)

Other than not receiving royalties for joke thievery, it's been a fairly chill weekend. Met up with some friends on Saturday eve and had a few (okay, okay, several) beers. Sunday I saw Equus with a friend of mine who was in town from the UK--that makes the third UK friend I've seen this year! Pairing that with a naked Harry Potter made for quite an enjoyable afternoon :)

Actually, I was fairly impressed with Mr. Radcliffe, I must say. Impressed with his acting. Get your mind out of the gutter. The beginning of the show was a bit rough, but by the end I had bought in completely. And if you've ever seen Equus, the second half--and particularly the end--is what really matters. All in all, I think he turned in a decent performance. Kudos to you, Harry!

Oh, and to the Set, Lighting, Costume, and Sound Designers? Very large karmic hugs are being sent to you my friends, because the technical aspects of the show made up for any performance shortcomings (there was one actress that I did not like at all, I must admit).

And that... is about it really. Tomorrow I need to call the University health center and ask if I am EVER going to get the results of my bloodwork. I still have no idea what's wrong with me and if nothing shows up in the bloodwork then I might have to suck it up and go see a shrink for the first time in my life. I mean, I've gone through phases like this before--trouble sleeping and waking up, general sense of malaise when left to my own devices without any specific task to accomplish--but usually it only lasts for a day or two. This has been going on for a month now, and frankly? It's getting old.

Unlike Christian Slater, who appears to have ceased aging. Watched the premiere of his new TV show tonight. Not bad.

Right. I am clearly talking about nothing. Time for bed.

Wish me luck!

Over It

I am so freaking done with smoking.

For real this time, I'm actually ready.

Until last night, the last time I'd had a cigarette was three weeks ago.  I was headed home after Evil Ex Roommate's baby shower and really wanted one--and was within my self-imposed "knock it off already" deadline of the end of September--so I bought a pack.  I smoked one, and the remainder of that pack lolled in my freezer for the following three weeks.

Last night I was meeting some friends for drinks and thought "well hell, I paid $10 for these things, I ought to smoke them!" so I took the pack with me.

I didn't smoke like a chimney as I would have in the past.  I think I had about five (though several beers in, it's difficult to keep track).

This morning I woke up with a scratchy throat and a mouth tasting like an ash tray.

I am officially over it.

I threw the rest of the pack in the trash.

Potty Training

Howdy Folks!  My slacker-blogger ass is over at the lovely Ashley's place today, where, wonder of wonders, I actually managed to write something of substance!  I know... shocker, right?  I think it's because she gave us a prompt.  Granted the prompt was "travel" and I wrote about "toilets," but you'll just have to head over there and check it out to see how the two are totally related.

Anyhow, I know that I've been neglecting my own blog as well as all of yours (I swear, I'll get caught up again eventually.. really I will!), but lately I  have fallen into an excessively boring rut... so unless you want to hear about my thoughts on the latest posts on D-Listed, how many laps I swam at the pool, or how depressing it is when everyone else I know seems to have a life (a job, a relationship, maybe even both!) while all I do is sit around watching TV and, well, reading D-Listed... I got nothing.

So help me out folks.  I need writing prompts.  Something, anything, a word, a colour, a bad joke.

Who knows... maybe if I can pull my blog out of this funk, the rest of my life will follow.

Joe Six-Pack, Meet Jane Boxed-Chardonnay

Well now that my fit of self-loathing has passed--which may or may not have something to do with the fact that the bathing suit looked far less wretched at home than it did in the dressing room, and I've now been swimming twice--I need to redirect that loathing elsewhere... and where better than the field of politics?

There is much I could say about the Vice-Presidential debate--like the fact that the next time either John McCain or Sarah Palin uses the word "Maverick" my ears are going to start bleeding, or Oh, she says "Hockey Moms" instead of "Soccer Moms" because she's from Alaska. Isn't that cute? (christ I can't believe people really fall for that shit)--but I think Tina Fey covered most of that on Saturday Night Live.

However, there is one buzzword from the current election--which I have only heard from the Republican side--which I find particularly disturbing, and that's "Joe Six-Pack."

Is is just me, or is it completely fucked up that the middle-class American male is apparently defined by his ability to drink?

The women, at least, get to be Hockey/Soccer/Whatever Moms. Granted, this assumes that every middle-class female has children, and that those children live in her home, and that she regularly ferries them to some sort of athletic activity which she enthusiastically supports... but that's a far sight more flattering than the assumption that every middle-class male likes to booze it up on a regular basis--with beer, none of that sissy wine shit. Then again, with the current state of the economy, it won't be long before the middle class can't afford wine, let alone hard liquor.... Viva la Schlitz! But I digress.

