I’m gonna write my way out of here

When you only blog once a month, it’s so hard to start out a post without somehow recognizing that fact.  Many sentences with the theme of “I just don’t have the time…  I’m not as into sharing with the world as I used to be…  Just thought you might want some updates…” have just gone through my head as way to start this post, because just starting without noting my infrequent blogging, that’s like jumping into a cold pool all at once.

Speaking of, guess who’s certified to lifeguard and CPR at pools!  This girl!  On Wednesday, I’ll be taking the test to see if I can also lifeguard at waterfronts.  This test is also at the pool.  As of now, I am not employed anywhere with this certification, but everyone around me is just a little safer.

I’m still competing, too.  There’s two more meets this season, and I think that the meat eating experiment is working well.  Two weeks ago, I accomplished my goal of doing the 100 freestyle faster than 1:14.  I did it in 1:11.61.  It would have been even cooler if I had done it a little slower, becasue 1:11.78 would have been my birthday.  But that’s the only time you’ll hear me say I want to go slower. 

Lately I’ve been trying to assess what I want to be when I grow up.  I’m still stung from the job loss a year and a half ago, because that really was perfect for me in so many ways.  There’s always this voice in the back of my head telling me I should be a writer.  Because “novelist” is a classic back-up job.  All I can say is I went to the DMV yesterday to renew my car registration (it only took 5 minutes, but cost half a day’s pay) and I actually momentarily thought it might be fun to work at the DMV.  Maybe I was just jealous because their printer was working, and it was very fast, and ours is not.

Other than that, in the past month I neither got engaged, pregnant, or got someone else pregnant.  I didn’t convert to a new religion, and nobody I’m close to died or was born.  Saturn is still out of business, and Battlestar Galactica is off the air.  Lucy the cat is still cute, devistatingly so sometimes.  I have not broken any bones or cars in at least 90 days.  Oh, and Birmingham?  Back in the picture.  Just please don’t ask us to caption that picture.  We’re simply having fun spending time together, creating witty banter.

Splat

Just because you have texted, changed the radio station, picked your nose or jotted down notes for a blog post while driving without getting into an accident does not mean you’re one of the storied “good drivers.”  You’re lucky.  And every time you neglect to be killed, you further embolden yourself to do some other stupid thing to put yourself in harm’s way.

Friday Five

With apologies and thanks to Stefanie, for being so kind about letting me steal the Friday Five…

ONE: Went to Jersey yesterday to get the radio in my car fixed.  (Random buttons would stop working at random intervals.)  They gave me a refurbished one which is exactly like the old one, except that it only has 18 presets on the radio instead of 24.  Now, there are not even 24 radio stations in the Hudson Valley, let alone 24 I would want to preset, and I never used more than the first 6 presets at any time.  But man, I’m still pissed that I’ve been given an inferior replacement! I liked to keep presets 19-24 on New York City stations, just in case.

2: Anyone else scared shitless that our country and economy is FUCKED?  I’ve got nothing else to say about that.

III: There’s an item on the local news today that for the first time in history, Democratic voter registration has outnumbered Republican registration in Dutchess County.  (Fun fact: in the four times he ran for President, Roosevelt never carried his home county!  And they even made his mug the mascot of Hyde Park.)  The radio report says that the influx of Democrats has a lot to do with former New York City moving up here.  I love being a small part of an important and heartwarming news item.

Cuatro: A friend of mine from kickball shares the same name as a friend of mine from high school.  The kickball friend and his girlfriend had a bit of a break-up on Wednesday.  Yesterday I saw my parents in New Jersay and I was telling my mom that I had gone dancing Wednesday night with the kickball friend to try and cheer him up.  She seemed really upset as I was telling her some of the details of what happened.  Then she made a joke that she was the most upset that he wouldn’t be able to fix her computer, at which point I said, “Mom, do you think I’m talking about The Man of Action?  Becuase I’m talking about Pantsless.”  To that she said, “Oh, THANK GOODNESS!  I was just so upset about that.  I feel much better now. …  I mean, I’m sorry for your kickball friend.  I’m sorry for any pain in the world. But I’m so relieved that nothing bad happened to The Man of Action.”

