nataliedee.com
1.02.2009
12.18.2008
Project Blog It: Red
Red is my favorite color. When it comes to wearing red, it must be a deep blue-red as a yellow-red or orangey-red makes me look sallow and makes me feel rather insipid. I'll wear red shoes (I love my red Dansko clogs)and a red sweater, blouse, or dress, but the thought of red pants make me cringe. Why is that? I have two red berets which seem a bit snooty, but in a good way.
When my grandmother was alive, for years she would send me a red amaryllis on my birthday--every time I see one I think of her and miss her. For 7 years Sophie has sported various leashes, collars and halters--all red. Her winter "coat" is red with spiffy reflector strips on the back. My new LL Bean gym duffel bag is my favorite shade of red with my initials stitched in black. I miss my red wall in my Virginia Manor apartment and I've entertained the thought of buying a red leather club chair, but I'd never sleep on red sheets or eat off red dishes (except at Christmas). I'd love a red Mini convertible with black leather interior and a few pieces of Le Crueset cookware (in red).
I saw red last night at the conclusion of my nephew's (private) school Christmas "pageant" when all the moneybag families were paraded onstage and presented with photographs (even larger copies of which are hung in the school hallways) of their beautiful White children to celebrate their rich fabulousness and noblesse oblige. Red lights and stop signs impede my progress and two red Netflix envelopes just delivered the next two discs of Battlestar Galatica, Season 3. Yes, you read that right. In just about every episode, there's a beatiful, if rather trashy looking Cylon (tall and 0 body fat with blonde hair) who is always wearing a hot red dress.
My favorite apples aren't the deep red ones, but I love tomatoes, strawberries and watermelon. I love red beans,red bell peppers, Red Zinger tea, red leaf lettuce, red chilies and red fish. Not as fond of radishes or ketchup.
When my grandmother was alive, for years she would send me a red amaryllis on my birthday--every time I see one I think of her and miss her. For 7 years Sophie has sported various leashes, collars and halters--all red. Her winter "coat" is red with spiffy reflector strips on the back. My new LL Bean gym duffel bag is my favorite shade of red with my initials stitched in black. I miss my red wall in my Virginia Manor apartment and I've entertained the thought of buying a red leather club chair, but I'd never sleep on red sheets or eat off red dishes (except at Christmas). I'd love a red Mini convertible with black leather interior and a few pieces of Le Crueset cookware (in red).
I saw red last night at the conclusion of my nephew's (private) school Christmas "pageant" when all the moneybag families were paraded onstage and presented with photographs (even larger copies of which are hung in the school hallways) of their beautiful White children to celebrate their rich fabulousness and noblesse oblige. Red lights and stop signs impede my progress and two red Netflix envelopes just delivered the next two discs of Battlestar Galatica, Season 3. Yes, you read that right. In just about every episode, there's a beatiful, if rather trashy looking Cylon (tall and 0 body fat with blonde hair) who is always wearing a hot red dress.
My favorite apples aren't the deep red ones, but I love tomatoes, strawberries and watermelon. I love red beans,red bell peppers, Red Zinger tea, red leaf lettuce, red chilies and red fish. Not as fond of radishes or ketchup.
11.07.2008
Project Blog It: Treat
I haven't blogged in two months, and when I read this week's prompt, I first started thinking about treat in relation to "trick" and as something fun and unexpected. No original thoughts here, but treats can have a dark side, or at least fail to live up to expectation to some degree.
I continue to slowly but surely whittle my physical being down ever smaller and in that pursuit much of what I used to treat myself with is now verboten. A brownie is no longer a treat, but a morass of temptation that will not only add to my ass but would take over an hour on the treadmill to burn off. Not so much a treat anymore.
I treated myself to a massage last week, and had conjured the image of a large and strapping Swedish man or woman prepared to remind my beat-up body that it isn't all about pain. It was a treat, but the experience was less than what I'd imagined as the masseuse was a nerdy guy named "Stuart" or something like that, and was about 5'7" and 110 pounds.
When in California last month, I treated an old friend of mine to a birthday dinner. It was wonderful to see him, but for the first 15-20 minutes together he was still glued to his Blackberry and headset. When we kissed each other goodbye--I felt as much sense of melancholy and potential loss as I did "treated."
