Sunday, December 24, 2006
Friday, December 22, 2006
Dr. Bling Bling -- or -- Acu-PUNCH-me
People talk about acupuncture like it's a miracle cure. Come in once a week, have needles painlessly stuck in your arm, lie down for half an hour, listen to some crappy new age music and you'll lose weight, stop smoking, de-stress and never have any pain! It sounds aesthetically great, too. Signing myself up for an acupuncture appointment to combat my chronic foot pain, I pictured my acupuncturist as pictured a skinny, barefoot woman with frizzy red hair; long frumpy skirt, a peasant blouse and hemp sandals; and a manner that combines intense eye contact with voice that suggests she'd been high since I was in diapers. Are you okay? I might wonder, as she talked to me about positive energy and good karma. Her office would naturally resemble a small, private spa at which I would be the sole guest.
I found the reality of acupuncture (acu-PUNCH-me) to be slightly different.
When I arrived at Dr. UnpronouncableChineselastname's office for my 8:30 a.m. appointment, the lobby suggested to me the Chinese equivalent of my old Jewish relatives' Florida apartments. That is, it was covered in kitschy (or maybe just tacky) ethnically-themed nick-nacks, was overcrowded and smelled slightly off. Despite charging $80 per session and having at least a dozen rooms, the doctor has no use for a receptionist or assistant. So, after waiting for the better part of an hour, I was finally called in.
Squinting down at the tiny, shrivelled man before me, I felt a sudden chill at the thought that he would shortly be piercing my body with small, sharp foreign objects. "All new needles," he drawled in an impossible accent as he pulled a packet of them out of his sports coat pocket. He was wearing an undersized tweedy suit over a clashing plaid shirt, the sleeves of which extended past his jacket, which ended mid-forearm. Fetchingly accessorized by three cell phones clipped onto the front of his belt holster-style, a huge jade Buddha necklace on a thick gold chain and the largest Rolex I've ever seen, complete with free-floating diamonds on its face, the look clearly said Dr. Bling Bling.
All of the friends and random strangers who told me that acupuncture is painless were clearly lying. Why would it not hurt to have 14 needles jammed into your leg and foot? Even if they are "superficial." Then there's the dull, throbbing ache and tingling that continued for the entire hour that I lay on the hard table, listening to the hammering of construction on the floor above. How did I get here? I thought, biting my lip and trying not to cry. I must have actually said it out loud though, because my mother, who had accompanied me deadpanned, "we drove."
That wasn't quite what I had meant, though. I have a deep commitment to cynicism and previously, categorically denied any faith in "alternative" medicine. There's an actual medical basis for acupuncture's effectiveness, but it's clear that the only reason I went was desperation for pain relief. After that moment, my visit took on a darker quality, at least from my perspective.
After the needles were removed, Dr. Bling Bling instructed me to meet him in his office and wait for him. The cramped room was covered with family pictures. The Glamour Shots-esque photos of his blonde American wife sporting 80's mall hair and a denim jacket embellished with rhinestones and the collar upturned and held lovingly in place by her talon-like fake fingernails were menacing, and I mentally cringed at her smug optimism.
The good doctor crept in and sat down to explain how acupuncture works to me. Mumbling unintelligably, he filled a page with complicated equations and I tried to recall my 10th grade trigonometry. Just as I remembered that "ln" was the abbreviation for natural log, he crumpled up the sheet of paper, said that the math should mean absolutely nothing to me and smiled broadly.
I left with a huge bruise on my thigh and the knowledge that in order to see any effect, I needed to come back soon.
My foot still hurts. Desperation. I go back tomorrow.
I found the reality of acupuncture (acu-PUNCH-me) to be slightly different.
When I arrived at Dr. UnpronouncableChineselastname's office for my 8:30 a.m. appointment, the lobby suggested to me the Chinese equivalent of my old Jewish relatives' Florida apartments. That is, it was covered in kitschy (or maybe just tacky) ethnically-themed nick-nacks, was overcrowded and smelled slightly off. Despite charging $80 per session and having at least a dozen rooms, the doctor has no use for a receptionist or assistant. So, after waiting for the better part of an hour, I was finally called in.
Squinting down at the tiny, shrivelled man before me, I felt a sudden chill at the thought that he would shortly be piercing my body with small, sharp foreign objects. "All new needles," he drawled in an impossible accent as he pulled a packet of them out of his sports coat pocket. He was wearing an undersized tweedy suit over a clashing plaid shirt, the sleeves of which extended past his jacket, which ended mid-forearm. Fetchingly accessorized by three cell phones clipped onto the front of his belt holster-style, a huge jade Buddha necklace on a thick gold chain and the largest Rolex I've ever seen, complete with free-floating diamonds on its face, the look clearly said Dr. Bling Bling.
