Postpartum Woe #658

So not only do I have the big giant gelatinous belly to deal with which cannot be stuffed into anything resembling normal clothing, but now this.

I was warned this would happen.  I read it in the pregs websites.  I was told by friends who have been there and had it happen.  And hormones are hormones, after all; they don’t discriminate.  But I thought that by some little miracle, like, maybe because I am special, this side effect was going to skip my hairy ass.

No such luck.

And no, my ass is not hairy.  But my head is.  For now, anyway.  While I was pregnant, it was a rare day that a hair fell out of my head.  Srsly.  Even after washing and conditioning it, blow drying it, teasing it, whatever.  The preggo hormones stop the normal hair-shedding process, and my hair just got thicker and thicker and it was awesome and I never had that annoying thing happen, you know where you can feel a fallen hair on the back of your arm somewhere and it bugs you but you can’t quite reach it until you pissedly have to turn your whole outfit around to the front so you can pick the hair off and drop it on the floor in disgust?  Yeah, that didn’t happen for nine months.

Until last week.  And it happened all of the sudden, in the shower one day, and hasn’t stopped since.  Enough friggin’ hair falls out of my head per day to make a whole other Jennie.  It sucks.  I try to be gentle with it, not tug it, not even blow dry it or futz with it.  I still take my prenates every damn day.  How long is this going to continue?  It’s hard not to panic when I am clogging up the drain catcher completely TWICE PER SHOWER.  And I have to pull off of there something resembling a brown doily.

Ugh.  Do you think I would look cute bald?  

Another Shitbiscuit

So now we wait. It’s only a matter of days now and could happen any minute. I’m not having any real signs of labor aside from more intense Braxton-Hicks contractions and have taken to doing as many activities as possible that involve sitting with my feet up: Eating Lucky Charms; eating a Chipwich; messing around on the computer; watching the TV; eating a Chipwich; fielding a jillion phone calls (“Are you STILL pregnant?”); and of course, eating a Chipwich.

And just so the Universe is sure I am kept on my toes, I get a call from my gyno’s office Thursday afternoon, four days before I am due to pump a chil’ren out into the world: Their office had been robbed that day. A nurse’s purse and checkbook were taken, along with 18 medical charts that were sitting out for the next day’s appointments. Mine was one of them. So not only does some nameless, faceless, chicken-shit asshole have my entire vaginal and reproductive history, but my address, social security number, date of birth, insurance info, you name it.

To say I did not react well would be kind of an understatement. Pregnancy is a very vulnerable time for even the most bad-ass of us women. I’m a pretty tough L.A. chick who does not adopt a victim stance in any situation. I consider myself to be pretty street-wise and I don’t put myself into compromising situations.

But this is a strange time in a woman’s life. Not only are you in a hyper-vigilant state because of the life you are nurturing inside you, but you are physically weaker, unbelievably tired, and waaaaaay more emotional than usual due to hormones and feeling out of control of your own body and mind.

Add to this the fact that there are a lot of sick puppies out there who do terrible things to children and to pregnant women, the knowledge of which is difficult to escape when the stories are all over the news and even entire shows are dedicated to such crimes on the crime and court TV channels and such. You can only filter out so much of reality, but some of it still seeps in and keeps you up at night. Because of this vulnerability, home security takes on a whole new meaning in a pregnant woman’s life. And when that security is messed with, it’s not difficult to completely lose it.

A couple of weeks ago, our alarm system was set off by accident and neither Derek nor I received a call from Protection One asking if they should send the police. When I called them to ask why, they informed me that we had changed the primary contact numbers several months ago. They rattled off two phone numbers I have never had nor even heard of in my life. As the maddening conversation with this “customer service” person went on, it became clear that Protection One had made some sort of clerical error with our account, and it was rectified and our correct contact numbers placed back on the account. I’m always saying it is extremely rare to find someone who does their job meticulously well anymore. I’m like Mr. Hand from Fast Times: “Are you people all on dope?” I am convinced that everyone in customer service is medicated, mentally-challenged, just doesn’t give a crap, or all three. Rare is the person you can get on the phone who comprehends the problem and knows what they’re doing, and can execute an efficient resolution. And this point was proven even in the security business, where being extremely detail-oriented is of extreme importance. So it was a stupid clerical error -- it's really no surprise.

