Cold

The other day I watched my cat move sleepily from her napping chair towards her napping bed. As she walked past me and my desk she stepped into a long patch of sun shooting warm patterns on the floor. Her hind legs froze, her front legs kept going, but eventually she moved her little body into a contented cat stretch then plopped down to soak up the sunshine and nap right there on the floor.

I envy her. Lately my body has been bent and bowed not just with exhaustion but cold. I’m freezing. All the time. I wake up shivering under piles of blankets in a cold bedroom. I shake through my shower, growling at the two minutes of hot water tease before the pipes fun cold.

I shiver in my clothes. I chatter in my coat. My large house, with it’s white cavernous rooms sucks the heat away. My office pumps cold air onto my cube and I struggle to type emails with gloved hands. Math class finds me trying to curl into a ball under my desk.

I’m cold. And I can’t warm up. It exhausts me. It drains me. I long for that small patch of sun to curl up in. Just a little bit, just to be warm for a few minutes. That’s all I want.

This morning as I was moving myself from my sleeping bed to my cold car, I found my own patch of sunshine. A large, warm , inviting ray of light shining through our front door window. Standing at the foot the stairs I was transfixed. I leaned forwards, watching the streaks of bright yellow light shoot out over the snow covered lawn, through bare trees, over the whole world outside. It called to me. It begged me to stop, to look, to listen. I wanted to touch the light, to lie inside it and soak it up the same as my cat. I wanted to be naked in the light, to feel it's warm arms wrap around me and straight into me. No more bundles, no more artificial fleeting patches of warm, just pure heat. Inside and out.

In my quest to get closer I moved towards the door. Closer and closer I got, my skin tingling to feel that hot touch, those rays of sun scorching my skin, breathing heat and life and energy back into my lungs. Close I got to warm, to light, to wakefulness. Until I hit the door. Cold, hard, uninviting glass. The suns rays refracted in it, splashing colors across my face, but no heat. I turned my head and pressed my cheek against the smooth surface. Light broke through it, painfully bright, it burned into my eyes. But I was cold. The glass was cold, my cheek was cold, my body was shaking with cold. The door held me up, but inside I was frozen, still, and lifeless.

And outside, in that patch of sunshine the snow was frozen and the air was windy.

It was bright, but it was cold. And I just can’t get warm.

Forgetfulness - Billy Collins Animated Poetry

Fun with Text Messages

Somewhere between the beers and the hard stuff our friend got a text message on her cellphone.

“Oh! Oh! I got a message?! How do I open it?”

Despite being somewhat technologically up to date (meaning I have an ipod and knew how to use a mac before they came in five fruity flavors) I'm not a big text-ing girl. The last one I sent was documented on my blog with a picture of the supposed dead body on my porch sometime in October of '06. The last one I received was a few months after that and had to do with the sex of the newest anticipated addition to my familial clan. (He's not here yet, but he's coming soon...) Anyway, I don't do the text thing much. So it was my guy who swooped in and showed her how to open the message.

Both of us were sure it was a text from her daughter – her daughter really likes text messages – to the tune of a thousand dollar cellphone bills – I was sure it was her daughter.

In fact it was some unknown man who had left some semi-inappropriate message about her work attire and the way she used her “desk”. It was cute, she blushed. We giggled. We drank.

The someone in our group suggested we text back.

And boy did we. Between the three of us (and mostly between me and my guy, vicariously living through our unsuspecting 40-something, catholic, suburbanite companion) we got this man to “apparently” lie down on his bed, get naked, and talk about that thing that most women don't really care to talk about and most men can't seem to stop talking about.

In other words, we got dimensions and measure, in detail. And we really didn't need to work hard to get it either. He was pretty forth coming with his -er- desires.

Finally, once we had finished off a few more drinks, and clearly had worked the guy into a lather hot enough to have him suggest “meeting”, we decided that this little cyber-sex encounter (all of which had taken place in a bar, between dances and alcohol) needed to be cut off. But because we were in a bar, there were drinks and we all had our cellphones out we decided to do it in probably the 1) worst and 2) most cliché way available.

We sent him a picture of the two of us women making out with the tag

“No thanks hon, I got all the company I can handle here.”

That brought the end of the messaging and the beginning of a phone call where we discovered we knew the guy. From the office.

I'd like to say that now, sober, well-rested and in the harsh light of day I regret our little cyber-foursome in the middle of the bar. I'd like to say I regret a heavy flirtation with someone I work with in a professional capacity (though really he was flirting with her, he didn't know there were three people on the other end, but most of what was said came from me). However, I'm don't regret it.

