Not-so laffy Taffy

I just dropped close to $300 at the vet. My black kitty, Taffy, has been favoring her right ear for a while, sometimes crying out when it bothered her. I assumed she had ear mites or an ear infection, and I made her vet appointment at Banfield pet hospital. Her appointment was today at 5pm. The verdict? Taffy has ear mites AND an ear infection, so she’s totally miserable. I’ll have to doctor her ears twice daily for two weeks, which I’m sure she’ll love–especially the ice-cold refrigerated drops. I also got flea meds for both dogs and both cats. I might live on Ramen this week, but my pets will be flea-free and happy.

5 Reasons This Week Was Great

1. I transferred. Rather than working at the crazy-busy twenty-four hour store, I’m now working at a slower, more reasonably paced store. An added bonus? It’s right across the street from the mall, so Preston and I aren’t having any transportation issues with our shared car.

2. I got an awesome Raiders shirt at Old Navy.

3. Last night’s cheese enchiladas were delicious.

4. The weather is cool, crisp, and it FINALLY stopped raining.

5. I saw Paranormal Activity last night, and was still able to get a full night’s sleep once I got home. In case you were wondering, it was very scary. Very. I shrieked, “Oh my GOD!” and “Shut the FUCK up!” along with everyone else. I watched a few people get up and leave the theater after a couple of particularly intense scenes. Should you see it? Totally.

5 Reasons This Week Sucked

1. My pet chinchilla, Kirby, died. Of what? I’m not entirely sure. I think it had something to do with his mouth or teeth, as he had stopped eating and seemed to be drooling slightly. Unfortunately, Knoxville is little more than a glorified college town and exotic vets are, uh, nonexistant. I contacted the College of Veterinarian Medicine at UT, but they didn’t have any appointments available for an entire week. After countless calls, I finally found a vet who would treat a chinchilla, and booked Kirby an appointment for the following morning. He died that night. I cried like a baby (at work, mind you) when I got the text saying he didn’t make it, but was spared the awful task of packing his things away. It was already taken care of by the time I came home from work.

2. I have bronchitis, and I’m coughing. A lot.

3. Oh, and I have a sinus infection, too. I guess it’s two-for-one on heinous, irritating illnesses. I knew I had bronchitis. The hacking, soul-destroying coughs made that pretty clear, but the hidden fluid behind my ears and the throat irritation (which I’d assumed was from coughing constantly) told a different story.

4. I’m now, roughly, the size of Jupiter and warrant my own gravitational pull. I had my BMI analyzed, and I’m…yeah. I should just kill myself now. Coincidentally, my blood pressure and cholesterol are perfectly normal.

5. I worked late and missed True Blood, now I’ll have to wait to watch, because I must go to bed to try to recover from the two-for-one energy-draining illness that has taken hold in my lungs. Fuck.

Ch-ch-ch-changes

Okay, I know I’ve neglected my blog. Once upon a time, I would have felt horribly guilty. Now? Not so much.

The major change in my life: I no longer work at Apple. Want details? I simply realized that, for me, there were no opportunities for advancement, and chose to leave the company, rather than continue on in a part-time capacity. In short, I moved on.

Now I work for Walgreens as a pharmacy technician, as I did four years ago. After ten months in a chronically understaffed pharmacy in one of the poorest, scariest areas in Memphis, I swore that I’d never work in a pharmacy again.

Naturally, things change.

I tried (and tried, and tried) to become full-time at Apple. Finally, finances dictated that I couldn’t continue hoping in vain. Realizing two things–1) I’d been to pharmacy tech school, and 2) I have prior experience as a pharmacy tech–I submitted an application via the Walgreens website. Since I’d let my certification and license lapse, I thought I’d have a difficult time finding work. I was wrong. I received a call the very next day and turned in my notice at Apple a week later.

Life in this pharmacy is very fast-paced. This means my shifts practically fly by, even though I sometimes feel as though I’m perilously close to a mental collapse at any given moment. Luckily, I’ve managed to avoid any unfortunate incidents.

In honor of my new job, I give you a few Random Observations From The Pharmacy:

1. Most of west Knoxville is in pain. We dispense so much hydrocodone, that we’ve jokingly begun to refer to it as Vitamin H.