I'm dying to treat myself to a new car, a new laptop and a trip to Dallas in January to cheer on Shmonkey in the marathon, but I must first treat myself to replacing a cracked crown, which will be less than a car, but more than a plane ticket. But then again, my Mastercard company just treated me to a bigger credit limit.
It is a treat to now offically live in a blue state, but that's really only on paper. Had there been anything anti-gay equality related on the Colorado ballot as in other states, it would've passed here too. (Although, the proposed constituational amendment that would've given a fertilized egg the same legal status as a born person went down in flames, which was surprising). It is a treat to know Sarah Palin has taken her happy ass back to Alaska, but you know we haven't seen the last of her. Trick or treat indeed.
I continue to slowly but surely whittle my physical being down ever smaller and in that pursuit much of what I used to treat myself with is now verboten. A brownie is no longer a treat, but a morass of temptation that will not only add to my ass but would take over an hour on the treadmill to burn off. Not so much a treat anymore.
I treated myself to a massage last week, and had conjured the image of a large and strapping Swedish man or woman prepared to remind my beat-up body that it isn't all about pain. It was a treat, but the experience was less than what I'd imagined as the masseuse was a nerdy guy named "Stuart" or something like that, and was about 5'7" and 110 pounds.
When in California last month, I treated an old friend of mine to a birthday dinner. It was wonderful to see him, but for the first 15-20 minutes together he was still glued to his Blackberry and headset. When we kissed each other goodbye--I felt as much sense of melancholy and potential loss as I did "treated."
I'm dying to treat myself to a new car, a new laptop and a trip to Dallas in January to cheer on Shmonkey in the marathon, but I must first treat myself to replacing a cracked crown, which will be less than a car, but more than a plane ticket. But then again, my Mastercard company just treated me to a bigger credit limit.
It is a treat to now offically live in a blue state, but that's really only on paper. Had there been anything anti-gay equality related on the Colorado ballot as in other states, it would've passed here too. (Although, the proposed constituational amendment that would've given a fertilized egg the same legal status as a born person went down in flames, which was surprising). It is a treat to know Sarah Palin has taken her happy ass back to Alaska, but you know we haven't seen the last of her. Trick or treat indeed.
9.04.2008
Shorter Sarah Palin
(Did you notice I'm not wearing a manpantsuit?)
JOHN MCCAIN
I'm fecund! (cue to family members, including the not mentioned but frequent camera subject "how-the-hell-did-I-get-here" boy-fiancee) and my GUY kicks ass on a snowmobile!
JOHN MCCAIN WAS A POW!
Barak Obama just a pansy-assed community organizer elitist who might want to protect the Constitution!
Alaska has all the oil we need--come and take it!
Why isn't all America White like us?
JOHN MCCAIN!
I'm FECUND (cue to family again--mental high-five for audience aahhing when daughter who will partly raise the baby licks her palm and smooths the baby's head).
JOHN MCCAIN IS A MAN!
JOHN MCCAIN
I'm fecund! (cue to family members, including the not mentioned but frequent camera subject "how-the-hell-did-I-get-here" boy-fiancee) and my GUY kicks ass on a snowmobile!
JOHN MCCAIN WAS A POW!
Barak Obama just a pansy-assed community organizer elitist who might want to protect the Constitution!
Alaska has all the oil we need--come and take it!
Why isn't all America White like us?
JOHN MCCAIN!
I'm FECUND (cue to family again--mental high-five for audience aahhing when daughter who will partly raise the baby licks her palm and smooths the baby's head).
JOHN MCCAIN IS A MAN!
9.02.2008
Project Blog It: Certitude
I was certain I'd never get around to posting this week. However, yesterday I recalled the words of a man I briefly dated post-divorce: "certainty is the death of creativity." In retrospect, I think he was primarily making a case for never committing. However, this idea has been on my mind.
Some of the most mentally and intellectually sterile people I've ever known are people who live and work out of their certainty that the world as they see it is absolutely reflective of objective reality. It will come as no surprise to those who know me well that this sterile group is composed of a wide variety of Christian evangelical folks. Smart? Kind? Compassionate? Many of them, yes. But creative? Not as much. It is hard to think outside of the box when you believe your box is the only one that matters.
I worked for a woman who was (and likely still is) certain that she was the world's greatest boss, when in fact her likely Axis II diagnosis made working for her an almost daily nightmare. She knew how to make money and she depended upon employees when creativity was needed.