Actually, I feel pretty good about it. Was it cruel? Probably. Was it inappropriate? Only because he made it so. Did he have it coming? You bet. Last night was payback for all the times our managers have ever stared at our breasts instead of our face. Last night was payback for all those little nicknames they use for women, regardless of rank. Last night and that quick little put down was a culmination of years – years – YEARS – of putting up with the gropes, glances and comments behind my back. Behind her back. Behind the back of any woman who has the guts to put on a skirt and a little lipstick and brave going to an office full of men who clearly haven't progressed past the 1970's.

Oh hell – the 50's.

Last night our text-companion did what it feels like ever man out there is dying to do everyday at the office: Whip it out, show it off, and gloat.

And last night we said what I feel like every woman wants to do everyday at the office, or at least I do:

“Put it away. It's not that interesting and you still don't know how to use it.”

Guilty Blood

Every time I go to give blood (or platelets), they of course test me for anemia. And every time they do, they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

Excuse me, I beg to differ. I think the worst part is that big, horse size needle they then attempt to crush into my un-horse-size arm. Seriously, the thing is huge, they might as well just slice me open and let me drip into a bowl.

And I wouldn't be complaining so much if it wasn't for the fact that I have a little vein that apparently is terribly difficult to find. Oh they know where it is...somewhere in my arm, but usually I get a great big stick, then a few searching pokes through my skin while they circle the needle around and around and around my vein - but never in my vein.

I'm a group effort. Today at the apheresis donation I had no less than three woman come and look at my vein. And prod at my vein. And move the needle around and around my vein.

But not in it.

They're determined though. Determined to suck my blood and plasma and platelets right out. And I'm determined to give it. But what I don't understand is why they have to move the needle all around. After a few tries couldn't we just re-stick? I'd rather have a bunch of holes in my arm than a bunch of scratches inside it.

Today we failed to get the vein. Not for lack of trying. I sat on the chair with a great big bag of ice over my newly bruised arm and felt like crying. Not because it hurt that bad, it didn't, but because I felt like I had failed. Me and my veins had failed. We had the best of intentions. My heart, both the pumping one and the metaphorical one, was ready to give whatever I had away. I have plenty of clotting stuff, and bloody stuff, and liquid stuff. I'm ready, I'm willing, if you need it, you should have it.

And I couldn't do it. I kept saying sorry to the nurses. In my head I kept saying sorry to all those people with leukemia. To all those people who are getting ready for surgery and all those people who need their loved ones to get better, to be there for their families.

Stupid thick needle. Stupid thin arm. Stupid vein. Stupid me. Stupid, Stupid, Stupid.

Every time I go to give blood they take out that horrid little needle and jab my small little finger with it.

It wouldn't be so bad if they didn't always make it a point to say "This is the worst part of the whole thing."

No really, the worst part is going through it all, and then failing to give what's needed. Failing all those people who are counting on that blood. That's the worst part.

Engaged!

I'm piling in the car, me and all my stuff. The bag with my lunch, my books, a magazine incase I don't feel like studying, my purse, gloves I haven't put on yet, my hat that fell out of my pocket, water bottle...basically I come with a lot of baggage. And once I'm belted in he turns around and drops a little box, wrapped in a white bow, into my lap.

"Happy Valentines Day!"

I'm already flustered and floored and I haven't even opened it yet. I gush, and fiddle with the bow, wondering if I should wait till we're at my office before I open it. But no, I'm urged, and inside is the most beautiful ring ever. Sparkly and colorful, classic and natural, in other words perfect.

And fancy.

I can't stop looking at it. I'm a girl. I put it on, then I take it off, then I put it on again. It's too pretty. When I wear it, it really is the most beautiful thing about me. It makes my hands look worked, used, plain. But I love it.

I couldn't say thank you enough. I couldn't say it right. My husband bought me a ring. It was such a surprise.

I wear it to the office. Constantly slipping it up and down and around my finger. Giving my right hand preference. I find myself watch my hand more than the computer screen. The gems sparkle just enough to catch your eye everytime. I want to show it off, but I keep my mouth shut, till someone notices. And they do. And then they point it out to everyone and suddenly I'm surrounded by a bunch of women, all oohing and ahhing appreciatively at the beautiful ring. The ring my husband got just for me.

My engagement was short, two days short actually. And it started with a phone conversation.

"I was wondering if you wanted to elope?"

"Really?"

"Yes, really"

"Okay."

And then we did. There were no rings or gowns. No bridesmaids, no rubber chicken, no flowers. Just us and the vows.

