Whose Got Two Thumbs, One One of Which Isn't Working? THIS GIRL!

I must be honest and say that part of the reason I haven't blogged about the D is because of a medical condition. For weeks now, I've had intense-yet-sporadic pain in my dominant hand that effects all five fingers and even extends up to my elbow! But on this high-deductible "health-insurance plan" I'm not running to the doc unless there's oozing or hallucinations. When I got back the results from my physical and heard that my white blood cell counts were extra-low, I figured with the hand pain and the wack immune system it could only be one thing--bone cancer (natch). Still suffering PTSD from last year's medical madness (and ensuing debt), I was still trying to get answers without running to the doc every ten seconds.

Plus, you guys know how much I love genetic anomalies and medical mysteries. Well, add to that a dash of hypochondria and an apathy toward my day job and I really can get to the bottom of a host of personal ailments.  Here is an email I sent to my doc last week:

Yes, y'all--I created my own visual aids. These are the lengths I will go to in order to avoid a co-pay in these trying times.

And yes, I called my doctor "K-Cho." We're cool like that.

Unfortunately, my excellent PowerPoint presentation couldn't get me out of living life on life's terms. Doc replied a couple hours later:

Wow, that’s an impressive email with nice illustrations! Unfortunately, hand and wrist pain is much better diagnosed by exam than xray. Plus the xray will be useless without correlation to the exam if an xray is even needed. Most hand/wrist pain don’t require xrays if there hasn’t been any trauma/injury.


And boy, was she right! I went into her office yesterday and a few simple tests revealed De Quervain's tenosynovitis. 


"I had a feeling that's what it was based on your description," she said.
"So what you're saying is that my diagrams were an excellent representation of where my pain was and I should perhaps enroll in medical school?"
K-Cho didn't answer, but I'd like to think that's because the answer was obvi.

Apparently this is common among athletes who grip tools (rackets, ski poles, etc) and those who do frequent manual labor, such as hammering. Since I fit into neither of those categories, I can only assume it's because of all the typing and playing Bejeweled on my bootleg phone--or....
"Um, could it be from too much....texting?" I asked tentatively.
Doc looked up knowingly and said, "Could be."

Guys, I have a textually transmitted disease (TTD). 


I thought I was careful. I always used T-Mobile protection! My phone is so broke and busted, it's always been tough to text, but I was willing to stick it out because we'd been through so much together. But now it's destroying my ability to pursue my livelihood! How can I hold a microphone with this level of pain?!

I've been prescribed a regimen of RICE, advil, and even rehabilitation exercises--and I am dedicated. I'm not dying, I'm living with DQT--a TTD that will no longer hide in the shadows.
But this means I've gotta lay off the hard stuff (emotional texts) and the soft stuff ("running 10 min late!"). But I've got one of those ergonomic cushions at the office, so I'll try to get in as much blogging as possible while I can!

I miss you. Call me!

Signs Your Life Is A Mess

I normally don't do pithy, tumblr-esque posts, but I just received the following text message from my exterminator:

Besides i know if i was hungry and thirsty u would feed me i consider u guys my xtended family

The problems with this are manifold:

1. My exterminator has my personal cell phone number
2. I have HIS personal cell phone number
3. I have enough insect issues that I NEED his personal number
4. He has come so often that he feels as though WE ARE FAMILY.
5. He thinks he can count on me to provide basic sustenance in a time of need. I don't have the heart to tell him he's misinformed.

#fml
#nycbedbugepidemic
#inappropriate relationships

The Summer of New Lows

So, as I said in my previous post, this summer is definitely falling under the category of "Summer of New Lows." This title comes from fellow blogger and strong black woman KWalsh, with whom I can always share the lowest of the low moments. As we are both in a transition, surfing the interwebs at all sorts of hours, and trying to put the recess in recession, the opportunities for self-loathing are abundant. However, we make lemonade out of these lemons, mostly by entertaining each other (it probably also helps that she lives on an island, and goes to the beach as often as most people brush their teeth).

But for some reason, the website "Texts From Last Night" (TFLN) doesn't seem to find us hysterical. In one of our mind-meld moments, we revealed to each other that we'd submitted texts to the site and were brutally rebuffed. After all, we'd done some pretty f'ed up ish, and who was TFLN to say that we weren't raunchy/crazy/racist enough for the world to know? I mean, they even have a section called "NEW LOW"--for those moments when "hot mess" just doesn't cover it.

So, as Sojourner has always had to do, I am making my own forum for self-expression, refusing to let the white man silence my voice as it shouts new lows. And, as is often my goal on this blog, I share my lows, so you may find a moment of joy (which, ironically, is the first word my cell comes up with when I try to type 'low' with the T9 feature).

