Yesterday TD and I had to go to a CPR recertification course. Granted, CPR and general rescue guidelines have been pared down a lot in the past few years to make it easier for lay people to attempt to help someone in an emergency situation. But our training was a little too relaxed.
As soon as we walked into the room, I made our trainer for a Baywatch castoff. Tan, laid back, looking like he still had remnants of sand in his sun-bleached hair. He promised to let us out early.
The first thing we worked on was adult CPR. When it was our turn to be tested, TD and I crouched around our resuscitation doll, Resusci-Annie. Except the doll is male. But not the point. Our instructor walked around the room observing. When he approached me, he said "Great job, perfect." I looked up at him. "My guy's chest isn't moving when I do the rescue breaths - I don't think I'm actually getting any air in?" He smiled at me and winked. "Yeah, it's hard to get it right," he said, and walked away.
The rest of the class was pretty much the same drill: we'd screw stuff up, Baywatch would offer absent-minded praise. TD performed the adult Heimlich backwards on her doll, and another woman in the class gave infant rescue breaths that easily would have collapsed a baby's tiny lungs.
Last came the protocol for performing the Heimlich on an infant. When it came time for the skills test, I went just before TD, and when I finished I handed the fake baby over to her. She flipped it upside-down and started to wack its back like it was an NFL quarterback who'd just scored a winning touchdown. And kept on wacking. Eight, nine, ten... "I think your baby's brain dead," I commented, half amused and half appalled. "But, on the plus side, the food particle is probably dislodged."
TD frowned. "Isn't it 30 times?"
"No, it's just a few times. So that your baby's once again able to breathe, but isn't, you know, tenderized like a pork chop."
She frowned. "Huh."
Baywatch strolled over. "Good work," he told TD.
She looked over at me pointedly. "See?"
"Oh come on," I was mildly horrified. "He'd praise manslaughter if it would mean he could get home earlier."
As if to prove my point, Baywatch adjourned the class. Who hired that guy in the first place?
Your last worst hope
Spitters never win?
This can't be real.
Study: Fellatio may significantly decrease the risk of breast cancer in women
(AP) -- Women who perform the act of fellatio and swallow semen on a regular basis, one to two times a week, may reduce their risk of breast cancer by up to 40 percent, a North Carolina State University study found. Doctors had never suspected a link between the act of fellatio and breast cancer, but new research being performed at North Carolina State University is starting to suggest that there could be an important link between the two.
In a study of over 15,000 women suspected of having performed regular fellatio and swallowed the ejaculatory fluid, over the past ten years, the researchers found that those actually having performed the act regularly, one to two times a week, had a lower occurance of breast cancer than those who had not. There was no increased risk, however, for those who did not regularly perform.
"I think it removes the last shade of doubt that fellatio is actually a healthy act," said Dr. A.J. Kramer of Johns Hopkins School of Medicine, who was not involved in the research. "I am surprised by these findings, but am also excited that the researchers may have discovered a relatively easy way to lower the occurance of breast cancer in women."
The University researchers stressed that, though breast cancer is relatively uncommon, any steps taken to reduce the risk would be a wise decision. "Only with regular occurance will your chances be reduced, so I encourage all women out there to make fellatio an important part of their daily routine," said Dr. Helena Shifteer, one of the researchers at the University. "Since the emergence of the research, I try to fellate at least once every other night to reduce my chances."
From the mouths of babes
R's response this morning when I was lamenting my high maintenance-ness:
"I don't think you're high maintenance. I just think you know what you want. That's not high maintenance. That's confidence."
Better spin. I'll take it.
The name game
The drug scene is all about names - there are a million names, spanning pharmaceutical to street lingo, for any drug that's remotely desirable. So I'm not questioning that there are lots of ridiculous names for illicit substances out there. But when it comes to treatment options, you'd hope they could do a little better. Something respectable, and yet still catchy. I've been reading about drugs used to treat cocaine addicts, and I came across Nocaine. That's just hokey. It's a play on words. Who wants a drug therapy that's a play on words? If I need drug therapy, I want it to have a clinically-derived intimidating name, preferably one that's hard to remember and impossible to spell. But that's just me.
Before you're even out the gate
It's about that time for me - running season. My running season is pretty short. Typically May through August. I don't run when it's cold. It's on principle.
Today was my first scheduled run. But it's pretty cloudy outside, and it's gotten incrementally darker with every passing minute. Not looking so good. I'm betting the run probably won't happen. Sad - foiled so soon. Weather. It's either a huge hinderance or the perfect excuse.
