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Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Stuff for Sale!!! (Volume 1)

Once upon a time, Poor Girl wasn't so poor.  She had a good job, a car, housing that wasn't being threatened because of lack of funds to pay rent on time, and the ability to go out and shop for fun, pretty things.  Like most women, Poor Girl loved nice shoes & clothes, nice purses, and the occasional electronic gadget.  Alas, Poor Girl - and the rest of the country - has fallen on hard times.  Her job ends this Thursday, September 30th, and so far there is nothing on the horizon, despite the zillions of resumes & applications that have been sent out.  Drastic measures are now being taken.

As much as it hurts to let the fun, pretty things go, it will hurt much more to get an eviction notice.  In order to avoid this, I am now selling some of my better things to you fine readers.  From purses to dresses to cameras and other odds & ends, there will be something interesting for you to buy at a MUCH lower cost than was originally paid!  It's a win-win situation: you get a great deal on some awesome stuff, and I get to pay my rent while I look for another job.  Sound good?  It does to me!

I'll be posting more stuff in throughout the next couple of weeks, so if these first few items don't appeal to you, don't fret!  There will be other stuff on here soon.  I apologize in advance for the bad set up here... I guess this template doesn't support the whole "store" look!  Not interested in stuff but still want to help?  Head over to Poor Girl Eats Well and click on the "Donate" button on the left sidebar.  I hate having to ask for help like this, but desperate times call for desperate measures!

Thanks in advance for your support!
:) Kimberly

"Audrey" lavender silk rose purse by Lauren Scherr - EXCELLENT condition, only used twice!
YOUR PRICE: $75 (retail price: $185)


Juicy Couture Crown Jewel "Cynthia" black leather purse - Excellent condition!  YOUR PRICE: $200 (retail price: $450; outlet prices: $300-385)

Sunday, September 19, 2010

Photo of the Week: Scary Kitty Monster

No matter how many times I come across this picture on my computer, it always cracks me up!  StuKitty being... well.... StuKitty.

"Beware my evil kitty wrath!!!"

Wednesday, September 15, 2010

Why Jackie Evancho truly won...

Seriously?  A raspy-voiced late 20-something won America's Got Talent?  Obviously, America has no idea what real talent is.  Which isn't news, considering they always pick the wrong one on American Idol, too.

Okay, okay, I cheated.  I have been a bit under the weather as of late and decided to Google the results to see who won so that I could sleep tonight.  And that's how I found out Jackie Evancho placed second.

If you're my Facebook friend, you know that I have been obsessively following that 10-year-old powerhouse, Jackie Evancho, like I used to follow boy bands in the early '90s.  Her voice, her stage presence, her childlike innocence masking that incredible voice - all of it conveys a talent so huge that most adults cannot even begin to understand.

Am I upset that she didn't win the $1M grand prize and Las Vegas show that was the ultimate goal of all AGT contestants?  Sure.  I wanted the little gal to win as much as the rest of her fans.  But do I think this is it for her?  ABSOLUTELY not!!!  Her poise, her professionalism, her spectacular performances all boasted a talent far beyond that which her adult competitors displayed.  She is a true performer through and through, blasting through performances like last night's version of "Ave Maria", an extremely difficult rendition of the song full of ups and downs that most adult vocalists - myself included - could not handle with the same ease she did.

Shows like American Idol and America's Got Talent claim to seek the most undiscovered talent, that diamond in the rough, but seldom do they choose the person who actually possesses those things.  Usually, the trend is to "vote for" (and I put that in huge quotation fingers b/c I'm sure that's not all of America's "real" vote) the second most talented person and giving them the crown of the show, only to make the supposed "runner-up" the true star.  It's happened with several Idols in the past.  Clay Aiken outshined Ruben Studdard.  People forgot about whatshisface when Adam Lambert merely opened his mouth.  And yet, those poor "winners" of the show never seem to be heard of again, except in the rare instances of Kelly Clarkson and Carrie Underwood.  Goes to show that being the "winner" isn't all it's cracked up to be.

Compared to Michael Grimm, a formidable performer in his own right, Jackie Evancho could run circles around him in both stage presence and actual singing talent.  His voice will NOT last past his Las Vegas assignment, whereas hers will delight audiences forever.  She may be tiny and young, but her talent and spirit are mature beyond her years, bringing a special quality to each and every performance she brings to the world. Was she robbed?  Perhaps.  But in my eyes, this was the best possible outcome for her.  Record companies are no doubt scrambling to sign her, whereas Michael Grimm will only get his Vegas show and 15 minutes of fame and that's it.  Jackie will go on to wow audiences for years to come, especially as she and her powerhouse voice mature.

