Tuesday, June 30, 2009

It's brag on yourself night here at chez Sadie...

And so I'm going to paste a quote here from an email I received today from an attorney I recently worked with from another firm, another city, in an unusual (for me) case that recently resolved. And okay, I'll admit first that he was actually responding to a thank-you letter I'd written him first for his help in this matter, so this is sort of mutual admiration society here. But anyway, here's the quote, which was towards the end of the email:

"You are a smart, classy lady and [shit, fuck, forgot to edit at first, "name of firm"] is extremely fortunate to have an attorney of your caliber in its employ. I hope the people you report to realize what an asset you are to [the firm]. If I can ever be of assistance to you in your career (please try to avoid laughing hysterically here) please let me know."

And the really funny thing is, that I totally laughed out loud, a hearty [ed: ahem, hardy, what can I say, I misspell terribly when I've been drinking] chuckle, when I read "(please try to avoid laughing hysterically here)".* Doubt I would have laughed at all had he not written that part in parentheses; but it so went with his character overall, having gotten to know him a bit (and laughed and joked with him a lot) during this particular case. So that's, what, irony? No, not irony, that's not it. What is it? What's the word to describe that? That I wouldn't have laughed but for the fact that he said that, which made me laugh, which I'm sure was his purpose in telling me not to laugh. To get me to laugh, I mean.

Anyway. Funny man. Given my dreamland track record, I won't be surprised if he takes up a starring role in a future sex dream. Kinda hoping he does, actually. (Are you listening, subconscious?)

* Ok, because of my dorky nature, I (1) corrected myself from saying a "hearty chuckle" to saying a "hardy chuckle," and then (2) because I still had doubts, actually googled the phrase both ways, thinking it would verify the "hardy", but found that it's more often used as "hearty" when describing a laugh. So, umm, ... shit, this is probably a very good sign of just how drunk I am at the moment while writing this, didn't think I was drunk at all, just a little buzzed, but when I start doing shit like this it's usually a sign of more than just a little buzz ... anyway, what do you think? Is it a "hearty chuckle" or a "hardy chuckle?" Because while I may not have given a rat's ass (one of my dad's favorite expressions) one way or the other earlier today, this all of a sudden seems like a question that must be answered, and answered tonight. ... And oh, looka here, my wine glass is empty ... howaboutthat ... must go refill then. Later.

Excuse me, I've caught a bad case of diarrhea - in my mouth.

Governor Sanford just can't shut up. After all the apologizing and Bible-citing he's done over the past several days, he calls in a couple reporters for a sit-down with him in his office today and digresses more on his personal life.

Eventually I imagine the AP will have a big long article summing up the entire interview, but meanwhile it's leaking little tidbits online every hour or so. I wouldn't be surprised if he's still over there talking to those reporters right now, and the AP updates are coming to us as the reporters text key quotes back to the office.

What I want to know right now is, what does he mean when he says he's "crossed lines" with a handful of other women when he "had his guard down" but that he "never crossed the ultimate line" with anyone other than his "soul mate" Maria? Does he mean he's kissed a handful of other women? Felt them up? Received blowjobs? Handjobs? Or just dreamed of doing those things and more with them while giving them an extra-long hug or handshake?

On second thought, I don't think I want to know after all. Shut the fuck up already, dickhead.

Thursday, June 25, 2009

The Breaking Point

I've had way more caffeine in the past 24 (no, wait, 21) hours than I usually do. Especially in the evening and nighttime hours. And I am way, way, way awake.

And now I'm at the breaking point. It's 3:30 am, and I've had no sleep. I'm still feeling jacked up in fact. I could probably fall asleep in about half an hour, if I laid down right now and tried ... but it might take longer than that, and at any rate, if I fell asleep at this point I would either totally oversleep my alarm or wake to the alarm but feel like shit all day long.

But yet if I stay awake for the rest of the night, I'll most definitely feel like shit at some point during the coming day anyway.

So what to do? It's gonna suck either way. But right now is the crucial moment, where a decision must be made.

Hmm. I'll tell you tomorrow. (Um,I mean, in a few hours.)

Sunday, June 21, 2009


Unfortunately, I think that writing about my crush in a couple recent posts was a mistake. I say that because I had a meeting with that crush in my office on Friday, along with a couple other people, and every single time he made eye contact with me, all I could think was, "he knows I'm into him."

Totally paranoid thought process there. "I've been writing about how I like him, therefore it's become obvious, and he (and maybe everyone else in that meeting) knows I like him." Stupid and ridiculous, but there you go.

Of course, the biggest moment where I felt that was when he shook my hand. He's big on handshaking. I'm only into handshaking when I'm meeting people in a business setting for the first or second or so time; after that I'm not so into the handshaking, I figure we've met, we know each other, a hello should be enough. But that's just me. (Of course, as I write this, I am thinking to myself about all sorts of situations where I would probably have a natural inclination to shake hands with someone, outside of a first or second meeting in a business situation, so yeah, so much for that. Whatever.)

