April 3, 2014 § Leave a comment
Different stages of life can be marked by who is going to care enough about you to get their ass off the couch in the middle of the season finale of The Walking Dead to retrieve you from the hospital if you so happen to get something stuck inside your ear. Or worse. Kidney stones, heaven forbid.
Emergency contacts are essential at every stage of life. Just as you grow and change so do your emergency contacts. In my little life I have been to the emergency room for a broken wrist, getting an earring back stuck inside my ear, a kidney infection, an ovarian cyst disguised by abdominal pain and deadly gas (seriously, I think I killed a cat), a hematoma in my right tit, and hives the size of dinner plates. There may have been more, but those are the outstanding ones. Most of these instances I’ve had the pleasure of a trusted escort. In the case of the cyst on my lady bits and the tit hematoma an emergency contact needed to be called.
It’s a funny thing, staring at the blank spot on whichever form you obediently fill out. Who can you call? It almost laughs at you in times of transitions, defining you and who cares for you in that single moment. You can tell a lot about a person’s life by who they list as their emergency contact.
Ages 5 – 18: You’re listing your folks, legal guardian, or whoever is paying your bills. No one else you know can drive. And if they can, they don’t want to be anywhere near a hospital or know how to act calm in times of crisis. Plus, know one else really has that good of a tally of your wildest poops from the past 6 months.
Ages 19-23: Still listing your parents, huh? Better be at least living in the same state. My cyst situation made a call to my mother, who was a 13 hour car ride away. That lesson was learned the hard way, especially because the episode resulted in emergency surgery. Fortunately, I was 22, old enough to consent, but young enough to want my mommy and a stuffed animal. This is when you start to contemplate the practicality of your chosen urgent caretaker.
Ages 24-26ish: “Hey roomie! What’s your phone number again?” This bestie has held your hair when you’ve had too much Jameson, they will definitely come get you from the hospital bringing your favorite yoga pants and a variety of trashy magazines. My unfortunate boob bleeding called for my roommate. Actually she was my ex-roommate at the time, but nonetheless fulfilled her duty by driving to Beverly Hills past 11 on a school night just to keep me company before I went into surgery. That’s a good contact.
Ages 27ish-29ish: “Dear boyfriend I have been dating for a consecutive several months, can I put you down as my emergency contact? PLEEEEAASSSSSEEEEEE?!” This is a gamble. And it’s a dead give away that he’s in the trial period when you have to scribble out the first number you wrote because you don’t actually have his number memorized. Also, if you find out he’s still putting his sister down as his emergency contact… he’s just not that into you. In some cases this boyfriend turns into a fiancé or a different boyfriend all together. If you are co-habitating with a romantic partner, he had better come running to your side in a medical emergency. Otherwise you are wasting your youth on him. Also, that’s one phone number you should work on knowing by heart.
Ages 30ish-30somthingish: It’s probably your husband, or spouse, or maybe you say “partner.” However you label it, you are probably discussing very intimate things about bodily functions with them. This person should really be completely up to date on all physical and mental ailments and triumphs. This might be the first time someone has been this aware of your current health history since your mom helped you blow your nose.
Ages 30somthingish-40somethingish: This is where the divorce rate comes into play. You start listing sisters, brothers, mothers, and trusted neighbors again. “Thanks for letting me borrow your lawn mower again. So you don’t really travel that much, right?”
Ages 50something and beyond: The whole thing comes full circle and you are listing your kids again. Even if you get remarried, you can count on your kin the most, partly because you might not be so sure how long your spouse is going to last with that bad eye. And if your kids live close by, you can bother them all you want. They can’t escape you, and in some cases maybe they do have a catalogue of your finest shits from the past month.
Our lives fluctuate and these ages are just simply based loosely on my half assed observations in data entry, but I think we can infer that becoming someone’s emergency contact is a big deal, especially if you break up with them, but still list them as the go-to. Don’t forget to update these things or you could be left in the lurch on crutches when your ex leaves you stranded upon discharge.
The good thing is, we are at our healthiest when our emergency contacts are the least reliable and transient. Go forth 20-somethings find those few friends who will pick you up from the emergency room when you have a bladder infection spread to your kidneys. Who’s going to come with cranberry juice and your body pillow in tow? Does that special gentleman caller have the potential to push fluids while you recover from a wicked lower intestinal disruption? Who can you trust to dress a puncture wound? Who will drop everything to rush to your side when you get three stitches? Life is a series of tests and trials. You can’t go it alone.