So to my dear little Jackie, the singer I've both envied and admired since you debuted with "O Mio Babbino Caro", take heart: you are amazing and the singer so many of us wish we could be.  I can't wait until you headline your own tour because I guarantee you, I will be in the front row, trying hard not to sing along so I don't ruin the perfection that is your phenomenal voice.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

195 BPM

"Yeah, your heart's really racing along there," the lead paramedic was telling me as I tried to remember if I'd turned off the stove in case they had to take me away in a hearse. "One hundred and.... ninety-five!  What do you say we take a trip to the hospital and get you checked out."

I nodded weakly, afraid to exert myself any more than I had to considering my heart was just about to burst.  Woozily, I tried thinking about what had caused this, why I was feeling this way, why AndrĂ© the Giant had crawled into my chest cavity, grabbed hold of my heart with his massive hands and kept squeezing, squeezing, squeeeeeeeeeeezing.

The pain of it was like nothing I'd ever felt in my life, and as a card-carrying klutz, I've felt a lot of pain.  Broken bones, sprains and twisted joints were nothing compared to this hell I was feeling.  I felt like I was dying.  I was dizzy and weak with pain and fear.  What would happen to Hana and StuKitty?  No one had my key and no one would know what had happened.  Who would tell my mom?  How would she react?  Would she be sad or would she be angry with the pain of losing me?

"You're young and healthy, so I'm pretty sure it's not cardiac," the new hot EMT was saying.  Oh, sure, now there was a hot one.  He'd sneaked up on me on my left side and started putting all sorts of new sticky EKG thingies on my chest and belly.  As if I hadn't been plastered with enough shit already.

"I'm too fat," I slurred, "that's why this is happening to me."

"You are not too fat," Hot Boy argued.  "Trust me, you look just fine."

"I need to lose 30 pounds," I insisted.

"You'd be losing too much if you did that," he said.  "Relax and don't move so we can get a better read on your heart."

Relax.  Yeah, right!  My heart is going to explode, I have a tea stain on my PJ pants from earlier this morning before all this happened, and I hadn't shaved my legs in 3 days.  Fairly certain I looked like Chewbacca, I tried to hide my legs from his probing hands with all those stupid sticky EKG things.

"Time to take a ride," said Mr. Authority, the first one who'd announced that my heart was beating faster than a bad techno record.  "Can you get onto the gurney okay?"

"My cats," I moaned.  "I need to know that they're okay.  The white & gray one likes to escape."

"They're both on the bed, looking at us all weird.  They'll be fine."

"I need to see them," my stubborn ass told them.  I got up off the couch, stumbled through the kitchen.  Fell.

"What's that all about?" yelled Mr. Authority.


Strong hands gripped my arm painfully and led me to the gurney.  I dizzily fell into it, adjusting myself as directed to make sure I wouldn't fall off.  Lights flashed everywhere as they wheeled me down the walkway.  My neighbor, her face creased with concern, asked if I wanted her to call my mom.  "Nooooo," I pleaded.  "Not right now.  I don't want to worry her."  I'm so much like my dad in that respect.  He does the same thing to me every time he gets hospitalized...

Hot Boy had to sit with me, of course.  I avoided looking at him, despite his ridiculous beauty.  I don't deserve to see him, I told myself.  I need to lose 30 pounds.

Within minutes, we'd wound our way through Midtown and ended up at Sutter General's ER, as I'd directed. It's the closest to my house, without being a Level I Trauma Center like UCD, which automatically comes with a 14-hour wait if you're not in dire danger.  I'd forgotten I couldn't breathe and my heart was failing.  It might have only taken 3 hours instead.

They checked me in and I was taken to a room already housed by another Kimberly.  I didn't want witnesses to my misery, but there she was, behind a thin, ugly curtain.  Repeatedly they asked the same questions: where does it hurt?  Can you describe the pain?  NO, I wanted to yell.  I cannot fucking BREATHE anymore, it hurts so bad.  QUIT ASKING ME QUESTIONS AND HELP ME!!!

"It's probably just anxiety," said a short, blonde, perky nurse.  I wanted to bitch slap her.

"I've had anxiety attacks before.  This feels nothing like that," I wheezed.

Big mistake.

"Ohhhh, you've had anxiety?  Okayyyyy, don't wooooorrrrryyy...." she purred in the same condescending voice all nurses use for the "whack jobs". "You'll be just fine."