Fin: Two of my kickball friends are getting married later today!  So I took the day off work to celebrate their love.  I’m going to the wedding stag, and I’m stoked about that, because I’m going to dance off my pants off.  Except I’ll be wearing a dress.

Ned doesn’t believe in insurance, he thinks it’s a form of gambling

I was in the middle of writing this kick-ass post about how I’ve discovered I can get over 30 miles to the gallon (city) in my 2007 Saturn Ion by simply driving the speed limit. But that’s really all there is to it. The rest of the post was simply a list of the new things I’ve discovered from doing that, like how mad other drivers can get, and how I now have to wake up an extra 10 minutes early to get to swimming on time. But alas, it’s so worth it when I see that gas gauge still over a half tank a week after I’ve filled up.

But while writing that post, I was listening to the radio, and something made me angry. I often get angry when I listen to the radio, because despite having a kick-ass local station (100.1 WDST, Woodstock Radio) we have some terrible, awful, horrifying local commercials.

One in particular that drives me up the wall is for a company that sells solar panels. A man in the background keeps soothly repeating “Solar now. Solar now.” Meanwhile a woman, who went to the enunciate-every-syllable school of voice over work tells us that her company can design a solar system for my home. Every time she says that, I ask her if the solar system includes Pluto. She never answers, going on to tell us that we can be part of enerGy STar ParTners. Solar now.

There’s another commercial for a lumber company with a catchy jingle that includes the line, “it fits the bill, Gill.” The ad has been playing for the 3 years I’ve lived here, and they still can’t come up with a better rhyme that has something to do with… you know, lumber.  And no one has figured out who Gill is.

My station also the annoying car commercials, DJ interviews of business owners that are really commercials, and the jingle of the company that is either called “M&S, N&S, Eninnesse, or EM n’ ES Supply” but I can’t tell because their jingle is very unclear. They annoy me too. But none of them are as bad as the worst radio ads ever.

The Geico ads.

I hate, hate, hate Geico. I used to use them for my car insurance until I got a better rate from the lovely people at State Farm. When I got my survey asking me why I left, I told them it was because of their advertisements.

First of all, they can’t decide on a constant theme. The Gecko, the has-been celebrities, the (fucking) Cavemen, the E! True Hollywood Story parodies. Either way, they tell you it takes 15 minutes to sign up. But they don’t tell you that it takes days and weeks or months to get a claim settled…

But what really annoys me are their new ads for renters insurance. I’ve had renter’ insurance from State Farm for years, and it’s great. Not that anything’s happened to me in that time, but if it did, I’d get cash to replace my stuff, and it only costs about $200 a year. It’s nice peace of mind when you live in a 150-year-old tinder box with questionable electrical wiring. Now Geico wants me to buy their shit, and you know how they do it? By listing all the things that renters hold near and dear. Examples:

“salad spinner”

“combination flat-screen TV espresso maker”

“race car bed”

“Mexican hat”

Among others that I can’t remember at the moment because I’m so disgusted.  They’re basically saying that renters are people who like to throw away their money on pricey or worthless items and even though it’s laughable that renters would think their possessions have any value, or even any worth, Geico will do them the favor of treating them like real people (read: homeowners) and give them money if their stuff gets lost.

As a person who rents, I’m pretty offended.  Yeah, my kitchen table may be a piece of plywood on top of two sawhorses, but that’s because it came with the cottage.  And I’m smart enough to know that there is no such thing as a combination flat-screen TV espresso maker, and State Farm treats me as such.  I also appreciate that my current agency never teased a 30-second ad into a sitcom, and as long as they stay that way, they’ll stay my agent.  Now pardon me while I hide my laptop, which is of equal value to all of my other possessions combined.

