Flotsam

Oh, I am so ashamed. If I can’t even take care of a blog, how am I going to take care of a baby? I can’t just be “too busy” to feed a baby for six days, even if my desk at work does look like this:

And even if this picture was taken yesterday morning, on a Saturday, when no person should be forced to edit anything, even if that person has just this week been PROMOTED(!) to SENIOR EDITOR, and now feels inexplicably compelled to be productive and meet their publication deadlines.
Yes, that’s right, this blog entry is being typed by a SENIOR EDITOR. Presumably this means that their should be less grammatical errors in mine blog now.

(sic!) (sic!)

Anyway. I apologize for not updating sooner. I have certainly thought about doing so—I keep a crumpled post-it note in my purse, on which I scribble ideas for blog entries. Right now the post-it says:

• Project Runway (Angela=HATE)
• Infertility makes us like John Nash
• Promotion!
• LEGGINGS!!!
• Design
• Diet, fatalistic

I am sure you are all sorry you missed out on those insightful gems.

Well guess what? You didn’t, because I am going to give you the annotated version right now. You will be able to see for yourselves what goes on in my mind in the course of a week. I can’t promise it will be pretty, but I CAN promise it will be too long to hold your interest.
Let’s begin!

Project Runway (Angela=HATE)
This one is pretty self-explanatory, but can I just reiterate how much I HATE Angela? And not just because of her bizarre fascination with froufy bubble skirts, either. She dresses like a crazy person, and yet it is clear that she thinks she is some artsy, misunderstood genius.
Look Angela, I do understand, really I do. You’re going for some kind of “homeless Parisian clown-college-student” look, am I right? When you were young you probably dreamed of being a bohemian* New York artist, one who wore fingerless woolen gloves and a tutu while splashing paint over the naked torso of her lover/studio-assistant–who, in your fantasies, may or may not have resembled that guy who laughed at you when you asked him to junior prom.
But it’s time to let go of all that. It’s time to move on. Look at yourself–COMBAT BOOTS AND MESSY HAIR DO NOT AN ARTIST MAKE. Design is about more than Chutzpah and color-blindness, you know. Even Ivanka Trump said your model “Looked like a street-walker.” I think that may be the first intelligent thing Ivanka has ever said.

Infertility makes us like John Nash
To be honest, I am not exactly sure where I was going with this particular topic. Infertility makes us all obsessed with numbers? Infertility makes us paranoid? Infertility causes us to be the subject of tedious film biopics starring Russell Crowe and the girl from Labyrinth?
The first two statements are probably true, and perhaps that was what I meant: Infertility makes us obsessive historians of our reproductive lives, the numbers associated with them, and all of our past failures. It makes us superstitious, and overly willing to see connections between unrelated phenomena. It makes us excessively, tiresomely paranoid. For instance, I may not think everyone is watching me, but I am damn sure that everyone is pregnant. I examine the belly of each woman I see, evaluating it for signs of gravidity. The empire waist trend certainly hasn’t made my life any easier—the other day I looked up from what I was certain was a telltale bump to find that its owner was in her sixties. Even when I am not actively trying to conceive, I know exactly which day of my cycle I am on. I once answered a coworker’s “What day is it today?” with “Twelve.”

Promotion
Ahem: Senior. *cough* Editor.

LEGGINGS!!!
I have already cancelled most of my fashion magazine subscriptions, more to spare myself from boho hell than to be thrifty. But occasionally a girl can’t help it—she wants to read about lipgloss, and maybe to be told that she needn’t brush her hair because rumpled ponytails are the new sleek ponytails. And that is how I found myself purchasing a copy of InStyle, and innocently flipping it open, only to be confronted with this:

I yelped, frightening the Actually, and snapped the magazine shut. I eventually got up the courage to resume my reading, only to see an article on high-waisted and tapered jeans, at which point I called it a day and tossed the magazine into the trash.**
This incident inspired me to ask: do any of you actually own, or are any of you considering the purchase of, a pair of leggings? If so, Why? You may comment anonymously, if you wish–I am genuinely curious.

Design
Flotsam has a new design, as you have no doubt noticed. I am still in the process of finishing link pages and such, but I am doing it bit by bit to avoid the homicidal rages that plague me when I spend too much time with CSS code. I humbly ask for your patience. Also, I apologize if it takes me longer to respond to your email during this transition, and if my eventual response is composed entirely of ones and zeros.

