Salonul era mai mare decât sala paşilor pierduţi a unui palat de justiţie. Când te mişcai prin el, tocurile îţi pocneau pe dalele de marmură neagră, stârnind ecouri care se traduceri autorizate repetau la nesfârşit. Tavanul acoperit de casetoa-ne îşi înălţa bolta la zece metri de podea, conferind ansamblu-lui înfăţişarea unei catedrale. Era frig chiar şi în plină vară, căci soarele nu reuşea să treacă prin sticla colorată a vitraliilor care traduceri legalizate acopereau fiecare fereastră. O casă construită pentru un colos de doi metri şi zece, o eroare a naturii. Un... monstru?
Acest gând îl făcu pe Georges să-şi muşte buzele şi să arunce din nou o privire pe deasupra umărului stâng. Cărţile, ca nişte cărămizi groase îmbrăcate în piele, tapisau zidul din spatele lui. Rafturile se ridicau până la tavan, ca într-o venera-bilă bibliolecă universitară. Unele dintre ele erau foarte vechi şi valorau azi o adevărată avere. Toate se refereau la vânătoare sau la zoologie.
Erau grele, imposibil de transportat. Câteva, care datau din Evul Mediu, aveau chiar scoarţe din lemn ferecat, cu închiză-tori de oţel. îţi trebuia întreaga forţă pentru a le deplasa. Când încercai să le tragi de pe raftul lor, aveai senzaţia că smulgi o piatră din zid. Georges se rănise foarte grav în copilărie, pro-vocând prăbuşirea unui raft plin cu volume enorme. Tatăl său râsese de el şi îl rugase să se ducă să sângereze în altă parte, nu pe covoarele lui orientale.
O casă construită pentru un uriaş, plină de şifoniere uriaşe, ticsite de costume uriaşe. O casă în care erai condamnat să trăieşti în pielea unui pitic. Totuşi, Georges avea un metru optzeci, ceea ce nu era deloc neglijabil. Când i se întâmpla să traduceri legalizate se aventureze în afara casei, pe străzi şi prin magazine, constata cu o oarecare satisfacţie ca îi domina pe mulţi dintre semenii lui şi că era înalt... Din păcate, această iluzie înceta imediat ce se întorcea acasă, imediat ce era confruntat cu acele fotolii
miercuri, 4 mai 2011
Foraje puturi Bucuresti
Fuseseră aiese doar materiale nobile, lemn masiv, întărit cu ferecături. Unele fotolii erau atât de grele, încât aveai nevoie de trei oameni ca să le poţi deplasa. Georges auzise că în unele ţinuturi, devastate în mod regulat de taifunuri, mobilele sunt foraje puturi prinse cu şuruburi de podea pentru a nu fi luate de trombă. Nu ştia dacă e vorba de un fapt adevărat sau doar de o poveste, dar de un iucru era sigur: ciclonul ar fi putut să treacă peste casa Ior fără să deplaseze din loc nici măcar un fotoliu! Totul fusese aranjat aici o dată pentru totdeauna, după dorinţa lui Wemer Mareuil-Mondesco, în urmă cu treizeci de ani.
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
Georges privi, nervos, peste umăr. Regretă imediat că se lăsase pradă fricii. Stia că această casă se hrănea cu spaima lui şi că el trebuia să se prefacă nepăsător cât mai mult timp posibil. Totuşi, mirosul devenea din ce în ce mai stânjenitor. O duhoare de menajerie, un miros de urină. Probabil că plutea în toată casa, răspândindu-se în valuri greţoase pe culoare, rosto-golindu-se vijelios dintr-o încăpere în alta. Georges se strădui să rămână calm. în ciuda fricii, mâinile, lipite de birou, îi erau uscate şi reci. Nu se simţea deloc în largul lui în fotoliul prea mare.
Deşi împlinise patruzeci şi cinci de ani, avea impresia că e un copil care trebuie tot timpul să se salte în vâii'ul picioarelor pentru a ajunge la obiectele pe care adulţii le aşezaseră astfel încât el să nu poată pune mâna pe ele. Casa fusese construită de Werner, tatăl lui, şj numai pentru sine insuşi. Precum un costum de comandă, nu se putea potrivi nimănui foraje puturi apa altcuiva decât proprietarului ei. Georges se simţea acolo străin, nelalocul lui, ca un cerşetor îmbrăcat cu nişte haine vechi, căpătate. Prea slab, prea mic, parcă plutea în interiorul construcţiei. Şifonie-rele enorme îl dominau ca nişte faleze, ca nişte donjoane. Uşile cu două canaturi, prin care se intra în diferitele încăperi, erau destul de înalte pentru a lăsa să treacă un om călare. Dispropor-ţia penibilă a locuinţei alunga însăşi ideea de intimitate,
Firma de contabilitate
Sarah deschise uşa holului. Nu se putu abţine să adulmece, încercând să detecteze un eventual miros de sudoare. Dar era prea devreme. Casa nu transpira niciodată înainte de miezul nopţii. Georges îi explicase asta de nenumărate ori.
Lăsă pachetele într-un colţ al holului, la picioarele unei armuri. PenduJa arăta şase şi un sfert.
Probabil că era aproape miezul nopţii când casa deveni jilavă. Georges, nemişcat în mijlocul bibliotecii imense, simţi cum mirosul invadează firma de contabilitate treptat încăperea. Un miros greu şi uleios, care îţi făcea greaţă. Rezemat în coate de birou şi cu palmele aşezate de o parte şi de alta a unei enciclopedii groase pe care o răsfoia, Georges se prefăcu a nu observa nimic şi îşi potrivi ochelarii pe nas. Dar panica i se amplifica, făcând să-i danseze în faţa ochilor literele mici de pe pagina presărată cu pete de umezeală, împiedicându-1 să mai citească. Se strădui să-şi controleze respiraţia. Acum era trecut cu două minute de miezul nopţii. O tăcere profundă şi apăsătoare domnea în sala cu pereţii acoperiţi de cărţi. Avea senzaţia că tavanul cobora încet, aidoma unui ciocan cu aburi, ca să-1 strivească, pe el, Georges Mareuil-Mondesco, omuleţul pierdut într-un fotoliu de piele, prea mare pentru el.
Georges detesta mobilierul casei. Megalomania tatălui său dusese la umplerea celor treizeci şi trei de încăperi ale locuinţei cu un mobilier disproporţionat, care părea a fi fost fabricat pentru o armată de giganţi. Totul era prea larg, prea înalt, prea gros. Trebuia să apuci cu amândouă mâinile mânerele sertare-lor ca să le poţi trage, să-ţi soliciţi toţi muşchii ca să deschizi.
Lăsă pachetele într-un colţ al holului, la picioarele unei armuri. PenduJa arăta şase şi un sfert.
Probabil că era aproape miezul nopţii când casa deveni jilavă. Georges, nemişcat în mijlocul bibliotecii imense, simţi cum mirosul invadează firma de contabilitate treptat încăperea. Un miros greu şi uleios, care îţi făcea greaţă. Rezemat în coate de birou şi cu palmele aşezate de o parte şi de alta a unei enciclopedii groase pe care o răsfoia, Georges se prefăcu a nu observa nimic şi îşi potrivi ochelarii pe nas. Dar panica i se amplifica, făcând să-i danseze în faţa ochilor literele mici de pe pagina presărată cu pete de umezeală, împiedicându-1 să mai citească. Se strădui să-şi controleze respiraţia. Acum era trecut cu două minute de miezul nopţii. O tăcere profundă şi apăsătoare domnea în sala cu pereţii acoperiţi de cărţi. Avea senzaţia că tavanul cobora încet, aidoma unui ciocan cu aburi, ca să-1 strivească, pe el, Georges Mareuil-Mondesco, omuleţul pierdut într-un fotoliu de piele, prea mare pentru el.