Insecure

Z of Autobiography of my feet tagged me for a meme. When I get tagged, I usually put it back burner and go watch Battlestar Galactica and forget about it until all the water boils off and the pot catches on fire. I’ve actually gotten this meme before, and I turned it into a post I really liked, the 7 deadly sins facts about me. I wrote that last May, and got no comments. I can’t even remember a time when I could have no comments on a post and not go screaming into the hills in disappointment, thinking myself a failure. So on that note, here are 7 insecurities about me that you may not know about:

1. I judge my self worth by comment number, even though I know that is wrong. I wrote this blog for more than a year with only the occasional comment, and my life was just as fulfilling. When I read blogs, I don’t always comment on posts, either because I really have nothing to say, or I closed the window before verifying that the word verification was verified, or because blogger software is exacting revenge on me for leaving WordPress, and I just can’t be bothered to re-type. So I totally understand that not commenting doesn’t equal not a good post. That being said, don’t at all let this particular point sway your decision to comment or not…

Duex. I am not comfortable with my body when I’m in New York City wearing fancy going-out clothes, yet I have no problem walking around in a bathing suit at a swim meet in front of people who are much more athletic and well-toned than I am. I think it’s because I think I belong at the swim meet, but I don’t belong out with the fancy people.

Γ. Before leaving for my Boston trip, I got my oil changed, and I hate doing that, because they always ask me if I want x,y, or z fixed, and I don’t know what the right answer is. Am I a sucker if I have them do the service that I may or may not need, or am I an idiot for refusing necessary car repair which will cause the transmission drop right out of the car as I leave the service station?

D. I was just looking over at Stefanie’s Flikr page, and I smile like a crazy person in pictures, which I don’t think is my best look. There are actually very few pictures of me that I like, 3-D is really my best look.

Five.  I don’t know what it is, but I’ve been way gassy this week, and I’ve had nary a bean.  Oh wait, does tofu count as a bean since it’s made from soy?  Please don’t tell me that soy is the root of my problems, because it’s the root of my diet.  At least the weather’s warm enough to drive with my windows open.

VI. I’m choosing my own blogventure this Friday, which means that I have to actually write something creative that isn’t about me.  I don’t even know how to do that since every time I press the “.” on my keyboard, my fingers automatically go “space” “space” “I.”

Lastly. Way back in the olden days (my early 20’s) I pierced my nipple (Mom, I think you knew that, but if this is how you’re finding out I’m REALLY sorry.)  It never quite took right, and it never completely healed, so I took it out after a couple of months because I grew tired of only hugging people with my right side.  After the hole closed up, it left a small funny-looking scar, and it makes me worry that if I ever decide to have kids, I won’t be able to breast feed properly.  I’m actually more concerned about that than the fact that I don’t even have someone to have kids with, and even if I did, I can’t afford to do it, and I don’t think I’m emotionally ready.  Sometimes I look at that little scar and think that because the me of 10 years ago wasn’t concerned with the me of today (or 10 years from now) maybe I should forgo the whole procreation thing.  Or maybe that’s just a clever ruse I tell myself to keep my biological clock at bay while I continue to enjoy the single life.

So the rules of this meme are that I’m supposed to tag 7 people.  I’m not a tagger, but there are seven blogs I would like to link to.  These are blogs that I’ve been reading and meaning to put on my blogroll (there are more than seven), but haven’t yet, because I’m not in the mindframe to come up with 6 word descriptions for them.  So bloggers, feel free to do the 7 thing meme if you want, or not.  But props to you for being bloggers, and if you’d like to give me a 6 word description of your blog, I’ll put you in the bold section.

Constantly Arriving by Sarah

Definitely RA by RA

Digital Fortress by Vicious Headbutt

Fretting the Small Stuff by Andrea

Howling Hill by Michelle

No Ordinary Rollercoaster by Ben

Surviving Myself by apollocreed

Why didn’t anyone tell me my ass was so big?