Diet, fatalistic
I am starting a new diet tomorrow. Or, as nobody seems to diet anymore—I’m starting a new lifestyle tomorrow. One where I eat fewer chips, and cry more. Or perhaps the net amount of crying will remain the same, only starting tomorrow I will cry more at mealtimes and less (hopefully) in the dressing rooms of fashionable boutiques.
I am, as the “fatalistic” part of the title suggests, not entirely convinced that this diet lifestyle change will be successful.
Rest assured, you will be the first to know.

*Read: promiscuous
**Incidentally, the Wikipedia entry for “Leggings” contains one of the most frightening images I have seen: WARNING: NOT FOR SENSITIVE VIEWERS.

First of all, thank you all so very, very much for the kind Bloggiversary wishes. I learned a lot from reading them, namely that I shouldn’t read especially sweet blog comments when I am hungover, unless I want to dissolve into tears and wake the Actually by blubbering “I L-L-Love the INTERNET!”
Also, your comments confirmed what I had long suspected: Capri pants are a fair weather friend. Oh sure, they may look fine—kicky, even—when you are lithe and thin, but gain a few too many pounds and they make a girl look downright haunchy.
But moving on. Yesterday I went to see the doctor about my injured foot. Due to the deep scrape that stretches every time I step, it is massively swollen and painful to walk on. But walk on it I had, because I am exceedingly hardcore (or as hardcore as anyone who uses sissy words like “exceedingly” can be). I may have waited longer than I should have to seek medical attention, but truthfully I rather enjoyed having a legitimate excuse to whine and ask that things be brought to me wherever I lay. Things like, as Caer suggested, a sack of ice cream sandwiches. For the pain. Besides, I reminded myself, it will get better on its own. Time, after all, Heals All Wounds.
Except, as it happens, this one, which seemed to be getting worse the more “Time” I gave it. Hence the doctor, who informed me that I had sprained some tendons, and that my scrape was unable to heal because I kept walking on it, and for god’s sake stop doing that. I told him that I would be happy to stay off my foot, if someone were willing to carry me from place to place on a gilded litter. He didn’t think that was funny, but he did kindly refrain from commenting upon the state of my toenails, so I suppose that’s something.
The doctor was quite suspicious of the Actually, who was in the room during the exam.
“That looks like a burn,” he said in an accusatory tone, glancing from my foot to the Actually.
“No, it’s just a bad scrape,” I assured him. He took a closer look.
“Hmm. But how did you get a scrape on the top of your foot?”
The doctor sent another scowling glance in the Actually’s direction.
The Actually stared guiltily at a jar of tongue depressors.
“Oh,” I said, “It twisted when I fell—high heels, you know. Dangerous! Ha! HAHAHA!” I darted a glance at the Actually. He stared at the tongue depressors. The doctor frowned. I thought about how funny it would be if the Actually suddenly backhanded me, as a joke.
Eventually we managed to quell the doctor’s suspicions of domestic violence (What did he think the Actually had done? Poured boiling oil over my ankle? Stomped on my foot in a rage?) and the blame was put squarely where it belongs, on my shoe:

At some point I remembered that I was overdue for a pap smear and asked whether I could have one done, as long as I was there.
“Oh no,” the doctor said, shocked, “You’ll have to get someone else to do that. You’ll have to make another appointment.” He sounded vaguely censorious, as if I were going around asking for pap smears just for the little thrill I get from that sexy cold speculum.
Anyway, I was urged to wear more sensible shoes and given a tetanus shot and a prescription for high-dose ibuprofen. The nurse paused before giving me the shot, and asked “Now, is there any chance you could be pregnant?”
I laughed a bit more bitterly than necessary, because my last cycle was nearly 50 days long and completely anovulatory–but never mind. Suffice it to say, I got the shot.
As soon as the Actually and I left the clinic, we began speculating: what if I had been pregnant, and gave birth to a cunningly mutated Tetanus Baby? A baby who would only eat rusty nails?
“In a way, it would be nice, because we could share the nighttime feedings,” I mused. You don’t need breasts to feed a Tetanus Baby, after all, only a package of nails and a pail of water in which to rust them.
We had several reception sites to visit with my mother that afternoon, and as the Actually and I walked through various dining rooms and halls, the subject of Tetanus Baby lingered. Over Martinis at the University Club, the Actually bemoaned the ridicule our sweet-tempered but unusual child would face from her peers. I forsaw a particularly poignant moment, on Tetanus Baby’s 21st birthday: Scanning the menu at a local bar, her eyes light up—but when the waiter returns, she is embarrassed to find that what she has ordered is a combination of Scotch and Drambuie, not the tasty Rusty Nail she had been anticipating.