Georges detesta mobilierul casei. Megalomania tatălui său dusese la umplerea celor treizeci şi trei de încăperi ale locuinţei cu un mobilier disproporţionat, care părea a fi fost fabricat pentru o armată de giganţi. Totul era prea larg, prea înalt, prea gros. Trebuia să apuci cu amândouă mâinile mânerele sertare-lor ca să le poţi trage, să-ţi soliciţi toţi muşchii ca să deschizi.
Traduceri romana araba
Poarta aceea de oţel întărea aspectul „ofi-cial" al clădirii. Era grea, ghintuită, fără broască la vedere. Respingătoare.
Sarah se opri la marginea traducator araba trotuarului, aşteptând culoarea verde a semaforului.
,,Doar douăzeci de metri", numără în gând. ,,Doar cinci-sprezece, doar..." Fiecare pas o apropia de zid şi de poartă. Se uită din nou la ceas. Mai erau încă şase ore până la miezul nopţii. Un răgaz lung şi scurt totodată, dar nu avea traduceri araba puterea să abată cursul evenimentelor. Ca orice dresoare, nu era deloc în deplină siguranţă în interiorul cuştii, aşa că totdeauna trebuia să fie cu ochii în patru, să se gândească la gheara care s-ar fi putut întoarce împotriva ei. In orice clipă.
Când apăsă pe butonul interfonului, se crispă de groază.
- Eu sunt, zise.
Se auzi un bâzâit, şi poarta enormă se deschise, traduceri autorizate araba acţionată de un sistem hidraulic. De fiecare dată când inlra, avea senzaţia că pătrunde într-un seif. De partea cealaltă era parcul, cufundat în întuneric, iar la capătul aleii - casa mare cu obloanele închise.
Tânăra se clătină pe tocurile traduceri legalizate araba înalte. Pachetele o stinghe-reau, îi venea să le arunce într-un tufiş şi să nu-i mai pese de ele.
După felul cum erau aprinse traduceri araba romana luminile, Sarah ghici că el se afla deja în bibliotecă, străduindu-se să-şi sporească frica.
Lui Georges nu-i plăcea că ea ieşea în oraş. Singur, deve-nea mult mai permeabil la fantasme. Nebunia lui îşi lua avânt. Sarah păşi încet pe alee, ghidându-se după luminile casei. Nu-i era frică de întuneric. Nu era ea marea organizatoare a miste-relor nopţii'?
Se poticni încă o dată pe treptele traduceri romana araba de marmură ale scării mari de la intrare, acoperite cu frunze uscate.
Sarah se opri la marginea traducator araba trotuarului, aşteptând culoarea verde a semaforului.
,,Doar douăzeci de metri", numără în gând. ,,Doar cinci-sprezece, doar..." Fiecare pas o apropia de zid şi de poartă. Se uită din nou la ceas. Mai erau încă şase ore până la miezul nopţii. Un răgaz lung şi scurt totodată, dar nu avea traduceri araba puterea să abată cursul evenimentelor. Ca orice dresoare, nu era deloc în deplină siguranţă în interiorul cuştii, aşa că totdeauna trebuia să fie cu ochii în patru, să se gândească la gheara care s-ar fi putut întoarce împotriva ei. In orice clipă.
Când apăsă pe butonul interfonului, se crispă de groază.
- Eu sunt, zise.
Se auzi un bâzâit, şi poarta enormă se deschise, traduceri autorizate araba acţionată de un sistem hidraulic. De fiecare dată când inlra, avea senzaţia că pătrunde într-un seif. De partea cealaltă era parcul, cufundat în întuneric, iar la capătul aleii - casa mare cu obloanele închise.
Tânăra se clătină pe tocurile traduceri legalizate araba înalte. Pachetele o stinghe-reau, îi venea să le arunce într-un tufiş şi să nu-i mai pese de ele.
După felul cum erau aprinse traduceri araba romana luminile, Sarah ghici că el se afla deja în bibliotecă, străduindu-se să-şi sporească frica.
Lui Georges nu-i plăcea că ea ieşea în oraş. Singur, deve-nea mult mai permeabil la fantasme. Nebunia lui îşi lua avânt. Sarah păşi încet pe alee, ghidându-se după luminile casei. Nu-i era frică de întuneric. Nu era ea marea organizatoare a miste-relor nopţii'?
Se poticni încă o dată pe treptele traduceri romana araba de marmură ale scării mari de la intrare, acoperite cu frunze uscate.
Scoala de soferi Bucuresti
Mijlocul marii biblioteci. La miezul nopţii, casa va începe sâ transpire... Totdeauna îneepea aşa. Sudoarea brobonea pielea fotoliilor, îmbrăcămintea cărţilor. EI Ie ştergea frenetic cu o batistă, agitându-se şi suflând zgomotos. Ea stăteaîn umbră, ca de fiecare dată, până în momentul când trebuia să intre în scenă. Fiindcă era şi puţin actriţă, nu-i aşa? Dacă nu vrei să-i superi pe nebuni şi să le stârneşti mânia, trebuie, evident, să ştii să joci teatru.
O pală de vânt agită revistele dintr-un chioşc. Unul dintre titluri o făcu să zâmbească: Jupuitorul umblă pe străzile noastre...
Suna ca un roman-foileton de prin anii treizeci. Un titlu scoala de soferi melodramatic, pentru o poveste incredibilă despre care se vorbea în toată presa, fericindu-i pe ziarişti. Jupuitorul umbla pe străzi, iar ea era într-un... salon de ceai, în compania unor burgheze grase, severe şi puţin cam moleşite.
Pisica siameză adulmeca pachetele îngrămădite Ia piciorul mesei. Acum, lui Sarah i-ar fi fost cam greu să-şi aducă aminte ce anume cumpărase în cursul după-amiezei. Hainele, lenjeria deveneau la apropierea serii nişte accesorii lipsite de impor-tanţă. Le-ar fi putut face cadou unei trecătoare sau le-ar fi putut îngrâmădi în prima pubelă ieşită în cale, dacă nu s-ar fi temut că în felul acesta va atrage atenţia. Pentru că nu-şi putea permite cu nici un preţ să atragă atenţia. De altfel, ăsta şi era motivui pentru care ieşea atât de puţin în oraş.
Se aprinseseră felinarele. Se făcea noapte. în curând vor veni iama, Crăciunul, goana după cadouri, după cumpărături, un ritual de la care ea era exciusă. Dădu resemnată din umeri, plăti şi işi luă de jos pachetele. Pisica mieună deranjată. Ii veni să-i şoptească: ,,Taci. Taci, că altfel îi chem pe Jupuitor..."
Ieşi. Bulevardul şi valul de maşini încă o mai despărţeau de zidul înalt şi cenuşiu. O cazarmă? Un institut?