Today’s lesson is about ice on the windshield. Some people will tell you that the best way to get ice off a windshield is with a credit card. But those people are wrong. On one hand, you don’t want to go getting your credit card too icy, and on the other hand, the surface area is just too small. It turns out that the best instrument for such an operation is a handicapped parking tag. It’s sturdy, wide and ready for action! Even if you leave your house at exactly the same time that you were planning on getting to work, this tag will allow you clear, unobstructed vision for your journey. One word of warning, though. You may have to break your ankle to obtain said handicapped parking pass. You’re probably just better off turning your car on and letting your defroster do the work instead.

And as for the continuing re-cap of the weekend, some of you have asked for a picture of my new haircut.

Ta-da!

Said haircut was achieved by making an appointment with my hairdresser from the city. I had cheated on him a few times with a local Hudson Valley guy, who I never quite trusted. But city guy, when he suggested we put my hair in a ponytail and CUT IT OFF, I was like, “okay.” Let me tell you, seeing your own ponytail in front of your eyes is a really weird experience. It’s like that scene in Spaceballs where they teleport Mel Brooks and put his head on backwards. (And now you know what the subject of the post means and you can stop thinking that I have body issues.) We also dyed it a little and then he poofed it out for my party. Since I don’t like about 85% of pictures (seriously, I look really uncomfortable in the picture above, and that was the best of the bunch) taken of me and only 3 pictures were taken of me at my party, no visuals of the poofing exist in a way that I care to document on my own blog. So you’ll have to take my word that on Saturday night, I came close to achieving something that said, “This girl is from Jersey.”

Air cast

Update on the doctor’s appointment today:

It was another drive-by appointment by the mean doctor who doesn’t like making eye contact, caring about patients, or delivering good news. Within moments of breezing into the room and shaking my hand while looking at the x-rays, he declared me safe to put weight on my foot. Here’s a snipet of dialogue: (after waiting almost an hour and a half for my appointment, the first of the day, to start)

Mean Doctor: Have you been swimming?

Noelle: No, because when the waters are troubled, I have no man to put me in the pool. (Translation for those of you who didn’t go to Sunday School and have random Bible stories stuck in your subconscious, and what I actually said: You told me I can’t drive, and I don’t have anyone willing to get up at 5:30 in the morning to take me.)

MD: Well, you won’t be driving for another 3 to 4 weeks.

N: That’s not good. I live alone, you see, and I don’t have another way of getting around.

MD: (giving me and my dad in the corner, who DID wake up at 5:30 this morning to drive me from New Jersey where I spent the weekend a “well you got here today, didn’t you” look) I don’t give diagnoses based on your living conditions.

N: Do you really think it’s unsafe for me to drive? (hint: I already did!)

MD: If you got into an accident, I’m not going to get up on the stand and testify that I told you you can drive. In today’s litigious society it’s not safe (for my medical practice) for you to drive for another three to four weeks. I know that patients do it against medical advice, but that’s not my problem.

N: Okay, fine I get it (I’m totally driving to work today, jerk.) So, other than that, I’ve noticed that, um, I can see the head of the two pins in my ankle through my skin here and here. Is that normal?

MD: Yes, and I don’t take out hardware. The worst surgeries I’ve ever had are the ones where I’ve taken out hardware. Some people do it. I don’t. Some people believe in Santa Claus. I don’t. Some people whine about being 30 and single and not able to drive. I don’t. But that’s because I’m a world renowned spinal surgeon and you are wasting my time with your piddling broken ankle. I fix these in my sleep. (The parts in italics were what writers call SUBTEXT.)

N: So what do I do now?

MD: (as he walks out the door) The rude nurse will get you a new cast and here’s a prescription for physical therapy and you can walk now see me (pay me) again in three to four weeks. (closes door.)

N: (looks at Dad, verifies that he feels just as drove-by.) So I guess I don’t need this boot anymore?

Rude Nurse: (walks in, overhearing) I wouldn’t throw that out if I were you. She’s going to try doing more than we tell her to do and she’s going to hurt herself and she’s going to have to go back to the boot, like ALL THE OTHERS. Here’s an air cast. It fits inside your shoe.