“Poor Tetanus Baby,” I murmured forlornly, after describing this scene to the Actually. We sat in silence for a moment.
“What on earth are you talking about?” asked my mother from the other end of the table.

If conditions at my place of work are any indication, the time has come for the return of Flotsam’s workplace advice column. As you may remember, Millie was a school chum of Emmy Post’s and is an expert on office etiquette. She is here to help.

Dear Millie,
By day I am a database processor for a large publishing concern, but my evenings are spent collecting figurines of that lovable scamp, Tigger (of Winnie-the-Pooh fame). I display two or three dozen of these figurines in my cubicle at work. Recently, however, I have expanded my collection to include other characters—Piglet, Rabbit, the occasional Roo—and I am running out of space. Would it be unreasonable to request a larger cubicle to better accommodate my collection?
Perplexed in Pooh Corner

Dear Perplexed,
Your question, I confess, mystifies me. Is there a reason you feel compelled to drag your somewhat troubling fascination with cartoon animals into the workplace? Generally speaking, one is granted office space in order to facilitate the comfortable completion of work-related tasks. Pictures of a loved one, even a knickknack or two, are certainly an appropriate way to personalize your workspace to that end. However, if you truly feel unable to perform without an extensive conglomeration of plasticine whimsy, your problems may be larger than I can address in the limited space of this column.
Yours,
Millie

Dear Millie,
I have a few fancier meetings coming up and my boss wants me to wear a tie. I have always felt that ties are for ass-licking city boys, and I’m sure as hell not going to spend my beer money on some girly-man piece of silk. I thought a compromise would be to wear my trusty bolo—what do you think?
Manly in Missoula

Dear Manly,
A “bolo tie” is not a tie. It is the unappealing lovechild of a shoelace and a ladies’ brooch. It flatters no one, and is, if anything, more emasculating than any plain silk tie could ever hope to be. I would advise you to search out a regular tie with a “manly” motif—perhaps a print of tiny testicles—if your heterosexuality is tenuous enough to be threatened by accessories.
Yours,
Millie

Dear Millie,
I am just starting my first real job, and want to make a good impression. I often hear my friends discussing their annoying coworkers, and I don’t want to inadvertently become an annoying coworker myself. I was hoping you could help me avoid some of the more common pitfalls—any ideas?
Newbie in Nantucket

Dear Newbie,
I am so glad you asked. The ways in which a coworker can make him or herself a nuisance are too numerous to cover here, but I would be happy to share with you a brief list of basic “don’ts”:
DON’T cause your cell phone to ring to the tune of The Entertainer. This ringtone has been implicated in a string of recent office homicides. The vibrate setting should be more than sufficient to alert you to incoming calls.
DON’T harp excessively upon the day of the week. There is nothing inherently funny about Mondays. Calling Wednesday “Hump Day” in lieu of its perfectly suitable given name is tiresome, and though we all look forward to the weekend, TGIF jokes only draw attention to the fact that one is still at work, subject to one’s coworkers’ feeble attempts at humor.
DON’T eat excessively odorous food in your cubicle. However much you may enjoy the taste of reheated garlic chicken at noon, surely your officemates will have tired of smelling it by 5 o’ clock.
DON’T append pithy quotes to the end of your email messages. A memo about system outages needn’t be an opportunity to reflect upon the wisdom of children, the elderly, or Vince Lombardi.
DON’T creep up behind a working colleague without first alerting them to your presence with a discreet knock. Stealth is not a quality of particular value in an office environment. Besides, your quarry may be hard at work on a blog entry or other important document, and your sudden appearance at their elbow could cause them to spill latte down the front of their expensive and recently dry-cleaned garment.
Yours,
Millie

In an attempt to look less…porcine by the time my wedding rolls around, I recently decided to resume exercising. Thanks to the excellent advice of DoctorMama, I even had a foolproof plan. Or thought I did.