O pală de vânt agită revistele dintr-un chioşc. Unul dintre titluri o făcu să zâmbească: Jupuitorul umblă pe străzile noastre...
Suna ca un roman-foileton de prin anii treizeci. Un titlu scoala de soferi melodramatic, pentru o poveste incredibilă despre care se vorbea în toată presa, fericindu-i pe ziarişti. Jupuitorul umbla pe străzi, iar ea era într-un... salon de ceai, în compania unor burgheze grase, severe şi puţin cam moleşite.
Pisica siameză adulmeca pachetele îngrămădite Ia piciorul mesei. Acum, lui Sarah i-ar fi fost cam greu să-şi aducă aminte ce anume cumpărase în cursul după-amiezei. Hainele, lenjeria deveneau la apropierea serii nişte accesorii lipsite de impor-tanţă. Le-ar fi putut face cadou unei trecătoare sau le-ar fi putut îngrâmădi în prima pubelă ieşită în cale, dacă nu s-ar fi temut că în felul acesta va atrage atenţia. Pentru că nu-şi putea permite cu nici un preţ să atragă atenţia. De altfel, ăsta şi era motivui pentru care ieşea atât de puţin în oraş.
Se aprinseseră felinarele. Se făcea noapte. în curând vor veni iama, Crăciunul, goana după cadouri, după cumpărături, un ritual de la care ea era exciusă. Dădu resemnată din umeri, plăti şi işi luă de jos pachetele. Pisica mieună deranjată. Ii veni să-i şoptească: ,,Taci. Taci, că altfel îi chem pe Jupuitor..."
Ieşi. Bulevardul şi valul de maşini încă o mai despărţeau de zidul înalt şi cenuşiu. O cazarmă? Un institut?
Fotolii de piele
îl văzuse auscultând pielea fotoliilor şi legăturile de marochin ale cărţilor îngrămădite în bibliotecă. Uneori, chiar se uita fix la propriile lui încălţări, cu o angoasă care îl făcea să se schimonosească. Criza mocnea, fierbea înăbuşit pe margi-nea plitei. Avea să izbucnească în curând, copleşindu-1 cu imagini insuportabile. Si, atunci, din culise va trebui să-şi facă apariţia ea, dresoarea, infirmiera secretă. Va trebui să-i vină în ajutor.
Dar deocamdată bea ceai într-un salonaş snob unde o pisică siameză se freca de picioarele scaunelor. Doamnele spuneau: „O, ce drăgălaşă e!..." Era o nerozie şi era bine, liniştitor.
Ar fi stat acolo zile în şir, să bea lapsang-sushong şi să ronţăie bucăţi mici de tartă.
Ba nu, îi şopti o voce interioară, te-ai plictisi. Stii bine că ai nevoie de cuşca fiarelor, de noapte... de execuţiile secrete.
Asta fusese adevărat mai demult. Astăzi nu mai era chiar atât de sigură. Nu mai era ,,prinsă".
Se aplecă spre geam şi privi mulţimea de pe trotuare. Din interiorul vilei, cu greu ţi-ai fi putut da seama că e atâta lume pe străzi. Treptat, uitai oraşul şi te credeai pe o insulă. Urmări oamenii cu un fel de aviditate, de lăcomie. Păreau plictisiţi, osteniţi. Se vor întoarce la casele lor şi se vor uita la televizor, căscând şi blestemând programele plictisitoare. Asta era viaţa noninală. Preţul liniştii.
Privi la ceas. Criza se va declanşa, probabil, pe la miezul nopţii. Asta era totdeauna ora la care mintea lui Georges începea să se fisureze. Când răsunau cele douăsprezece bătăi, creierul lui făcea explozie, năpădit de valul seismic al fantas-melor, al nebuniei...
Ce va vedea el în seara asta? Nu avea de ce să-şi pună întrebări, programul său era imuabil, ca un mecanism bine reglat. Era destul să închidă ochii ca să-1 vadă agitându-se în
Dar deocamdată bea ceai într-un salonaş snob unde o pisică siameză se freca de picioarele scaunelor. Doamnele spuneau: „O, ce drăgălaşă e!..." Era o nerozie şi era bine, liniştitor.
Ar fi stat acolo zile în şir, să bea lapsang-sushong şi să ronţăie bucăţi mici de tartă.
Ba nu, îi şopti o voce interioară, te-ai plictisi. Stii bine că ai nevoie de cuşca fiarelor, de noapte... de execuţiile secrete.
Asta fusese adevărat mai demult. Astăzi nu mai era chiar atât de sigură. Nu mai era ,,prinsă".
Se aplecă spre geam şi privi mulţimea de pe trotuare. Din interiorul vilei, cu greu ţi-ai fi putut da seama că e atâta lume pe străzi. Treptat, uitai oraşul şi te credeai pe o insulă. Urmări oamenii cu un fel de aviditate, de lăcomie. Păreau plictisiţi, osteniţi. Se vor întoarce la casele lor şi se vor uita la televizor, căscând şi blestemând programele plictisitoare. Asta era viaţa noninală. Preţul liniştii.
Privi la ceas. Criza se va declanşa, probabil, pe la miezul nopţii. Asta era totdeauna ora la care mintea lui Georges începea să se fisureze. Când răsunau cele douăsprezece bătăi, creierul lui făcea explozie, năpădit de valul seismic al fantas-melor, al nebuniei...
Ce va vedea el în seara asta? Nu avea de ce să-şi pună întrebări, programul său era imuabil, ca un mecanism bine reglat. Era destul să închidă ochii ca să-1 vadă agitându-se în
Salon de ceai
Cuvântul acesta i se potrivea exact, nu? Era dresoare şi peste foarte puţin timp avea să se înapoieze în cuşca fiarelor, unde o aştepta Georges Mareuil-Mondesco.
O aştepta, era sigură. în seara asta avea să fie reprezentaţie. Se puteau deja aprinde reflectoarele şi împrăştia rumeguş în arenă.
Rumeguş ca sâ absoarbâ sângele...
Dădu din cap, parcă deranjată de o viespe, şi îşi goli ceaşca. Liniştea i se fisura, dar ea era de vină. Se apropiase prea mult de casă, iar undele nefaste emanate de creierul dezechili-brat al lui Georges trecuseră pe deasupra zidului şi veniseră să o persecute în confortul plăcut al salonului de ceai.
Femeile de la masa vecină o urmăreau, cu buzele strânse. Un moment se întrebă dacă nu cumva î.şi pierduse în aşa măsură sângele rece, încât să vorbeasca cu glas tare. De la o vreme, i se cam întâmpla, în clipele de mare tensiune nervoasă.
- Sunt o dresoare, ar fi avut ea poftă să le strige. Sau mai curând o infumieră. O infinnieră secretă, fără uniformă sau bonetă...
Totuşi avea o uniformă. Georges o pusesc să cumpere una, ca să inducă în eroare. O îmbrăca uneori, câml venea cineva în casă. Dar asta se întâmpla rar. Din cauza muzeului, (reorgesnu mai primea de multă vreme pc nirneni.
O infirmieră secretă, denumirea era bună. () Infirmierâ pe care ar fi trebuit săo îmbrace în cauciuc negru. Strânse <lin dinţi pentru a-şi ascunde râsul nervos.