The point is: if we're calling the men Joe Six-Pack, it only seems equitable to called the women something like Jane Boxed-Chardonnay.

But Froggy, you're saying, what if I don't like Chardonnay? Too damned bad. I'm willing to bet there are some men out there who don't like beer. Hell, I'm sure there are plenty of recovering alcoholics among our middle-class who are just thrilled to be equated with a six-pack on a Friday night.

So my biggest question is... is this shit actually working? Are there men out there (other than Palin's immediate family and dubious soon-to-be-son-in-law) who hear "Joe Six-Pack" and feel... proud?

What frightens me the most is... I have a feeling the answer is "yes."


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P.S. - Sorry to those of you with readers who received numerous reposts. Blogger/Firefox is fucking with me. (I swear, I did NOT type "Socker.")

Hating myself...

Or, to be more specific, hating myself for the thoughts that started cycling through my head about an hour ago in the dressing room at Paragon Sports.

After yesterday's abortive attempt to buy a new athletic bathing suit (i.e., not a string bikini), I went back this evening in hopes of finding something that will allow me to swim laps at the gym while I wait for my hamstring to stop its little rebellion. I was standing there in the dressing room, after trying on dozens of suits that, if they fit on the bottom were baggy on the top, and vice versa, looking at the leg seams of the umpteenth bathing suit cutting into the fat on my thighs and ass, and for the first time ever I thought to myself: "Damn, I really want liposuction."

Not in that whiny, half-joking way that we all do from time to time... but in an "I wonder if the end of the semester surplus from my student loans would cover it" kind of way. As in, I really, seriously, 100% meant it.

Me... Little Miss "Love Your Body! Nobody is Perfect! Societal Ideals Are Bullshit!" wants to surgically vaccuum the fat out of her thighs.

And I kinda hate myself for that.

I guess my penance is that I just spent 70 fucking dollars on a bathing suit that looks terrible... because there was no other alternative.

Blech.

I Think the Universe is Trying to Tell Me Something...

...or else my body is just falling apart.

Last week I made it through Week 1 of Operation: Get Froggy Jogging with my legs (and soul) intact.  Granted, I was slightly worried that I was going to puke by the end of the last day's cardio... but I didn't.  So all was well.  Even my aching muscles were far less achy by the end of the week.

I took Monday off, and yesterday I did some simple strength training at home.  Today I hauled my ass out of bed with the idea of getting to the gym and back before the Fresh Direct guy was scheduled to arrive.  As I hustled my yawning self into the city to go to the gym and attack the first cardio session of Week 2, I noticed that my right hamstring felt a little tight.  Nothing major, just a little muscle tension.  I figured that my warm-up would work that tension right out and I'd be good to go.

Well I made it through 5 minutes of moderate walking with no trouble, and the first 2 minute power-walk was also problem free.  But the minute my right leg hit the ground after bumping the treadmill up to jogging pace, I felt a sharp pain in my hamstring.

Not oh-my-god-I'm-going-to-die-I-can't-walk-watch-me-crumple-and-get-dragged-under-the-treadmill pain, mind you... but still not pleasant.  I continued for about 5 more seconds, waiting to see if the stabbing sensation would subside, and it did not. So a mere 7 minutes into my workout I had to call it quits and head over to the mats to give a light stretch to my aching leg before changing back into my street clothes and exiting the premises no more than 20 minutes after I had entered.

The positive end of this incident is that I now had time to run the few errands I wanted to run in the city and still make it home in time to greet my Fresh Direct delivery.

The bad news is... well... my fucking leg hurts!  And until this situation rectifies itself--which could be a few days, or a few weeks--my workout plan has been put on hold.  And since this is an incremental plan, if I take too much time off, I'll have to start all the way back at the beginning!

So is the Universe telling me that training to jog is simply a bad idea?  Or is this just an extension of my body's latent desire to completely fail me?

I've been running on empty for weeks now.  I have a hard time getting out of bed in the mornings and I spend most of the day in a daze--I only manage to really rouse myself when I go to my internship and the gym, otherwise I am mentally and physically wiped out.  Yet at the same time, my insomnia is worse than ever and I find it increasingly difficult to fall asleep.

I went to the doctor on Monday, and his initial diagnosis was... ready?  "A sleeping problem."  No shit Sherlock, tell me something I don't know!  They're running some blood tests to see if it's anemia (my guess) or thyroid (my mom had it) or some other treatable issue that's leaving me so drained.

Until I know more, the score currently stand at: Body - 2, Froggy - 0.