Here are some texts from The Summer of New Lows-- or as I like to call it, TFTSNL.


Judge not lest ye be judged. (note: when demanding something of someone, quoting the bible is always a good start)


(917): new low: drinking red wine and eating taco bell* at 3pm on thursday.
you are not alone in this.


(917): made out with a businessman from minnesota last night.
(860): it was sunday!
(917): i know. i reek of booze and bad choices.


(917): i forgot to mention the epic fail of last night's hook up. he was covered in body hair and had a belly button ring.
what's wrong with me?

(860): eating mozzarella straight out of a five pound bag. summer of new lows!

(917): always chase your birth control with port. it doesn't really matter when you're not getting laid.


(860): looking at the ex-bf's wedding pics on facebook. new low


*Never do this. Your stomach will hold a grudge like a middle school girl.

One ticket to the shit show/Be Careful Who You Cougar

I make all this fuss about needing followers and then take 5 days to put up a new post. I have begged you to come to me, then shirked my duties. I am behaving like a typical heterosexual male, and for that I apologize.

Basically, I've been coming home late and slightly stressed, and haven't really had anything blog worthy--or so I thought.

The first random surprise was last Sunday, when I received the following textual eruption:

[blacktress!] how r u?i nicked your no from jason,hope u don't mind,if u do dont worry, just don't txt back.howz life?what u been up2?sos bout other wk,i was a mess.simon

What the hell?! I was so confused reading this; it took me about 10 minutes to decipher the abbreviations before I could even assess who was sending it. I mean, I don't know any 12-year-old girls who like to abbreviate and have Lisa Frank posters on their walls--who could this be? Once I cracked the DaVinci Code that was the text itself, I still had no idea which Simon would be calling me and apologizing. I know one Simon here in Oz, but he's a random gay man I met at a bar who pulled out his iPhone and facebook-friended me on the spot. I haven't seen him since that fateful night, so I'm sure there was nothing "the other week" he had to apologize for.

I racked my brain for nearly an hour before I realized that Simon was the 20 year old I accidentally cougared it up with!!! OH EM GEE!!!

What was he doing texting me? Not only had it been over a month since our one and only interaction, but neither of us had a particularly good time. Besides, what's with the abbreviations?! I know he's young, but has he really not mastered T-9 prediction?

Once I realized who it was, I laughed wholeheartedly, and texted back, saying it was okay to say hi. After all, I don't dislike him as a person, and was very interested to see how this was going to play out. I mean, what excuse can you possibly have for falling off for a month? And why would you want to get in touch with me again after I scurried out of your home, getting a ride from your flatmate?

Unfortunately, writing back has led to a ridiculous series of texts that amount to nothing. I really don't like the concept of text message conversations, and it really gets my billy goat when people text back and forth. If you're interested in seeing me again, make it happen. Pick up the phone and ask me out for a malt at the soda shoppe like it's 1956 (only without the pesky racial segregation). Come to my home, state your intentions, and let's share a drink with two straws.

Do not text me all week asking we "what r u up2?" and "howz your wkend?" I don't really want to give you a play-by-play, cause we're not mates. Besides, what are you getting at? He clearly wants to see me again, but lacks the testicles to ask me. This doesn't really bother me because I'm still in mourning over my redhaired loss and so uninterested in getting embroiled in drama/getting my feelings hurt that even a silly 20 year old offers no hope for fun.

*****Note: it has taken me 2 days to write this post. In the interim, I went to The Colombian, a gay bar on Oxford Street, where I was told I was gorgeous 50 times, and "oh my god, when you smile you look like Whitney Houston!"
For serious. Luckily, he amended it with, "pre-crack Whitney, late-80s, 'I wanna dance with somebody,' so it was okay.
Anyway, the 20-year-old showed up at the bar. I will go on*******************

So, he rocks up with two of his English friends after a day of drinking at an outdoor music festival. I have no ill will towards him, so we do the hug and fake cheek-kiss and I meet his mates. He's clearly so wasted and I wonder how wasted I must have been the first time we hooked up. Other than a winning smile, he is a hot mess of a man-boy in every sense of the word. He says to me, "long time no see, stranger!" and then scolds me for not responding to his asenine texts. I explain my stance on textual eruptions, and he proceeds to ask me the same questions over and over: "When are you going home? What are you going to do when you get there? Are you going to miss Sydney?"