But I was hysterical. What if the alarm hadn’t been set off by accident, but by another thieving asshole? As some of you may remember from a year and a half ago, we only have this alarm system in the first place because we have had our house broken into before and several important items stolen, not the least of which was our computer with a ton of irreplaceable personal photos and information on it. At the time, my only solace was to remind myself that they had not harmed my dogs, who were locked in the backyard and thus, unable to defend their house. You dickheads can take whatever stupid material things you like, just don’t touch my loved ones.

But the sense of being raped and blatantly pirated was devastating. Some stranger of God-knows-what origin had seen fit to invade our home, take whatever they wanted, look at our faces and those of our family and friends in our pictures, see where we sleep, what we ate for breakfast, what kind of toothpaste we use. The outrage you feel in that situation is indescribable. And it had all happened in broad daylight while we were at our jobs, trying to earn a living.

And here I was, faced with that icky, powerless feeling again. Somebody has stormed in and taken what is rightfully mine on the eve of the most important event in my life – bringing my first child into the world. Seriously, WTF?? Who the hell does this to people? What happens to them in life that this is an acceptable solution to a money shortage?

Of course I placed the fraud alert with the credit reporting agencies and with my health insurance and so forth. Had a good “Why Me?” cry on Derek and my girls. But where is the lesson in all this? I used to enjoy being the person who would walk the dogs and leave all the doors and windows unlocked. I never looked over my shoulder at the gardener or worker on the street I didn’t recognize. I freely gave out my social security number when I visited a health practitioner and didn’t think twice about it. Is the lesson here that I am too trusting? That trust is bad? I hardly think so, but it’s hard not to feel that way with all these security breaches happening.

Anyhoo, I post this not just to bitch, although I do feel better having released it into the internet ether, but to warn you all: Don’t give out your social to anybody. ANYBODY. Most people who ask for it on forms and stuff don’t really need it anyway. Leave it blank, and tell them to have the insurance company contact you personally if there is some problem verifying your identity. Run your credit report periodically to be sure there are no strange items on there that you did not sign up for. When I worked doing massage at the chiropractor’s office, patients’ charts with all their most personal information were left out on the front counter every single day in front of God and everybody, and nobody ever complained. I’m begging you – please complain. According to the police who handled the theft from my doctor’s office, this is becoming more common: Identity thieves will hire some petty pissant to specifically take medical files because they are a goldmine of information. And there are always people in and out of a doctor’s office. It is impossible to keep track between specimen-drop-offs, patients, lab workers, etc., not to mention medical care workers who are shits and will sell your information to the highest bidder. They will harvest your information and use it whenever they want. And that is just a hassle you don’t need, whether you’re about to have a baby or not.

So do me that favor, m’kay? I think I just figured out what my lesson in all this was….

Chained Heat

There is a boredom that sets in toward the end of pregnancy that has a certain powerless restlessness to it that is really disconcerting.

I’m too exhausted and huge to do anything physically productive, be on my feet for any length of time or run errands, not to mention the heat in the valley right now is preventing my doing any of that anyway. It has become abundantly clear in recent months that I am just not cut out for a sedentary lifestyle. I am starting to go nuts and it is strictly due to lack of physical activity.

My brain doesn’t work so great due to being hyperfocused on the impending arrival in the weeks to come, so getting any kind of meaningful work done is out of the question.

I am sick of reading about baby stuff. There is just too much information out there, much of it conflicting, and it starts to get annoying after awhile. My usual pleasure of reading and researching something I care about is squashed because it has just gotten to be too much, dammit! I have decided I will be largely relying on motherly instinct and that will have to suffice since you just cannot possibly know everything there is to know about parenting.

I can’t even take that much pleasure in pigging out anymore since there is not much room in my stomach for anything, so any would-be oinkfest is over before it even begins.

Add to this the fact that I am SICK TO DEATH of everything on TV. Even movies. Even indie movies. I have seen them all (some repeatedly) or tried to see them and determined they were unwatchable.

Enter Chained Heat.