You never had it so good
J made a great discovery last week: Vitamuffins. They're really good. And super healthy! They have fiber, protein, vitamins and minerals and they're chocolate. Granted, they do taste a little bit like they're good for you. But they beat Grapenuts hands down. We placed our order last night and now we're just waiting for delivery. J took a risk and ordered the Vitabrownies. I think that was a bad call. You can fake breakfast, but you can't fake dessert. Faux chocolate when you weren't expecting chocolate (like in a muffin) is fabulous. Faux chocolate when you were expecting chocolate (like in a brownie) has damaging psychological and emotional consequences.
It's not classy, but it's funny
That movie Cats and Dogs? So funny. Appropriately, it's on TBS this weekend. Talking sinister cats really crack me up. Ninja cats? Oscar worthy.
Breathe easy. Or not.
Tonight after work I went to yoga, and at the beginning of class we did some yogic breathing. As we were practicing, our instructor came around to make sure we were all doing it right. Despite the fact that I only make it to a yoga class about once a week, I've got really good form in my postures. So when Melinda walks around the studio, I expect either no attention from her, or positive feedback. But tonight was different. Turns out I'm not so good at yogic breathing. She said my breathing is shallow and spastic. Okay, those weren't her exact words. But it's disheartening to know that even my breathing is neurotic.
Switching topics, has anyone else noticed that Ashlee Simpson doesn't look like Ashlee Simpson anymore, because now she looks like Jessica? How did that happen? Surgery? Channeling? It's spooky.
Nothing says forever like a precious stone in your navel
I convinced my coworker R to get a belly button ring before her 34th birthday in June. My belly button is already pierced but I want to get a new ring. R wants us each to get a belly button ring with a real diamond chip in it. I knew I liked that girl for a reason.
Why has it taken me so long to figure this out?
So lately I've been getting to work really early. I love it! Just half an hour makes for a totally different experience. There's hardly any traffic coming in, Starbucks isn't too crowded, and this morning I had time to pluck my eyebrows before our first student came through the doors. It's great!
Dookie
Today is Green Day at work. Following the very successful Gray/Brown Outfit Day of April 7th 2006. The color days were my creation, and green was my push. But last week I wore an adorable all-lime-green outfit, and this morning I suddenly found myself completely out of unworn green. Not wanting to recycle before an appropriate hiatus (and not willing to raid the hamper), I did the only thing I could - I grabbed a green and purple scarf and tied it around my neck as a last-minute addition to my ensemble of otherwise muted tones. Lame, I know. The result? Mutiny. I almost had to hide in my office and lock the door. The ranks are unhappy. Very green, and very unhappy.
Our next day is Red Day. I'm going to be head-to-toe red. I'll look like Valentine's Day incarnate. I know I can win them back over. I'll be so red they'll need a whole new word for red.
Comin' right back to bite ya
May. The time when you want to kick yourself for not keeping better records. That's right.... it's Annual Report season. F*ck!
Sometimes the people you get stuck with stick
Most of my students are afraid of TD. She's our administrative assistant out at the front desk, and she's formidable. She seems aloof and unapproachable. They're scared to schedule an appointment or ask her a question. When they come to see me they try to sneak by her. I'm sympathetic - I used to be scared of her too.
But you never quite know who's going to end up being a friend, do you? If you'd told me two years ago that TD and I would end up being pretty close, I'd never have believed it. And yet, despite our many differences, we relate somehow. I tell her what's going on in my life, and value her opinions and insights. We chat all day on IM and laugh at the same types of things. We dissect one another's relationships and talk about clothes and shoes. We're like good girlfriends except that we do all of this at work instead of over Cosmos. And she's become one of my comfort people.
My comfort people are my familiar people. I'm all about familiarity - I've moved a lot but I only feel happy once I've gotten settled in someplace. So my comfort people are the faces that are reassuringly consistent in my life. They aren't all friends - my barista is a comfort person. My dermatologist is a comfort person, as is my boss. So their roles in my life vary, but the effects are similar. My comfort people keep me calm and stabilized.
I never would have guessed TD for a comfort person or a friend. I wouldn't have chosen her, because we're not really alike. And as I mentioned before, because she comes across as kinda scary. But luckily I got stuck with her. She's like a sleeper hit, or like Viagra when they first prescribed it for high blood pressure and then, much to everyone's excitement (literally), it had other pleasant side effects. TD was a surprise find, but she's definitely a positive addition.
Neuroses vs. endorphines: An impasse
Today at HW while I was on the elliptical, the inside of my nose started itching. This was my thought process:
What if there's a bug up my nose?
Could that actually happen?
Have I ever seen that on 20/20?
Wouldn't I have noticed if something had flown up my nose?
I should blow my nose to make sure.
If there is a bug up my nose it's probably very important that I get it out.
But I only have 2 minutes and 13 seconds left in my workout.
Will having a bug up my nose for an extra 2 minutes and 13 seconds kill me?