My friend arrives, and the club is so loud I'm able to stand 10 centimeters from him and explain to her exactly who he is without him paying attention. Her response:
"Um, he's gay."
I KNOW!!!!
"And he's clearly on a pill of some sort."
I KNOW!!!
Dude, The Colombian is like a Studio 54 wannabe 25 years too late. People are taking E like it's pez, and then getting overly touchy in a way that makes me fear for my womb. I mean, we arrived at 6pm and it was already full on--who starts using a hallucinogen before it's even dark outside?

My gal pal and I left, and I waved goodbye to the crew. We get about 3 blocks up the street when a flash of bright pink appears in my path. Simon has run after us!
"Wheerrrrreeee aaaaarrreee youoooooouuuuu going?" he asks, all strung out.
"Um, we're heading to another place, but we'll be back." I think it's okay to lie to people I don't really like when they are intoxicated, because they won't remember.

Content with this response, he leaves us alone. My friend looks at me.
"Total shit show," she says.
I KNOW!!!

This Bloke Ain't No Joke!

Y'all, I cannot even believe my delicate blacktress eyes. I had an interview this morning with a temp agency, which took about two hours. I explained my previous experiences to a sassy corporate Australian woman, then spent about 1.5 hours taking "computer skills tests," in Word, Excel, Powerpoint, and then for general typing speed and accuracy.

Things I learned:
I do NOT excel at Excel.
When I said I was "proficient in Powerpoint," turns out I wasn't lying.
I can type 80 words per minute! (no wonder my blog posts are so long)

I think I'm totally ready to be a 1960s style secretary, in the vein of Mad Men. I love a high-waisted skirt and am excellent at.....dictation.....(teehee)

Speaking of men who are mad (see how I reversed that?).....after my interview/testing, I turned back on my cell and was surprised to see a text. It was from a number I didn't recognize and said:

"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things? All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have om fun let me know. I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

OH MY FUCKING GOD, I thought as I re-read this insanity for the second time, IT'S FROM KEBAB BOY.

For those of you just tuning in, here's a bit of a recap:
On the night of my birthday, I met a boy in a kebab shop.
We went out three times. He was dull as dishwater, and I wasn't interested.
I became proper vexed when he showed up at my place of employment uninvited and unannounced. Maturely and respectfully, I told him we shouldn't see each other anymore.
Much to my surprise he showed up at my bar two weeks later, allegedly with mates, and came over to my work area to "just to say hi."

Um, that's when I knew bitch was straight trippin'. Why would you roll up at a bar you'd never heard of until me, and then come right up in my area to say hi? We aren't besties. In fact, if memory serves, I cut your ass loose!

So, you can imagine the utter confusion, humour, and--I'll admit--dash of horror I felt when I saw the above text message.

WHAT DOES HE WANT FROM ME?! Why can't these Aussie blokes just accept that I'm not falling all over them? Maybe they think because I'm a solo traveler and foreign, my goal is to have sex with every man in the country, or that I'm so lonely, I'm not exactly discerning. THE Australian pulled the same foolishness when I decided I didn't want to see him again. What's so hard to grasp about a girl you barely know not wanting you all up her George Foreman (grill), or determining that you're not a good fit? Why aren't I allowed that choice?!

Let's do a little textual analysis:
"Hey [blacktress]. I've been wondering what you meant when you said we wanted different things?

Um, this was said nearly a month ago. Are you still being kept up at night with thoughts of me? I mean, you didn't even get to touch a boob, so I don't get why you're obsessed. We also had nothing in common, so there was no soul connection you were missing out on.

All I wanted was a bit of fun. If you do want to have some fun let me know.
If you just wanted fun, why did you show up at my job, wait outside online for 10 minutes, and bother me while I was working to ask me to have lunch. That certainly can't be fun for you, and I know it wasn't fun for me.
Let's also note the passive-aggressive phrasing. It's like if someone asks you out and you decline and they say, "what, you don't like food?" Doing this reduces the invitation to its basic components, thereby making the person feel strange for not accepting.
Um, I DO want to have some fun. But you, to me, are not fun. A boring guy lacking in a sense of humour whose idea of fun is going for a run does not connect with me.
I don't run unless I'm being chased.
I don't do camping, because I don't want to go outside and pretend to be poor.
We aren't on the same page of the same book.

I know I'm probably not going to get a reply. Just thought I would clear that up ;)"

Don't reverse psychology me, Mister. No, you're not going to get a reply. I don't care how much cell phone plans cost here, I'm not having a lengthy discussion about why I do or do not want you via text message. And if you can't sac up and pick up the phone, then I'm not doing you the service of sending some abbreviation-filled text message that explains that your behavior implied intensity and that I didn't enjoy hanging out with you all that much. And, if you've noticed, I'm not missing you or asking to be your friend, so there's no need to clear anything up.