N: I don’t have a right shoe with me. I haven’t worn a right shoe since November 1st.

RN: (rolling eyes) We still have to fit it to you today. (points to where Noelle is supposed to put her heel.)

N: (Giggles at the heel pad features a smiley face-foot, gets no reaction from the Rude Nurse.) Sorry, that just struck me as funny. I’m nervous. Sorry.

RN: Okay, you’re all set. Here are the directions. DON’T GO DRIVING!!!! (walks out the door.)

N: Wait! Am I supposed to start walking now?

RN: If he said so, then yes. Use it or lose it.

N: But, am I supposed to keep this air cast on all the time? Even when I sleep?

RN: Why would you do that?

N: Because when I got the boot cast, I was told to wear it all the time, even when I sleep. If I didn’t have to do that… Well, it was annoying.

RN: (shrugs shoulders in a way that mostly means “no, you don’t have to,” walks out the door.)

N: (to no one in particular) Am I still walking on crutches? Do I just walk out of here? Do I wear this in my sleep? What the hell just happened?

After all that, I realized that even though I’m allowed to walk right now, I can’t walk right now. Six weeks of atrophied muscles make walking feel a lot like I have constant pins and needles in my heel. I’ve attempted to take a few steps without support, and it’s nigh impossible. I have physical therapy on Tuesday night, and I’m hoping to get some pointers on the whole walking thing at that time. I re-booted myself to make my way out of the doctor’s office, and to the police station where I signed up for a handicapped parking permit. I’ll get that in the mail about two to three weeks before I’m allowed to drive.

After the appointment, Dad took me back to the cottage, and did the awesome fatherly favor of getting the thick layer of ice off the Saturn. Then, (after a quick tutorial on the location of the parking brake) he pulled out of its icy parking spot and into the driveway. From there, he went to the right, towards New Jersey, and I went to the left, towards work, because we concurred that the doctor cleared me to drive. He just didn’t clear me to have an accident. And my little seven to eight minute drive to work, and the freedom to come and go when I please, it makes me So Happy. And unlike the people I paid a $20 co-pay to today, we believe that happiness is the key to healing fast. That, and driving really, really carefully…

Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego

I took the day off from work yesterday, so I could 1) recover from a night of wicked passion with Birmingham, 2) get the oil changed in my car and 3) be home when the 3 men from the oil company came to fix my furnace. (It’s now fiery, hence the title).

I got home from the auto place to find my entire kitchen, bathroom, and anti-room (the room that connects the kitchen to the stairs and serves no particular purpose other than to contain the furnace) full with the stuff of furnace repair, and all my furniture moved aside to make way for it. The beer belly workman (Abednego) explained to me what they were doing, and the super thin workman (Shadrach) actually made a point to close the door behind them so the cat wouldn’t get out, not that she was moving from her fortress of solitude under the bed while she crouched frozen in fear. The third guy, the quiet workman (Meshach), was their driver and gofer.

My ancillary plans for cleaning the house were moot seeing that the guys were making a bigger mess than I ever could and that my vacuum was trapped behind toolboxes. It was clear it was time to wax my car, an activity I had been waiting to do when the weather was warm and the car was clean, both of which were true yesterday.

The car was parked next to Abednego’s truck, and while I was pulling out the waxing stuff, he called to me:

“You waxing your car?”

“Yeah, I thought it could use a little protection for the winter.”

“You’re alright, kid!”

Oddly pleased and slightly unnerved that I had received approval from the furnace man, I commenced waxing my car and channeling my inner Daniel-san.

As I moved from the passenger side of the car to the back bumper, Abednego came out again to get some more tools.

“It’s really hot out to be doing that today,” he mentioned casually as he looked over to me.

“I guess it is, but now’s as good a time as any.”

“It just looks like you’re getting a little sweaty over there,” he said, turning the conversation from my activity to my physical appearance, the first step across the line.