2. Most of west Knoxville takes Ambien. Apparently, being a snooty soccer mom makes it quite difficult to catch your eight hours.

3. Years later, I still judge people for being on government-funded health care. And I’m not talking about Medicare. This probably makes me a bad person; I should probably care…but, alas, I do not. Please don’t bitch about a three dollar copay on a $2000 medication. Really. Be reasonable.

4. ADD and/or ADHD is overdiagnosed.

5. Everyone should be on a mood stabilizer. I know this sounds a bit extreme, but I’m a much better person now that I take one. Who wouldn’t benefit from a nice, calming dose of “tone it the fuck down?”

6. I hate drive-thru pharmacy more now than I did four years ago. Do me a favor, okay? Don’t treat me like an illiterate fast food jockey because I’m in a drive-thru. For one, I’m not stupid, and I’m pretty sure you want that Valtrex prescription kept quiet. Play nice, and I’ll do the same.

I believe this is all for now, dear friends. Until next time. Stay classy, y’all.

Thursday.

Some days, I like my job. People are friendly and understanding, even when they’re having some sort of trouble. Needing an appointment to speak to someone at the Genius Bar really isn’t the end of the world, and coming back at a later time (or date, even) is perfectly acceptable. And then there are days like today. People are rude and impatient, even when I’m doing my very best to help them. Needing an appointment to speak to a technician is absurd, and it’s perfectly reasonable to throw a hissy because I can’t get you seen ahead of people who have appointments.

By the end of my 9am-5pm shift, I was ready to leave the Apple store for good. I didn’t know what had finally pushed me over the edge—maybe the woman crying over the accidentally damaged screen of her white MacBook, or maybe the belligerent Russian man with the imaginary iPhone problem—but by noon, I was counting the seconds until the end of my workday. When I left, it had just begun pouring rain, and I was drenched by the time I got to my car. Finally, I pulled away from the mall and onto the interstate…which was at a stand-still. My trip home should have taken approximately eight minutes. In reality, it took closer to forty-five.

By the time I began maneuvering the slick backroads near my apartment, the rain had slacked considerably. In fact, visibility had improved so much that I was able to see a freshly killed chipmunk in the road. Seeing its tiny little body, surprisingly unmangled, made me profoundly sad.

Finally home, I tossed my keys onto the kitchen counter with a too much force. They slid across the counter and onto the floor. I left them there.

Product Review-YTC Lip Glosses & Tints

It’s no secret that I love Yes To Carrots products, so I jumped at the chance to review the new line of lip glosses and lip tints–especially when the friendly folks at YTC were willing to ship them directly to my door. Here are my observations:

The glosses are wonderfully sheer and not sticky at all. There’s nothing worse than sticky, goopey lip gloss, and YTC definitely delivered a nice texture. The peppermint oil is great for a slight tingle and a little burst of fresh breath. One huge benefit? The sheer shades work with many (if not all) skin tones.

My favorite shade: Carrot Kiss, a warm peachy tone.

The tints are equally awesome, as the smooth texture reminds me of my beloved YTC lip butter. Again, the shades are sheer-ish, so they could work for just about anyone. Like the gloss, there’s the added coolness of peppermint oil.

My favorite shade: Natural Smile, a shimmery neutral that’s perfect for summer.

Want more?

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25 Random Things

I have neglected my blog, which is inexcusable. Things are looking up, however. I have new posts in the works and will be posting shortly! In the meantime, here is a cross-posted (from Facebook) list of random things about me.

1. On a wild, drunken Spring Break dare, I strutted to the karaoke stage and sang the most recent version of “Lady Marmalade” with another girl. I channeled my inner diva, singing Christina Aguilera’s part (and rapping Lil Kim’s). My encore was “Proud Mary,” complete with dancing, shimmying, and much Tina Turner fierceness.

2. Five years ago, my life goal was to become a pharmacist.

3. Now my life goal is to become a vampire.

4. I should never, ever drink. I don’t drink often, but I don’t know the meaning of “pacing myself,” “restraint,” or “moderation.” Rarely, I’m able to stop at tipsy. More often, I drink until I embarrass myself. My memories of these nights are fuzzy at best, and non-existent at worse…which is probably for the best.