Simţea o pomire din ce în ce mai mare de a lc ocări pe cliente. Cu ţinuta Ior semeaţă, îi aminteau brusc de fantomele sinistre ivite din trecutul ei intim. ,,Să nu întârziaţi pe strâzi diseară, frumoaselor", îşi zise rânjind. ,,în noaptea asta, fiara va fi slobozită. Ştiu, simt..."
Era sigură că nu se înşeală. Cunoştea perfecl simptomelc. De câteva zile, Georges se agita, se învârtea ca un animal în
O aştepta, era sigură. în seara asta avea să fie reprezentaţie. Se puteau deja aprinde reflectoarele şi împrăştia rumeguş în arenă.
Rumeguş ca sâ absoarbâ sângele...
Dădu din cap, parcă deranjată de o viespe, şi îşi goli ceaşca. Liniştea i se fisura, dar ea era de vină. Se apropiase prea mult de casă, iar undele nefaste emanate de creierul dezechili-brat al lui Georges trecuseră pe deasupra zidului şi veniseră să o persecute în confortul plăcut al salonului de ceai.
Femeile de la masa vecină o urmăreau, cu buzele strânse. Un moment se întrebă dacă nu cumva î.şi pierduse în aşa măsură sângele rece, încât să vorbeasca cu glas tare. De la o vreme, i se cam întâmpla, în clipele de mare tensiune nervoasă.
- Sunt o dresoare, ar fi avut ea poftă să le strige. Sau mai curând o infumieră. O infinnieră secretă, fără uniformă sau bonetă...
Totuşi avea o uniformă. Georges o pusesc să cumpere una, ca să inducă în eroare. O îmbrăca uneori, câml venea cineva în casă. Dar asta se întâmpla rar. Din cauza muzeului, (reorgesnu mai primea de multă vreme pc nirneni.
O infirmieră secretă, denumirea era bună. () Infirmierâ pe care ar fi trebuit săo îmbrace în cauciuc negru. Strânse <lin dinţi pentru a-şi ascunde râsul nervos.
Simţea o pomire din ce în ce mai mare de a lc ocări pe cliente. Cu ţinuta Ior semeaţă, îi aminteau brusc de fantomele sinistre ivite din trecutul ei intim. ,,Să nu întârziaţi pe strâzi diseară, frumoaselor", îşi zise rânjind. ,,în noaptea asta, fiara va fi slobozită. Ştiu, simt..."
Era sigură că nu se înşeală. Cunoştea perfecl simptomelc. De câteva zile, Georges se agita, se învârtea ca un animal în
Clinica psihiatrica
Nevoie decât de 0 bluză albă şi o cămaşă de forţă. O ţinută de clinică psihiatrică.
Gândul 0 făcu să râdă înfundat şi îşi arse buzele sorbind din ceaiul prea fierbinte.
Se întinse ca atunci când îţi cauţi o poziţie confortabilă într-o cadă plină cu apă călduţă. Se tolănea în banalitatea acelui sfârşit de după-amiază liniştită. Se spâla tri ea. Căci de cealaltă parte a bulevardului, în spatele zidurilor înalte care, aidoma unor metereze imposibil de cucerit, închideau vila şi parcul, 0 aştepta ceva murdar. Uneori îi venea să oprească oamenii de pe stradă şi să-i întrebe:
- Stiti ce se află dincolo de aceste ziduri?
Probabil că trecătorii mai întâi s-ar fi strâmbat şi apoi ar fi răspuns:
- O cazarmă? Un institut? O clădire oficială?
Adevărul era că privind de la înălţimea unui om nu aveai
cum să ghiceşti parcul, casa mare şi domul ei ciudat, plin de găinaţul porumbeilor. Nu se putea ghici nimic şi era cu atât mai bine...
Da, oamenii ar fi zis: ,,0 cazarmă..." Iar ea ar fi răspuns:
- N-aţi ghicit! E un templu. Şi, ca în toate templele adevă-
rate, aici se săvârşesc sacrificii.
Dar nu trebuia să se gândească la asta, altfel şi-ar fi văzut fericirea fărâmiţându-se, pierind. Trebuia să continue joaca de-a femeia frivolă - până la capăt, până seara, până în momen-tul în care va fi nevoită să se întoarcă.
Clientele 0 priveau din nou. Se distră închipuindu-şi ce gândeau despre ea: ,,E amanta cutărui publicist... E un top-mo-del... E..."
Ar fi putut să le răspundă:
- Nici vorbă de aşa ceva. Sunt dresoare.
Gândul 0 făcu să râdă înfundat şi îşi arse buzele sorbind din ceaiul prea fierbinte.
Se întinse ca atunci când îţi cauţi o poziţie confortabilă într-o cadă plină cu apă călduţă. Se tolănea în banalitatea acelui sfârşit de după-amiază liniştită. Se spâla tri ea. Căci de cealaltă parte a bulevardului, în spatele zidurilor înalte care, aidoma unor metereze imposibil de cucerit, închideau vila şi parcul, 0 aştepta ceva murdar. Uneori îi venea să oprească oamenii de pe stradă şi să-i întrebe:
- Stiti ce se află dincolo de aceste ziduri?
Probabil că trecătorii mai întâi s-ar fi strâmbat şi apoi ar fi răspuns:
- O cazarmă? Un institut? O clădire oficială?
Adevărul era că privind de la înălţimea unui om nu aveai
cum să ghiceşti parcul, casa mare şi domul ei ciudat, plin de găinaţul porumbeilor. Nu se putea ghici nimic şi era cu atât mai bine...
Da, oamenii ar fi zis: ,,0 cazarmă..." Iar ea ar fi răspuns:
- N-aţi ghicit! E un templu. Şi, ca în toate templele adevă-
rate, aici se săvârşesc sacrificii.
Dar nu trebuia să se gândească la asta, altfel şi-ar fi văzut fericirea fărâmiţându-se, pierind. Trebuia să continue joaca de-a femeia frivolă - până la capăt, până seara, până în momen-tul în care va fi nevoită să se întoarcă.
Clientele 0 priveau din nou. Se distră închipuindu-şi ce gândeau despre ea: ,,E amanta cutărui publicist... E un top-mo-del... E..."
Ar fi putut să le răspundă:
- Nici vorbă de aşa ceva. Sunt dresoare.
Piele neagra
îmbrăcată toată în pieie neagră, cu umerii obrajilor proemi-nenţi, ochii alungiţi şi parcă ceva dintr-o preoteasă egipteană obosită de rugăciuni nesfârşite. Rugâciuni sau sacrificii...
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
Ştia că toate celelalte femei se uită la ea. Le simţea privirile ca pe atingerea uşoară a unor aripi de fluture. Priviri geloase, vindicative. Zâmbi şi amestecăîn ceai cu linguriţa de argint. O ceremonie desuetă, care o liniştea mai bine decât ar fi făcut-o tranchilizantele cele mai eficiente.
işi petrecuse ziua umblând după cumpărături şi făcând o grămadâ dc alte activităţi inutile. Cumpărasc haine, lenjerie fină şi pierduse o oră întreagă căutând ciorapi de o anumită nuanţă cenuşie. Pentru cine? Pentru ce?