I'm going to stick it out.
If this kills me I'll be so pissed.
2 minutes and 13 seconds later:
Now I can blow my nose.
Oh good, no bug came out!
That means there wasn't a bug up my nose.
Unless in that extra 2 minutes and 13 seconds it climbed up into my brain....
What if there's a bug in my brain?
This is why I'm so stressed all the time.
Unconditional
BF, as he walked in the door: "Hey I'm home. Whoa, did you finish all those Oreos while I was gone ?"
"Maybe."
"Wow, your breath even smells like Oreos."
"Yeah, they're stuck in my teeth too - see?"
"I adore you."
"I'm not sure if that's sweet or just weird."
That's just happiness creeping up on you
It caught me by surprise today when I realized something: I'm genuinely happy in Boston. Because the first two and half years were an adjustment, I won't lie. I came to Boston alone and hated my job. I didn't like my first roommate and I didn't have any friends in the city. I got hopelessly lost all the time. None of these things would be insurmountable if you're feeling up for a challenge, but I wasn't. I'd essentially fled here. I'd dropped out of my phd program one year in, with my advisor's voice ringing in my ears. I'd turned down JYs marriage proposal. I'd walked away from a pre-determined, picture perfect life with JP. I was beyond heartbroken. And I wasn't sure I'd made the right choices. So I arrived on the scene pretty much feeling like I'd dismantled my entire life with one U-Haul run.
And for a while I wasn't sure how to put it all back together again.
But I guess that's what makes happiness so happy - you don't always expect it, and when it dawns on you that you've got it it's such a pleasant surprise. I think you have to create real happiness. It's a process more than a seratonin blip. But once you create it, you get to sit back and take it all in. I'm content with my life here. Everything has fallen into place.
I'm not really sure why I'm thinking about all this today. Maybe it's the warmer weather that makes you take a deep breath and reevaluate.
Biding time by binding time
I'm trying to quit HW so I can switch gyms. So the HW 60-day cancelation policy? Total crap. It's 60 days from your next billing cycle, so it's technically a 78-day cancellation policy for me. And why do they need all that time to prep? What's the two months for? What exactly do they have to do in order to get ready for my departure? I could quit my job faster. I've quit cohabitating relationships faster and that includes the division of property. I quit my phd program with less paperwork and a shorter exit interview. And those are things that actually mattered.
Total crap.
Face it
Lots of people have told me throughout my life that I should be an actor because of how expressive my face is. The most recent being my dentist, because I've perfected the silent horror-stricken look of someone who's being tortured to be sure he doesn't miss the fact that although I can't say it at the moment, I'm deeply unhappy with him when he's got the scary tools in his hand.
Hot spots, ice packs, hand-warmers and home
I spent most of my weekend with R at her gym again - I'm hooked. I'm not sure exactly what the allure is; at the end of the day it's just a gym. Well, a cross between a gym and a playground. With supplemental eye candy and a killer steam room.
The rest of the weekend BF and I spent alternating between nesting and socializing. Oh, and massaging my shin splints and stretching out a super tight ITB. I wasn't about to miss a day at R's gym, but I paid the price.
On Saturday night we met R and some of her friends in line outside Middlesex Lounge, where we waited for an hour and a half about two feet from the door. I get max capacity and fire codes and all, but come on. An hour and a half? I can't stand in line for an hour and a half - I'm a self-respecting Jersey girl. I wouldn't even wait that long in NYC. Around 11:15, the bouncers distributed hand-warmers to the crowd. The hype was nauseating. So even though we had our hearts set on martinis and dancing, we called it dead around 11:40 and hailed a cab.
We dragged ourselves back home, I had about 10 Oreos and that was our Saturday night. But honestly, by the time we keyed into the apartment, all I really wanted to do was curl up with BF and remember why it's so fun to be lame on the weekend. I love being out with BF, but what I love even more is how excited I am to have him all to myself again as we stumble back home and collapse into bed... and our own little universe.
Leader of the unfortunate lemmings?
So for some reason I convinced everyone in my office that
1. grey and brown can and should be worn together (with discretion, but done right it works)
2. we should all wear a grey/brown combination outfit on Friday
The more I think about it, the less confident I am in my conviction that my coworkers should become fashion forward by the end of the week. What if they do it wrong and end up looking like the reason why people tell you not to wear grey and brown together?
Note to self: only play fashion roulette with your own ensemble
A lesson in Basement Jaxx
"Wear your hair down.
Wear your hair down.
Wear your hair down."
"What are you singing?"
"This song." Duh.
"Yeah, but what are you saying?"
"The lyrics."
"The refrain is "Where's your head at.""
"Huh. Yeah?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Contemplative silence. "Really?"
"Yeah."
"Oh." Sigh.
