Hoo. It’s been a while since my last post. Busy times here, and not entirely in a good way. Well, let me rephrase that: there have been ups and downs, and the downs are making me sad as hell right now. I’m thinking we’ll get everything covered nicely here with a recap of the turmoil, followed by a few random bitchings.

To recap: I made major headway on the career thing and have managed to successfully pry myself off the ceiling. Only a very select group of people in my life right now is privy to the new plan, and since that group doesn’t yet include my parents I’d rather keep it out of cyberspace for now. Sawwwy. But all is well on that front. The more I work on my new plan, the more at ease I feel. Clearly, good decisions abound.

Sadly, such goodness doesn’t color the rest of this update. Arg…it started last Monday when my Dad emailed me to tell me (rather flippantly, I might add) that two of our dogs broke loose and ended up getting hit by a car and killed. As if that weren’t traumatic enough, my father’s wife went and found a new dog the same damn week! Not just any dog, a 9-month old border collie who has never had a name and has been kept in a kennel for the persuasive majority of her life. What a prize, really.

Later that day (Monday), I had lunch with Mr. Drama, one of my closest friends. For the record, we were good friends in college, had a brief and tumultuous dating encounter which was followed by a few months of we-can-totally-sleep-together-and-just-be-friends nonsense…now we’re friends again. The point of Monday’s lunch was to provide a venue in which Mr. Drama could tell me all about the latest installment in the Mr. Drama Top Ten Dramatic Moments catalog. Prior to lunch, all I knew about the incident was that it resulted in him wearing (proudly, I might add) a woman’s necklace. No, seriously, a silver heart pendant that smacks of an Elsa Peretti knockoff; it has no business being worn by a man. None. Whatsoever.

Anyway, I’m going to skip the long version because it makes my head hurt and my stomach queasy. Short version: after spending ONE weekend with an old friend from college he is head-over-heels in love and planning to move two states away to be with her in May. They think the wedding will be in a year or two. Are you fucking kidding me? I only wish. Worst part (and really, this was tough to pick): we’re driving back from lunch and as a *joke*, I ask “So, you’ll invite me to the wedding, right?” He looked thoughtful for a moment and replied “Well, yes, if we’re still in touch.” Well pass the Twang, bartender, because this papercut clearly needs some prodding before I achieve quality pain.

So that sucked, though not so much as breaking up with Boy at the end of the week. * Sigh * It was the best thing, considering our respective positions on relationships at this time in our lives (briefly: I want one, he doesn’t—not a lot of negotiation progress to be made there). Thankfully, it ended quite well (aside from the gut-wrenching sadness). We’re bound and determined to remain friends, which is stellar—I think the part that had been plaguing me most this week as things became increasingly weird was the thought of not having him in my life at all. Conclusion: I’m still batshit crazy about him and am taking a few weeks to get some of that out of my system so we can get on with being friends again. At least I haven’t lost him completely.

Okay, that pretty much takes care of the recap. I can’t quite put my finger on what I plan to bitch about today, so I’ll just leave you with the following indisputable truth:

BOYS ARE STUPID.

CRISIS PENDING

Holy hell, people, it's all sorts of screwed up right now. Last night, while inching through the med center in heinous H-town traffic, I realized that (drumroll) I don't think I want to go to medical school after all. (Sound of head hitting desk repeatedly)

ACK! I'm just not sure I want to assign eight years of my life to nothing but manic chaos and aggressive competition, and it seems like a pretty stupid thing to get myself into without being pretty damn sure. Med school is an extremely tiring and expensive place to decide you really want to do something else. What the fuck? I literally had a panic attack while driving and discovering all this. Truly, I couldn't breathe, my chest was tight, everything was a little hazy and this overwhelming sense of panic just took over. I almost pulled over but the sheer inertia of the whole thing made me keep going--that, and I was in the lane I needed to be to turn onto my street, so the part of my brain (albeit a tiny part) that remained rational said what the hell, head for the house.