March 18, 2014 § Leave a comment
What the hell is this “date night” I’ve been hearing so much about lately? It’s like a weekly or bi-monthly rotation of mandatory dining experiences paired with a splash of splurging on high priced entertainment in the hopes you might get laid by your chosen partner (yes, the partner has already been chosen years ago, legally bound in some cases). Is this an attempt to recreate the stage of butterfly swoon and initial wooing. That is… if I understand this correctly. Or perhaps a chance to pretend you live a different kind of life with the person you chose to share your life with. Isn’t that just called: role playing?
I’m perplexed by this idea because I enjoy Mister Red on mundane in-bed-by-9pm-Wednesdays as well as nights we see movies after getting tipsy at happy hour. I’m not ‘dating’ him anymore, in fact, I’m happy to not be dating him. There is a lot of pressure in dating. I usually take too long to get ready and ultimately end up wearing the wrong thing.
I don’t aim to squander the precious selected evening parents have planned to be child-free and go out to share adult time. I just want to come up with another name for it. In this case it’s not Date Night, it’s Freedom Friday, or No Drooling Night Out. How about something like: Thank-god-someone-else-is-watching-my-offspring-terrors Tuesdays. Clearly you aren’t dating your spouse, you just want to remember why you let him knock you up in the first place. You do need an evening for that, alone.
Surely another term would be fitting, especially for DINKs. DINK couples (Dual Income No Kids) have less elements to get into place in order to plan a night out accompanied by the person they LIVE. Counter parts with offspring have to deal with things like soccer practice, 3 year old tutu night, as well as finding a 13-18 year old neighbor girl who is vaguely responsible. DINKS don’t deal with all that red tape. Basically going out to eat, drink, socialize, see art, get cultured, bang like rabbits doesn’t require an e-vite three weeks in advance. Can’t these people just say, “we went out to dinner” without having to qualify it was “date night”. Who cares?! I expect that if you are both working full time, co-habitating, without kids, you probably have enough spare dough to pony up for a couple of cocktails and a nice steak. That’s the beauty of being a DINK. You can go out to dinner when you want, whenever you want, and you don’t have to answer to anybody about it. Skip the date part and just say what you were doing.
People are fishing for small talk when they start a conversation about what happened or what’s going to happen on “date night.” Either that or its some sort of humble-brag about their lover who still takes them out and even though they fight constantly about sex and dishes, but the relationship is still a strong one because they still make it a priority to spend money together. Hashtag that shit on instagram (#datenight), pictures of forced smile selfies, food half eaten, marquees and tickets, mirror shots of outfits, and lovey-dovey collages of him, her, dessert, and drinks. We are all guilty of it on occasion. But speaking to it’s excess, I think people might be trying too hard to impress the Internet. From my own experience, sometimes we get into a heated argument on nights out. It’s like the moment we have allotted to spend some much needed time with each other is the moment we got to hash out the issue with the dishes. Someone gets defensive, there is eye rolling, and if I would have held that night up to a mandatory good time, I’d be pissed. However, part of being in a relationship is airing grievances about shit that pisses you off, and if that happens to land during Date Night, well, tough cookies.
I get that sometimes we are all looking for some pre-packaged experience to carry us away from every day strife, I used to make money off of creating escapism. If you are doing something simple, the term “date night” puts shackels on an otherwise low pressure evening.
“It’s Date Night so we got to make it count.”
“GASP! Don’t bring that up right now, not on Date Night.”
“This is turning into the worst Date Night.”
“You took me to a food truck on Date Night? Gross.”
“It’s Date Night, don’t leave me on the side of the road to walk home.”
It feels a tad high maintenance.
Per usual, I like to hit my point home with a little urban dictionary. Look further for the truth.
M: ‘Do we get to do it in the limo?’
F: ‘Throw in the best champagne on the menu and you’ve got a deal.
February 25, 2014 § Leave a comment
This is the conclusion of Bras: Optional and Juggs McGee. The past two weeks had been filled with topical distractions, such and canceling Valentines day (you’re welcome) and watching the little Russian girl who falls (I hope the best for her family). I apologize in advance for the length of this post, I just couldn’t drag it out one more week.
Anyway… back to my real assets, and other boob related injuries.
During the height of the Juggs McGee scandal (it wasn’t really a scandal, but wouldn’t that be a good name for one?), I began to notice my large bosom hindering more than just my social integrity. I was dancing almost 20 hours per week with an underwire bra (with the straps held together with a safety pin) underneath a sports bra or a leotard with the straps equally tight. I had to hold those suckers in.
It was my sophomore year of high school when my left shoulder started to feel the pressure of carrying the weight of my knockers. I couldn’t lift my arm above my shoulder. My parents took me to a specialist on a hot tip that it was a pinched nerve. The tests came back inconclusive to the pinched nerve theory, and it was becoming quite clear that the consequences of my heavy breasts would more than just a pain in the neck. But for now, as an otherwise healthy 16 year old, I continued to do my thing.