5. I refuse to eat seafood.

6. The tattoo on my inner forearm is something I regret, until I remember how crazy I was when my dad died, how my life was spinning out of control, and how far I’ve come since then.

7. Weddings aren’t my thing. I don’t like to attend them. I refuse to participate in them. I never had one, and never will.

8. I wear a size 10 shoe, but I’m only 5’5.” I find this unfair.

9. If I call you “sugar,” or “sugar pie,” it’s because I like you a lot or because I forgot your name.

10. My favorite day of the week is Sunday, and I prefer to spend it napping, watching football, and reading.

11. I don’t want children.

12. I don’t have guilty pleasures. I like what I like, and am unashamed of that. Hedonism  may not rule my life, but it definitely influences it.

13. I can drop it like it’s hot, even with a bad knee.

14. I was a better, more prolific writer before beginning treatment for bipolar disorder. Sometimes, I consider going off of my medication so I’ll experience the euphoric bursts of creativity that spawned my very best work and kept me awake for days at a time.

15. I want to travel the world; I plan to go visit my brother once he’s stationed in Germany. It is very likely I will turn that trip into a tour of Europe.

16. I refuse to attend my high school reunion.

17. Once I’ve lost weight and had knee surgery, I intend to become a roller girl and a burlesque dancer.

18. I make a terrible blonde, but a fantastic redhead.

19. Being kissed in the rain did nothing to make me appreciate rain. I still hate it.

20. I used to be thin. More than thin, athletic. Now I am a cow, and live by the mantra: Life is too short for self-hatred and celery sticks. Coincidentally, I hate celery nearly as much as I hate raw onions, and even more than I hate raw tomatoes.

21. I get annoyed when people are surprised to find out I’m pierced and tattooed. So I look more like a sorority girl than a goth girl; what’s the big deal? I’m not a stereotype, y’all.

22. I plan to start my sleeve this year. Yes, “sleeve” meaning I will tattoo my arm completely. I bet that’ll make me look less like a sorority girl.

23. Ironically, I was a sorority girl when I attended college in Louisiana.

24. I particularly enjoy telling wild stories of my savage upbringing in the untamed Louisiana bayou-land.

25. It took me four days to compose this list.

Trial By Ice

Last Friday, after a long day at the Apple store, I was in the mood for non customer related entertainment. Safely away from the sales floor and tucked into the top-secret “back of house,” I grabbed my BlackBerry and began to rally the troops. I sent a text inviting a few coworkers to the movies. I received a response instantly, something along the lines of, “How about ice skating instead?” though I can’t remember exactly; the blood had rushed into my face, suffusing my natural pallor with an unattractive flush as I imagined the litany of injuries surely headed my way. I sent a hesitant text-blast to more coworkers and the response was both immediate and enthusiastic.  The majority had spoken, and ice skating seemed to spark something in them, an infectious sort of energy. In the end, I agreed to go.

The Ice Chalet was surprisingly busy for a Friday night, though it shouldn’t have surprised me at all, given the family-friendly nature of it. There were people everywhere, most of them children, and I became agitated at once, wondering if there was a 21+ skating rink in the immediate area. I paid the entrance fee and rented a pair of skates, huge black-and-grey things that looked more suited for rollerblades than ice skates. The women and girls around me had delicate boots with slim blades attached to the bottom, the kind of thing one would expect real figure skaters to wear. My feet looked more like Wayne Gretzky’s than Michelle Kwan’s, but I decided that maybe sturdier skates weren’t necessarily a bad thing. The skate rental did not include protective padding of any sort. I began to fear for both my life and my dignity.

Before being allowed to proceed to imminent injury, a little girl, a frizzy-haired twelve year old who I came to call the Ice Nazi, lectured me on the rules which were clearly posted at various locations around the lounge. I was not to bring food onto the ice, as though I had the coordination to eat and skate at the same time, nor was I to sit on the wall. Sitting on the wall, I would later find out, would bring swift recourse. In seconds, a frightening, disembodied voice would boom through the speaker system, delivering a terrifying mandate directly from the heavens. Teenage girls would scatter in its wake. The wall would be bare, suddenly, left to the neophytes such as myself who were allowed to clutch it for safety and stability.

