Because I knew mine was okay! It's not a hernia after all! Woo-Hoo! I don't have to give up my favorite yoga twists and back bends! CT Scan showed it's potentially only my ovaries exploding! I can handle that. And I don't have to give up on yoga. I already gave up on motherhood so if it's that region--I say rip away! I knew it wasn't a hernia. I mean come on--a weak abdominal wall? Mine? Baby--ain't nothin' getting through this wall! It's 3-ply fat. Not guts, babies, ammo...nothing can push through this thing...my guts' good for life! (However long that is.)
Note to all doctors: Don't ever let a hypochondriac get their hands on their own CT scan results. Never. Ever. Some things are better left unknown. (Like why the dude left me.) I picked up a copy last night before heading to dinner. Bad idea. I read it in my car as I sat there waiting for a friend. Wondering why my doctor didn't tell me about the stuff written about my kidneys, liver and lungs. I thought--well--he didn't mention any of this because it's normal. Normal to have cysts, lesions, deflated lungs. Whatever. I'll Google it all later. (and did.) Weird how one guy behind a glass wall looks at the cross-section of your insides and writes something every other doctor who looks at it--believes. What if he was distracted? What if he was hung over and his eyes were blurry? What if...
I walked in the restaurant glad to have the distraction. Although I figured--if my liver's headed in the wrong direction---better not drink. Leave it to my beautiful friend Kristine to walk in with two bottles of wine. Cat scan-- schmat scan. It was yet another birthday celebration. Drink up!
Kristine has been in TV longer than I have. She's been a sports reporter and a TV weather person. She hosted her own gardening show. (That's how we met--I was her producer) Now--she's a realtor. We sat there, midway through the bottle of white. She knows I'm not working in TV right now either. We talked about how TV doesn't age well. Has nothing to do with how you look--or really even, getting old--it's a very young industry. We still want to do it--but maybe we can't. They want people now who do everything.
I joked. "I'm a producer. I don't edit. I don't shoot. I basically have no skills". She laughed. "You think you have no skills--I do the weather!" I mean really. When I think about my work the past several years. I came up with ideas. I yelled at people to say things in front of a camera. I fixed their clothes. And said, "great, now do it like this." Where are the job listings for that? You can't find that on Craigslist.
That's when Kristine said she introduced herself for the first time, not as Kristine the TV person, but "Kristine the realtor." Of course the minute she did that the sales person recognized her from--what else--TV. But I give her credit. It's not easy to let go of that ego that you NEED to survive and succeed a difficult business like TV. It's a fun industry. The people are amazing. You laugh a lot. It's not like that where I work. But we talked about how maybe that's why I'm there. To show me how everyone else works.
TV is an unusual freaky business. And kinda F'ed up. But I loved it. Love it. Not sure I"m ready to say I'm "Lynn the communications manager." Not as sexy for sure. And probably wouldn't get a dude at a concert to ask for your number. But then look at how that ended. Here's to the regular folks, with regular jobs.
Tuesday, May 25, 2010
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Life is a Bowl of Cherries
Sorry. I'm really just sitting here eating a bowl of cherries ($3.99 at Safeway today) and couldn't come up with a witty title. I'm betting though, pretty much everyone who's written a blog has used that as one of their titles before. Regardless--they're good--sweet. But a lot of work, considering the whole stem/pit thing. And your fingers get stained. But as they say--nothing worth the trouble is ever easy. Or something like that.
Maybe that should be the title of this entry. Nothing is ever easy. Especially meeting men. Last night I had some work friends over. And we started to chat about--of course--men. And standards--for picking one. The usual: tall, funny, kinda bad--all came out. Then it was my turn. I don't know that I have what you'd call typical "standards" when choosing a mate. Not in the way they have to look anyway. I did contribute one thing--I said "they have to love what they do."
And then all hell broke loose. Both women pounced on me with questions like "Do you like your job?" "Shouldn't they be more than their job?" "Who cares if they hate what they do, as long as they're happy with you!" Clearly--I had struck a relationship fodder nerve with this one. Why shouldn't I want to be with someone who is passionate about what they do? It means they've got confidence. It means they'll be still somewhat independent and not all about the relationship alone?!! And yes--I have LOVED what I do. Just not right now. Which is maybe why I'm not dating. I'd want them to want me to love what I do too!