The Actually looked concerned when I told him I planned to turn myself into A Runner—not just A Person Who Runs, mind you. This was about more than losing weight, this was about feeling sporty and flooded with endorphins, thinking peaceful, no-doubt profoundly wise thoughts as I flew through the neighborhood in the early hours of the morning, my body strong and capable, inspiring envy and occasional lust in those I passed.

“I see,” said the Actually, “And when was the last time you ran anywhere?”
I thought for a moment.
“Fifth grade.”
I knew it would be a challenge, but by god I was ready.

I hadn’t read The Plan in a while, but I remembered the two key points: 1) The Plan is suitable for the unathletic, and 2) it requires you to run for 30 minutes, every other day.
So! Off I go!

Problem #1—I am a D cup. I do not own a sports bra.
No matter, I thought to myself, I will wear my regular bra, only on a higher setting. Straps tightened, breasts hoisted to my chin, I bounded down the steps and onto the street.
Um…OW.
I thought running would be like walking, only faster. This was patently not the case. Running, in fact, is a lot like hopping. Or at least, that is what it felt like to my pectoral muscles. With each downward bounce I was becoming increasingly convinced that my breasts were about to tear clean off my body, where they would lie, pale and jigging, on the pavement.

Problem #2—I can’t read instructions.
I made a special half-hour playlist—a little Roy Ayers, a little Leon Haywood, perhaps a smidge of Latyrx–on my iPod, exactly the length of my run. The first song was magical–I was running! Whee!
It was early morning, and I had the neighborhood to myself. There was no one to laugh at me as I moved slowly through the sleepy, hilly streets. The only sounds were my cardiovascular system, the thudding of my shoes, and Gnarls Barkely asking “Oh did you walk or did you run away…”
Unfortunately, by the end of the second song, I was beginning to have serious doubts that I could run for the entire prescribed thirty minutes. By the end of the third song, I was no longer concerned that I wouldn’t last 30 minutes running, I was worried that I wouldn’t last thirty minutes AT ALL. Running, walking, crawling homeward on my hands and knees—all sounded unbearably strenuous, and I found myself wondering idly who would find my body, and how far I would be from my house when I was discovered.
At this point, I was approximately three blocks away.

I made it home under my own power, after 14 minutes of running. Nixon-esque rivulets of sweat ran over my face, and I was mortified. As I remembered, DoctorMama had implied that ANYONE could run for 30 minutes. I hadn’t even made it half way! I panted for a while, and may or may not have cried a little, wondering whether I had some sort of disability.
On my way to the kitchen for water (and possibly a Dove bar of defeat), I opened my laptop and clicked over to read the original post of The Plan:

“In the beginning, you might only be able to run for TEN MINUTES of your half hour.” (Emphasis mine)
Motherfuck.

Problem #3 presented itself a few hours later, in the form of horrific shin splints. Horrific enough that every movement for the rest of the day was accompanied by a chorus of “OW!EHH!SPLINTY!”
You might think that the Actually occupied himself entirely that afternoon in bringing me ice packs and restorative wine slushies, but you would be wrong. Oh, so wrong.
I will say no more about it, except that this disrespectful sort of mocking had better not continue after our wedding.

The last problem took the longest to appear. I awoke the next morning, ready to face the day, and swung my legs out of bed…or did I?
I appeared to have been paralyzed from the waist down.
Problem #4? Quadriceps like cement. Only hurtier.
It took me a full quarter of an hour to walk from my car into my office. Once there, I didn’t eat breakfast because I couldn’t bear the trek to the cafeteria.
Worse than the pain of walking shuffling was the fact that after spending any length of time at my desk, my muscles would seize in a sitting position. To get up from said position required a complicated system of cantilevering, a death-grip on the back of my chair, and Deadwood-quality obscenities muttered in a workplace-friendly whisper. That evening the Actually and I feasted on delivered restaurant food because the distance from the couch to the kitchen seemed untenable to me.
{Ed. Note to any attorneys reading this: Is there some sort of Mocking Clause I could insert into a pre-nup?}

So there you have it—surely any fool would realize after this that she was not made for running. Surely any fool could see that this obsession with “exercise” can lead to nothing but further consolatory Dove bar consumption and eventual ruin.

Well not this fool, by god. I’m going back out just as soon as I regain the ability to flex my toes.