Category: kat

I love acupuncture

This is a tough one to explain if you’ve never had it done before, but a really good acupuncture session is bliss.

First off, I’ll back up and say I was in a fender bender that left me sore between my shoulder blades, an ache that wasn’t fading away.  Ice and ibuprofen weren’t making a difference.  I thought I’d go back to the acupuncture clinic and see if they could work some magic.

They’ve worked magic for me in the past.  They’ve fixed my sleep problems short term, they alleviated tremendous back pain after two flailing falls.

So you’re on a table, a massage-type table with the cradle for your face.  You might be on your back if the acupuncture needles are going in your front side, but I think all my treatments but one have required I be on my stomach.  After a consultation with your acupuncturist, you assume the position (on my tummy, in my case) without clothing but covered with some artfully arranged towels and get really comfy, because that’s the position you’ll be in for a while.

Twenty-four needles were put in during this session.  I had needles up my neck into my hair, and needles all the way down to my hips.  Once you’re all needled up, the acupuncturist leaves the room and there you are for thirty minutes or so, very still and quiet.  The office I go to has some relaxing new age-y music playing in all the treatment rooms.  I’ve been known to fall asleep on the acupuncture table and drool on the floor, super sexy.

I don’t know if it’s the needles or the table or the heat lamp on my feet (thank you, my feet always get cold) or the music or the sun shining in on me, but I always melt away into the most deep relaxation.  The noise in my head quiets and it is replaced with calm, wonderful tranquility and happiness.

After thirty minutes, an assistant comes in ever so quietly to remove the needles and finish your treatment with massage.  This go ’round, my usual massage was replaced with a “moving cups” massage that made my toes curl.  I think I proposed to the assistant, asked him to marry me and be my massage slave.

I left the acupuncture center in a haze of happy smiling bliss, purring like a contented kitten. Mmmmmmmm.  Like a good romp in the sack, I could’ve either gone back for more or gone right to sleep, and either choice would’ve been perfect.

I go back again next week.

I think I need a vacation

It has been a really exhausting ride since my birthday, really.  Full of some highs and some lows, some waaaaay down lows, but I’m ready for even keel, some smoother sailing.

I’ve been jerked around a little this month, not intentionally, but still, jerked around while someone was wrapped in some self-absorbed BS.  The only person allowed to be that self-absorbed, folks, is me, so make a note, don’t let it happen again.

 I think the hardest part of it all (I hate to be cryptic, but this is a public diary after all, you’re peeking over my shoulder into my thoughts, so I have to be a little guarded) was that my intentions were misunderstood.  And the party involved never took a second to even ask my intentions, just took a question, ran with it, blew it up, emotional shrapnel everywhere.  We’ve talked at length since then to make some peace and move on, and not once was I asked what I wanted, what I meant to happen.  

I just think that’s a little odd, a little off, that when I extended my hand, so to speak, it was slapped and that was that.  Why did I extend it, hmmm?  What did I want out of this?  The answer might not be what was expected.  I guess I’ll stick with a don’t ask, don’t tell policy on this…I’m not blurting out any more.

I need a break.  I need a vacation.  I love my friends, all of you, but man oh man, I could use some quiet.

OK, I’ve been told I’ve gone all wimpy

I’ve been too f’ing sensitive lately.  So today’s song lyrics are much beloved to me, uplifting, full of good cheer.  Name that band, and don’t cheat by googling the lyrics, weasels:

And when I get your blood I rip your throat
Your blood I rip your throat
I want your blood, I rip your throat
To drink some blood

or how about this one:

 Black dress moves in a blue movie
Graverobbers from outer space

or:

They pick up every movement
They pick up every loser

Don’t cheat! Name that band, for extra love name each tune.  The first person to get it right gets…well, I guess that depends who’s the first person to get them right what I’d give them…

Off on another tangent…

We’ll start this new tangent with a lyric…mainly because I don’t want to go back to the previous post and explain anything…so we’re off on a new subject.

Oh, I used to be confused
But now I just don’t know
Since you left I’ve been watching
Blue skies come and go

a-ha, The Blue Sky

One summer when I was a teen, I met Johnny P. at an Urban Spelunkers show.  A little bit skate rat, a little bit poet, very much a bad boy that was loved by few and disliked by many.  Smitten smitten smitten.  He was living with Kevin, the local dead ringer for Judd Nelson; I don’t remember why exactly Johnny was holed up at Kevin’s house since it’s been around 20 years, but it would seem that Johnny had some kind of trouble at home.  And we spent some time together, hung out on the long, leisurely teenage days, and then he was leaving, taking off for Atlanta.