Anyway, my point is, I shook my crush's hand. And though I've shaken his hand many many times before, this was the first time where I felt my own heat in the handshake - a blush probably - and where I felt like my eye contact with him during the shake was giving away the fact that I'm attracted to him. And the first time where during the actual hand to hand contact, I was thinking to myself, "we're touching."

And never before have I been around him and thought to myself that I was giving off any kinds of thoughts or vibes of being attracted to him, even though I am, and have been. It's just that talking about it, even on an anonymous blog, and having my boss make that passing comment recently about how she thinks he likes me (I think she was reading it the other way around maybe and just putting it out there, but I'm probably being paranoid again), made me start to feel for the first time while around him that I was actually giving off total vibes that I'm attracted to him. Even though I probably (hopefully) wasn't.

I think it's guilt.

Tuesday, June 16, 2009


This afternoon I had a phone conversation with an attorney from another firm about a current case. It just happened to be this attorney I have a secret, strictly fantasy-driven crush on. Perfectly harmless, since he's married, and since there's no flirtation or anything even remotely close to flirtation, and I've not told anyone about my crush. (Except, well, anyone who's read my anonymous post about it here.)

Well as I was leaving work this afternoon, I was walking and talking with my boss/friend, and I was telling her about my conversation with that attorney, since we were talking about something new and unusual that's going on with this particular case.

And I made a comment about how he's a funny guy, he'd made a humorous comment that made me laugh. And my boss/friend said, "I think he likes you."

I was struck dumb, it was such an out of the blue comment for her to make; and especially given my own secret fantasies about him. I was thinking to myself, "shit, can she tell that I like him? Is that what that comment was about? Am I actually that transparent, even though I thought I was totally and successfully concealing this little crush?" Because while I think he likes me in general as a person, I certainly don't think he likes me THAT way. The way I secretly like him, that is.

After realizing an awkward silence had just passed, after that comment by her, I finally managed to say "he's a nice guy." And then changed the subject. And thought to myself, "if only." And, not only "if only that were true," but also "if only that were true and he were single."

At any rate, it was interesting. That she said that. Huh.

Monday, June 15, 2009

cocktails with the lady lawyers

Tonight I went out for a couple drinks after work with a few female attorneys I know through work. A couple drinks turned into many. And a few female attorneys turned into a pretty huge table full.

I stayed later than I thought I would partly because of a tremendous downpour, a thunderstorm that seemed to last forever and partly flooded the streets. But I'm glad I did; I had a good time.

The funny thing is, the three other women closest to my age left after the first hour, before the rainstorm began. And so I found myself spending a couple hours with a table full of women my mom's age, getting pretty damn buzzed.

Although that's not actually the funny part I guess. The funny part, to me, is that the group of women, all of that age, that I ended up spending the most time with and getting toasted with, are a group of female lawyers who are really close friends with one another, (and who are, with the exception of one, still single, once the three younger, married, women my age had left), while not "out," are generally known (or suspected, I guess, since they're not out), to be lesbians. The kind that were probably always good at p.e. in high school, and who fanatically follow womens' basketball. If that makes sense without being offensively stereotypical (which I don't meant to be. I'm guessing about the p.e. part, but I know the basketball part is true. Not that that necessarily means anything. But shit, it probably does).

And by the end of the evening, I was totally being attempted to be (ahem, bad grammar, but I'm a bit drunk) recruited into the group. They tried to get me to stay later; I didn't. They made me promise to come back out with them again; I did. They said they needed new blood. I hope they just meant for cocktail hour. But since I am the age I am, and am single, never married, no boyfriend, well shit, who knows what they think of me. I just might give off that hopefully unoffensive stereotpye vibe myself, given my circumstances.

At any rate, by the end of my fifth cocktail, after having really had a good time with them all, with one woman in particular nudging me a lot and practically begging me to promise to come out with them again, well, I'm kind of thinking back on my night and hoping I didn't unintentionally lead anyone on.

And shit, how's that for an evening out?

I'm off to bed. (Although actually, no I'm not, I'm probably going to drink more, to tell the truth, and paint. And since my current project is a female nude, given this post and my circumstances, shit, I probably would wonder about my own sexuality, if I didn't know myself as well as I do and know my crave of cock.)

(And p.s. - fuck, I think I'm drunk - , I frankly wouldn't mind at all being gay, because dammit I think I could score pussy a hell of a lot easier than I can score cock. Which means I'd probably be getting laid a lot more often than I am. Which I would love. Except I want cock, not pussy. Dammit.)

Monday, June 8, 2009

oh, and one more glorious note on the breast cancer scare doctor appointment of this morning,

when I arrived at the doctor's office, there were 3 people present: one woman by herself, and another woman sitting next to a man, presumably her husband, holding his hand. And I totally recognized the man. A client.