Do you love what you do? I hope so. Maybe part of the problem was these two women work at "McDonald's" with me. Maybe everyone who works in these civil servant jobs loses the passion about work--but puts it into their personal life instead? I'm new to this cubical world--so I'm still hanging on to the "joy b/w 9-5" as an important part of my life. Granted, I don't have much b/w 5-11, but still--I want to love my job. It's what is unique to me and who I am. Without a man. (I know, shallow--what am I if I'm not a TV producer? Good thing she's not a mother!)
In unison they both added--"You're just too picky!" Picky? Me? When it comes to men? Picky? I don't consider myself picky--I just said I don't have a "type"--instead, I have high expectations! And what's wrong with that? Typically it wouldn't bother me when someone says something like that "you're picky"--but true to the title of this blog--one of the gals who said it-- knows my ex. And like my yoga teacher--I didn't know this until AFTER we were working together. Picky? Immediately my mind snaps into hyperdrive. Did he tell you that? Did he think I nit-picky'd him to death? (I like creating words) Now--I like this woman we'll call Twin Lynn--but I don't know if being friends with her is a good thing for me right now. (and yes we resemble each other, brown hair, brown eyes, only she's skinny. I have curves where you're supposed to.)
TwinLynn asked me to go out for a drink recently. Reluctantly I said yes. I said no to two earlier invitations. She made it hard to say no--citing my lame social life and needing "to meet someone new to forget that loser!" (actually she said "You just need to get laid to forget him." What?) When we went out, we talked about some things--things that hit me in a funny way. And not funny "ha-ha"-- funny "strange." I don't want you to think I'm paranoid as well as hypochondriac, but I started to connect some dots--dots that caused arguments when PP and I were together. Here--get out your pencil.
Dot 1. I remember he had a female friend who was a massage therapist. And he often spoke of going to her home for massages. I would naturally, as girlfriends do, give him a hard time-joking about happy endings at these secret liaisons--and ask why chain massage spas weren't good enough? That night, TL mentioned casually, "I have a home massage therapy business with a few regular customers." Hmmm.
Dot 2. Then she started talking about a devastating and fast move out of the house she was sharing with her boyfriend. Was this the "friend I have to help move Saturday" he spoke about? It started an argument with us because we had plans--and when you help a woman move--and you're a man--and you're not related--and your girlfriend doesn't know this friend--something's up.
Dot 3. The bronze medalist in the "you can't make this shit up" category of this wonderful night out with the twin-- we were at a bar listening to a band. I said "I've only been here once when PP's old band played here." To which she casually replied--"oh yeah--I drove their drummer to Oakland once." I pretended like that wasn't a big deal. That everyone drives a drummer to Oakland. But, excuse me WHAT? I dated the lead guitarist and I didn't drive any band members anywhere, EVER.
Dot 4. On the way home, she lectured me about how hard relationships are and you "can't force someone to be someone they're not." So, are you starting to see a picture? After a few more dots were connected--like her best friend being the person who books the bands at this bar--and earlier stating "PP always told me he hated his job"--Mine started to spell out the word "cheaters."
Did they sleep together? I don't think while we were together--but maybe when we were done? Or maybe she IS the reason we were done? Doesn't matter now. But I do think, although we work together, a friendship may be tough. And maybe that's what I should be more picky about. Who I let in. Am I letting my imagination ruin what could be a good friendship? She's oddly too obsessed with my love life. Or maybe I'm oddly too obsessed with hers? But then she did bring a chocolate cake and a dozen cookies to my house last night--leaving them with me to eat and get fat(ter)?
Picky. Maybe. I just swallowed a pit.
Maybe that should be the title of this entry. Nothing is ever easy. Especially meeting men. Last night I had some work friends over. And we started to chat about--of course--men. And standards--for picking one. The usual: tall, funny, kinda bad--all came out. Then it was my turn. I don't know that I have what you'd call typical "standards" when choosing a mate. Not in the way they have to look anyway. I did contribute one thing--I said "they have to love what they do."