All of the friends and random strangers who told me that acupuncture is painless were clearly lying. Why would it not hurt to have 14 needles jammed into your leg and foot? Even if they are "superficial." Then there's the dull, throbbing ache and tingling that continued for the entire hour that I lay on the hard table, listening to the hammering of construction on the floor above. How did I get here? I thought, biting my lip and trying not to cry. I must have actually said it out loud though, because my mother, who had accompanied me deadpanned, "we drove."
That wasn't quite what I had meant, though. I have a deep commitment to cynicism and previously, categorically denied any faith in "alternative" medicine. There's an actual medical basis for acupuncture's effectiveness, but it's clear that the only reason I went was desperation for pain relief. After that moment, my visit took on a darker quality, at least from my perspective.
After the needles were removed, Dr. Bling Bling instructed me to meet him in his office and wait for him. The cramped room was covered with family pictures. The Glamour Shots-esque photos of his blonde American wife sporting 80's mall hair and a denim jacket embellished with rhinestones and the collar upturned and held lovingly in place by her talon-like fake fingernails were menacing, and I mentally cringed at her smug optimism.
The good doctor crept in and sat down to explain how acupuncture works to me. Mumbling unintelligably, he filled a page with complicated equations and I tried to recall my 10th grade trigonometry. Just as I remembered that "ln" was the abbreviation for natural log, he crumpled up the sheet of paper, said that the math should mean absolutely nothing to me and smiled broadly.
I left with a huge bruise on my thigh and the knowledge that in order to see any effect, I needed to come back soon.
My foot still hurts. Desperation. I go back tomorrow.
Saturday, December 16, 2006
Bloody Hell
Why is it that lately it seems like every other book I pick up is English? Particularly chick lit books. Okay fine, only chick lit books, because let's be honest... they make up the vast majority of my reading material. At first, it was endearing. Aww, she's buying a funky coat and an umbrella and boots, because it's rainy and cold in England! How cute! Now, however, it's starting to get on my nerves. Stop bitching about the weather, get your ass to Florida and get a tan! I have nothing against English people. I'm a fan of several of them in particular, a couple of whom are related to me. I'm just a little sick of reading about them. And I'm more than a little sick of the stupid slang in some of these books. Case in point:
I'm not saying that I want purely American novels, or that I think American chick lit novels are classy. I'd just like to see a new approach to being "cool."
I guess I could just start reading real, non-trashy books. But what would be the fun in that?
- Although I regularly call my mother, I refuse to ever "ring my mum."
- After visiting the "surgery," I do not "pop into the chemist." After going to the hospital, I get my happy pills from the pharmacist. (Or the shady looking guy walking up and down 13th Street... hmm...)
- The South Beach Diet has caused me to lose a bunch of weight, but I could not tell you how many "stones" this is. Pounds, maybe. What is a stone? "Losing a stone" makes me think of losing my earrings, or conversely passing a kidney stone.
- I do not have an arse. I have a (hot) ass.
- Chanukkah is a holiday. New Year's is a holiday. The three weeks I have off from school to celebrate these holidays is not a "holiday." It's a vacation.
- I've never "shagged" or "snogged" anyone in my life. Kissing and fucking though...
- Rather than shouting "bollocks," "shite," or "bloody hell," or "flicking some V's," I'd much prefer a simple fuck off, accompanied by the Florida state bird. Ha.
I'm not saying that I want purely American novels, or that I think American chick lit novels are classy. I'd just like to see a new approach to being "cool."
I guess I could just start reading real, non-trashy books. But what would be the fun in that?
Tuesday, December 5, 2006
Jelly Doughnuts, Disability and the Beach
The only successful diet I've ever been on has a more scientific name... anorexia. So I figured, now that it's five or so years later and I'm headed in the opposite direction, I need a little structure to lose weight. I'm not trying to be flip, but it seriously seems that I have no self-control. But maybe I should backtrack a little...
January 2005 I was with my stoner ex-boyfriend. February 2005 I fell down two stairs (totally sober) and smashed my heel bone. I thought that it would eventually get better, but it hasn't. Months of physical therapy and a fairly unsuccessful surgery later, I was totally depressed. During that time with said stoner ex-boyfriend, many of our weekend (and some weeknight) activities had little variety, if you catch my drift. Which naturally culminated in marathon eating of snack food. Seriously, you haven't lived until you've eaten an entire gallon of Girl Scout cookie ice cream. (That one was worth it.) May 2006 and still disabled and depressed, stoner ex-boyfriend and I made a mutual split. Nice guy and everything, just not for me. Shortly after, I packed up my (too tight) wardrobe and headed for upstate New York for an awesome internship. Very, very upstate though. Practically deserted. Where I was living had more deer than people. Naturally, this made me more depressed than before. Depressed enough to eat practically nothing.