For three years I thought I was just “sleeping wrong” until my double duty bra binding came back to bite me once again. I was on the Michigan State Dance Team, it was the summer before our regular season, I was living at home with my parents (30 miles away) and going into school every day for practice. One other girl on the team had about the same sized juggs as me, but for some reason she didn’t have to wear two bras, just one really good sports bra. I thought she was crazy, especially because running was part of our training.
Now for two very large obvious reasons, I was never a runner. So running was very new and horrible for me. I wanted three bras on running days. With my boobs strapped in so tight they were practically popping out at my chin, I ran. One day after practice I was driving home. It was only about a 30 minute drive, it was summer, I had the music blasting with the windows down. Now, I’m a neck cracker. Before you judge, consider the weight placed upon my shoulders by my boobs. While driving I cracked my neck and it stuck that way, on the highway going 75mph. My face was looking out the passenger window as my eyes craned to see the road. I just needed to make it home. I was three exits away (and then a whole shitload of country roads cause my parents live in the middle of no where).
When I pulled into the driveway I just yelled. My dad came running and picked me up, brought me into the house, and laid me out on the floor. It felt like my muscles were fused. The best course of action they could come up with was to drive me back to MSU to see an athletic trainer. Great. Couldn’t have thought of a solution in our own county?
My mom drove 30 miles to the school. I bet she was glad my head was cranked to the passenger side or I would have been staring at her judging her driving skills for 30 mins. My head was stuck to one side. I couldn’t move for almost an hour and a half. Once we saw the trainer, they applied heat and massaged me back to mobility. But this wasn’t a sports injury, this was a boob injury.
Another girl on the Dance Team told me she had a reduction. I was starry eyed. My dream. She told me all the gory details about the anchor scarring, the breast feeding question, and how if I was still on my parent’s insurance, it could pay for the surgery. I was! My folks were totally against it. My mom asked, “what if you regret it?” I assured her hand picking my perfect cup size would not be laced with regret. They shipped me off to Boston to complete my undergraduate with a “no, but not never” answer.
On the east coast my life was different. I was running far less. I stopped dancing, and despite having a job as a part time towel distributer at a corporate gym, I gained 10 pounds. Once spring broke, I needed to do something about my ponch, so I got to dancing again. I took a ballet and jazz classes at the Boston Conservatory, and some how ended up teaching a regular hip hop class at a local gym. This hip hop class (because I’m the whitest girl to ever hippity hop) was canceled for lack of enrollment, but I gained a few other classes at the gym because my killer ab routine. Shortly after I became a gym rat teaching 10 classes a week. I wanted to be a cinematographer at this moment in my life and that meant not being a wimp. One of the trainers set up a program for me to strengthen my camera shoulder. Soon I was back to the phantom “pinched nerve” and went to the clinic to see what the hell was wrong. Tendonitis. In my shooting shoulder.
Once I graduated and moved to LA getting regular gigs as a Camera Assistant and Operator, my shoulder got worse. I was 24 years young with chronic pain, still on my parents insurance. I couldn’t sleep through the night (because of the pain not because I felt like a failure or less of an adult for still being on my parent’s health insurance). With my mother on the other side of the country, I started shopping for a surgeon.
Of course all the surgeons who are good for anything are in Beverly Hills, a place far fancier than me which I am terrified of. Trying to find my way to one consultation on Rodeo Drive, I stopped into a boutique to ask for directions, but was turned away because I was wearing chuck taylors. I ended up finding a surgeon in Bev Hills I liked and her parking attendant only charged me 8 bucks during my visits because he knew I couldn’t pay the $25. I basically told my mom this is what was how it was going to be and all she had to do was provide me with the insurance. I told her she didn’t have to come take care of me during recovery because I just plain didn’t want to hear her disapproval for the whole ordeal.
Upon waking up from surgery I immediately felt a weight lifted off my shoulders. A lot of people who get breast reductions describe it like that. I felt like for the first time, I could sit up straight. The tissue was still swollen and I had drainage tubes coming out of me, so I wouldn’t be able to tell the real size of my new bosom for another couple of weeks. I was supposed to go home that night, but they kept me under for over 4 hours so I had to stay the night. I didn’t care. I felt great.
I got my tubes out a week later and my surgeon told me the treacherous tale of the 4 hour de-boobing process. Apparently, my breast tissue was so thick it broke the needle when they were first beginning (she didn’t really elaborate on this, so I don’t know exactly what it means). Consequently she took out as much tissue as she would normally if she was reducing the size by 2 1/2 cup sizes (I was going from DD to C). This was a little more than what we had talked about before the surgery.