Se tot îmbrăcase şi dezbrăcase în spaţiui îngust al cabine-lor de probă, şi de fiecare dată surprinsese în privirea vânzătoa-relor aceeaşi scânteie de admiraţie. Intr-un magazin din cartie-rul Marais, chiar auzise o fată şoptind: ,,Are asta un look!..." Era plăcut să te joci de-a femeia normală. Putca să-şi spună că e soţia trândavă a unui cadru superioi si că i.şi petrece /ilelc frecventând magazinele şi librâriilc-saloanc de ceai unde se vorbeşte cu gura plină despre literatură.
„Marţi, la ora optsprezece, mă duc la cursul de bui fttărie chinezească". visa ea, „Vineri, şedinţa de gimnasticfl tibeta-nă..."
Eraun joc. Jocul de-a f,oamenii normali" ftde fnclată
ce ieşea pe poana vilci. străduindu se să uite totul
marți, 1 februarie 2011
Sad news
I am recovering from a daunting weekend with my usually cold and somewhat calculating sister who I have just realized is on the verge of divorce from her husband of 16 years, 2 kids later. It breaks my heart, truly.
An attorney by trade, my sis has spent her life studiously rising the ranks of the legal profession to today when she can call herself VP Head of Legal for one of the largest natural gas manufacturers in the world, at the wee age of 38. Sounds important huh! The problem is that somewhere along the way she seems to have forgotten her husband behind taking care of their children, now ages 10 and 7, and as a result he (and his non-career) have become a non-contributor to their lives, and a complete bore to hers.
Sad right.
It hurt to see this usually proud woman who spent most of her years growing up strutting around with her superiority complex suddenly crumble and not know what to do or how to get out of a situation she put herself in back when she was merely 23. Without warning here I was, the little (slightly ditzy) sister, offering advise on the professionals next 50 years of life... an interesting turn of fate.
Naturally my biggest concern here being the fact that there are children involved. And not little ones.. preteens who's mother travels constantly and who have grown up depending on their father to take care of them. If my sister goes along with her plan to separate who knows what will happen to those two little ones. I envision this being an ugly, back-stabbing, "you never did anything right" kind of divorce... and that's before my parents even start bringing religion into the mix.
Just so, so sad.
An attorney by trade, my sis has spent her life studiously rising the ranks of the legal profession to today when she can call herself VP Head of Legal for one of the largest natural gas manufacturers in the world, at the wee age of 38. Sounds important huh! The problem is that somewhere along the way she seems to have forgotten her husband behind taking care of their children, now ages 10 and 7, and as a result he (and his non-career) have become a non-contributor to their lives, and a complete bore to hers.
Sad right.
It hurt to see this usually proud woman who spent most of her years growing up strutting around with her superiority complex suddenly crumble and not know what to do or how to get out of a situation she put herself in back when she was merely 23. Without warning here I was, the little (slightly ditzy) sister, offering advise on the professionals next 50 years of life... an interesting turn of fate.
Naturally my biggest concern here being the fact that there are children involved. And not little ones.. preteens who's mother travels constantly and who have grown up depending on their father to take care of them. If my sister goes along with her plan to separate who knows what will happen to those two little ones. I envision this being an ugly, back-stabbing, "you never did anything right" kind of divorce... and that's before my parents even start bringing religion into the mix.
Just so, so sad.
The decline of June 21st
I took the day off from work today after waking up around 3am with a sore throat and sinus headache that kept me gazing at the ceiling for hours. Eventually around 5am I picked up my blackberry, emailed-in sick, popped two Tylenol PM and plopped back into bed for a restful, drug-induced sleep. Flash-forward to 10am and I'm awake, stalling from calling in to my office and wondering "am I really sick like *cough, cough* sick, or could I merely be exhausted?"
Work has literally been kicking my ass over the past few months and I fear the non-stop 8am-thru-7pm schedule I've been keeping may be catching up with me. Problem is, I don't know really how to tear myself away from it. To me, an idle mind means rampant opportunity to wallow in self-pity at my failure as a fertile female and fuck, I've been getting plenty of time to do that during waiting-room downtime at my Doctor's office as I've been going in and out for blood work.
Speaking of blood work, we're all done with that now. Just waiting on results and then (oh joy), I get to do the sono-hysterogram. My crazy-mother's best advise to me on all this is that I should just hold off on all this medical-tra-la-la and put my faith into the hands of "The Infant Baby Jesus". How I came out of that woman's womb astonishes me but I have taken her little amulet and put it on my keychain since I like the way it jingles when it bounces around on all the other mojos I have on there.
In other news my fuck-head superintendent just called to announce that he has given away the 2-bedroom apartment I have been waiting on to another couple that has been living in the building for a longer time than we have which means we now have to move.
I just can't seem to get a break.
Later on this day....
It's now 12:30pm and June 21st is rapidly rising the ranks on my "Suckiest-Days-Ever" list with bad news after bad news trickling in slowly through my cell phone, the most recent being just a little more near and dear to all of our hearts : I have just received a call that my friend Jill who is 36 and has been trying to get pregnant for almost 2 years has been hiding a secret pregnancy which she now seems to be losing at 2 months.
Jill is one of those uber-spiritual gals who love her as I do, annoys the hell out me with her religious mind trips against IVF. The interesting part of her argument is that she isn't overly bothered about the possibility of having to do a reduction due to IVF but is instead hung up over the thought of what she would do with the harvested eggs that she perhaps may not end up fertilizing.
Do you see why this infuriates me.
In my (perhaps damned) mind, it's just an egg, and the fact that is hasn't been fertilized should be a good thing no? I mean, it would've just ended up on a tampon anyways right? I say if you really feel the need, bless it and bury it... shit I think she could probably even donate the damn thing couldn't she?
But no, Jill has decided that IVF defies all of her religious beliefs due to egg-abandonment and refuses to undergo the procedure. Meanwhile, the clocks keep ticking, and now this.
I'm concerned about her. Jill has been an emotional mishmash of a woman over the past few years and while I think it's great that she now knows she can get pregnant, I fear our chances of talking her into IVF have now greatly depreciated due to this pregnancy, and who knows how long it'll take her to conceive again.
It seems the minute we think we're up, life turns around and issues a swift kick right in the ass, lest we get too caught up in our good fortune.
Work has literally been kicking my ass over the past few months and I fear the non-stop 8am-thru-7pm schedule I've been keeping may be catching up with me. Problem is, I don't know really how to tear myself away from it. To me, an idle mind means rampant opportunity to wallow in self-pity at my failure as a fertile female and fuck, I've been getting plenty of time to do that during waiting-room downtime at my Doctor's office as I've been going in and out for blood work.
Speaking of blood work, we're all done with that now. Just waiting on results and then (oh joy), I get to do the sono-hysterogram. My crazy-mother's best advise to me on all this is that I should just hold off on all this medical-tra-la-la and put my faith into the hands of "The Infant Baby Jesus". How I came out of that woman's womb astonishes me but I have taken her little amulet and put it on my keychain since I like the way it jingles when it bounces around on all the other mojos I have on there.
In other news my fuck-head superintendent just called to announce that he has given away the 2-bedroom apartment I have been waiting on to another couple that has been living in the building for a longer time than we have which means we now have to move.
I just can't seem to get a break.
Later on this day....
It's now 12:30pm and June 21st is rapidly rising the ranks on my "Suckiest-Days-Ever" list with bad news after bad news trickling in slowly through my cell phone, the most recent being just a little more near and dear to all of our hearts : I have just received a call that my friend Jill who is 36 and has been trying to get pregnant for almost 2 years has been hiding a secret pregnancy which she now seems to be losing at 2 months.