About 10 pounds down, I returned to school and realized that I once again had friends. Depression somewhat lessens, I'm back to overeating, this time minus the herbal flavoring. Still disabled, I can't really engage in the marathon exercising I did before all of this started. This is where my friend the South Beach Diet comes in. As a disclaimer, I'd just like to state that I hate the real South Beach. I think it's dirty, overpriced and generally overrated. About five days ago, I started the South Beach Diet. The first phase of it lasts two weeks and eliminates all carbs except for vegetables, and takes away all sugar, including fruit. I've never had food cravings before (possibly because I was getting more than I strictly needed). But now... all I can think about... are JELLY DOUGHNUTS. In other words, CARBS AND SUGAR. I never even ate jelly doughnuts with any sort of regularity before this diet, but I literally fantasize about them. If you put a dozen Krispy Kreme in front of me right now, I would not be able to stop myself from eating the entire box.
I would drown my sorrows and forget about Krispy Kreme, but you can't drink at all on the first phase of this diet! And in the second phase, you're supposed to have only the occasional glass of red wine. Good thing I like sangria.
It's an effective diet, and I can already tell the difference... but seriously, if I could have a magic power, it wouldn't be flying or invisibility... it would be the ability to remove all the calories, carbs and sugar from food. I think that in addition to making me skinny, cute and popular, I would also be filthy rich.
So screw you, South Beach Diet.... but I still love you.
January 2005 I was with my stoner ex-boyfriend. February 2005 I fell down two stairs (totally sober) and smashed my heel bone. I thought that it would eventually get better, but it hasn't. Months of physical therapy and a fairly unsuccessful surgery later, I was totally depressed. During that time with said stoner ex-boyfriend, many of our weekend (and some weeknight) activities had little variety, if you catch my drift. Which naturally culminated in marathon eating of snack food. Seriously, you haven't lived until you've eaten an entire gallon of Girl Scout cookie ice cream. (That one was worth it.) May 2006 and still disabled and depressed, stoner ex-boyfriend and I made a mutual split. Nice guy and everything, just not for me. Shortly after, I packed up my (too tight) wardrobe and headed for upstate New York for an awesome internship. Very, very upstate though. Practically deserted. Where I was living had more deer than people. Naturally, this made me more depressed than before. Depressed enough to eat practically nothing.
About 10 pounds down, I returned to school and realized that I once again had friends. Depression somewhat lessens, I'm back to overeating, this time minus the herbal flavoring. Still disabled, I can't really engage in the marathon exercising I did before all of this started. This is where my friend the South Beach Diet comes in. As a disclaimer, I'd just like to state that I hate the real South Beach. I think it's dirty, overpriced and generally overrated. About five days ago, I started the South Beach Diet. The first phase of it lasts two weeks and eliminates all carbs except for vegetables, and takes away all sugar, including fruit. I've never had food cravings before (possibly because I was getting more than I strictly needed). But now... all I can think about... are JELLY DOUGHNUTS. In other words, CARBS AND SUGAR. I never even ate jelly doughnuts with any sort of regularity before this diet, but I literally fantasize about them. If you put a dozen Krispy Kreme in front of me right now, I would not be able to stop myself from eating the entire box.
I would drown my sorrows and forget about Krispy Kreme, but you can't drink at all on the first phase of this diet! And in the second phase, you're supposed to have only the occasional glass of red wine. Good thing I like sangria.
It's an effective diet, and I can already tell the difference... but seriously, if I could have a magic power, it wouldn't be flying or invisibility... it would be the ability to remove all the calories, carbs and sugar from food. I think that in addition to making me skinny, cute and popular, I would also be filthy rich.
So screw you, South Beach Diet.... but I still love you.
Tuesday, November 28, 2006
The More Loving One
I had some disconcerting news today, and I haven't really told anyone about it, except for my family. It's one of those things where I need some time to think about it and let it sink in before I can really talk about it. The More Loving One by W.H. Auden is my favorite poem. I particularly identify with the last stanza, because it suggests to me that a person can adjust to almost anything. In a way, it's scary to believe that. But I think it's true.
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
The More Loving One
Looking up at the stars, I know quite well
That, for all they care, I can go to hell,
But on earth indifference is the least
We have to dread from man or beast.
How should we like it were stars to burn
With a passion for us we could not return?
If equal affection cannot be,
Let the more loving one be me.
Admirer as I think I am
Of stars that do not give a damn,
I cannot, now I see them, say
I missed one terribly all day.