“I’m okay.” [End conversation]

About an hour later, I had finished waxing the roof, the driver side, the hood, and was working on the undone passenger side. I was getting pretty sweaty, an I was getting sore as well. Seeing that it was his last chance to send me his esteem, Abednego packed some stuff in his truck and said, “You’re doing a great job. I don’t know what’s prettier, you or the car.”

That’s right, folks, I got sexually harassed on the grounds of a former women’s art colony, proving that all the hard work my landlesbian and others put in all those years ago have gone exactly nowhere. Maybe there’s something about cars and women that makes men who see the women with cars think those women want unsolicited compliments on their looks by sweaty workmen. At least he didn’t tell me I missed a spot. Maybe there was some benefit because when the workmen finished their furnace work, they put all my furniture back in the right place and cleaned up after themselves. That’s more than I can say for the plumber.

Splat

The sweet merciful rain is cleaning the grime off my car as I type. Other than that and coming in fourth place at Trivia last night, and the letter I wrote to my landlady expressing my concern about the $139 increase in this month’s electric bill (the four houses on the property have one meter, and she divvies it up as she pleases) there’s precious little news I can bore you with. So instead, I want to share this unique link I saw on Boing Boing today:

Microscopic pictures of bugs splattered on windshields taken by some German Guy.

I’ll burn my eyes out before I get out

I got a letter from the cable company, my lovely internet provider. They’re raising the rates. Ten more dollars a month, which works out to roughly… $120 a year. I think that I hate them. Not just because they’re raising the rates, because it got me thinking: if I’m shelling out a whole lot of money just to get the internet, why not bit the bullet and get cable television after all these years. (Hello, my name is Noelle, and I’ve been without television in my home for 6 years and 19 days.) It seems reasonable enough, now that I’ve saved all that money by not buying a house. At the very least, it will nice to not have to watch “Lost” at my computer during my lunch hour.

I have not made a decision about this new major purchase, but after waiting for my car to be serviced for an hour and a half this morning, I was reminded why I realized TV=bad. The waiting room at the Saturn dealership had the Today show playing on the TV when I got there. I must segue here that I’m fascinated by the unspoken rules of social behavior, and one of the rules is that if you’re not the first to arrive at a waiting room with a TV, anyone there before you has control of the remote control, even if they’re not actually watching the TV. One could of course ask permission to take possession of the remote, but that takes more balls than I have. Also, in a public setting like a waiting room of a car dealership, it’s not kosher to channel flip, and even if you did, you may find that as bad as it is, the Today Show is the least offensive programming from 8-10am. I guess there is a third option of asking to turn the television off completely, but without knowing who it was that turned the television on in the first place, you may not want to break some rule of waiting room which may state something to the effect of: the television must at all times be “on.”

So I sat and watched the Today Show because part of my television addition means that when there is a television on, I physically cannot do anything else but watch it. I can’t comprehend the written words in my magazine, I can’t hold a conversation, and even if Ewan MacGregor himself walked into the room, I’d still spend way to much time sneaking glances at the moving pictures.

I had forgotten this over the years, but Today show is absolutely bloody awful. Also, it makes me think my hair is way to flat. The anchorwomen, the guests, the girl who’s been having hiccups for a week, the women called in to psychoanalyze Britney’s behavior (even though they started off the segment admitting that one can never understand the psychology of someone who isn’t actually talking to them,) they all had bouncy hair that must have been sitting in curlers for a HOURS, and then sprayed to bouncy perfection. The only people without bouncy hair were the whack-jobs standing outside the studio in the freezing cold screaming their heads off just to get a moment of camera time. Most of them were wearing hats.

An hour and a half, two complimentary doughnuts, and one unread New Yorker later, the mysterious squeak in my car had been fixed, and I was out of there. I left the waiting room resolved to not upgrade my cable. But then, I realized: I’m never home between 8 and 10 on weekday mornings. If I were to get cable I wouldn’t be afflicted with having to ever watch the Today Show. Could it be time to give in? I’m still undecided, but I do know that if I ever have to watch the Today Show again, well, I’ll refer you to the post’s title, courtesy of the Smashing Pumpkins classic, Today.