spiderman and procrastination

Boston headstone

Today we’re gonna talk about my favorite topic to avoid. No it’s not death, as in the pic above which i happily took in Boston.

That’s right.
Spiderman.

Alright I love Spiderman but that’s not really it.
Procrastination. That’s the subject.

Wait minute, Lemme think about this first.
It could be a case of jumping the gun.

Woke up to the news on channel 8; think it’s been revealed that only two channels come in on my TV here in fabulous Reno.

After the shock of realizing
a) That vile shiny hurty yellow thingy is up in the sky
b) Fuckitall I’m still alive
c) I haven’t had sex (with another person) and am still sleeping alone after three weeks
d) The cat is happily shedding next to my face on a clean pillow and pillowcase. Okay formerly clean.

It occurred that maybe I should begin A Routine.

Yes kids, it’s that occasional horrific realization that maybe developing A Routine will acclimate the soul mind and body to Life.

LIFE – adjective–noun
1. The condition that distinguishes organisms from inorganic objects and dead organisms, being manifested by growth through metabolism, reproduction, and the power of adaptation to environment through changes originating internally.
2. The condition that causes grief, lack of sleep, laughter, heartbreak weight gain and obsessive compulsive disorder. Oh yeah chocolate and coffee too.

So it came to be that I Got Some Shit Done today.
Was at the gym by 11:30 and am now in pain.
Combed the cat but she didn’t mind
Spoke with Tinfoil Hat Client (who is meeting with me tomorrow morning oh happy day)
Wrote a blog entry
Washed the car
Opened a bottle of chardonnay

Let us take two items shall we?

The gym is just a horrid piece of life that has to be reinstated.
As a matter of fact I have gained one pound for each week I have been, um, dumped.

Er, utterly single?

Uh, how about same as it ever was (insert image of david byrne doing a talking heads move).
Dammit. I lost one pound for every two weeks that I was in the last relationship and now it’s reappearing? What the hell is up with that? I thought a woman is supposed to lose weight upon the demise of a coupling.
Leave it to me.
Or leave it to beaver.
Same thing.

Oh yeah the car.
So I have to sell the Jeep. It’s either that voluntarily have it repossessed (no REALLY voluntarily) and lose even more money. I currently owe 4K more than the car is worth.
Don’t ask. I’m a chump and the salesman was a champ.
So the Credit Union told me to try and sell the car because I’ll get more for it than they will. Then I’ll only owe the difference between the balance of the loan and the sale price.
I say unto you…. Bwahahahahahahahahaha.

So Miss R will be making $20.00 a month payments until judgment day.
Isn’t that in a leap year anyway?

So I washed the car. Yes. It’s true.
Said Jeep has been unwashed for over two months, maybe more. It’s been camping in Clear Lake, sitting in TK’s tree-laden driveway, and sloshing through rain. The color of the Jeep was until today beige.
Turns out it is actually black.
Seriously. Who knew.

The best part: Stealth Car Washing.
Here at Chez Noir we do not pay for a car wash. Hell that $5.00 could ALMOST buy a pack of American Spirit Menthol Cigarettes.
My biggest fear was you guessed it, LittleOleMan.

I got back from the gym, supermarket and dollar store. After unloading the unholy purchases I filled a bucket with dishwashing soap, grabbed a few rags, pulled the Jeep over to the garden hose and… got busy by goddess.

No machete-wielding LittleOleMan cying “Ahhhhh get away from the water spigot biaaaaaaaatch. Your flowers are still alive but you shall die!”
No neighbors saying “hey I didn’t know we could wash our cars!” which of course they can’t because they’re not clandestine enough.
No “Goddammit Rachael you left the back window open.”
This last would have been said to myself by the way.

The car is clean. It is time to write the obituary. I mean ad.

On to part two. The chardonnay.
The reason I have not posted the car ad on Craigslist tonight is a direct result of Dollar Store inefficiency.

I purchased what I thought was a perfectly good corkscrew from the Dollar Store a month ago.
Who knew it would bow to the pressures of a bad wine.
Rachael’s Hint for the Day: Avoid –at all fucking cost- Pepperwood Grove Chardonnay.
Not only did it break off the cork screw but it could
take the polish off of my fingernails. Down the drain it went.
Sad sad sad.