Have you ever seen this movie? With Linda Blair? How this gem of a confection missed my Awesome Bad Movie Radar is anyone’s guess. It was on one of the movie channels on a recent quiet evening at home (WTF am I talking about – every evening is a quiet evening at home) and was enough to jolt me out of my jaded I Hate TV But Am Too Tired To Do Anything Else stupor.

Imagine chicks in prison, in the early 80s, none of whom has any acting skill whatsoever. Imagine this prison being corrupt, where the warden has a hot tub in his office and videotapes himself having sex with prisoners. Imagine that in this prison, a can of Aqua Net, rattail comb and buckets of purple eyeshadow are standard issue upon entry. Imagine the shower scenes in this prison involving full-frontal shots of not only boobies that are subject to the laws of gravity, but massive amazon jungle bush action. Imagine Linda Blair being all pouty and pissy and complaining to the warden about the way she is treated in the prison. Now imagine all this with horribly choreographed fight scenes amongst the chicks thrown in. You guys, it is friggin’ AWESOME. YOU CANNOT LOOK AWAY.

Remember that episode of Charlie’s Angels, where the girls go into prison to investigate the murder of one of the inmates? Where Kelly (aka Jaclyn Smith) utters the best line EVAR after the prisoners get hosed down with the nasty anti-lice spray or whatever it is, and she turns to the prison guard all snotty and goes “When was the last time YOU were sprayed?” and the guard gives her this sneery bitchy look in return and I think billy-clubs her ass but I don’t remember. But I digress. Remember how the girls get dressed up and taken outside of the prison to be hookers to wealthy businessmen? Oh yeah, that happens in Chained Heat, too. It’s just one big giant ball of awesome. Please, if you are severely pregnant or just incredibly sick of everything on TV lately, look for it in your movie channels and tivo that bitch. You will be so glad you did.

Movie Minute

Yes, there is preggo news, but I am so bored talking about it and it doesn’t amount to much more than the following:

 1) I am friggin’ ginormous.  So much so that I had to get new maternity clothes so as not to be forced to run around nekkid in the remaining 2.5 months and possibly frighten passersby who happen past the house.  It’s true that boys sit lower in your midsection, so now am I not only pregnant in my belly, but also in my hips and am now sporting Jabba The Hut-like jowls.  Yay!  I saw a recent photo of myself and just about barfed.

2) Getting up from a sitting position just blows.  The grunting, the groaning.  It’s like being 90 years old all the sudden.  Even Grammy doesn’t complain this much when she stands up from her easy chair, and she’s a hundred and freakin’ two!

3)  Still as tired as ever – with a new and exciting crabby twist!  My worst enemies:  “Customer Service” phone personnel and medicated/stoned drivers on the road.  I think they all just need to die.  Before I kill them myself.

But this post is not about pregnancy gripes.  In my limited mobility, waking hours, and lack of tolerance for the public at large, it has been a great opportunity to get caught up on movies.  Here are my latest critiques in case you are wondering what a psychotic pregnant person would have you put in your Netflix qeue:

1) The Last King of Scotland.  Oh my god.  This one blew me away.  Not like I’ve ever been that up on the history of Ugandan leadership, but Forest Whitaker scared the SHIT out of me in his portrayal of Idi Amin, the brutal dictator who ruled Uganda in the 70s.  This movie is not for the squeamish, though.  There were two visuals in particular that will haunt my nightmares forever (if you’ve seen it, you know which ones they are), but I am so glad I saw this thrilling rendering of the story and learned a bit about this important time in African history.

2) Lucky Number Slevin.  My new favorite gangster movie, hands friggin’ down.  Or at least it’s now up there in the top three along with Goodfellas and The Departed.  Not only a taut and slick mystery, but hello, you get Morgan Freeman and Ben Kingsley as two colossal baddies each intent on screwing each other over so bad, you could cut the tension with a butter knife.  Not to mention a beautiful love story that allows you to fall in love with Lucy Liu all over again.

3) Sleeping Dogs Lie.  This poor girl admits to her fiancé the most disgusting thing she ever did.  If you can get past the first five minutes of the movie where that thing is revealed (don’t worry – they don’t show it), you will find a tender and heartbreaking little story about honesty in relationships, and laugh your ass off at the meth-head brother.