Me: Oh, hi.
Him: Hi. How are you?
Me: Well, hehe, (looking around and gesturing), not great.
Him: At least it's a day out of the office, right?
His wife, looking at me and smiling sympathetically: I think we'd rather be in the office.
Me: I know I would.

She gets called back first. She tells him there's a place back there where he can wait, so he follows.

I get called back. I'm directed to the changing room, where I'm supposed to change out of my top and into a smock top that is totally open in front, secured by only a snap. And oh boy oh boy, that interior waiting area for spouses and friends is right outside the dressing room. And there's my client.

So I go into the dressing room, get half undressed, pull on the smock. Look at myself in the mirror and see how it totally hangs open. Know I have to open the door now and walk to the ultrasound room. Know my male client is fucking sitting right there in a chair, in that tiny little area, facing the door to the dressing room.

Pull the smock as closed as I can, open the door, and share the most possibly embarrassing chagrined expression with my older male client, as I walk out braless underneath a thin smock and try to keep from flashing him.

Oy. Not looking forward to the next time I have to defend him in a deposition or meet with him to discuss a legal issue. Somehow I think the memory of me braless in a smock that's held together by a single snap in front confronting him in the breast center interior waiting room is going to make me feel somewhat less professional and secure next time I have to act as his lawyer.


while I was in the doctor's office this morning, lying on the table, naked from the waist up, waiting on the doctor to come in and the ultrasound to begin, the nurse and technician both stepped out for a moment, leaving me all alone. While alone, I curiously glanced all around the ultrasound room, checking out all the equipment that I'd been too anxious to even think about checking out last time. And I noticed that on the little stand next to my bed and next to the ultrasound machine, there was a stack of cloths and tissues, on top of which lay a little square package, labeled "trojan."

That's right, there was a condom on top of the stack of linens and tissues and such next to the ultrasound machine. And if you read my earlier post, you'd remember that I described having a breast ultrasound as having someone lube up a dildo with warm gel and then rub the head of it all over your boob. But I didn't think last time to actually look too closely at that wand thingy that the doctor was rubbing all over my breast, and dammit even today after seeing the trojan condom sitting right there while I was waiting and made a mental note to myself to pay attention when the doctor came in as to how that condom would be used during the procedure, I STILL forgot to actually pay attention once we got going. I was busy talking to the nurse and worrying and shit, and didn't notice whether he (the doctor), as I now suspect, rolled that condom over the wand thingy that he used to rub over my boob to do the ultrasound. I mean I guess that maybe it makes some kind of sense that that's what they would use to keep those ultrasound wands hygienic? I mean, those wands are sort of dildo-esque, and thinking of how many women they're used on, they are also sort of slutty-esque, so I guess a trojan would be appropriate in those circumstances.

It's a question, at any rate, that I meant to clear up during my appointment, and am now so totally disappointed in myself that I forgot to ask.

loving my second opinion:

no cancer - woohoo!

and no needle today - woohoo!

just a follow up in 6 weeks to make sure the second opinion is the right one.


Sunday, June 7, 2009

My poor boob

My poor boob. It has been poked and prodded to death this past week. And not in the good, fun way.

It started with a shower. Soaping up my breasts, I noticed a lump in one that had definitely not been there before. A big, hard lump, the kind that had me breaking out into a sudden cold sweat.

From there, it went to my gynecologist's office, with my doctor pressing and prodding, prodding and pressing. Feeling me up more than I've been felt up in the past eight months, other than by myself. (God, that's depressing.)

After that, I had a mammogram and an ultrasound. Mammogram: squish, squeeze, smash, mash, mush. Ouch. Ultrasound: like someone lubed up a dildo with warm gel and then rubbed the head all over my breast. Not that bad, actually.

Then the biopsy. Oh holy mother of God, no. Just, no: no, no, no. That fucking sucked. Small needles pricking and numbing, cutting, big needle going in deep, pressure pressure pressure, loud clicks as the needle machine thingy pulls tissue out. Eyes sqeezed closed tight, queasiness, lightheadedness, on the brink of passing out, oh holy fuck please don't let me ever have to do that again.

At home to rest, ice pack on my boob, 20 minute intervals on and off all day long. Bandaids and bandages. And bruising, bruising, bruising. Soft alabaster skin now an ugly purple and yellow.

Anxiety while awaiting the follow up phone call with the test results.

Brrrring, brrrring, brrrring:
Nurse: "Negative"
Me: "Woo-hoo!"
Nurse: "But ..."
Me: "Oh no, not a but ..."
Nurse: "Recommend a second biopsy."
Me: "Hahahahaha [that's insane laughter, mind you], nooooooo, hahahahaha, nooooo.... no no no no no no no......"
Nurse: "Sorry, yes."

Sunday night, at home, drinking wine. Eleven hours to needle time. Fuck fuck fuck fuck fuck.

My poor boob.