Oh, and as for that damn winking-face icon-- fuck you and your little dog, too. It's like when someone says something racist, and then writes "LOL." It's doesn't make it funny, and it doesn't make you cute.

Okay, I'm done. Am I totally crazy for being so annoyed?

Picture Day and Randoms

Today is Picture Day on the plantation.
I kid you not.

For some reason, these people won’t just let me leave in peace. I was hoping to slip out, undetected and escape with several padded envelopes and letterhead. Instead, they want us to take some big group photo or something.

I've been scoffing at the youth as they return to school this week, but it turns out it is the blacktress who is now a student! I thought my days of unflattering photos in poor lighting against a tacky backdrop ended when I left Catholic school—I was wrong. Here’s the email we got from boss man:
I would like to publish a group staff photograph, so I thought that before our meeting tomorrow I would take head-and-shoulders photos of each staff member near the window in my office and then a group photograph by the fireplace.

Please let your stylist know you will be photographed tomorrow.

Oh my god, this is going to be so awkward. Just to give you a sense of the setting, my boss’ offices is covered in dark-wood panel and over his inactive fireplace hang some landscape paintings he’s done himself. It’s got a sorta 1970s-Texan-oil-baron-meets-the-Elk-Lodge vibe.

My attempts to look picture-ready today failed, just I did in my youth. Even though I spent much time achieving a buoyant, adult, and professional anchorwoman hairdo, I forgot to put on my contact lenses, so I’m totes looking like the girl in She’s All That. I’m going to have to take them off for the photos, which will end up with me trying hard not to squint, looking blank-eyed and confused in the general direction of the camera.
Good times.

In other news: The Kiwi I dumped texted me yesterday!! Yesterday afternoon, I get a text from a number I didn’t recognize (cause you know his ass has been deleted!), which says the following:
“Lunch tomoro? We will do subway this time.”

Um, is he slower than Trig, the youngest Palin baby?
What part of “let’s stop this foolishness” didn’t he understand? I mean, I naturally assumed he was catching what I was throwing, seeing as I hadn’t heard from him in the TWO WEEKS since that conversation.
And even if he did want to talk about it or actually try to be friends, what sort of incentive is lunching at Subway? I have never once led him to believe I frequent or enjoy that establishment. I don’t want to sit there and watch him eat a $5 footlong on my off time! He’s so out of control, I can’t handle it.

Can you imagine if a woman did that after a guy had dumped her? What if I just called up The Teacher fellow and was like, “Hey, I got two tickets to a UCB show that I you said you wanted to go to back when we were boning. Meet me outside the theater at 7:30?” I would be instantly branded as a PSYCHO CHICK, and the world would know. It would just NOT be acceptable.

I swear to you, the men have gone mad. This also comes on the heels of the IM I received from the texter. It went something like this:
HIM: Are you ignoring me now?
ME: Your text messages weren’t appropriate, and certainly not worth responding to.
HIM: What, you wanted more romance?

Um, if by “romance” he means “respect,” then yes! I love how my lack of a response to the query “why haven’t I fingered you yet?” somehow implies that I’m high-maintenance, or a romantic.

Between these fools and BabyGate ’08, I may never return from Down Under.

Textual Seduction

So, the kiwi invited me over to his place for dinner tonight. It’ll be him and “a few friends.” I’m slightly nervous and slightly not really looking forward to it. I’m feeling sorta lukewarm towards this foreign man—and it’s not even a protectionist measure because I’m leaving soon. He’s really nice, friendly, straightforward, and relaxed, but I worry he may be a bit dim. Am I a bad person?
Yes, yes I am.

He kinda reminds me of a puppy--a scrappy, hyperactive golden retriever. You know how it is:
The cute puppy you just got from the pound is a bundle of joy, bounding all over the house. One day, after playing in the muddy woods, he’s so excited to see his new master that he jumps all over you, leaving muddy paw prints all over your favorite jeans.
“Bad, bad, puppy!” you say to him sternly.
He just pants and wags his (large) tail.
You can’t help but grin at his puppy excitement, but you’re still kinda pissed that he got carried away—not to mention that time he crapped on the carpet.

Do you get the analogy?

Anyway, I can’t really complain about the kiwi. The last thing I need is stress, and that’s the last thing he can bring to the table. Besides, I like being involved—it keeps me off the single streets and out of trouble. For real, y’all. For an example of what kind of shenanigans I get into when I’m on the market, check out the following text messages I’ve received from a certain “suitor.”