If you ever get a reduction, they make you sign a bunch of forms saying that you won’t sue them if they don’t come out exactly like you wanted. Think about it, you are laying on the table, they cut your nipples off and open you up, once they sew you back together you are all swollen. They can’t tell. They can sit you up, and see how they fall, but it’s not the same. This is why my surgery took 4 hours. She wanted to make sure to curb my expectations incase they didn’t turn out to be the perfect Cs I wished for. My breast tissue was abnormally dense. I honestly didn’t know. No one could have known until they cut me open. But the tale doesn’t end here.
Later back at my house watching Six Feet Under (my recovery series) relaxing on the last of my narcotics, I felt tension on my left boob. Then it looked a little bit bigger. Then a lot bigger.
I rushed out of my room to my roommate (I was living with 3 dudes at the time), “does this boob look bigger than the other one?” He nodded, stunned at the question. I grabbed frozen peas out of the freezer and called my doctor. She asked me if I had a ride to the hospital and my roommate obliged. On the way I called my best girlfriend to come meet me so my dude roommate could be relieved. I was going back into surgery with a hematoma on my left breast. The people in the emergency room joked, “This is the opposite of what you want them to do, huh?” It was not funny. Not at the time.
6 months of no underwire, I finally went to the dreaded Vicky S. to get sized. I had not been given the perfect Cs I had hoped for. I was still a D cup. At first I was upset, I would still have to wear a bra with just about everything. I would still be Juggs McGee. I would still have big boobs. However, I could fit into off the rack clothes, run with a single sports bra (one with thin straps!), and live without chronic pain in my neck.
At first I had gotten the surgery for almost 63% vanity. But now, who cares about vanity, I can sit up straight! It used to be taking off my bra was the best part of my day. Now I am far less consumed with what my boobs are doing. They feel light, and still look pretty great so I have zero complaints. I will always have the occasional shoulder pain as a reminder, but the scars have faded so much, I can barely tell I was once a rag doll.
After my full recovery, I had to take a desk job. Partly because I had been advised to let the shoulder heal, but also because I couldn’t get insured.
Two years later, I met Mister Red and was upfront about my juggs. Before we got hot and heavy, I said, “Hey I had a breast reduction, there are some scars, so… if you aren’t cool with that, sorry.” He was cool with it.
February 19, 2014 § 1 Comment
Death Wishes Disguised as Sports, or more commonly known as the Winter Olympics, have consumed most of the last two weeks for me.I literally can’t take my eyes off them. It’s been interrupting my sleep schedule. Why is all the good stuff on at 10 pm? Ain’t nobody got time for that. What is my life that I’m sitting there bleary eyed waiting for the final heat of the luge?
I can’t stop, I won’t stop– what are the kids are saying these days? Oh… #sorrynotsorry. I’m sorry I am not more sorry about staying up past 11pm on a school night to see if some speed skater will fall and knock the rest of the contenders out like bowling pins. Obviously, I hope everyone stays on their skates/skis/boards/sleds, but if we were honest, the high probability of a total wipeout is what makes these games so entertaining in the first place. That and the speed of everything. Ice is terrible for driving automobiles, but if I really needed to get anywhere fast in the tundra, I’m hopping a bobsled (if Bob doesn’t mind).
Growing up in Michigan, I’m no stranger to snowy conditions, but surely estranged from my toe pick past. After eight years in sunny southern California, I haven’t even seen live snow in 3 years. I’m pretty much oblivious that there is winter, and that it’s actually snowing somewhere. Again, sorry, not sorry. This is probably my main fascination with these games. To my it’s unfathomable people voluntarily spend most of their time in this climate. Who are these masochists? Most winter athletes have been in the emergency room the week before (or even day of) their event. People have broken limbs and been in comas just weeks before competing. If you are in a coma, don’t go back to do the thing that put you in a coma. It’s like an unspoken coma rule. The arenas for these events make even regular things (like walking or blinking) 10 times more dangerous.
When I think of a big oval shaped slab of ice, I think of a Canadian doormat. These sports are played out on giant Canadian doormats, larger than life snow cones, and an oversized ice luge shot thing you see at frat parties or your out of control neighbor unveils after the sun goes down at his daughter’s graduation party. I’ll admit, I was not 21 when I had my first shot on an ice luge (which is, by the way, the most unflattering manner to consume alcohol). Everything is faster on ice, even Jagermeister. Basically, these thrill seekers aren’t fans of their lives, and they could care less about their knees. However, I’ve got other thoughts about these dances with death.
