2006-02-10 @ 11:30 a.m.
My friend “G” down in Manhattan and I were chatting online today when I told him that Scarlett Johansson was naked on the current issue of Vanity Fair. He told me he hated Scarlett and now he hated her even more. No reason given. But then I told him that I thought that being photographed naked was going to be the new cool thing to do in Hollywood in 2006, and I just hoped that it didn’t trickle down to such people as Jim Belushi. And then suddenly G typed back ”or Philip Seymour Hoffman” (I had just seen “Capote”),
and I typed “or Rosie O’Donnell”
and he typed, “or Mariah Carey”
and I typed “or Keith Richards”
and he typed “or Michael Jackson”
and I typed “or Nick Nolte”.
Well, you get the general idea.
Its amazing how blase I have gotten about nudity. I guess it has to do with my drawing class and the fact that I see naked people 52 times a year. Different ones. Can you say that? Like oh, there’s a naked girl or naked guy standing there.....yawn. Sure, initially when I starting going, there was a little jolt of electricity when certain people took their clothes off. Particularly young men who would get undressed right in front of you. Most models get undressed in the bathroom and then come out in a robe and then take it off. But for some reason, guys have absolutely no qualms about just stripping down right there in front of you. I kinda like that. :-)
I did go to my art class Wednesday night, but I was feeling a little depressed and none of my buddies were there like “L” the hippie chick or Charlemagne the Obnoxious French Guy and we had a model who I guess you can call a frequent flyer. She bills herself as Ace the Asexual Model, but there’s nothing asexual about her. All the girlie bits are where they should be and she’s terribly skinny which I don’t find very inspirational.
I did talk briefly to J.S. He asked me how I was and told him I was a little under the weather and told him about my impending birthday. He asked if I was doing anything and when I told him my mom was taking me to see an Elvis impersonator he was so incredibly tickled. In fact, it was the most excited I had ever seen JS act. He has a faint Southern drawl and he was all, “My goodness wit-tteee, I just can’t believe how fun that sounds. Your mother sounds so great!” And I was standing there rolling my eyes. yeah, yeah, yeah, whatever. And than JS just had to gleefully tell our Fearless Art Leader about my impending Elvis show and he laughed a little more ironically. He said his parents once bought him and his wife a cruise they didn’t want and they both sat on the deck of the boat for 7 days and made fun of the old people.
Thursday was kind of an up and down day. I got a call from my doctor and actually got some good news. Since starting my new cholesterol medicine several months ago, my cholesterol has dropped from the nearly life threatening 305 to the much better, almost acceptable 194. Yay me! She said my triglycerides were still a little high and to avoid cookies and cakes.
Note to self: Don’t tell anyone about the chocolate cookies I scarfed up in the bulk food department yesterday when I was feeling crappy about not having anyone to make a fuss over me on Valentine’s Day. Ok, I won’t.
But, by and large though, I was happy with the news, since heart disease runs rampant in our family.
And then I headed off for work, all happy, and singing “I Think I Love You” with the Partridge Family on the radio, trying to avoid thinking about the severe snow storm I was driving through and of course, thanking god, that I didn’t end up like Danny Bonaduce. I wasn’t really driving to work to work. I was driving to work for the sole purpose of attending my weekly one hour Empowerment planning meeting. You know, the one whose staff I’m on. Yeah, that one. So I get there at 2:15. Fifteen minutes early of course, because that’s just the kind of girl I am and I see one of the two Jennifers (my new name for my two co-facilitators. It just seems fitting). I ask her where our meeting is going to be and she kind of smiles blandly at me and says, “Jen couldn’t be here today so, we met briefly yesterday. We’re just going to continue on with what we did last week. We set you an e-mail to tell you that.”
Nice. Very nice. They meet without me. They send me an e-mail which I can only access in the office where I only come to Mondays and Fridays. And I drive a nearly 20 mile round trip in a piece of crap car in a raging snow storm reminiscent of the one at the end of “The Shining”.
