I, Pincushion

It seems like just yesterday I was writing to tell you I was back at the college. Things are winding down and if everything goes as my boss planned, I'll be done on Friday. As one never knows, I'll double check with her and might find out I'm staying longer. Which would make my anemic bank account leap into the air and shout, "Whoo-hoo!"

This month's fourth cycle has been horrendous. I'm on an additional med this time, one that holds off ovulation. It comes from the pharmacist in a tiny 250IU syringe which I must poke into my belly, exactly opposite the site of the shot I give myself five minutes before using my Puregon pen. Although I'm losing weight, I still have a goodly amount of pudge to pinch so I don't feel the poke of cold steel. However the Orgalutran syringe is at least double the size of the pen needle, so it hurts no matter what. The Boy silently cringes as I hop about the livingroom shouting curses to no one in particular. I still laugh when I think back to our Orientation when our caseworker suggested that my partner administer the shots each day. There's no way he would be able to manage that task, and I'm quite honestly happier doing it myself. I swab with alcohol, aim the needle, close my eyes and plunge. Ugh.

Because I'm holding off on ovulation so the one (one!) little follicle has time to grow, they keep close tabs on him/her with multiple ultrasounds. Not the ultrasound you think of, either. It's more.....invasive. So six times in the past week I've gotten up at 5 a.m., gone to give blood (my arms look to the untrained eye like the arms of a drug addict), back home to get ready for work, then off to the hospital for a 9:15 appointment that is always, always at least 45 minutes late. Parking costs a mint, too, so I've drained my poor piggy bank dry of loonies and toonies for the meter. This process is draining in more ways than one, for sure.

I don't think they can hold off on my ovulation for too much longer, so I'll be required to use my vial of HcG soon. That jumpstarts ovulation and is another bloody great self-administered needle. *sigh*

Let's all hope this one works. Is the fourth time the charm?

p.s. Congratulations to blau on her newest journal incarnation!

Small things amuse small minds

It's no fun playing Bookworm if you can't find any of the bad words for points. I did get 210 points for 'git', though.

It's no fun being hit on by cute, 18-year-old, nice-smelling boys when I'm releasing loans if you can't act on it.

It's no fun losing weight when that weight verily runs from your chestal area, leaving your push up bra to LAUGH and LAUGH when you pick it up in the morning.

It's no fun wearing a silk button blouse and having to watch your posture all freakin' day, lest you slouch over like normal causing your buttons to strain against the considerable belly pudge and it all oozes out to the surprise and disgust of your customers. Man, my back is going to ache tonight from sitting ramrod straight all day!

Canadian Model

Every five weeks or so, I have the distinct pleasure of visiting my local salon. Owned by my good friend of 22 years, HD ensures I look as good as possible most of the time. Well, everything being relative.

My hair has been described by some as tortoise shell, which I enjoy immensely. There are about five colours in it now, ranging from a caramel highlight to the darkest of auburn lowlight. I act as a 'model' for my stylist, which means I only pay for product costs. It is then my job to hand out her business cards when someone comments on my do. This keeps me busy, as the comments just keep on comin'.

Last night was one of those alternating visits where I roust the roots, so I go in looking like Cruella DeVille and come out looking like I have a neon sign embedded in my head. It's an interesting change to take place in the space of three hours, for sure; I walk out feeling about five years younger. Since I don't actually pay for the service, I make sure to reward Denise in the tip department. Quite some time ago we agreed that food and various gifts were a much more telling indicator of how I feel for my buddy. Chocolate is always good, as are mix cds and homemade cat treats. Around the holidays, I always arrive with a large bag of goodies for anyone who provided a service for me through the year. They conspratorially tell me that they look forward to seeing me most, since everyone else defaults to bottles of wine or some alcohol. The baseboards of the old house the salon is in are lined with sparkly bottle bags from the front door through to the colour room and into the back where the sinks and the comfy purple chairs reside. It's pretty, but I feel better when they literally run over to the cd player to toss in my latest creation.

Denise's last appointment cancelled on her this time, so I offered her a ride home. On the way, we stopped for some chicken shwarma from the place I like. We've sort of decided to make this a ritual from now on.

Shwarma and bubble tea and no roots showing - what more could a girl want?

Pointing to the loan document in front of the student:

Me:

THIS is the first 60 per cent of your loan, and THIS is the amount we're taking from it to send to the Registrar's Office to pay down your tuition owing. The remainder of your loan is available here exactly halfway through your study period.

Student:

Wait! I'm supposed to get more money than this! I can't live on this for the whole year! Do you expect me to eat my shoes or something? You people are always screwing me over! Every year it's the same thing! I'm going to call my Member of Parliament!

Me: ...

Student:

Oh.

I'm dying

Just kidding. Although flowers and boxes of gooey Laura Secord chocolates wouldn't go amiss right around now.

Mass release is always a killer, but I find I'm less and less tolerant of the toll it takes on my body as the years go by. I suppose it would be easier on me if I didn't insist on working at my usual breakneck speed, but that would just be another kind of pain for me. Once I tried to work at the pace of my incompetent boob co-workers and found it wasn't even physically possible for me. I actually expended more energy trying to deliberately take a beat between keystrokes that by noon I was exhausted.