And then all hell broke loose. Both women pounced on me with questions like "Do you like your job?" "Shouldn't they be more than their job?" "Who cares if they hate what they do, as long as they're happy with you!" Clearly--I had struck a relationship fodder nerve with this one. Why shouldn't I want to be with someone who is passionate about what they do? It means they've got confidence. It means they'll be still somewhat independent and not all about the relationship alone?!! And yes--I have LOVED what I do. Just not right now. Which is maybe why I'm not dating. I'd want them to want me to love what I do too!
Do you love what you do? I hope so. Maybe part of the problem was these two women work at "McDonald's" with me. Maybe everyone who works in these civil servant jobs loses the passion about work--but puts it into their personal life instead? I'm new to this cubical world--so I'm still hanging on to the "joy b/w 9-5" as an important part of my life. Granted, I don't have much b/w 5-11, but still--I want to love my job. It's what is unique to me and who I am. Without a man. (I know, shallow--what am I if I'm not a TV producer? Good thing she's not a mother!)
In unison they both added--"You're just too picky!" Picky? Me? When it comes to men? Picky? I don't consider myself picky--I just said I don't have a "type"--instead, I have high expectations! And what's wrong with that? Typically it wouldn't bother me when someone says something like that "you're picky"--but true to the title of this blog--one of the gals who said it-- knows my ex. And like my yoga teacher--I didn't know this until AFTER we were working together. Picky? Immediately my mind snaps into hyperdrive. Did he tell you that? Did he think I nit-picky'd him to death? (I like creating words) Now--I like this woman we'll call Twin Lynn--but I don't know if being friends with her is a good thing for me right now. (and yes we resemble each other, brown hair, brown eyes, only she's skinny. I have curves where you're supposed to.)
TwinLynn asked me to go out for a drink recently. Reluctantly I said yes. I said no to two earlier invitations. She made it hard to say no--citing my lame social life and needing "to meet someone new to forget that loser!" (actually she said "You just need to get laid to forget him." What?) When we went out, we talked about some things--things that hit me in a funny way. And not funny "ha-ha"-- funny "strange." I don't want you to think I'm paranoid as well as hypochondriac, but I started to connect some dots--dots that caused arguments when PP and I were together. Here--get out your pencil.
Dot 1. I remember he had a female friend who was a massage therapist. And he often spoke of going to her home for massages. I would naturally, as girlfriends do, give him a hard time-joking about happy endings at these secret liaisons--and ask why chain massage spas weren't good enough? That night, TL mentioned casually, "I have a home massage therapy business with a few regular customers." Hmmm.
Dot 2. Then she started talking about a devastating and fast move out of the house she was sharing with her boyfriend. Was this the "friend I have to help move Saturday" he spoke about? It started an argument with us because we had plans--and when you help a woman move--and you're a man--and you're not related--and your girlfriend doesn't know this friend--something's up.
Dot 3. The bronze medalist in the "you can't make this shit up" category of this wonderful night out with the twin-- we were at a bar listening to a band. I said "I've only been here once when PP's old band played here." To which she casually replied--"oh yeah--I drove their drummer to Oakland once." I pretended like that wasn't a big deal. That everyone drives a drummer to Oakland. But, excuse me WHAT? I dated the lead guitarist and I didn't drive any band members anywhere, EVER.
Dot 4. On the way home, she lectured me about how hard relationships are and you "can't force someone to be someone they're not." So, are you starting to see a picture? After a few more dots were connected--like her best friend being the person who books the bands at this bar--and earlier stating "PP always told me he hated his job"--Mine started to spell out the word "cheaters."
Did they sleep together? I don't think while we were together--but maybe when we were done? Or maybe she IS the reason we were done? Doesn't matter now. But I do think, although we work together, a friendship may be tough. And maybe that's what I should be more picky about. Who I let in. Am I letting my imagination ruin what could be a good friendship? She's oddly too obsessed with my love life. Or maybe I'm oddly too obsessed with hers? But then she did bring a chocolate cake and a dozen cookies to my house last night--leaving them with me to eat and get fat(ter)?
Picky. Maybe. I just swallowed a pit.
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