I did manage to keep my cool, but I was supremely pissed. I told her I don’t have access to my e-mail at home, and that a voice mail would have been MUCH better. You know...(internally) SO I WOULDN’T HAVE TO DRIVE THROUGH A FUCKING RAGING SNOW STORM IN A CAR THAT IS ONLY ONE BOLT AWAY FROM FALLING INTO A HEAP OF SCRAP METAL IF I HIT A SINGLE HALF INCH DEEP POTHOLE.
I am happy that I was able to get my medicine yesterday though. The medicine that keeps me from committing homicide. I wasn’t able to initially. Like millions of Americans, back on January 1st I was kicked off Medicare and shipped off to some mysterious insurance company out in California with a funny name. Being an optimist (see last entry), I assumed that all the meds I take so I won’t attack and kill people (heh, heh...kidding...well, sorta) would be covered. My first batch were, but then I went to refill my clonopin, which is my most important med (its for my intensive anxiety) and when I got to the pharmacy yesterday I heard the words that immediately struck fear into my heart. Instead of “sign here for your prescription”, I heard “$48.24.” I almost fainted. I haven’t paid for meds in years. I’ve always had insurance. Well thanks to dickhead (Bush to Republicans), my new insurance company didn’t cover my most important medicine. It wasn’t on THEIR LIST of approved medicines. Its bad enough that I pay $275/mo (out of $800/mo disability check) for my various health insurances (Medicaid and Medicare), but then to have them reject the thing I need most. I was a little miffed. The pharmacy said they would hold onto my pills for two weeks. I immediately went home and called this new fruity insurance company and laid on my couch for 45 minutes listening to “We appreciate your patience. We want to give you the best service we can. Someone will be with you shortly” followed by disco hits from the 70’s. How many times did Betty Robot voice say that? Oh, about 3000 too many. I finally got to talk to a human. Of course I wasn’t quite ready. I think I was contemplating my navel or something by then, but we did get it squared away and for some reason, even though the med isn’t particularly expensive the co-pay is going to be more expensive than anything else I take.
Lastly I forgot to mention my Monday night painting class at the YMCA. I got there early as usual and even though I’ve already used up my allotment of canvases, our young art boy teacher did give me a new canvas. It was little, but it was FREE (key word), so I sat down and started what was to be my fourth attempt at being Frida Kahlo. I had brought a book of her paintings and wanted to paint some of her fruit, because I would definitely fuck up her face.
So I was sitting alone until Mother Death decided to join me. Ever since the first class this woman has talked aloud to herself relentlessly about her daughter who has died in the last year. I guess she left her with a young kid and everything out of the woman’s mouth is what I would describe as ironic grief. She’s doing a large painting which she describes as Monster Death and His Death Minions chasing her daughter. So I’m sitting there trying to concentrate on my Frida painting, which is more complex than my usual work and she’s saying things like “My daughter wanted to come to class tonight, but she’s buried in a coffin.” Hahahahahahaha. I guess I could have retorted, “Yeah...my cousin’s running a little late too. She died of brain cancer last May and getting a cab to come to the cemetery is hell.”
Sure I can appreciate her need to grieve, but to bring it to an art class, which hopefully is a place of creativity and joy (it is for me at least.), I really wish she would hold onto her pain until she got to a grief counseling group. Listening to her running commentary, which was really bizarre, kind of eeked me out. I don’t even know this woman and she’s telling me all these intimate details about her life and her daughter and their relationship. Man, in the last week, between the lesbian chick and Death Mother, I’m starting to feel like a therapist. The only problem....no ones paying me to be one.
So I did manage to somewhat finish my latest Frida opus. The only problem is the light source on the fruit is coming from the wrong direction. Its coming from the earth instead of the sun. I think the Death Minnions must be doing the lighting direction.
Lyrics by Lennon/McCartney. All angst copyright by awittykitty