Finally, laced up, freezing, and terrified, I took my first hesitant step onto the ice and could only break into a triumphant smile when I didn’t fall straightaway. Instead, I began skating hesitantly around the rink, treating the wall like a security blanket, I shuffled along in my dykey, rented hockey skates, people watching and praying I wouldn’t fall. There were many others doing the same, mostly small children, but this did not bother me. I was raised in southern Louisiana; the only popular ice came shaved and soaked in any number of sweet, colorful syrups.

The “advanced” skaters were in the center of the rink. Six-year-olds skating backwards at breakneck speeds. Ten-year-olds performing flawless layback spins. Teenagers leaping and spinning. I hated them immediately. It was brutally unfair, watching the slim teenage girl twirl effortlessly, her orange Hollister hoodie a blur, blond ponytail flying as she landed steadily on the ice after a perfectly executed double something-or-other. I tried to picture myself attempting the simplest of maneuvers, and, despite my sometimes fanciful mind, I saw it ending only one way: in the emergency room.

I forced myself to continue on, cautiously, slowly. Eventually I got brave enough to release my death grip on the wall, though I wouldn’t stray far from it. When it came time to cross the ice–a perilous, bleak prospect, for there was no wall to clutch for support–I stood facing it as though I were walking before a firing squad. I imagined the vivid, red smear of blood I’d leave once I’d crashed face-first into the ice. I made it approximately halfway before falling, and when I did, I was almost offended by the mundaneness of it. It was unremarkable in every conceivable way. There was no arm-flailing fanfare, no moment of suspended gravity, no comical heels-over-head crash to the ice. I slipped, fell to one knee (the bad one), and then sat on the ice, knowing that trying to get up without assistance would only end in disaster. In the end, I fell only once. Not because my skating improved. To think that would be ludicrous. Rather, because, after being helped up by a coworker, I skated to the side, left the ice, and stalked into the bleachers, where I settled in for a good long sulk. I sat there, shivering, for the remainder of the evening.

Great Falls

When my phone rang earlier today, I automatically checked the caller ID, only half-expecting the call to be from my grandmother. I answered, though I was in the middle of a chapter in an intriguing book, and tried to prepare myself for a mentally taxing conversation. She, for the most part, stuck to her script, asking about my hair, my pets, my job, and my car before launching into politics. “I don’t care,” I told her immediately. We’d had this conversation a hundred times before, each instance ending with me telling her that I refuse to discuss politics. She will drop the subject immediately with a conciliatory, “Alright, fine,” and then move on to a universally safe topic: the weather.

Each time I talk to her, she tells me of a terrible storm that had blown through Key West, and today was no different. The wind was howling, she tells me; she feels as though she was in the middle of a hurricane. I have long since decided that she is either a pathological liar, or Key West is the worst place in America. And then she asked, “How’s the weather there?”

I took pleasure in telling her that the weather is gorgeous, that the leaves are turning and it’s only seventy degrees, knowing that Florida is, and always will be, miserably hot. On the phone with her today, while I was gushing about the fine weather, it occurred to me that I love fall. I look forward to it, relish it once it’s arrived, and miss it when it’s gone.

This was not always the case, however, as living in Louisiana meant being accustomed to only three seasons: Summer, Kind-of-Spring, and Almost-Winter. Summer (April-October) was unbearably hot, with temperatures soaring into triple digits and heat advisories more often than not. Almost-Winter (November-February) was definitely more bearable. One day, the leaves would just trickle to the ground, already dead and brown and crumbling, leaving the tall, evergreen pines to tower over the spindly, sinister-looking magnolias and oaks. Not long after, the mild cold would creep in, producing only an occasional frost. Kind-of-Spring (March) seemed to be a one-night ordeal; at bedtime, the flower beds would be barren, the ground tough and unmanageable from the short-and-not-so-hard winter. In the wee hours of the morning, the ground would become lush and fertile, and the impossible-to-kill tiger lilies would push themselves skyward, their orange blossoms aching to catch the first rays of weak sunlight. I’d leave for school, surprised by the sudden appearance of the striped blooms, but not surprised that they had come back, as they do year after year.

