Giant Dwarf vs. The Opposite Sex

So, during a lull in the workday today, my coworker and I were chatting and I was recalling my "hungry manhunter" days. Now, being more than 10 years younger than I, my coworker was probably thinking that I was just being grandiose and how could this old lady possibly have a list of lovers longer than the Rolling Stones' set list?

Well, for better or for worse, it's true. Am I proud? Not really. But I'm not ashamed either.

In January, it will be the 10 year anniversary of my commitment to non-commitment. Just after the new year in our new millennium, I broke up with my boyfriend of eight and a half years. He had been continuing to refuse to marry me, and by then we were living 500 miles apart. I refused to move back to where he was and he refused to move to me. All this refusal left us with only one alternative: to break up. Which I did.

I swore to myself after that that I would not commit to someone until I knew he was the right one. Further, I would never live with a lover again until we were officially engaged with a wedding date. I lived with M for 5 of our 8-1/2 years together and I have literally nothing to show for it (in fact, we lived so independently while we were living together that there was no arguing over anything when we moved....we just kept each of our own stuff).

So, I decided to date like a man. Play the field. If it had three legs, I dated it. Or, more accurately, I "tapped" it. And that's when the men in my life started to be referred to by descriptors rather than names.

The man who came into conversation earlier today was "The Power Ranger." He actually was a Power Ranger for the tour show, not the TV show, but he was a martial artist with some staying power in my life. We didn't break up, as it were, until he was deported back to Japan. But I met him after I had already dated the "G-man" or, as he is now known, the "FBI agent." This guy was the only one my father seemed genuinely excited to meet, but alas, that would never happen. The FBI agent and I pissed each other off with our politics so much that we just drifted apart and back into our bi-partisan corners.

There was the OR Tech, the Fireman (well, more accurately, Firemen), the cop (city), the cop (highway patrol), the cop (another city), and the Mama's Boy. There was the Nurse, the Actor, the Animator, the X-Man (not what you think....go back further, he was ALWAYS happy and in love). There was the Gay Man (that's right, you've dated him too) and the Business Executive.

The Born-Again Christian later became known as The Macaroni Art Guy. He broke up with me because, after we slept together, he realized that I was going to hell and wanted me to accept his lord Jesus Christ as my personal lord and savior. I said that that wasn't going to happen: the wrath of Jesus is nothing compared to the wrath of a Jewish Mother. A couple of months later, though, I guess that he eliminated that criterion because he wrote me a poem on poster board and decorated it with dried flowers and other sundries. It was truly heart-wrenching. In an emotional tizzy, I showed my friend C. the piece and her roommate popped out and declared that it was Macaroni Art. Henceforth, the unfortunate moniker.

But my favorite (nickname, at least) was the One-Armed Hugger. You know him, right? He seemed genuinely interested in me, we had fun on our dates, we had great conversations. But, at the end of each date, he'd open the car door for me and give me a one-armed hug and never anything more. Now, let's be real. I'm pretty well-endowed in the, uh, chest area. Any red-blooded, American straight male would give me a two-armed hug just to cop a cheap feel, regardless if he wants to sleep with me or not. I'm not being conceited in saying this, just noting that I am not naive, and I've certainly witnessed this among other boobilicious women I know. Which means only one thing: The One-Armed Hugger was the second gay man I dated.

Giant Dwarf vs. the Sandman

Okay, for starters, I've been sick for a week. Not the flu, but a really bad cold (worse than usual, I swear) that knocked me on my ass for several days. After 2 and half days off of work and two more scheduled days off, I decided to go back to work. The night before, I was plagued by what can only be called nightmares in my dream oeuvre, but of course I can't remember any of them right now. Suffice it to say, I slept like crap. I went to work hoping for a slow day only to find my hopes were immediately dashed by what might have been one of the worst days ever at work. After dealing with a family of a young woman who died too young (and for no apparent reason), 2 homeless people (one being almost 600 pounds), a psychotic woman and her child, and a baby who decided to pull herself up on the heating grate, I was finally able to go home only an hour early. Mind you, I'm still sick, my head is pounding, I'm slightly nauseous, AND I didn't even get to have a lunch during any of that. So I went home, had a quick meal, and went to bed.

That night I slept fitfully for two hours until I decided to pursue better sleeping through chemistry (thank you, big pharma) and then slept, gasp!, 10 more hours. It was glorious. I woke up refreshed, feeling healthier and went to work. I then was blessed with a not-so-difficult day. Regardless, I'm still coughing a storm and my whole workplace steps about ten feet back whenever I have a fit. I'm not 100% yet, but getting there.