I can't help thinking about all sorts of other options...specifically neuromuscular therapy and pain management. That's the part of medicine that's always intrigued me anyway, so maybe I should find my way into it through a channel that allows me to start practicing for real before I'm 30 and allows time for, oh, say, a life and a family?!? Shocking demands I place on life, no?

Arggg.....this sucks beyond words. I just pulled my own rug out from under my feet, so I'm scared as hell, but I can't help loving the idea of new options. Help? Methinks this will be a weekend of reading and consulting with trusted personal advisors.

There’s a subcategory to People I’d Like to Kick in the Teeth that needs mention: People Who Give Completely Unsolicited Commentary and Advice. You know them, you’ve met them, please tell me you aren’t one of them. If you are, please leave my blog immediately and begin paying penance for your miserable behavior. I’m not even close to kidding, this shit is annoying and it needs to stop.

Nothing brings about a hefty dose of UC&A than smoking. Yeah, I smoke, sue me. Yes, I am well aware of the health hazards, and no, my parents didn’t totally fail. I just happen to really like smoking. Really. Okay, there’s a small part of me that also really likes sticking it to those bastards from truth.com, because the scare tactic thing is pretty over-the-top at this point. People will do what they want to do, self-destructive or not, no matter how many body bags you show them. It’s just one of those things you can either lament deeply or just plain get over. Hell, I really don’t care if you get over it, just hush it up when you see me.

Back to the main road. I am often, and by often I mean like more than once a month, approached by a total stranger while I smoke who offers his or her stance on my choice of pastime. Back in college, I had a much friendlier response battery than I do now. Back then, when someone would tell me I really should stop smoking, I would usually say (replete with big, sweet smile) “And you should really start.” It usually shut them down, but in that friendly-but-tolerably-biting way. Now, it’s not so pretty. See below:

STRANGER: You should quit.
ME: So should you.
STRANGER: But I don’t smoke…
ME: I meant your other habit.
STRANGER: Oh yeah, and what’s that?
ME: Handing out unsolicited advice.

See what an ass I’ve become? But really, people, lay off me and my cigarettes.

I knew I wouldn’t last all afternoon without thinking of something to bitch about. Here goes…

What the hell is going on with the gum packaging revolution sweeping the country? Once upon a time—like, 18 months ago—the dominant gum presentation option was the traditional and highly appealing stick wrapped in foil. I was down with that. You had 15 sticks in a pack—20 in a bonus pack—and everything was kosher. I grew up with those sticks—made tiny foil airplanes and cranes out of the wrappers, initiated several attempts to smoosh the foil into as compact a ball as possible, etc. The foil, I might add, was an invaluable thing to save for later as an incredibly convenient disposal receptacle. It didn’t matter if you were near a trashcan when your gum died; you were prepared with your very own means for disposal.

The apparent wisdom and practicality of this system was apparently lost on the nation’s gum manufacturers. All they want to sell me these days are those bizarre little rectangular blobbies that they insist on hermetically sealing in a foil blister pack. Foil? What the hell? It’s GUM, not Nyquil, for the love of Pete. This is, of course, to completely overlook my utter disgust with the new sizing of the blobbies. You pop one, chew it, and within a matter of a few seconds it’s the size of about three mini Chiclets. When I want me some gum, I want me some gum. Whenever I’m forced to buy the ridiculously formatted gum, I always end up popping like three pieces at a time. That’s just bad economy.

I pleasantly alarmed to report that, at present, I don’t have anything to bitch about. In fact, I’m pretty apeshit happy this morning because the current social scenario with a guy I met a few weeks ago is rolling along swimmingly. I could probably be talked into writing a few posts about how great it’s going, blah blah blah, but I hate the people who are wont to such smooshy rambling. So, you’ve had a great couple of dates and are over-the-moon for each other? Woo, hooray, rejoice. The villagers will receive an extra 10 beans in their pay bucket to celebrate your burgeoning relationship….now get back to work. Know what I mean? Yep, you don’t want to hear my gushing about this cute, cute man. Hee…what a cutie…okay, I’m stopping.