"If you grab the myth of the underdog by the throat"

Home, curled up under a blanket, and pondering this vast expanse of blank internet. I feel like I have a lot of things to say, but no particular narrative thread ties them together. And I can hear the internet thinking "that's never stopped you before" and it's true. And I'm talking a lot in therapy about how I'm applying the same story to everything, that if I was just a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, things would make sense.

I had a good weekend, I'm anticipating a good weekend. I had excellent lunch at a new vegetarian place in Harvard Square yesterday, there's chili simmering on the stove, and we just got back from watching Studio 60 at Purple's. I even went to a party and had fun. Weird, eh?

Once upon a time, at a party, way back when, at History's batcave, my friend M asked the man that I had a knee-meltingly huge crush on if he wanted to see a trick. Object-of-crush said yes, and M grabbed my hair, wrenched my head back, and bit my neck. The trick, apparently, was making me hit the floor. Simpler days.

I went to the Anne Heaton show without Light on Sunday, which while not a first, was a good move. The show was charming, I got to sit with Purple and her husband for the second half, Veggie Planet's guac was amazing. And now I'm completely obsessed with the song Underdog.

On the down side, my resolve wavered a lot at the dentist yesterday and i started to weep. it's been too, too many years of too many dental surgeries and too many dentists, dental surgeons, periodontists, etc, etc telling me that maybe, if I'm good enough, I'll get to keep my teeth. And I know it's not even the worst thing that's happened to me, much less the worst thing that's happened to anyone I know.

I've got a lot of goddamn cranky-making relationships with medical professionals now. After that last surgery, when it took thirteen needle sticks, some nitro, a neonatal anesthesiologist and forty five minutes to get a line, I developed a bit of a needle-phobia. I can still sit like a trooper for the lovely phlebotomist that I so often give my blood to, but the only way I can is to pretty much scream nonstop at myself throughout the process, telling myself that it isn't really a bad thing happening, that i'm being a wimp and an idiot. But, today, after the third time she had to redo the filling, i just started to weep, and then the dentist told me that nothing was wrong, and it so patently wasn't, but there's really nothing else to say.

It's possible I splurged a little at Porter Square tonight, feeling a little spendy. But now I have a couple cookbooks and a book of vintage postcards of women in hats, which is awesomer than it sounds, and it sounds pretty awesome to start.

"If you grab the myth of the underdog by the throat"

Home, curled up under a blanket, and pondering this vast expanse of blank internet. I feel like I have a lot of things to say, but no particular narrative thread ties them together. And I can hear the internet thinking "that's never stopped you before" and it's true. And I'm talking a lot in therapy about how I'm applying the same story to everything, that if I was just a little bit faster, a little bit smarter, things would make sense.

I had a good weekend, I'm anticipating a good weekend. I had excellent lunch at a new vegetarian place in Harvard Square yesterday, there's chili simmering on the stove, and we just got back from watching Studio 60 at Purple's. I even went to a party and had fun. Weird, eh?

Once upon a time, at a party, way back when, at History's batcave, my friend M asked the man that I had a knee-meltingly huge crush on if he wanted to see a trick. Object-of-crush said yes, and M grabbed my hair, wrenched my head back, and bit my neck. The trick, apparently, was making me hit the floor. Simpler days.

I went to the Anne Heaton show without Light on Sunday, which while not a first, was a good move. The show was charming, I got to sit with Purple and her husband for the second half, Veggie Planet's guac was amazing. And now I'm completely obsessed with the song Underdog.

On the down side, my resolve wavered a lot at the dentist yesterday and i started to weep. it's been too, too many years of too many dental surgeries and too many dentists, dental surgeons, periodontists, etc, etc telling me that maybe, if I'm good enough, I'll get to keep my teeth. And I know it's not even the worst thing that's happened to me, much less the worst thing that's happened to anyone I know.

I've got a lot of goddamn cranky-making relationships with medical professionals now. After that last surgery, when it took thirteen needle sticks, some nitro, a neonatal anesthesiologist and forty five minutes to get a line, I developed a bit of a needle-phobia. I can still sit like a trooper for the lovely phlebotomist that I so often give my blood to, but the only way I can is to pretty much scream nonstop at myself throughout the process, telling myself that it isn't really a bad thing happening, that i'm being a wimp and an idiot. But, today, after the third time she had to redo the filling, i just started to weep, and then the dentist told me that nothing was wrong, and it so patently wasn't, but there's really nothing else to say.

It's possible I splurged a little at Porter Square tonight, feeling a little spendy. But now I have a couple cookbooks and a book of vintage postcards of women in hats, which is awesomer than it sounds, and it sounds pretty awesome to start.