I’ve noticed a phenomenon, much more so recently. Members of the male species don’t know what to do when a member of the female species cries.

I’ve noticed this in the past when I’ve gotten into arguments/discussions/heated conversations with boyfriends. There reaches a point when I’m beyond words and I just break down in tears. And the person who moments ago was vehemently opposed to my point of view suddenly is comforting me, consoling me, agreeing with me. I always assumed it was because he, too, had enough of the argument and just wanted it to be over.

Today I realized that it was the tears.

I’ve had an increasingly annoying and persistent cough for the past 5 months. I went to my general practitioner a few times, took 3 rounds of antibiotics, 2 rounds of steroids, and endured dozens of sessions at the acupuncturist, all to no avail. I’m not particularly fond of going to the doctor (hence the persistent cough for 5 months), so when she said, “I can do nothing else. You need to see a specialist,” I avoided it as long as possible. Until I couldn’t stand it anymore.

He came in, greeted me, and asked what was wrong. I gave him the brief outline of my infirm history. He depressed my tongue, asked me to say “Ahhh,” “Ooooh,” “Eeeeee,” then pronouced I couldn’t sing. I laughed. Both at his corny jokes and his outfit. He wore a long white lab coat and an old-fashioned doctor headband, the kind with a silver orb attached. From his stories, I surmised he has been practicing medicine for at least 40 years, maybe more. He asked if I had had cultures and blood work done. I answered negatively to both.

He took what looked like a long, springy q-tip and told me to tilt my head back. As I did, he poked the springy q-tip up my right nostril. I jerked my head forward. “Hey! What are you doing?” He assured me he knew what he was doing, just taking a sinus culture. “I’m good at this – I got an A in this in medical school. Be glad the guy who got a D isn’t doing it.” Ba dum bum. He instructed me to tilt my head back again. He poked the springy q-tip up my left nostril.

Searing pain shot through my head. The tears immediately sprung forth. I grabbed my nose, hoping pressure would halt the intense pain radiating from my sinuses.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.
I looked at him incredulously. “That hurt, that’s what’s wrong,” I sobbed.
“You have a deviated septum. It’s one of the most sensitive parts of the body.”
I continued to cry.
“Don’t cry.”
I stared at him, my tears blurring the silver orb in front of me. “It hurts!” I exclaimed.
At this point he became visibly agitated. He pulled Kleenex from a box and dabbed at my eyes. “Please… please… what can I do?”
“You can let me cry. I need to cry. It hurts.”
He wrung his hands. “Why are you still crying?”
“Because that hurt. I’m okay, I just need to cry for a minute.”

He turned his back to me and fiddled with his instruments for a moment. I sobbed a little more, wiped my eyes, then cleared my throat. “Okay, you can finish now.”

“Are you sure you’re okay?” he hesitantly asked.
I nodded. Sometimes you just have to let people cry.

My most favorite band, EVER, is in a contest at Live2Night.com. If they win, they’ll play at Bottom of the Hill in January. If they don’t win, they’ll probably still play somewhere, just not at Bottom of the Hill in January.

I encourage you to enter the contest and vote for Porkchop Express (voting closes 12/16 – don’t delay!). And, if you’re in the Bay Area, check them out this Thursday at Beale Street Bar at 7:30 pm. Fun times.

As I offered her a gingerbread cookie, she sweetly declined. “Oh, no. I couldn’t. I don’t eat anything with a face. Unless it’s meat.”

A dear friend was relaying a conversation she recently had with her mother.

“Mother, I met someone this weekend, but I’m not telling you anything about him for 3 weeks.”
“Why?”
“Because I really like him. I don’t want to jinx this, and I don’t want you to ruin it.”
“Ruin it? I wouldn’t ruin anything, you little bitch.”

7 am. Drizzly San Francisco street. Me, briskly walking to BART. Him, homeless man, weaving back and forth across the sidewalk, heading towards me.
Him: Mmmmm. MMMMM. Nice legs.
Me: (eyes cast downward, no response)
Him: (coming closer) Yeah. You look good. You look real good. (pause) But I bet you can’t cook.

Moorcheeba. At the Fillmore. Awesome.

Seriously. Something about seeing Jody Sternberg singing then saying, “I can’t believe we’re at the Fillmore,” and laying down on the stage. And singing. And gesticulating. And singing. And the passion.. So much passion. Like she couldn’t believe she was there.

Awesome.

someone googled “i want bigger hips”

and my site came up second, only to a channel 4 news story about being fat. awesome.

…was the color I saw as I extended my arms out in front, then swished them to my sides. To me, swimming is all about numbers. Odd laps are breast stroke, even, crawl. One and a half minutes per lap. Average. The first ones are less, the later ones are more. R237 G28 B36 – the color of my fingernails, a deep red contrasted against the R113 G206 B235 and R0 G124 B197 blues of the tiles of the pool. I come up for air. Mozart is playing over the loudspeaker, 7/8 time. Or is it 3/4? I return under water, concentrating on my breath. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. One stroke, two strokes, three strokes, breathe. Until all laps are done. And I have 37 minutes to shower, dress, and make it to the train.

My car was rifled through last night. No big deal — I must have failed to lock it, because there weren’t any signs of forced entry. It was ransacked, but nothing was destroyed or broken. I think all they took was my CDs, meter change, and maybe a blanket. The funniest part is the visual of a homeless person or ‘hood making off with my fluffy white Hello Kitty CD case filled with folk music. Enjoy, thief!

in the cubicle next to me at work…

“I failed to notice that on your application you checked you had been convicted of a crime.”
pause
“No, that doesn’t necessarily prevent you from being hired, but I can’t read the explanation underneath.”
pause
“Possession of a deadly weapon? Oh. I see. Uhm. What was the weapon?”
pause
“A rooster? Did you just say a rooster?”
pause
“Someone from Texas sent your son a rooster for Easter?”
pause
“The SPCA did what? They came to your house and killed the rooster?”
pause
“They put you in jail for 8 days? For possession of a rooster? Okay.”

A likely story. I can’t wait to meet our new Bird Lady employee. Awesome.