Were all stars to disappear or die,
I should learn to look at an empty sky
And feel its total dark sublime,
Though this might take me a little time.
Sunday, November 26, 2006
Wholesome Outdoorsy Type
When I'm in Gainesville, it sometimes seems like my options for things to do are either go to a party, go to a bar, watch a movie, do homework or read a book. When I'm in Boca, it seems like my options are go shopping or lie out on the beach. Invariably, I end up complaining about a lack of things to do. So over Thanksgiving break, I had an assignment for one of my tourism classes to go and visit a Florida State Park and write a short paper about multiple use. I'm not going to transpose my paper, but what I got out of this experience is that there are a ton of things to do! I went to Hugh Taylor Birch State Park and John U. Lloyd State Park, both in South Florida. And while they both do have beach access, they also have things like kayaking, canoeing, short hiking trails, camping and picnic areas. I went kayaking with my dad, and it was awesome. While I've always liked things like this, I never really thought of myself as the wholesome outdoorsy type. But going kayaking and seeing really how pretty a lot of Florida is was great. I'm ready to go back. Here are some pictures from the day.
Friday, November 24, 2006
Home is Where the Heart Was
So, I'm back in Boca for Thanksgiving break... which is interesting because I haven't been here for six months... since before I went to Utica for the summer. It's the longest I've been away from home. And I guess it doesn't quite feel real anymore. Like, my room is ridiculously clean. And I am the messiest person ever. I feel like I need to spend a lot of time with my family, whereas when you live with your family, you regularly feel free to completely ignore them and go out with your friends all the time. Which is odd anyway, because I have a lot fewer friends in Boca than I used to. Mostly, I am hanging out with girls from my sorority who live in South Florida. I mean, I still have a couple of good friends from high school with whom I am still in contact. Other than that, all the casual friendships I've had have pretty much lapsed, with my being away at school for so long. And that's not necessarily a bad thing. That's what happens in life. What gets to me is when close friendships seemingly lapse. Obsessively, I always need to know why something fell apart... but it doesn't always work out that way. For example, I had a close friend in high school with whom I became closer in college. But towards the end of last spring semester, I started hearing less from her. Assuming she was just busy with a ton of school work, I made more of an effort to call her and try to hang out. But she was never available. Eventually, I asked her if anything was wrong; if I had done something to offend her. She denied it, and then after that, I pretty much never saw her again. This drives me crazy! I can't think of anything I did that might have caused this problem with her, and I'd really like to know what happened. But I just can't call her up and demand answers. I just think that if someone was significant to you at some point, you owe them an explanation. Her not saying anything didn't spare my feelings -- I was a bit upset either way. Obviously it was done to spare her own feelings, to spare her from an uncomfortable conversation. Forget that. I think it's always better to straightforward. But my point is that being home is weird. It's always been a little strange coming home from school, but this visit I'm feeling it more, maybe because I'm so much closer to graduation. I'm trying to imagine living here again, and I'm not sure I really want to. But in the mean time, I think I'll hit the beach... and the mall... and the beach...
Tuesday, November 21, 2006
Recycled Poetry
So the other day, I was going through my computer and I found some older stuff, including a sonnet I wrote in 12th grade. I really like it. I want to write more poetry. Here it is:
From a Survivor
'Though in the dewy embers of the last
Few moments of the day the dark appears
To gently take ahold of light and cast
Its sleepy shadow 'round, I see the tears
Once in the dark (they're silhouetted by
The moon) that day has shed to mourn the loss
Of one more chance to make things right. I cry.
But no one hears the sounds I make; the moss
Has grown too thick around for anyone
To even sense my discontent. One should
Not learn the secrets of a sobbing sun
That wallows in its loneliness and could
Not bear to reignite. I do survive-
But oh- I wonder, can this be alive?
I don't really write that much depressing poetry... actually my little sister Allie does that all the time. But I think it could be really cathartic. Also, it might make me more indie. Like Frannie. Teehee! ;o)
From a Survivor
'Though in the dewy embers of the last
Few moments of the day the dark appears
To gently take ahold of light and cast
Its sleepy shadow 'round, I see the tears
Once in the dark (they're silhouetted by
The moon) that day has shed to mourn the loss
Of one more chance to make things right. I cry.
But no one hears the sounds I make; the moss
Has grown too thick around for anyone
To even sense my discontent. One should
Not learn the secrets of a sobbing sun
That wallows in its loneliness and could
Not bear to reignite. I do survive-
But oh- I wonder, can this be alive?
I don't really write that much depressing poetry... actually my little sister Allie does that all the time. But I think it could be really cathartic. Also, it might make me more indie. Like Frannie. Teehee! ;o)
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