4) Notes On A Scandal.  I have always marveled at Cate Blanchett’s range, and this movie is no exception.  And of course, Judi Dench just rocks the friggin’ house no matter what she does.  There were a couple of scenes in this movie where a look from her shot violent chills down my whole body.  She is THAT good.

5) Spanking The Monkey.  Yes, yet another movie involving a main character doing something really pervy, in this case, sliding down a slippery slope into Oedipal tendencies.  But a sweet and relatable coming-of-age story for anyone who has ever felt put upon and unable to break out of a toxic cycle.  I love how good indie films will take a microcosm situation and really examine it and explore it, and this movie does just that.

6) Just Friends.  Okay, this is not a movie I have just recently seen for the first time, but rather, seen many times for its neverending ability to make me laugh my ass off (Kristi, you know what I’m talking about – one night when we all shared a motel room after a wedding and this came on, she and I cracked up over it even though we had both seen it many times).  Not only does it have the funniest sibling rivalry scenes I have ever seen, but has permanently cemented Anna Faris in my mind as the best comedienne of our time.  Oh, and adorable love story, for those of you who are into that crap.

That’s it for now, until I remember more and feel the need to share my thumb position with you.  Meanwhile, I leave you with this quote from Jeff Spicoli of Fast Times At Ridgemont High:  “People on ludes should not drive!”

The Bummer About Being Pregnant

So yeah, I’ve been tired and yeah, I have to go pee all the damn time and yeah, I am a pickle-eating freak (thanks to thee, O Pregnancy Gods, for the advent of the kosher dill), and yeah, none of my jeans fit anymore, but you know what? I am really happy about having a baby and thus don’t like to complain too much about these little annoyances. But do you know what the worst part about being pregnant is?

No swinging on the pole, y’all. I miss Shaft. Terribly. Shaft has been carefully unscrewed from the ceiling hook on which he usually resides and is currently collecting dust in the garage. It’s so sad.

I spent so many fun-filled nights with Shaft and some loud angry stripper music as my only entertainment, and it was good. Shaft could keep me entertained for HOURS with nary a break. I would navigate that pole with seven-inch clear heels on like it ain’t no thang, all the while getting a good workout (and some bruises here and there but that’s why God invented knee pads) and feeling like I had my own private adult-version of monkey bars in my house. I owe a lot to Shaft. Shaft made me feel like a million bucks. Shaft sneakily developed my core strength under the guise of fun, something VERY difficult to pull off. Shaft was the life of my bachelorette party and unselfishly shared his gifts with many of my friends that night and on subsequent nights. And Shaft probably helped conceive my child. Talk about a fertility specialist!

And now Shaft leans against a wall of the garage, surrounded by hordes of macho tools and discarded lumber who are likely threatened by Shaft’s impressive size and luster, and more than a little jealous that, unlike themselves, Shaft had, until now, enjoyed a comfortable place in our living room for many months. Let’s have a listen:

Hammer: Oh, well will you look at the ladies’ man all sad and pathetic now that he’s not living the cushy life. Hey fellas, what say we give Mr. Shiny there a garage welcome, eh?

Cordless Drill: Being that shiny obviously means he’s overcompensating for something. What could that thing possibly be good for? Can he hang a picture? Can he assemble something from Ikea?

Screwdrivers: Hey Pretty Boy, you miss having your mommy rub you down with alcohol every day? Wah wah! Sissy!

(Shaft leans and takes it all in, then quietly turns to one of the nearby lavender dryer sheets.)

Shaft: Psst, hey, Beautiful. Your luscious scent is absolutely intoxicating, you little dryer minx, you. Why don’t you come over here and slide ever so slowly down my shiny self and wrap yourself around my girth. You will feel so sexy and alive, I promise you.

Lavender Dryer Sheet: Tee-hee! I don’t know. I might hurt myself.

Shaft: My Pretty. I will catch you if you fall. I just want to be close to you, my little divine herbaceous satchel of love. Please come to me.

Hammer: Hey uh lady, I wouldn’t do that if I were you. It ain’t safe. You don’t know where he’s been.