So, I head home last night, watch a DVD and get a few things done. I go to bed at 12:30, a bit later than I wanted to, but still with enough time to get a full night's sleep. I wake up at 1:30. I wake up at 3:30. I hear a beep. A loud beep. I go back to sleep. I wake up at 5:30! WTF?! Seriously?! What is going on? Why am I cult-sleeping? And then.....

BEEP!

BEEP!

Then no beep. Then some time passes and I can't fall asleep.

BEEP! BEEP!

My smoke alarm is letting me know, at 5:30 in the morning, that it wants a new battery. My smoke alarm never runs out of batteries at any other time but very late at night or early in the morning. Just replace the battery, you say!

Oh, I would if I could. But.....the alarm is on the ceiling and, even with my handydandy stepstool, I CAN'T REACH IT! A. is not available, so this really sucks balls. I keep trying to fall asleep, but now that is completely impossible. At 6 am, I start frantically texting people who I think might be awake: a couple of colleagues who come into work early, my 6' friend with the erratic schedule, my friend R. who lives nearby, even the security guard at work (I live closeby). This is just ridiculous. Talk about depending on the kindness of strangers!

R. actually texted me back and said he would come as soon as he can. As I'm waiting for him, I write this blog because, as you can probably already guess, I CANNOT FALL BACK ASLEEP.

Oh, and I haven't heard a beep since 6 am.

Giant Dwarf: The Origin

So, I’d like to blame someone else for this moniker, but the truth is, it came up one day during a slow day at work, when one of the nurses put her hand up against mine and noted (as if I had never heard it before) that I have the tiniest hands she has ever seen. So I came back with the idea that my hands and feet are dwarf-sized, but I am too tall to be a dwarf, so I guess I am a “Giant Dwarf.” This was accepted heartily by the surrounding staff members and the nurse encouraged me to post it on facebook. I did. I am now the Giant Dwarf.

So the next day, she encouraged me to go by “G.D.” Now, in my business, GD is not a good thing. It means “Gravely Disabled” and it buys you at least a 3 day stay in the koo-koo’s nest. That’s not to say I’ve had moments of grave disability. Certainly, there are several nights of debauchery (mostly in my 20s of course) which could have rendered me G.D., and definitely there are times I should have been put away to keep me from some of the decisions I’ve made. But those would have put me under the criterion of “Danger to Self.”

A year ago, my friend gave me the Bad Girls’ daily calendar. It’s really not very helpful....I’m too old for it now and mostly I use it as scrap paper for telephone messages. However, one day I came across the Bad Girl “Power of Love,” in which you basically assign someone to be your power of attorney in the event you find yourself attracted to the most dangerous man or the most stupid man on earth. It’s a good idea. I’d take it one step further, though. Your friends have the power to put you on a hold. They come to your house and put you on a type of house arrest (maybe this would be better at your girlfriend’s house) for three days, with no contact with the offending object of delusional affection, until you come to your senses. If you are still not in your right mind by the end of the 72 hours, it’s time to apply for a 14 day hold, and your friend posse now has to notify your work and family.

You then follow up with occasional outpatient therapy (bitch sessions with your friends) which includes medication (namely, margaritas) and continue doing so until stabilized (kicking the dating-inappropriate-men behavior to the curb). It should be noted, however, that often people are not cured of this illness and typically require lifelong treatment. It is important for the patient (uh, girlfriend) to have a strong support system.

And that’s another reason why I started this blog. One of my strongest supporters is Miss K and she also made me do this. Well, not really. She’s been encouraging me to write for years, so here’s my shot at (non)literary fame. Personally, I think she’s just sick of picking up my pieces and buying me margaritas.

Giant Dwarf vs. Bubbles & Scott Baio

Day 3: Guess who I found in my closet?! Do you remember Rex Smith? Greg Evigan? Robby Benson? Scott Baio? How about Dirk Benedict?

Do you know how much Farrah Fawcett's famous swimsuit poster cost in 1978? It cost three bucks (and that included shipping and handling). Did you know that Willie Aames' favorite Christmas song is "Silent Night?" That Erik Estrada was hoping to find "good luck charms for his necklace" in his Christmas stocking? Do you remember when Linda Ronstadt was dating California Governor Jerry Brown?

Yeah, cool huh? I found a bunch of old Tiger Beat and Teen Beat magazines from 1978 and 1979. A few comic books, too, including a first edition of Logan's Run. I also found a journal I kept in 1992, a children's book that I not only wrote, but also illustrated and bound, back in 1978. I found a paper I wrote on the homeless problem in Arizona from 1985. And I found all of my college papers and blue books.