He is a 29-year-old PhD student at a prestigious New York university—New York University, to be exact. I point this out because these credentials imply that he’s a grown-ass man with more than ½ a brain.
Alas, I may be wrong.

After one date three weeks ago where we had a couple of drinks and he kept asking me to come over to his house (to which I said, “homeslice, slow down! Does my vag have an expiration date?!”), he has been blowing up my phone with pathetic attempts at textual seduction (I heart Snoop Dogg*). For example:

Received 07/19/2008, 7:05 pm: so are you comin over to be crapped on or what?
(my complete response: “No.”)

Received 7/19/2008, 7:15 pm: what about for some sex?

Seriously, these are real text messages I have received from an educated adult male pursuing an advanced degree.

Just when I thought the madness was over, I got this one over the weekend:

Received 08/02/2008, 6:04 pm: is there a reason i haven’t fingered u yet?

I KID YOU NOT.

Um, what should I have said-- "because you are an insane man lacking in propriety and respect, and possibly a sexual predator" ?

I didn’t even respond. I don’t even know how to. I feel like he is beyond reason, completely vulgar, and possibly autistic (at the very least, he’s got Aspberger’s).

But, I have found a silver lining:
Normally, in such circumstances, the blacktress would lament her fate, wondering “Why God, Why?!” would such a terrible person seek her out. She’d blame herself for somehow “making” this PhD student this way.

Not anymore.

As I fortify myself for my international journey, I realize that, at 29 years old, this dude’s got about 28 years, 8 months, and 14 days worth of issues that were there before I cropped up on the scene. There is no way that my dazzling conversation, rapier wit, and pretty green dress got him so beside himself that the only way he could express his interest was through crazy texts.

He is, in summation a HOT ASS MESS.

And that is certainly one thing the sweet, hyperactive kiwi is NOT. He may not believe in spelling words completely or properly via text, but everything he has to say is in good clean fun. He invites me to meals that he will prepare in the presence of other people, proving that he has both social and culinary skills. He is also keeping me off the single streets of this cray cray city, where apparently PhDs are still Playa-hating Degrees!


* if you have not seen the music video or heard the song on which my clever title is based, please click here.
If a man came at me with Snoop's level of mojo, I'd probably be hearing the pitter patter of little feet by now.

Can She Make it Anymore Obvious?

So, I kind of detest Avril Lavigne.

I just wish she didn't think she was so clever and interesting. She's just not. I am. She's not. I've decided these are facts. Example? Lyrics from the hit song "SK8er Boi":

She was a girl/ He was a boy/ Can I make it anymore obvious?/ He was a punk/ She did ballet?/ What more can I say?

Um.... what?
There's so much more she could say. The question is, can she make it any more heteronormative?

Yet for some reason, she is famous and I am forced to hear her off-pitch voice screeching in my ears.

The latest assault: "When You're Gone." I saw the video for the first time this morning. As the title indicates, it's about missing someone you love and wanting them back. My first problem came when I saw the three relationships that are meant to epitomize feelings of longing:
1. an elderly man whose wife has just died.
2. a preppy girl torn from the arms of her punk-ish boyfriend by her harsh mother. (um, SK8er Boi part 2, anyone?)
3. a pregnant woman whose husband is overseas in Iraq.

How Avril can even think missing some dude is the same as an old man losing his only love and preparing to go to her funeral is beyond me. Is this some attempt to appeal to the AARP crowd? I don't think it's gonna happen, April-- yeah, I'm calling her April. F this quirky S.

I am also sick and tired of seeing Iraq on commercial television. For some reason, I find it so offensive-- kinda like the movies Amistad and the television miniseries Roots. There are certain atrocities that cannot be rendered on film in an attempt to "give us access." Nothing you can create that requires a commercial break can accurately portray the suffering-- or reality-- of historical OR CURRENT events. It's just so rude.

I digress.

At the end of the video, the old man goes to his wife's funeral, the preppy girl survives, and the pregnant wife, worried sick over her husband, finds out she's all right. YAY!

My problem with this is:

The pregnant woman finds out her husband is all right VIA TEXT MESSAGE! It reads:
I'm okay. I miss u.

Um... can we get text messages from Iraq?
If so, then we should be getting a whole lot more information.
Do the soldiers have unlimited nights and weekends, too?
Why are we having children send poorly written, inspirational construction paper creations via snail mail if they've got the T-Mobile text plan?

If they can text and keep in touch, is Avril implying that the war isn't so bad after all?

Is Avril Lavigne a Canadian supporter of George Bush?
See for yourself. And think about it.