Screwdrivers: Yeah, he’s a poser, don’t listen to him. You’re more safe with us Tools.

Lavender Dryer Sheet (to the Tools): What the hell do you guys know? You’re a bunch of f@cking tools!

Lavender Dryer Sheet pops out of her box and onto Shaft, sliding and twirling down his welcoming shaft. (Okay, yeah, that sounds really dirty, but come on, it just flowed so well.) She lets out a huge happy sigh at the end of her twirl, gives the finger to the Tools, and curls up to sleep at Shaft’s feet.

The Tools, shamed into silence, sulk back off to the toolbox to plot Shaft’s demise. Obviously this threat to their masculinity will never do.

Shaft leans with a little grin on his face, a nice lavender dryer sheet now keeping his feet warm.

The Neighborhood Douche

Can somebody please explain something to me? Why, in the name of all that is sweet and holy and good, do some guys feel the overwhelming need to take a perfectly good, nice car and strip it of all its muffling apparatus in order to purposely sound like a herd of Hell’s Angels driving over bubble wrap, erupting with fury from the bowels of hell? Why? Why, bitches, why?

Take this guy who squats on a couch a few doors down from us. I know he squats because of the nature of his doucheness and the fact that he does not get driveway parking privileges. We’ll call him Neighborhood Douche. This is not to be confused with the DBV driver with whom we are all well-acquainted through driving the highways and by-ways of L.A., or by being semi-close to a high school. No, the Neighborhood Douche is a far more sinister creature. He drives a nice, reasonably new Mustang that is kept in good condition. But for some unfathomable reason, he finds it necessary to warn anyone within a five-mile radius of his impending arrival by breaking the sound barrier whenever he is close. And as if that isn’t enough, he also finds it necessary to accelerate up to 60 MPH through the residential streets and squeal around corners, I suppose to highlight his “2 Fast, 2 Furious” prowess.

I say “he” because I know it is a “he” for a couple of reasons. In my lesser inebriated moments, I have had to hear the impending douchousness and suffer the resulting douche annoyance shudders that always accompany the sound, followed by which I am compelled to glare out the window at said Douche and shoot imaginary bubonic plague-dipped darts with my eyes. In my more sauced up moments, however, it goes more something like this: I stick my head out an open window and shout at the top of my lungs, “Shut the hell UP, DOUCHEBAG!!!”

I also know it is a “he” because in my extensive travels of these mean streets, whenever I encounter the Sound of the Douche and whip my head in the direction of the offending party to express my disdain, there is never, ever, ever a female behind the wheel. Well, actually there was one once. But I am convinced that her Civic was in the shop and she was forced to borrow her boyfriend’s car as she was hunched low in the seat and seemed to be fairly mortified.

I guess the real problem I have with the ND is that he brings back bad feelings of a bygone era when we lived in Crackville, Venice. There was a person there whom I referred to as “Ghetto Honking Bitch”. And when I say the “bitch” part of her name, I don’t use it affectionately like I do with you all. Oh no, it was meant to represent all the vilest, meanest, nastiest attributes of the word. She would pull up in front of the house across the street, sometimes at 7 a.m. on a Sunday, sometimes at 3 a.m. on a weekday, but always at the worst, most inappropriate time, and always daily, and honk the horn of her ridiculous SUV like her ass was on fire. Talking to her nicely about it, screaming “SHUT UUUUUUUP” out the window, all had the same effect: It made her do it more. She was one loud, obnoxious voice in a sea of loud, obnoxious voices in that area – people who are noisy and don’t give a shit that there are people living nearby. They want you to hear them and your peaceful enjoyment of your home be damned.

So I have these awful flashbacks of previous unsavory living conditions and I run this imaginary dialogue in my head with the ND. It usually goes something like this:

ME: Hey… Douchenferry McDouchealot? Hey, can I just call you Douche for short? Great. Hey, listen, I was just wondering…. See all these cute little post-WWII houses? The ones with the lawns and flowers and stuff in front? See the kids’ bikes and toys lying around? See the cars parked in the driveways and on the street? Yeah, um…. I know this might sound crazy but um…. People like, live here and stuff. I know, who knew, right? People live here and watch movies here and have children who might be napping here and people talk on the phone here and see, every time you drive by, which is often, you are the equivalent of bad cell phone coverage that causes people to LOSE THE SIGNAL OF THEIR LIFE for a few moments because of you and your douchey ass. The douche shudders of annoyance are seriously cutting into my and everyone around here’s living time and you know what, D-bag? I can’t hang anymore! So you need to take your little douchemobile into the shop, get the standard factory-issued mufflers put back on the shit, and find some other way to scream for attention that doesn’t involve your neighbors, m’kay? Perhaps with loud clothing.