And as you may have already guessed, I'm not getting rid of these.

But I did manage to purge a few things today. My living room looks like a thrift shop exploded in here. The kitchen was easy. The paper monster is only as scary as I let it be. But the closets? The closets possess the mysteries of a long-extinct civilization.

I managed to 86 an old bathrobe, about two boxes of clothes, a box of shoes (is anyone out there a size 5?), finger paints, a mini-cassette recorder, a TV antenna (guess we don't need those anymore), and jewelry. Jewelry is tough to go through, since I have no idea what the value might be. However, I know full well that if I purchased the bauble myself, it has no value. So there's a bunch of Claire's jewelry ready for donation.

In the process of doing this, I found a light blue, fake fur PowerPuff Girls jewelry box. I've had it for years (I had a PowerPuff Girls obsession back in 2000) but I had no idea what was in it. Opening the lid, the first thing I see is Bubbles, popping up a la the old little girls' jewelry boxes' ballerinas. She doesn't dance, but she's on a spring, so she kind of wiggles. There's a mirror behind her, which is completely useless unless I want to see what the back of Bubbles looks like.

And what is in this classy little jewelry box? Oh, what any girl would have in there. A gold heart, a crystal from Sedona, a package of bindis, a pair of Thumb-Ease massagers, sexy dice which instruct you on what to do and where to do it, and a penis pacifier. Yes, you read that right. A penis pacifier. That's what I've been storing in there all these years.

So, sometime I'll have to tell you about my old job selling sex toys at house parties. Good times.

I'm keeping the Bubbles Box too.

Giant Dwarf vs. The Paper Monster

(First of all, a big hug and thank you to Miss K for being my first fan/subscriber, a decision which I'm sure she'll come to regret in only a few days, but a decision which boosted my ego and made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside.)

So here's how it's going today:

Hello Kitty is a pussycat compared to this challenge. Day 2 of Operation Apartment Purge had no schedule. I knew it was going to be paper-purge and, last night, I slept accordingly. That would be in fits and starts, and with truly weird dreams.

Paper is my nemesis. If I piled all the paper products in my apartment (not including books), I truly believe the pile would be taller than I am. Possibly twice as tall. Going through my paper detritus is an arduous and necessary experience, and it sucks the life out of me, mostly because, as I do it, I have to wonder where I placed my mind while I collected all of these pieces of useless information.

Magazines. As of this moment, I subscribe to the following: BUST and Consumer Reports. I keep these, because I think BUST was a revolutionary 'zine when it first started (and when I picked up my first copy) back in 1993 and because Consumer Reports is also revolutionary mainly for the reasons that they are unbiased and take no advertising revenue. Also, Consumer Reports is actually a useful reference. My mom buys me a yearly subscription to Lilith, and I used to get the Harvard Women's Health Watch. Through various memberships, I get Westways Magazine and Contemporary Sexuality. Keeping up? Wait, it gets better.

I like Los Angeles Magazine, and often think of subscribing, but seeing the list above has convinced me to back off. And, several months ago, I signed up for 2 weeks of unlimited yoga at YogaWorks and then suddenly I began receiving Yoga Journal. Now, really, why? I don't practice often enough to gain any benefit from this magazine, which is clearly targeted to people who not only practice yoga often, but who also have a lot of money. Although, I have to admit that I've been tempted by the multiple ads for the Shakti Mat.....who doesn't want to sleep on a pretty, bright orange bed of nails?

Then, there are the magazines I pick up when I'm feeling particularly low blood sugar. Like, when I was shopping for a wedding gift at the Container Store (like I even need to set foot in that place) and was seduced at the check-out counter by Real Simple. Which is exactly what it is: real simple reading. Unfortunately, I fall victim to this magazine, dog-earring pages I want to come back to, convinced that I need various recipes and appliances.

(Again, those of you who know me may stop laughing now. I do cook every now and then. About once a year or so, so I need recipes for when I am inspired.)

As I went through the magazine, I seriously had to question my sanity in regards to what I had considered important enough to dog-ear: home office tips? Really? I'm currently sitting on the couch, racing against time with my computer battery and listening to heavy metal music. This is my home office. Not some ergonomically correct extra room (which I don't have) with a perfect filing system. If I had that, I seriously doubt I would be battling the Paper Monster (I know what you're thinking, Miss K, but I do believe that I would be a more organized person if I had an extra room).