Hockey: The only thing that I will accept as a slightly rational winter sport is hockey. There’s checking, slapping, hat tricks, just the lingo is exciting. These dudes wear their insanity on their sleeve. No one is hiding the effed up grill. Lose a tooth? Who cares? This is hockey. It’s high speed, the rules are pretty cut and dry, the team objective blatant. Hockey players might just have anger issues and not death wishes.
Downhill Skiing: These are the people with all the letters going to God. One slip on the mountain and it’ll split your head open. We all gasped when that chick’s helmet broke. The very thing protecting her head couldn’t hold up to the gforce. Or how about how the first 8 female contenders couldn’t even make it down the mountain without biting it. What’s with the skier who’s obsessed with cheetahs and how come that one American chic was bitterly crying when she got bronze? Aren’t you lucky to be walking, let alone skiing, after 2 torn acls?
Snowboarding: These dudes in their baggy pants and their loud music are pretty much making up random shit to do at this point. Snowboarding Cross? What the hell? Racing on snowboards? This is a sport in the Olympics and woman couldn’t ski jump til this year? Snowborders are that ADHD case in 3rd grade who’s one candy bar away from throwing a brick at someone as a joke. Why do they all dog pile each other? Didn’t that Slopestyle kid say he ate candy and pizza the night before he won gold and winged it down the mountain? He sounds more like a ninja turtle than an athlete.
Slopestyle: It’s like skiing meets figure skating without all the pretty stuff in between and jumping basketball courts in the meantime.
Cross Country: NBC typically has these events on during the day because the excitement level is at a minimum. However, I’m not exactly sure what event it was, some ski jumping combo, but the way these dude were waddling uphill on their trek to the finish line (which is, like, 8k) was hysterical. I couldn’t stop giggling. It got me every time. It was like watching toddlers try to run in their father’s shoes. Also, holy upper body endurance. Nordictrack is no joke. And then they all collapse at the finish line from exhaustion. No dog piles of joy in this event, just men writhing around on the snow in unitards.
Speed Skating: Do you think skaters hold gigantic grudges to people who wipe out and take out half the contenders? What happens when the skaters have to skate the other direction around the track? Is it like dizzy bat race? Their uniforms are the most alien of all. Speed skaters look like thighs with glasses.
Skeleton: It’s freaking called the Skeleton because they might not be able to find all of yours if you don’t make it to the bottom. You go down head first (head first!) at 100mph on a freaking sled. The Luge is practically first class travel comparatively.
Curling: Curling is winter for bowling. No one knows why it’s players are still considered athletes. Are we going to call this one a hobbie already? These curlers are one beer away from an Elks Club tourney.
Figure Skating: It’s the only event on its period. Year after year, so much emotion, lots of scandal, and the occasional knee bashing. Ice dancing has little danger as it stands next to it’s triple axeling sisters of skating. It’s kind of a joke. I got bored. I didn’t miss my bedtime that night. It’s just glorified Dancing with the Stars except without the tinsel of Hollywood. However, Michigan is apparently the mecca of Ice Dancing. They are probably sorry they aren’t sorry. Got to root for my home state and it’s dancing queens.
Bobsled: Have you seen these men? Huge lean linebackers drag race down ice. If you are going to nudge anyone on Tinder go for the bobsled team.
Russians have been good hosts. Everyone pretty much forgot they couldn’t flush their bathroom tissue halfway though the opening ceremony. I personally was biting my teeth. How were they going to depict Stalin? Are they going to drop that little girl to make an example? There were a lot of questions, but I thought it was pretty amazing they got the ballet involved and suspended set pieces as big as buildings. Too bad all anyone could talk about was that ring that didn’t open in the beginning.
That ring isn’t the only thing ruffling the fur lined hoods of our Olympians. Sochi weather is a joke. There is more winter in Massachusetts’ little toe. Sean White ain’t having it. His tight pants were all bunched about the Russian facilities. I say a true champion can succeed in any condition. They might not set world records, but they will rise to the challenges. Coma boy didn’t back down. Also these sports mean nothing without the unpredictable weather. It’s not like we can call up God and tell her to lay fresh powder on the mountain 10 mins before the event starts. I mean, it’s a mountain, it’s pretty amazing it’s making its own climare to begin with.
None the less, the US has earned some solid bronze metals in these games. And I look forward to seeing how Putin is going to punish his hockey team and the STD statistics of the Olympic Village. Even Bob Costas with his pirate eye said that they were all young, single, and in the best shape of their lives. Maybe that’s how he got the eye infection? EW!?!!?! Why would I say that?!?!?! #sorrynotsorry