Jill is one of those uber-spiritual gals who love her as I do, annoys the hell out me with her religious mind trips against IVF. The interesting part of her argument is that she isn't overly bothered about the possibility of having to do a reduction due to IVF but is instead hung up over the thought of what she would do with the harvested eggs that she perhaps may not end up fertilizing.
Do you see why this infuriates me.
In my (perhaps damned) mind, it's just an egg, and the fact that is hasn't been fertilized should be a good thing no? I mean, it would've just ended up on a tampon anyways right? I say if you really feel the need, bless it and bury it... shit I think she could probably even donate the damn thing couldn't she?
But no, Jill has decided that IVF defies all of her religious beliefs due to egg-abandonment and refuses to undergo the procedure. Meanwhile, the clocks keep ticking, and now this.
I'm concerned about her. Jill has been an emotional mishmash of a woman over the past few years and while I think it's great that she now knows she can get pregnant, I fear our chances of talking her into IVF have now greatly depreciated due to this pregnancy, and who knows how long it'll take her to conceive again.
It seems the minute we think we're up, life turns around and issues a swift kick right in the ass, lest we get too caught up in our good fortune.
People just don't GET me
So looks like I've got an NC-17 rating on my blog based on my excessive use of the following words...
- Shit (5x)
- Crack (3x)
- Whore (2x)
- Breast (1x)
I may have to do something about that.
Because I know you'll understand
To my Dearest "K"....
Eleven months ago we sat in the bodega, drinking wine and smoking butts, cracking up with each other as we admitted to ourselves that our lives had become pointless materialistic voids centered around superficial NYC bullshit with no real meaning or purpose. It was that evening over two (6) bottles of wine that we both admitted that we needed to take our lives to the next level... babies were in the near future for us both and oh did we have grand plans!
Within 2 months - was it even that long? - you busted me and outed my early pregnancy (you're so damn perceptive) and you delighted in my joy, toasting my apple juice with your glasses of bubbly. We giggled and hooted about how fertile I was and agonized over your own fertility issues, googling and questioning what could be wrong... why weren't you conceiving?
And then while you were on vacation I lost the baby. That was one of the hardest parts of that loss... and you knew it. The timing was horrible since you were my closest local accomplice and I know it killed us both that we were apart for that. Nevertheless, you came back and we delved into the reasons why, fought back the tears, clinked our glasses and vowed to continue our struggles.. both of us.
And then finally in January you giddily announced your impending arrival to me. I want you to know that I was excited for you.. and still am, and I apologize if I was distant at times. My hurt was still fresh and my tears still not dry.
......And then you moved.
......And then I got pregnant again.
......And then I lost it again.
Today you are 7 months pregnant and now live 4 hours away from me. Your life sounds fabulous and I am so excited every time I speak to you and you tell me more about Isabella-Rose and how much she's growing and wiggling inside of you. I love hearing about baby-yoga and all of the fabulous classes you're taking as you near your due date. I wish nothing but the best for you, E and the baby who is destined to be a knockout, not to mention a scholar.
So here is where my problem lies "K"....
I have recently received your baby shower invitation which is beautiful and so "you". I want so badly to share in your joy but shamefully I must ask you to excuse me since apparantly I am still a selfish, immature, self-centered, egotistical ass and cannot bring myself to sit in a room filled with the joy I so desperatly wanted for myself.
I promise to you that I will come visit you later this year after your little one arrives. Hopefully by then "Dad" and I will have some more concrete reasons as to why this keeps happening and the envy would have subsided with the knowledge of what needs to be done. For now we are living way too much in the unknown and that makes this all the more hard.
I know you get it, coz you're "K" and you're a fabulously understanding, supportive, compassionate and beautiful friend. I know you won't hold this against me and I want you to know it's not that I don't want to be there, I just don't think that I am emotionally ready to be there yet.
I love you girl and again, I'm sorry.
Eleven months ago we sat in the bodega, drinking wine and smoking butts, cracking up with each other as we admitted to ourselves that our lives had become pointless materialistic voids centered around superficial NYC bullshit with no real meaning or purpose. It was that evening over two (6) bottles of wine that we both admitted that we needed to take our lives to the next level... babies were in the near future for us both and oh did we have grand plans!
Within 2 months - was it even that long? - you busted me and outed my early pregnancy (you're so damn perceptive) and you delighted in my joy, toasting my apple juice with your glasses of bubbly. We giggled and hooted about how fertile I was and agonized over your own fertility issues, googling and questioning what could be wrong... why weren't you conceiving?
And then while you were on vacation I lost the baby. That was one of the hardest parts of that loss... and you knew it. The timing was horrible since you were my closest local accomplice and I know it killed us both that we were apart for that. Nevertheless, you came back and we delved into the reasons why, fought back the tears, clinked our glasses and vowed to continue our struggles.. both of us.
And then finally in January you giddily announced your impending arrival to me. I want you to know that I was excited for you.. and still am, and I apologize if I was distant at times. My hurt was still fresh and my tears still not dry.
......And then you moved.
......And then I got pregnant again.
......And then I lost it again.
Today you are 7 months pregnant and now live 4 hours away from me. Your life sounds fabulous and I am so excited every time I speak to you and you tell me more about Isabella-Rose and how much she's growing and wiggling inside of you. I love hearing about baby-yoga and all of the fabulous classes you're taking as you near your due date. I wish nothing but the best for you, E and the baby who is destined to be a knockout, not to mention a scholar.
So here is where my problem lies "K"....
I have recently received your baby shower invitation which is beautiful and so "you". I want so badly to share in your joy but shamefully I must ask you to excuse me since apparantly I am still a selfish, immature, self-centered, egotistical ass and cannot bring myself to sit in a room filled with the joy I so desperatly wanted for myself.
I promise to you that I will come visit you later this year after your little one arrives. Hopefully by then "Dad" and I will have some more concrete reasons as to why this keeps happening and the envy would have subsided with the knowledge of what needs to be done. For now we are living way too much in the unknown and that makes this all the more hard.
I know you get it, coz you're "K" and you're a fabulously understanding, supportive, compassionate and beautiful friend. I know you won't hold this against me and I want you to know it's not that I don't want to be there, I just don't think that I am emotionally ready to be there yet.
I love you girl and again, I'm sorry.
Sunday, the day that fun takes off
God do I hate Sundays.
I hate them with a pissy, pithy, passion.
52 of them in a year, 53 if you're unlucky.
Either way, they're all doom-laden.
Some people love them, some people pray for them, other people pray on them, and every year more and more of us work during them. (enter "Dad").
I have never been a fan of Sundays. In fact I would go as far as to say I hate Sundays almost as much as I hate Mondays. Tuesdays do very little to me, Wednesdays are a little better since Thursdays are right around the corner followed rapidly by Fridays... the *best days* ever.
But Sundays.....
Sundays are perpetual downer days where you sleep in late without a care in the world and then struggle to get to sleep that night. TV schedules are all awry and there's all together wayyyyyyyyyy too much sports on cable. My friends are mostly all recovering from hangovers and not too many are gung-ho to sample exotic Sunday-esq cuisines such as Dim-Sum.
