Prayers for all!

One of the things I’ve found astounding, working with clients, is their total lack of appreciation that there is a line of demarcation between Friendly Customer Service Representative and Person Who Gives a Shit.

Frequently I receive emails from clients that inform me of some kind of trial or tribulation they are experiencing, some political stance they are sharing with the world, or, you know, stuff that has nothing to do with my job for them.

Today I received a missive calling for love and prayers (and cash donations) because the client’s adult daughter has been hospitalized due to a “critical medical emergency.”

I’ve never met this daughter. I’ve spent time with her parents because they were my clients. I don’t know where they live, if they prefer contemporary oak dining sets to repurposed barn boards and I’m not sure whether they have a dog. But for some reason, I’ve been included in this mass email cause to give a damn about humanity.

This all irritates me considerably as it intrudes upon my consciousness*.

However, my time in reading the whole thing was rewarded as there is a fantastic typo in this heartfelt, massively inappropriate email.

“May Bod bless us all.”

That’s right, the Bod that watches over us and keeps us safe. Thank you, Bod, for all of your blessings.

*that’s right, I got it in!

Matthew McConaughey is My Power Animal

I have an itchy trigger finger when it comes to my emotional outbursts over injustice, contempt, and anger. I get this from my mother. We are both Sagittarius if you put any stock in that Zodiac business. We do — but only when it suits us.

Frequently my mom will call me, like today, simmering and just about ready to boil over about some perceived atrocity that has befallen her. I often call her in a similar state.

I’ve decided lately that this is no way to live and so I tried to talk her down. She kept saying her favorite saying, “I’m just going to be like water.” This of course is a total bastardization of the old proverb (or maybe Bruce Lee said it according to this website) that water doesn’t fight obstacles, it instead goes around them, over them, just wearing those obstacles to nothing and doesn’t let obstacles get it its way. This is great if you are a normal person or maybe Bruce Lee.

However, when we are “like water” my mom and I are really angry, indignant water. It’s not a calming motto or a way of being for my mom and I. Instead, it’s a passive way of dealing with something. Which really isn’t dealing with it at all.

So today I told her, “Don’t be like water. Don’t get all stone-faced and not say anything. This is not the way to be. You need to be like Matthew McConaughey.” And in that moment, I knew I was right.

What would Matthew McConaughey do? Maybe not the real MM, but the MM that lives in our perception. MM would just takes the news, shrug his shoulders, look out at the waves — gives his toes a little wiggle in the sand maybe, and then just say, “Cool. I’ll be over there,” and he’d point to a spot on the beach. “You let me know when you work that out.” And then he’d saunter off (I imagine MM saunters without attitude) to check out a Frisbee game.

This isn’t to say MM doesn’t know when to take a stand. He’s been embroiled in a few legal battles over paparazzi, he has been arrested for “resisting transportation” during the infamous nude-bongo-weed incident, and he’s involved in a lot of charity work, according to his official website.

In fact, he originally went to school to be a lawyer. So it isn’t that he isn’t into justice, a moron, or just wandering around in some catatonic state (well, maybe he is sometimes as he is known to enjoy a little weed here and there), but rather I imagine MM knows when to get cranked up and when to just shrug his shoulders, smile, and see how the waves are doing while everyone else sorts out their shit.

And that is why being like water is bullshit.

Be like McConaughey. Just. Keep. Living.

The Machine That Goes Ping

I am 10 weeks pregnant. Thus, I have to get up, get dressed, leave the house, drive in traffic (none of which are things I normally have to do as a pseudo shut-in remote employee) to go to a doctor’s office for monthly experiments.

Most would call these checkups, but since my Women’s Center is a part of a teaching hospital, the young, happy doctors they send in are residents with the program, we’ll call them experiments as nothing is particularly routine for these kids.
On the one hand, this is great, because they are my age and we have lots in common including a mutual admiration society for adorable boots and wardrobe items.
On the other hand, they must have marked my chart as “client is very knowledgeable about science, reproduction, and is very calm when you tell her the baby might be dead” because EVERY time I go in, they struggle to find life in my body.
Today, my first monthly checkup where I didn’t have to strip naked, they first sent in a nice young guy who told me he’d be shadowing the other resident as it was, like, his first week there. He wielded his stethoscope like a pro, listening to me breathe and stuff, but when it came to Attempting to Measure My Uterus, he sort of held the tape measure against me and then said, “I’m not sure if I’d doing this right, let’s wait for the other resident.”
The other resident came in, another early-30s chick with cute short hair, and she never attempted to measure the uterus. Shadow Boy sat in a chair quietly. Short Hair Chick asked me a bunch of questions and since I’m fine, don’t particularly feel sick and in general am having a really easy pregnancy, she quickly got bored and decided it was time to move on to the Doppler ultrasound to hear the baby’s heartbeat.
So with Shadow Boy finally paying attention, Short Hair Chick readied the device with some very cold lube and started working it around my lower belly. Nothing showing up on the screen. Then she wiped everything off, and tried again. Still nothing. She looked worried. She asked me again if I’d had cramping or bleeding. I said no. I also told her that both the other residents had trouble finding the pregnancy the last time I was in and since we’d had enough of a miscarriage scare then, it was OK, I understood that the pregnancy may have terminated and then soothed Short Hair Chick by saying that the body is good at handling malformed pregnancies and that we understood that at anytime it might jump ship.
She looked relieved. Shadow Boy looked relieved. Then they decided to get another opinion from a more senior resident. Leaving me there on the table with my possibly dead baby, they all left to find the more senior resident.
Then they all came back. Senior resident liked my suede slouch boots. I told her I liked her blouse with the ruffle detail.
She put some freezing cold lube on the device, swooshed it around a few times, looked at Shadow Boy and Short Hair Chick, said, “That’s the heartbeat!’ and they all went, “Oh there it is!”
There was much rejoicing.
I asked Short Hair Chick if she wanted another shot at it as I support feeling successful. She laughed, thought about it, and then said thank you, but that she’d get it next time.
Then we talked about horseback riding for a few minutes — she’s a barrel racer which is pretty bad ass — and then I went home.
Thank god they get to work on me. Can you imagine if you were a high-anxiety pregnant lady with history of miscarriage and it took the Three Stooges to find the heartbeat?
In other news, Shannon Doherty’s new book about How to Be a Baddass is HIGHLARIOUS good fun.

I don’t think it will be fine …

This is an email that came across my desk today. Names have been removed to protect people from harming themselves with pointed objects.

Xxxx, FYI:
Today I printed and mailed the three cover mockups I found in Xxxx Xxxxx cover folder. She wanted to see them and couldn’t wait until you got back. I couldn’t tell if you had mailed it to her or not already…
I explained it to her over the phone that they will be low resolution, the wrong size, the wrong color (sometimes even the wrong book), and full of iStockPhoto watermarks. I think it will be fine…