I felt like my heart was being ripped in two at the news he was leaving.  Who else was going to call me and speak to me in French? (no one has since Johnny)

He used to wear split rings, like keyrings, in the top eyelets of his Chucks (we all wore Chucks, we couldn’t afford Docs).  On the porch at Kevin’s house the night before he was leaving town, Johnny gave me one of the rings from his Chucks.  (It stayed in that shoe until I wore holes in my sneakers, years I wore it)  I gave him my favorite hat, which was probably some Vision Streetwear something or other.  He told me to go home and listen to The Blue Sky by a-ha.  I told him to listen to A Night Like This by The Cure on the way to Atlanta.

As I walked down the steps at Kevin’s, I told myself I wouldn’t look back, I wouldn’t look back.  But I did, and Johnny was still standing there, watching me go, and he said “bye” one more time and that’s when I had to speed it up, to run actually, to my friend’s waiting car so I wouldn’t burst into tears in front of him.

I never saw him again.

It goes dark, it goes darker still
Please stay
But I watch you like I’m made of stone
As you walk away
I’m coming to find you if it takes me all night

The Cure, A Night Like This

just when i think i have a clue…

…i find out i have none at all.  i have no clue.

people are cruel and complicated.

i think i blogged earlier in the week that i was waiting for a word, and i got words plural, more than i wanted to receive, none of them good.  not one.  it’s not that i had a lot to lose in this venture (well, not too much time lost, but other things lost, yes), but i trusted.  i trusted.  really, i think i was already bitten once in the last week by this person, you ‘d think i wouldn’t offer my hand again in kindness…but no, apparently, i didn’t learn well the first time, didn’t catch on.

no, i really don’t want to talk specifically about it to anyone, but i know that i didn’t deserve this blow.  maybe should’ve seen it coming, but i didn’t deserve it.

Got beer?

I stood in line on this gorgeous day at Highland Brewing with a couple hundred of my closest friends, waiting for the clock to strike 12:01.  We’d assembled as an elite group of India Pale Ale fans, seeking to purchase Imperial Kashmir, a special batch of Highland’s Kashmir IPA.  Imperial Kashmir is up for sale today only with less than 3000 bottles produced.  The Imperial brew has a 10.2% alcohol content and is in 22 ounce bottles for your drinking pleasure.

Everyone was prepared with cash and identification in hand, so the line moved along fairly quickly.  The line was still growing when we pulled out of the parking lot, IPA stowed safely in the trunk.

My Imperial Kashmir is in the fridge.  I won’t tell you how many bottles I bought, but it’s mine, mine, mine.  I would only split a bottle with one or two souls on the planet, and if you have to ask, you’re probably not worthy.

I haven’t cracked a bottle open yet.  I’m waiting for the cool of evening, the quiet of my house when MiniMe has gone to bed.  I will then take to the front porch, put my feet up and enjoy.

Let’s talk about feet, especially my cute toes

My long-time freakinfriends are fully aware that I am a foot fanatic.  If I can find that photo of my toes covered in honey from a former incarnation of the FreakinAsheville site, by golly, I’ll post it…I’m looking…

Anyhoo…I don’t want you to have sex with my toes or anything (but a good loverman knows that a lengthy foot rub will turn me into his willing slave), I just have some issues with poor foot hygiene.

Once upon a time, I had a blind date with a guy whose toenails in his man sandals (a.k.a. his “mandals”) were longer than your average schnauzer, and it ruined me for life.  I’ll go into details about that again someday, but not today…just know that seeing those long, curvy toenails scarred me, etched into my memory, forever.

I don’t spend all day every day fretting over my own feet, but they are generally presentable at all times.  At this moment, they are soft, clean and my toenails are sweetly groomed with black nail polish and sassy red edges.  I forget to look in a mirror and sometimes wear my pajamas out in public, but at least my toes are looking pretty.

What do I expect of you?  Male or female, the biggest thing is that you make some effort to trim your toenails on a regular basis.  There’s someone who works in my company that cuts his toenails in his office; most of my coworkers are horrified by this.  I, on the other hand (other foot?), am tickled pink that he cares that much about his toenails.  I know that should I ever see this man’s bare feet, his toenails are not going to get snagged on the carpet as he walks down the hall.

Tend to your scary rough spots every once and while.  It shouldn’t be your goal to cultivate a callous thick as elephant’s hide on your heels unless you’re a fire-walker.  Pumice should be your friend.

My SGF Edward (sorry, can’t divulge what SGF means, would have to kill you) used to keep track of my toenail polish colors in a little notebook.  A new color on my toes meant a new entry in the book.  I always want my toes to be ready for someone to make notes about them, and I’m ready most days of the week for a honey-pouring photo opportunity.

If my feet are in sad shape, so is the rest of me.  When my back was all messed up and I was in physical therapy forever and a half, my tootsies suffered.  They lacked glamour.  It was a terrible time for me, my back and my toes.

Take this moment to look down at your feet, my friends, and do what must be done.  It will make the world a better place.