So, I lounge. I read your blogs, I surf the net, cook some food and I lounge some more. B-O-R-I-N-G
You would think that I would pick Mondays as my least favorite day of the week since I dislike having to go to work after a nice weekend, but no. I hate Sundays more, because they are filled with the impending doom of Mondays. Sundays inevitably always ends up being long "ok-well-it’s-almost-Monday-now" waits for the weekend to end.
And now that Sopranos is done, Sundays just got a little worse.
I hate them with a pissy, pithy, passion.
52 of them in a year, 53 if you're unlucky.
Either way, they're all doom-laden.
Some people love them, some people pray for them, other people pray on them, and every year more and more of us work during them. (enter "Dad").
I have never been a fan of Sundays. In fact I would go as far as to say I hate Sundays almost as much as I hate Mondays. Tuesdays do very little to me, Wednesdays are a little better since Thursdays are right around the corner followed rapidly by Fridays... the *best days* ever.
But Sundays.....
Sundays are perpetual downer days where you sleep in late without a care in the world and then struggle to get to sleep that night. TV schedules are all awry and there's all together wayyyyyyyyyy too much sports on cable. My friends are mostly all recovering from hangovers and not too many are gung-ho to sample exotic Sunday-esq cuisines such as Dim-Sum.
So, I lounge. I read your blogs, I surf the net, cook some food and I lounge some more. B-O-R-I-N-G
You would think that I would pick Mondays as my least favorite day of the week since I dislike having to go to work after a nice weekend, but no. I hate Sundays more, because they are filled with the impending doom of Mondays. Sundays inevitably always ends up being long "ok-well-it’s-almost-Monday-now" waits for the weekend to end.
And now that Sopranos is done, Sundays just got a little worse.
Deafening silence
CD 31 and nothing yet.
Crickets over here I tell you.
Don't break out the bubbly yet though lest we forget the smug little bitch has been working on her own schedule since m/c #1.
And the wait goes on..........
UPDATE : Apparently all I needed to do was bitch about the bitch a little to get her to turn up. No worries, I'm not supposed to be knocked up anyways per Doctor's orders. But I do get to call in and schedule to have my undercarriage washed out and examined now.
Anyone else had one of these hysteroscopy things yet?
Crickets over here I tell you.
Don't break out the bubbly yet though lest we forget the smug little bitch has been working on her own schedule since m/c #1.
And the wait goes on..........
UPDATE : Apparently all I needed to do was bitch about the bitch a little to get her to turn up. No worries, I'm not supposed to be knocked up anyways per Doctor's orders. But I do get to call in and schedule to have my undercarriage washed out and examined now.
Anyone else had one of these hysteroscopy things yet?
Party of 3...wait no, 4
I feel like I've abandoned my blog recently which is a surprisingly horrible feeling now that I've been religiously banging away at my keyboard for 6 months... wow, has it really been that long! It's funny how upset I get now when I don't have the time to come pour my thoughts out into cyberspace. This whole journal thing really has become an bizarre form of therapy for me in more than just my reproductive / un-reproductive life. I literally dream of writing when I can't. So I'm sure you understand that my recent sojourn hasn't been for a lack of wanting to speak... au contraire, speak is what I want and want I do best, but my life recently has become all about entertaining those I would rather not have to entertain.
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
Let me explain....
Now that the summer months are here "Dad's" business (construction) has literally blown up on itself to the point that he can barely find qualified workmen fast enough to keep up with the volume of work that keeps streaming in his door. For obvious reasons this is a great thing but the problem herein lies that in order to keep pace, "Dad's" had to bring a friend of his in from DC to live with us and supervise overflow of projects. To make sure that I am expressing myself clearly I feel the need to emphasize that by "live with us" I mean "crash on our couch". Come on, this IS still NYC and lest we all forget that I got duped out of our promised 2 bedroom apartment last week so we're still bunking up in our one'r.
So for the last week and a half my lovely little life of me and "Dad" has now turned into "Dad", me and Dupree... the guy on the couch.
I must admit that I've been quite proud of myself and my alarming patience with this situation since those who know me know I don't "room" well with others. I realize that this is important for "Dad's" business and for that reason and that reason alone I have yet to throw a full on hissy fit. But as time ticks by and the clutter of a crowded apartment starts keeling in on me, I'm starting to notice that my patience is running thin.
You see, this weekend Dupree's girlfriend turned up.
So now, it's "Dad," me, Dupree, and Dupree's Russian girlfriend -- who has decided she'd like to stay another 5 days but who refuses to help wash a dish or contribute in any way whatsoever to the upkeep of a tiny apartment with 4 people and 2 dogs.
Added to all of this, Dupree and (let's call her Nas-tashia -- pronounce with thickest, most drawled out Russian accent possible) also expect that we entertain them which means dinners, drinks, shopping, site seeing, the works. So needless to say that on this Monday morning I am full-on E.X.H.A.U.S.T.ED right about now.
But because I love my man and I know that this boom in his business is seasonal I keep my mouth shut. I have asked him to send Dupree back to DC this weekend with Nas-tashia since I have a friend coming in from out of town who I'd prefer to not have to force to sleep with the dogs, so luckily we'll have a weekend off from those two but it really feels like the constant influx of house guests just isn't ending. Though don't get me wrong... my house guest this weekend is "Dr. Far-Away-But-Fabulous" who I am thrilled to be having come visit me.
I'll take any of my girls over Dupree + Nas-tashia any day of the week!
Pre-hystero-whatever jitters
Because I am frantically nervous about Thursday's hysteroscopy - a word I can barely pronounce - I have been googling like my usual manic self trying to learn as much as possible in an attempt to educate and ease my mind going in. To be fair it seems to be a minimally invasive procedure but since I am a recovering dramatist I feel the inherent urge to get myself worked up. Most people probably wouldn't blink twice at this kind of thing, but admittedly, I’m a total confessed wimp.
So here I sit, ferociously googling when low and behold I come across this not-at-all-comforting and mildly odd image of what looks like Charlie Chaplin, peering up some poor woman's cooch in 1898 through a hollow and obviously illuminated dildo, his nose dangerously close to some demure Victorian woman's plumbing - a place no man should be allowed without at least offering her a minimum of 4 vodka tonics. At least we know the humiliation dates back right girls!
So here's a nice visual for you...
So here I sit, ferociously googling when low and behold I come across this not-at-all-comforting and mildly odd image of what looks like Charlie Chaplin, peering up some poor woman's cooch in 1898 through a hollow and obviously illuminated dildo, his nose dangerously close to some demure Victorian woman's plumbing - a place no man should be allowed without at least offering her a minimum of 4 vodka tonics. At least we know the humiliation dates back right girls!
Thankfully however, I live in 2007 and instead of some mustached dude staring into me from half an inch away I'll get a full-on HD screen with a 5 mega pixel full color camera and surround sound (too far?) view of what's going on in there. I friggin' love technology.
I do have to say though that from all my research the part I'm looking forward to the most is all the farting (queefing) I anticipate given that I will be blown up beyond capacity with gas in order for "Charlie" to get a good look-see at my what-nots and what-have-yous up inside there. I've always wanted to have a valid excuse to just lie around eliminating odorous gases all day, and I guess Thursday/Friday will be that day.
Another blog advises that I purchase myself a sippy cup for the day after since sitting up to drink whilst in recovering might not be very comfortable.