But as my friends and coworkers start to get engaged around me I've noticed the little rituals I missed during my engagement. Getting to show off the ring, tell the story over and over, relive that giddy little turn of the stomach that you feel at the moment, and feel the giddy little vibes from your friends. I didn't get that. I didn't think I needed that.

But I'm a girl and I admit, it was fun. It was fun to tell my story over and over. It was fun to hear them coo over the ring. It was fun to pretend I was marrying the man of my dreams.

Call it vain and materialistic. It is. But I don't care. I loved being the center of attention for a minute. I would have teared up the same and been just as giddy over snow tires, but no one would have been as excited. Our office "Mom" wouldn't have called the girls over to coo over my tires. Instead I needed something flashy, something pretty, something special in order to get their attention.

And when I did I loved every second of it. Not just the ring, or the attention on myself. I more liked the fact that I was special for a moment because he is special all the time.

And, I think, I'm the girl he decided to love.

What it's really like to be me

Asking the wrong questions at the wrong time:

During naptime when it is clear that he's juuuuuust about to fall asleep.

"Kitty's nose is cold and wet. Are all furry little animals noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Is a bunnies nose cold and wet?"

"I don't know"

"What about ferrets? Are their noses cold and wet?"

"I don't know."

"Do guiena pigs have cold wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"Do hamsters have wet noses?"

"I don't know."

"What about mice? Does mouse have a wet nose?"

"I don't know."

"Are mouse hamsters wet?"

Silence.

"Oops. Oh, I suppose only when is rains in mouse hamster land..."

"ARGH!"

Yeah, I know. I don't know how people deal with me either.

But Don't Trust Borders

Saturday rolls around. I'm up. I'm out of bed. I'm ready to go.

Go now...now now please...let's go now!!

Four hours later my husband is finally considering putting on his socks.

Despite the delays I manage to get to our local Borders on the appointed "Harry Potter Sticker Day". One Day Only. Come in on Saturday and get a sticker. Only on our "Harry Potter Sticker Day" We had to stop for lunch first, and lightbulbs, and the traffic sucked...but I made it. I waited for three days to reserve my book and - you know - get a sticker.

This was better than Christmas.

By the time we got to Borders I was basically running through the doors and straight to the info desk. I stood in line patiently, nearly growling at every person who I perceived was trying to get ahead of me - even when they actually just wanted to check out the half price romance books.

Finally, I get to the bubbly blonde who is more than happy to take my reservation for Harry Potter number seven.

She takes my name.

She writes down my address.

She takes my phone number.

And my cell phone number.

And my work number.

And she askes me if I've ordered anything in the last six months.

Then she chit-chats with her manager about some display thing.

Then she asks me if I've ordered anything in the last six months - again.

Then she waits while my reciept prints out.

Then she tells me about the price and discounts and yada-yada-yada.

All the while I'm jealously eyeing her "Ask me about Harry Potter! and our new stickers TODAY!" badge.

She hands me the receipt and there is a quick, awkward moment of silence.

"Um, could I get a sticker?" I ask, sweetly, if not a little anxiously.

"Oh, we don't have any...they haven't come in yet."

I don't know how I didn't break down into full toddler mode right there, but somehow I managed to thank her politely and walk away.

Inside I was throwing a full blown temper tantrum.

I WANT A STICKER!!!!!!!!

We spent the rest of the day going grocery shopping and supplies shopping and gag-me computer store shopping. My husband bought me a new mouse pad...but it was no sticker.

The weekend sucks.

And Borders sucks more.

Trust Snape!

Did anyone know that Microsoft finally released Vista? Finally?

Yeah, neither did I.

But I do know that today is the first day you can reserve yourself a copy of Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows - the seventh and final installment of the Harry Potter series. I also know that on February 3rd at Borders you can reserve your book (or reserve online and go to the store on February 3) and get a free sticker.

That's like way cooler than Vista right?

As soon as I found out about the sticker...I've wanted one. I want a sticker. I want the special, fancy Harry Potter sticker. I will wake up early on Saturday and bounce around from the front door to the bedroom until my husband FINALLY wakes up and FINALLY gets dressed and FINALLY gets ready to go.

Cause I want a sticker.

And I don't care if they look at me funny. I don't care if I'm the only one in line for the sticker who is taller than 4'5''. I don't care that I am not twelve-years-old.

I want, I want, I want!

Now all I have to do is decide which one I want:

Trust Snape

or

Snape is a very bad man

Oooooh, decisions, decsions.