Well I see by the clock on the wall that it is time to shut the hell up.
So my friends I leave you with these thoughts…

I wish I could dance in TK’s kitchen to Michael Buble’s Spiderman.
I wish I had more than just Tinfoil Hat Client as an income
I wish I would win Publishers Clearinghouse
But mostly I wish to just get on with it…..

“They say it is better to be poor and happy than rich and miserable, but how about a compromise like moderately rich and just moody?”

~miss r

Boston Uncommon

rever gravestone

So I’ve been procrastinating on writing a blog since my triumphant return from the whirlwind tour of Boston. Meetings with the Kennedys, the Kerrys and the Cardinal took all of the stamina and fortitude I could muster.
Oh wait that was a dream. Something about donuts and snakes too but that’s not important right now.

Got an email this morning asking if Boston was nice this time of year. Well, define nice.
I’m sure that in comparison to the Amazon River basin this time of year it qualifies as spectacular.
Otherwise the weather can best be summed up by the following metaphorical blathering:
“I woke up, soaked a heavy woolen blanket in warm water and after showering and dressing wrapped said blanket about my body. Then I walked around the sauna until dehydration indicated admittance to Mass General.”

The weather reminded me in precise terms why living on the east coast in the summer became anathema and I’ve been back out west for the past few years.

Having slammed the humidity I will also add that in this Hades-reminiscent climate I ran in a 5K along the Charles River one morning.
The shocking thing (besides my actually getting up at 6:00 am to perform any kind of exercise –excluding strenuous sex of course) was that I did not finish last in my age group, and this was in a field of exercise-obsessed sober cardiologists, anesthesiologists, shrinks and dentists. They’re all whack-jobs.
I kinda felt at home.

After finishing the race I walked back to the hotel to find my lovely daughter still sound asleep in our room. I threw my soaking wet (and now mildly aromatic) woolen blanket over her reposed figure and said “Cate Honey… get your lazy teen-age ass out of bed and go find mommy some coffee before she becomes homicidal.”
She was not amused.
But I was.

My days in Boston were filled mostly with AA meetings and lectures given for physicians to obtain their CME credits. The free time was spent exploring every nook of historical significance I could find. I walked miles and miles, mercifully burning off the calories from the exquisite meals I’d been indulging in.
Did you know that Boston Common is Boston’s largest unmarked grave? There are more than 10,000 bodies buried there and not one tombstone.
Graveyards from the 1600’s, a night tour of haunted Boston, delicious seafood, sober doctors, ala-teen kids running amuck, lectures, bad banquet food, a fab evening listening to mystery writer/physician Michael Palmer speak, cannoli at Mikes Pastry, standing outside to have a smoke, buckets of coffee, my family, and general disorder.
In a word the trip was…. Surreal.

Here’s proof below. It’s my daughter, myself and my dad in front of the Revere House.

my daughter cate, myself, and my father

The one meeting I looked forward to was a bust. It was a lecture given by an Associate Professor of Psychiatry at Harvard, and the subject was:
Treatment of Bi-Polar Disorder in the Alcoholic and Addict Population.
This is a subject near and dear to my heart, and other parts of my anatomy such as my liver.
Sadly the doc delivering the lecture was possibly the lamest speaker it has ever been my misfortune to hear. I looked at my dad and he leaned over and said “My God this is the lamest speaker I have ever heard.”
My suspicions were confirmed. The guy was bad.

Unfortunately I learned nothing new. The poor bastard didn’t have any more info than was already available, to both lay persons (that would be me) and physicians and psychiatrists (that would be my dad).
For instance; the rate of suicide for persons suffering a dual diagnosis (addiction and bi-polar) is far greater than that of the general populace or a patient diagnosed with one or the other.
Whoa! No way. This guy is a fucking genius.

No new treatments were discussed, no new meds, no new anything. The speaker was unorganized as well. If I want unorganized there’s always my life to review.

After the meeting I had a cup of coffee and considered heading over to Cheers, on the other side of Boston Common. Where I could have a drink and ponder all of this and of course,
everybody knows my name.

~miss r