So I have to go through all these magazines before throwing them in the recycling bin to make sure I'm not tossing anything IMPORTANT. This takes time and kills valuable brain cells.

Oh, it gets worse. Then I found a conference swag bag full of......professional continuing education notes, powerpoint printouts, and vendor information. From last year. More precisely, some were from almost two years ago. Clearly, the education I received at these conferences was really important to my daily professional life. While no one who knows me is likely surprised by this, I do have a rather humorous kicker to this story: not only did I find my Certificate of Completion for one of these conferences, I found my colleague's Certificate as well. We went to the conference in February of this year. Obviously, she got about as much out of it as I did.

Just for shits and giggles, here is what else I found in the conference swag bag: a printout of Hammurabi's Code of Laws (I am not kidding), an article on presidential candidate military service from the September 2004 Vanity Fair (likely stolen from work), a short play by Tony Kushner (from the March 2003 issue of The Nation), some lunatic's 54-page treatise on "The Hidden Side of Psychiatry," and an article on various medical creeds and oaths throughout history (published in 1997, but I'm fairly positive that I haven't had it since then).

Oh, and a teddy bear.

Giant Dwarf vs. Hello Kitty

I've been encouraged by a few people to write a blog, but the reason I'm starting it now is because, when I told C. I was going to take a "staycation" this week and purge stuff from my apartment, she suggested that I blog about it. So this may not be interesting to everyone else, but C. better be reading.

I originally asked for this week off to go to a destination wedding. When I realized that (A) I couldn't bring a date, and (B) I wouldn't know any of the guests, I decided to stay at home and do what I've been needing to do for, well, years.

I come from hoarding stock. Well, only one generation. My grandparents weren't packrats, per se. They had lots of stuff, but I wasn't scared to open the closets. My mother, however, has a problem. My father is continually offering to rent a giant dumpster and get rid of all the collected crap, but my mother laughs it off, clearly hiding the anguish she is experiencing at the thought of this activity.

The good news is, I'm not a terrible hoarder. But I do let things get out of control and have to find time to get them in control. To my credit, I believe some of this has to do with my height. For instance, my kitchen cabinets are so high that I can only reach the first set of shelves. Everything above that requires a step-stool and thus, as new things get added, old things just move to the back. I discovered this today as I tackled my kitchen.

Now, first I must tell you, I made a schedule for this first day of my purge. Why? Well, I may not be a certifiable hoarder, but I am definitely a textbook procrastinator. Left to my own devices, I would sleep till noon, watch movies all afternoon, maybe take a walk, then futz on the computer. Then, around 10:00 pm, I would get this enormous burst of energy, whirl through my tasks, and then leave a mess to deal with in the morning. Thus, a schedule is required.

I did allow myself to sleep in today. For those of you who know my work schedule, you are probably laughing, thinking "Jeez, how much later can she sleep?" Good question. I woke up at my normal waking hour this morning, but the best part was that I got to move slowly and I didn't have to get ready for work.

I'll blog on my battle with the health insurance company another time. It's a whole other entry. Suffice it to say, however, that it put my whole schedule off. I'll also write about my yoga class another time as well....I've just started taking Iyengar Yoga and I truly believe it is a form of torture. Anyhoo.......

The Kitchen. Holy shitballs. I have half a truckbed of stuff just from there. (And many thanks to A. for coming over and helping me, despite his easy distractibility.) Does anyone still use a breadmaker? I actually did use mine....back in 1999. And does anyone know if canned food actually goes bad? I mean, there are sell-by dates on the cans, but really? Wouldn't they still be edible? I got rid of 7 vases, multiple "Tupperware"-like containers, a wine carrier, a lamp (yes, in my kitchen), a juicer (not the fancy kind), cups, tins, a dozen or so mini-liquor bottles (which I gave to A. as compensation for helping me today), oh wow, lots of things. I was doing well until I had my first emotional crisis. It's in the "to go" pile, but I don't know if I can go through with it.

It's my Hello Kitty Sandwich Maker. I love it. I haven't used it in years, but it was well-loved when I did use it. I inaugurated it for White Trash party where I made grilled cheese sandwiches on the press (which emblazoned faces of Hello Kitty on the bread slices) and my friend J. made Spam musubi. We served Strawberry Hill and watched Glitter and Crossroads. It was perfect. And so were the grilled cheese sandwiches. How can I get rid of that kind of memory?

And therein lies the problem. So I'm going to sleep on it. I have three more days of purge. I'm sure I'll see a sign.