In Memphis, fall meant one thing: allergies. It would start with a sore throat, a little tickle of irritation. I’d run to Walgreens and pick up a bag of Hall’s Vitamin C throat drops; they did little to sooth any irritation, but they tasted like candy, so I didn’t complain. Then came the aches associated with any sickness, the ones that make one grumpy and filled with malaise, because, at that point, illness is inevitable. The headaches came next, the unbearable pressure that can only come from allergens and sinus trouble. I’d run to Walgreens and pick up a box of Advil Cold & Sinus, and suddenly find myself incapable of following simple instructions. I habitually overdosed, hoping that the little brown-colored ovoids would take effect sooner, or that it might provide more relief when it finally took effect. One morning, I would wake up and find that I couldn’t breathe, and that my voice sounded remarkably like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. Usually, I’d be fine in a week or so. Occasionally, the sickness would linger, as it did when I developed bronchitis. It took more than a month for that stubborn cough to vanish, and any beauty in the season was lost in my Nyquil haze.

Now I live in Knoxville, and the weather is beginning to change–a real change, not the stealthy, subtle change of a Louisiana “fall.” Here, the hot, bright days of summer are shifting into the cooler, more temperate ones of early fall. The balmy evenings are now laced with a cool breeze, and the temperature is hovering in the upper forties. Before long, that breeze will turn crisp, and I’ll be forced to shop for a new collection of fabulous and sassy sweaters that will keep me warm, fashionable, and, conveniently, hide the midsection that is not diminishing as quickly as I’d like. If I happened to stumble across a devastatingly adorable kelly green mini-trench…well, naturally, I’d have to have it.

I love fall; I love everything about it, the fashion, the weather, the lack of humidity that leaves my hair gorgeous and bouncy and frizz-free. I love it even if it means that all of east Tennessee will be orange, both with turning leaves and Vols fans.

With fall, though, comes a change in mood. The lush vibrancy of spring and summer is waning, the verdancy to be replaced with the earthy, fiery shades of fall. The weather becomes cooler; the food is more rich and savory. Hair loses the golden, sun-kissed shade that speaks of afternoons by the pool or weekends at the beach; tans fade, at least for people who are capable of tanning in the first place. I wouldn’t know what that’s like. The holidays are just around the corner, almost within sight, and I, inexplicably, begin craving cranberry sauce, though I’m not especially fond of Thanksgiving-type food.

With this shift, I begin to feel differently, more creative. The tone of my writing will change. Routine and responsibility become an interference, an interruption that overpowers my whimsical muse. I will want nothing more than to retreat into my apartment, into myself, anxious for solitude, aching to surrender myself to artistry.

In a perfect world, a world where I am, if not independently wealthy, a woman of some means, I would quit my job. I would pack my car with necessities, food, blank journals, and books, and I would head for a mountain cabin nestled in the Smokeys. I would live and breathe my passion, writing at will, only stopping when my creativity had, temporarily, run dry. My mornings would be spent on the deck, snuggled into a grey chenille blanket, my legs tucked beneath me. The early morning sun would spill across the page even as my pen danced along the blank lines. In the afternoon, I would sprawl across the bed, lying on my stomach, reveling in the mild, natural light filtering in through the open windows and the clean, invigorating mountain air. I would write until my hand fell asleep, and then I would nap. When I woke in the early evening, I’d begin writing again. Some evenings, I would succumb to one of my great loves, and I would sit before the television with a glass of wine and immerse myself in the antics of the youthful Upper East Side elite in Gossip Girl, or allow myself to be transported to the sultry Louisiana setting in HBO’s vampire-centric series True Blood.

In reality, my life will be a study in routine. I’ll wake up, contemplate calling in sick, but, ultimately, decide to get out of bed and go to work. I’ll handle unhappy customers and do my best to resuscitate malfunctioning iPods. I’ll handle the busy Christmas season with a modicum of grace, but only because I’m medicated. I’ll come home exhausted, mentally and physically, not bothering to write, knowing that any creative impulse had vanished long ago. It will be business as usual, and I will survive. The knowledge that I have to work to live will war with my compulsion to do what I was meant to do, and I’ll continue as I have, frustrated, trying to force my creativity into lunch hours and days off.