One of the few real certainties in this life is that we all die. Of profound uncertainty of course though, is how and when we will die. For patients referred to our palliaitve care program, a physician needs to comfortably say that he/she wouldn't be "surprised" if the patient died in one year or less. The physicians I work with are never certain that the morphine, oxycodone or methadone they prescribe will adequately manage pain--it requires clear communication with the patient about his/her personal goals and needs as well as creativity and the willingness/ability to think broadly or narrowly as required. I am certain that every time I pick up the phone to call a patient, his or her story will be different and determining an outcome that will best help the patient's position of uncertainty requires creativity on my part.
Some of the most mentally and intellectually sterile people I've ever known are people who live and work out of their certainty that the world as they see it is absolutely reflective of objective reality. It will come as no surprise to those who know me well that this sterile group is composed of a wide variety of Christian evangelical folks. Smart? Kind? Compassionate? Many of them, yes. But creative? Not as much. It is hard to think outside of the box when you believe your box is the only one that matters.
I worked for a woman who was (and likely still is) certain that she was the world's greatest boss, when in fact her likely Axis II diagnosis made working for her an almost daily nightmare. She knew how to make money and she depended upon employees when creativity was needed.
One of the few real certainties in this life is that we all die. Of profound uncertainty of course though, is how and when we will die. For patients referred to our palliaitve care program, a physician needs to comfortably say that he/she wouldn't be "surprised" if the patient died in one year or less. The physicians I work with are never certain that the morphine, oxycodone or methadone they prescribe will adequately manage pain--it requires clear communication with the patient about his/her personal goals and needs as well as creativity and the willingness/ability to think broadly or narrowly as required. I am certain that every time I pick up the phone to call a patient, his or her story will be different and determining an outcome that will best help the patient's position of uncertainty requires creativity on my part.
8.27.2008
The High Five Club
What, really, is with the high-five? It happens to me all the time, but here are about a week's worth of personal high fives:
1) Today, when I set up a Saturday meeting with my personal trainer (I know, I know), he high-fived me, and I hadn't even done anything impressive yet.
2) Last night, when I went to upgrade my membership to the new 24 Hour Fitness SUPER sport club next door, the "consultant" high-fived me when I politely laughed along at a lame joke. It wasn't really even funny, so my for my part it was a pity high-five.
3) I was high-fived by a colleague for arranging for a patient to get a hospice consult.
4) A friend and exercise buddy high-fived me after a really great work out.
5) I was high-fived by another friend when I made an acerbic comment that made her laugh.
High-fiving doesn't come naturally to me--it is during high-five moments that I feel painfully the full weight of my NPR-listening, New Yorker-reading, White self. However, I go along with it during moments that feel more appropriate for the gesture: after a good workout or a particuarly sarcastic but funny comment that puts front and center my cleverness and wit. These days, the good workout happens more often than the cleverness. But when I get high-fived just for doing my job, or when I'm 1/2 of a peer pressure high-five, I inevitably end up looking incredibly dorky (ever seen an "air" high-five?). I'm dorky enough--I don't need the added pressure.
To high-five or not to high-five--am I just anti-social?
1) Today, when I set up a Saturday meeting with my personal trainer (I know, I know), he high-fived me, and I hadn't even done anything impressive yet.
2) Last night, when I went to upgrade my membership to the new 24 Hour Fitness SUPER sport club next door, the "consultant" high-fived me when I politely laughed along at a lame joke. It wasn't really even funny, so my for my part it was a pity high-five.
3) I was high-fived by a colleague for arranging for a patient to get a hospice consult.
4) A friend and exercise buddy high-fived me after a really great work out.
5) I was high-fived by another friend when I made an acerbic comment that made her laugh.
High-fiving doesn't come naturally to me--it is during high-five moments that I feel painfully the full weight of my NPR-listening, New Yorker-reading, White self. However, I go along with it during moments that feel more appropriate for the gesture: after a good workout or a particuarly sarcastic but funny comment that puts front and center my cleverness and wit. These days, the good workout happens more often than the cleverness. But when I get high-fived just for doing my job, or when I'm 1/2 of a peer pressure high-five, I inevitably end up looking incredibly dorky (ever seen an "air" high-five?). I'm dorky enough--I don't need the added pressure.
To high-five or not to high-five--am I just anti-social?
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