My Indulgence

Something feels very wrong about spending $350 on bath products.

Especially when you come from a poor family, and no more than five years ago, you had your heat turned off in April because you were behind on your bill, and you had to boil water for baths and heat the house with the stove.

Now? I am having twenty dollar baths.

Obviously, things are looking up financially. I'm in debt, but it's what I like to call "manageable debt."

So, yes, I can go to the Lush store and drop $350 on bath products. It's not like I can go all the time, because the closest store is three hours away. Plus, the products are all natural, fresh, and handmade. They look lovely, they smell lovely, and they make me feel good. If only until the water gets cold.

Last night, I drenched my dry hair with "The Strokes," a hair mask. I sat with that on my head for two hours. Then, I put a fresh mask call "Love Lettuce" on my face. Straight out of the fridge, it's really cold, and it stinks, but it feels heavenly.

After a half hour, I showered, washing The Strokes out of my hair. Oh, it was so silky smooth, and then I washed it with Cynthia Sylvia Stout Shampoo and American Cream conditioner. I washed with Olive Branch shower gel, and washed the Love Lettuce off my face.

Then, I put the plug over the drain. It was time to get serious.

After filling the tub with hot water, I tossed in a Ceridwen, which is a bath melt wrapped in cheesecloth. The bath water turned milky white and the herby scent just made me sink down to the deepest depths of my shallow little bathtub. Once I was completely melted like buttah, I tossed in the bath bomb.

This time, I used All That Jasmine. I've used this one before, so I already knew that I loved it. What I forgot about All That Jasmine is that once I'm soaking in it, I can't get out of the tub until the water is cold and my skin has absorbed all the wonderful wonderfulness of the scent.

And hour and a half and a trashy magazine later, I crawled out of the tub, limp and sleepy. You could almost see the "stink lines" coming off my body from all the smelly smelliness I'd been soaking in all night.

I rubbed Lemony Flutter on my cuticles and Smitten on my hands. I washed my face with Fresh Farmacy, toned with Breath of Fresh Air, and moisturized with Afterlife.

A quick blowdry and I hit the sheets. Smooth, silky, shiny hair...warm, beautiful-smelling skin...fresh clean face...I drifted off to sleep without the aid of wine.

$350 is a small price to pay to avoid liver damage. And I'm worth it.

Saving the World

Oh, the burden upon my furry shoulders.

Okay, so it's not, like, the whole world. It's just a dinky little medical school in Canada. Just a dinky little medical school in Canada, you say? Isn't that kind of like guarding a tiny little litter box in, say, Windsor Castle? The freakin' Vatican?

Well, sort of. It's pretty little. One of the littlest in Canada.

That's why it's so endearing to me, I guess.

That's why I'm so friggin' pissed off that they let that last bumbling, inept managewhore bulldoze it into the ground. It's like that abusive spouse that you left. It's like that unhealthy pack-a-day habit you nixed. It's like that cold bottle of beer screaming at you from the fridge on a Monday night, when you know better.

You just can't say no. You can't turn your back on it.

As much as I hate it, as much as it drains me, as unfair as it is that I'm making $15K less per year working ten times harder than she did while she did NOTHING, just to clean up her mess, as much as it tires me out so bad that I can't cook dinner, as much as it burns me out by the end of the day, as much as I want to run to the top of that beautiful 19th century double-brick mansion that houses the School of Medicine and shout "I quit!" from the ornate Victorian balcony up there in the turret...as much as I hate it...I love it.

*sigh*

I am such a sucker.

Okay, medical school. I'll save ya. I'll pay all your damn outstanding bills and I'll get you through the friggin bird flu just like I saw you through SARS. I'll try to rally up a discouraged and battle-worn group of dedicated staff and try to pick up the pieces left by that fvcktard who treated work like it's a goddamn seven-days-of-the-week-Friday-afternoon-social-club and got away with it. I'll do it.

An extra $150 bucks a month. That's it. Probably not even that, after taxes.

So, why?

Well, I guess I'm hoping that some day, I'll see that girl in third year walking to the launch pad at Cape Canaveral, waving to her family. Maybe that dude in second year who doesn't say much in person but who writes really enthusiastic emails will find a cure for cancer. Maybe that chick who just slid through from the waiting list to get into first year will save my kitten's life someday.

Oh, I'm such a fucking pushover.