My shoulders ache, I'm experiencing twinges in the small of my back and the majority of these kids are either lazy or dumb as a post.

I've just gone back and reread what I wrote above. I'm such a freakin' Wendy Whiner, aren't I? I should be grateful to my boss for continually calling me back so I can replenish my damn bank account, since I can't seem to find anyone else who wants to hire me. Plus, when I'm at a job with structured hours I stay on my diet much more than I do when I'm sitting around at home with peanut butter and chocolate calling out to me from the kitchen. I should be grateful, not an ingrate.

Sluggish

The last 'official' weekend of the summer has, for the past 15 years, been full of social functions for me. Not only is it Labour Day but The Boy's birthday. This translates into Birthday Hoopla that comes in a close second to the weeklong celebration of the day my niece Kate was born. Saturday is the cottage with no less than 30 members of my father's side, all drinking and sunning themselves and playing horseshoes and riding their various watercraft and eating. Lord, the eating. Many years ago we switched to potluck so everyone tries to outdo everyone else with their culinary masterpieces. Carefully guarded recipes are pulled out for this occasion, and it's not at all unusual to see cousins harassing their kin with mouths full of coleslaw or trifle, wildly attempting to guess the secret ingredients that make their offering special.

"Chambord? It's chambord, isn't it?

"I taste lime.....or is it coriander seed?"

"You must grow your own parsley because I never buy anything from the store that tastes this good."

Volcano bread, taco salad, honey garlic chicken wings, veggies and dip all make their appearance on the picnic tables hours before dinner is served. We are all encouraged to eat! eat! eat!, except I don't want to, lest I enter the water and sink like a stone. Dinner consists of more salads than you can shake a breadstick at, baked potatoes with sour cream, butter, chives and bacon, thick steaks for the adults and hot dogs or chicken fingers with plum sauce for the kiddies. Devilled eggs, a hollowed out watermelon filled with tiny melon balls, hash brown casserole, lasagna, some tofu monstrosity for the veg-heads and this year a spinach salad with blueberries and sesame seeds (?) appeared as a newcomer.

I was so full as to be uncomfortable. My body's beginning to rebel against large amounts of carbs such as I used to ingest on a regular basis. My heart races and I crave water and ginger ale to replace precious fluids lost by my hypersweating. It's not pretty.

Hours later, as we rolled in the laneway and spent the first 20 minutes inside our front door dealing with the doggies, I was just beginning to feel better. My inner Richard Simmons chided me for overindulging but the little guy in the red suit on my left shoulder comforted me by saying that all Big Girls go superfreaky with the mayonnaise-based salads at one time or another. I plopped down in my wing chair and attempted to find a comfortable position in which to continue the long process of digestion.

The next day was the birthday celebration at Mom and Dad's. Less food, but somehow more carbs. I was a bad, bad girl. I suffered more discomfort and mentally kicked myself around a little more. The only energetic thing I did was a few somersaults on the front lawn with Kate. More ginger ale.

The holiday Monday was a third do at The Boy's mother's house. She doesn't like to go to the houses of her children because she's more comfortable at her home. I, on the other hand, am not. She thinks a/c kills seniors, but acquiesced a few years ago during a really hot spell and got a window unit. It sits in the back room, merrily humming away while the kitchen is truly Hell's Kitchen. The floor fan is my best friend, blowing on the back of my neck and affording me the tiniest bit of comfort. I count the minutes until I can go home and luxuriate in the coolness of my living room. I am anti-social.

Yesterday was back to work and my strict diet schedule and I'm actually relieved. Is it possible to gain back all the weight I've lost over three months in three days?

I'm NOT your Mother, your minister or your personal banker, dude

I'm back at the college, as you know.

We're Mass Releasing loans for the entire month of September. Which basically means I'm seeing around 60 students a day until October, dealing with ID and loan amounts and outstanding tuition and signature pages and missed appointments and the like. It's a zoo, which isn't the awful part. What really toasts my marshmallows is when certain kids don't prepare to come to school, don't live up to their expected student contribution portion of the loan contract and don't care to research the ramifications of taking loans for thousands of dollars. They miss their appointments for release and beg to be fit in, sometimes weeping openly in the hall. Alternately, they become violent, scaring the office staff and involving security in our day. I used to take pity on these poor kids, but now I find they only raise the hackles on the back of my neck. I'm not sure what hackles are, but they're up baby!

Thus endeth the rant. The moral of the story: be a freakin' Boy Scout and always, always be prepared, goddamnit!

Never say never

So, guess where I'm sitting?

If you read me, you've probably already guessed it: I'm back at the college. Heavens preserve me.

Leave a comment and tell me I'm pretty. And that I'm not simply a money ho and that I'm better than this and I should really be doing peacekeeping work in the Middle East or reading to the blind or writing (writing!) for a living. Because right now I'm considering doing myself a mischief with the rough edge of a paper clip.