Another blog advises that I purchase myself a sippy cup for the day after since sitting up to drink whilst in recovering might not be very comfortable.
So here's a nice visual for you...
I'll pretty much be spending my recovery in total regression laying around farting all over myself and sipping on my sippy cup.
Oddly, I'm looking forward to it.
That'll be $10 thanks
NOTICE: To those of you who are easily turned off by learning too much about people you vaguely know from the Internet, perhaps you would prefer to navigate to another URL and enjoy the news, gossip or pornography of your liking.
Being a woman infertile woman means that I will, from time to time spend many degrading hours, legs spread-eagled while Dr. So-and-So, and Dr. This-and-That poke, prod, ooh and ahh at the workings and malfunctions of my busted bits.
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
Being a
Today was one of those days ----- multiplied by 10.
My sono-hys started out rather routinely with my sonographer "Dj" measuring my ovaries, uterus and all that muck, swearing that she actually understands what's what and wasn't just making a good guess as to which is a fallopian tube and which is an endometrium. To me it all looks like a gray cloudy floaty mess and sometimes I think they're just imagining what they say they're seeing. Oh right, that's until they predict my baby is going to die and it actually happens... riggggggght, maybe they do know what they're talking about.
After Dj was done she called in the Doctor who's name slips me but who was quite nice and very concerned with keeping me involved in the whole process and not treating me like just another snatch. That was nice of her.
So here's how the whole sono-hys thing works......
After all the measurements were taken they clamped me open with a speculum and with what looked like iodine, proceeded to reach up inside of me to wipe my cervix clean. Odd, I didn't realize it was dirty but I guess it's possible since there have been a lot of people digging around up in there recently and who knows what some nasty little bugger could have left behind.
Once all sparkly clean, my Doc inserted a catheter and started squirting saline solution up inside of me whilst Dj stuck in her slutty-cam and began looking around for malfunctions, misformations and so have you. To be honest the most painful part (if you can call it that) was the insertion of the fluid which felt like someone was pinching my uterus. Maybe someone was... the Doc was giving me some eyes so maybe that was just her way of coyly saying what's up. I guess everyone's got to have an original method of letting you know they care.
After a few minutes of wrinkled foreheads and crossed up brows my Doc finally announced that she wasn't quite sure if what she was seeing was actually there or whether she was imagining it. She needed a second opinion to which I agreed and in came Doc #2. When he couldn't come to any conclusive inference either he invited in Doc #3, Doc #4, and Doc #5, at which point I started charging admission. The way I figure it is that if that many Docs are gonna get off on my exposed parts then I might as well churn a profit. Fuck knows I'll be paying the bills for all this testing for months to come.
So there I lay, legs EVERYWHERE with 5 doctors, 2 residents and Dj, all staring at me with huge question marks floating in a mismatched puzzle above their heads.
Finally they concluded that I should put my pants back on and come back in a month to re-do the same tests.
"WHAT THE FUCK".....I thought, "I just WAITED A MONTH for this test and now these bastards are sending me home with no results".
This was just not acceptable.
But since every shred of decency in my body had already left the building, I quietly walked out of the hospital, head down, crampy and trying my best to hold back the flood gates since crying whilst walking through midtown at 5:30pm is just not kosher. Someone was bound to hastle me and let's just say I was not in a hastling mood. Finally I found a Mc Donalds, tucked myself into the bathroom and broke down, crying out of pure frustration at the fact that no one seemed able to give me a viable answer. Added to this, no one told me that the injected fluid would suddenly start gushing out of me, a mix of iodine, blood and saline solution, all at once without notice. So there I stood in the disgusting Mc D's restroom with streams of water dripping down my face and a concoction of 3 staining my favorite, lucky jeans. Quite a sight.
When, like a God-sent angel, my phone started ringing and it was my regular, fabulous OBGYN calling to let me know that she had also looked at my tests and disagreed with the Doctors at the hospital. There might be a tiny septum (growth of skin) on my uterus, but even if there is, it's so tiny she wouldn't do anything about it. So she has now referred me to a fertility specialist Dr Sign, who will start his onslaught of tests on us both since my thrombophilia results are also in and negative. Her thoughts are that I'm probably just a low progesterone producer and that I should be put on a supplement before trying again. That said, she's still just an OB and doesn't want to make that call on her own. So next steps, Dr. Sign... my first, real male cooch doctor.
Physically exhausted and soaked, I headed over to Bloomingdales to pick up some new pants and of course for a little retail therapy. There's nothing a girl could use more after a discouraging day than new clothes, shoes and makeup.
Don't ya think?
Jackpot
In honor of today's rare (and potentially lucky) 07.07.07 date I thought I'd share some interesting 7's facts with you ladies.....
Not only is 7-7-7 the top slot machine jackpot but it also adds up to 21 in Black Jack. There are 7 days of the week, 7 colors in a rainbow, 7 ancient metals, 7 wonders of the world, 7 planets that can be seen with the naked eye, 7 notes in the traditional musical scale, 7 days of creation in the Bible, and 7 Wonders of the World.
The number seems to carry religious symbolism too. Not only did God create the world in six days and rest on the seventh but Catholics also celebrate seven sacraments and seven virtues. In Jewish weddings the bride circles the groom seven times and the couple has seven days of festive meals. Did I mention that a menorah has 7 candelabras?
In almost every system of antiquity there are also frequent references to the number seven. There were for instance seven ancient planets, the sun being the greatest planet and next to the sun, the moon, changing in all its splendor every seventh day.
The Arabians had seven Holy Temples and in Persian mysteries there were seven spacious caverns through which the aspirants had to pass. The Goths had seven deities, as did the Romans, from whose names are derived our days of the week.
So one can only conclude that this day, which comes only once in a lifetime MUST be a significant and possibly serendipitous day.
Perhaps I'll go buy some scratch tickets... just in case.
Oh, and I think that those of you not currently benched by your Doctors should definitely get to bumpin' uglies today.
Do it for me... come on, take one for the team.
Not only is 7-7-7 the top slot machine jackpot but it also adds up to 21 in Black Jack. There are 7 days of the week, 7 colors in a rainbow, 7 ancient metals, 7 wonders of the world, 7 planets that can be seen with the naked eye, 7 notes in the traditional musical scale, 7 days of creation in the Bible, and 7 Wonders of the World.
The number seems to carry religious symbolism too. Not only did God create the world in six days and rest on the seventh but Catholics also celebrate seven sacraments and seven virtues. In Jewish weddings the bride circles the groom seven times and the couple has seven days of festive meals. Did I mention that a menorah has 7 candelabras?
In almost every system of antiquity there are also frequent references to the number seven. There were for instance seven ancient planets, the sun being the greatest planet and next to the sun, the moon, changing in all its splendor every seventh day.
The Arabians had seven Holy Temples and in Persian mysteries there were seven spacious caverns through which the aspirants had to pass. The Goths had seven deities, as did the Romans, from whose names are derived our days of the week.
So one can only conclude that this day, which comes only once in a lifetime MUST be a significant and possibly serendipitous day.
Perhaps I'll go buy some scratch tickets... just in case.
Oh, and I think that those of you not currently benched by your Doctors should definitely get to bumpin' uglies today.
Do it for me... come on, take one for the team.
Abonați-vă la:
Postări (Atom)