Fuck.  Now they were going to 5150 me for an alleged anxiety attack.

In my regular, rational mind, I scolded myself for having let on that I'd ever had anything close to a DSM-IV related condition.  I worked in the mental health field long enough to know that even the most innocent symptoms can be twisted to suit the goals of undergrad interns and LCSW-hopefuls, regardless of the patient's real condition.  But, in my defense, I felt I had to let them know; I had to let them see that I knew the difference between the physical and the psychological.  Any anxiety I did feel at the moment was not the cause of my discomfort and pain, it was the result of it!  "I'm a mental health worker!!!" I wanted to scream.  "I know what this is all about!"

Of course, they didn't take me seriously after that.  Everyone's tone of voice turned syrupy sweet. The kind of voice reserved only for they psych patients.  After being properly wired to every cardiac machine (they do try covering their butts even if their diagnoses have already been made), SHE came in: a short, icy blonde with steely gray eyes, her lips set in a tight frown, the nostrils of her slender nose flaring slightly.  I hadn't noticed at the time that the gal from registration was explaining how I could apply for a county medical program for folks without insurance; when she heard that, Ice Princess, MD, decided I was an unworthy subject.

They gave me an IV of something I'll never know the name of, but my reaction to what was given confirmed that it was probably Ativan or Klonopin; something mild and of the anti-anxiety family to "chill me out".  An amusing tech took me to get a chest x-ray, swapping favorite lines from Forrest Gump with me.  He made me feel human when the rest of them made me feel like a statistic.

After the x-ray I was brought back down to my bed.  No one reconnected me to all my vital stats machines.  I waited.  Waited to see if someone would show up to tell me where the bathroom was.  Waited to find out what the hell was wrong with my heart, a muscle that was born wrong inside of me in the first place, but had been kind to me thus far.  Please, please, don't make me go on heart meds, I pleaded to no one, and no one answered.  Okay, I figured.  It's an ER.  They're busy.

Hours passed and eventually I was transferred to a different, single room (only after one of the hot male nurses realized that there was more than one patient in the double room he was cleaning).  My new nurse, Jenny - the first name I'd gotten all day - was super sweet but left me unattended almost immediately.  "Steve", the next dude, had the requisite "cool" sense of humor, but again, was nowhere to be found when I needed him.  Like when I needed a blanket because I was cold.  I got out of my bed, threw all the wires over my left shoulder in an effort to get close to the cabinet of warm blankets that was RIGHT THERE!!!  And nothing.  I was literally six inches away from a warm blankie and unable to get any closer for fear of damaging an important vein into which my (ever-so-poorly-administered) IV was dripping.  I literally had to flag "Steve" down like an airport runway worker, waving my right arm in the air in a gesture quite similar to that of Donnie Wahlberg's in New Kids On the Block's "Hangin' Tough" video (yes, it was 17 years ago but I have a very photographic memory and remember it vividly).  He wrapped the blanket around my shoulders and I waited for another couple of hours for some real answers.

Heh.  How naive of me to think I'd actually get those.

"Ms. Morales, I'm afraid everything has come back clear and you are fine," said Dr. Bitch - er, Dr. Ritz, her steely gray eyes flashing with disapproval and her own conceit.  Really, for someone at least 10 years younger than I am, she had some serious issues.  Lighten up a little, bitch, thought I.

I asked her what I could do to help alleviate the feelings of pressure and squeezing, even if the med they'd given me "for the pain" (a med whose name I still don't know; guess I'll find out w/the bill).  Her answer?

"I don't know what to tell you about that."


"If I can't take my Albuterol anymore, what can I do when I'm having an asthma attack?  I'm dealing with a cold here... my lungs are the first to react to any sort of URI."

Again, her cold gray eyes flashed at the mention of "URI".  She obviously didn't think I knew all of her medical jargon.

"I don't know what to tell you about that either," was her clipped reply.

Fucking bitch!  If you don't know, then why am I here???  You're the alleged doctor!!! I wanted to scream, but had no lung power, no heart, no life left in me to even argue with this troglodyte in scrubs and a lab coat.

I was released without further instructions, without a signed discharge form, without answers.  I'm sure they thought that would be the end of it because I was "just another anxiety patient".  Too bad for them I landed in the hospital again, just two days later...

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Kimberly A. Morales
singer. writer. artist. champagne taste, 2 buck chuck budget. good cook. kooky. chocoholic. patron saint of cats. talker. listener. thinker. sometimes to a fault.
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