NB: Gosh, ma’am. Thank you for pointing that out to me. I had no idea my douchosity was causing such inconvenience, but now I see the err of my ways. I will get the problem handled immediately. And I thank you for your candor and your feather-light touch.

ME: It is my pleasure, Douchenstein. Have a nice day!

Sad Sack, Party of One? Your Table Is Ready.

Okay you guys, here it is. I know I have been a bad neglectful parent to this baby blog lately and I want you to know why.

Your girl has been stricken with the worst depression since Sex And The City went off the air. And yes! I am aware of the movie in the works and yes! You better believe my ass will be throwing a huge party for that occasion, complete with cosmopolitans, high heels, and lots of chicks. In fact, ONLY chicks. But that’s down the line, and that is IF this dream miracle of a movie ever actually does come to fruition. You know how Hollywood is.

What’s been happening with me is far more sinister and unexpected. And I think I have it figured out after much parsing out of emotions, dissecting, analyzing and actualizing by some key friends the likes of which would turn a codebreaker for the CIA green with envy. To put it in brief terms, my world has been turned upside down. And I am just now figuring out how to put back in their place the fragments of my psyche that have shaken loose.

See, for nearly twenty years of my life, all I have known is the comfort and predictability of office life. Sitting behind a desk. Though it has gone radically against my natural biological grain, my daily life has involved, as long as I can remember being an adult, getting up early (ick!), hosing off and getting cute fast, jumping in the car, fighting traffic to the office, getting to the office, getting caffeinated and then following instructions all day, interfacing with a large variety of people (some friends, some annoying gossip-mongers, mostly butthole lawyers) – LUNCH BREAK – trudging through the rest of the day until 5:30 when I get to fight traffic for an hour or more, get home, then have a life with my relationship, dogs, family, friends, etc., anticipate Fridays, vacations and holidays and there you have it.

Now, things are different. Leaving the legal business to become a full-time massage therapist is something I have dreamt about doing for a long time. And things aligned in my life just so to allow me the opportunity to do that. But the ensuing feelings of being lost and starting over kind of swallowed me whole and I was so not ready for that. I had anticipated cartwheels and sunshine and unicorns at this point, not feelings of sadness and loss, sleeping too much but not very well, drinking too much, lack of interest in the usual things that bring me joy, lack of energy to even be around people. It’s been rough. And frustrating. It is in my nature to be happy and joyful, and every morning I would wake up and go “WTF? This shitty feeling is STILL HERE????”

Now don’t get me wrong: the nature of my job now is everything I thought it would be. It is rewarding in a profound way that I have never before known by pushing paper around behind a desk all day. I am helping to relieve people’s pain and suffering and stress, and I have a unique perspective on it since I, like many of them, sat behind a desk for so long and know where that particular brand of stress slithers into the body and sets up residence. But guess what? I am still new at this. Not only are my appointments sporadic and the nature of my job now very physical and tiring, making it difficult to plan my time with any kind of efficiency, but I am no longer the best at what I do. Can you say ego blow?

At my previous jobs, I am used to being the girl who works circles around everybody else and still has room left in my multi-tasking repertoire to solve my girlfriends’ problems, plan dinner for tonight, write a few blog posts, research some obsessive health issue of concern that I must get to the bottom of, make plans for the weekend and then still have time leftover to read Go Fug Yourself.

Now, I am the newbie. I am not the most experienced, efficient therapist in the house. You can’t multi-task while doing a massage – it is a solid hour of pure focus and quiet. Add to this the fact that I am starting at the bottom as far as earnings, which is also a huge blow to the ego. I’m used to being a major contributor to the household, dammit! Not so anymore. It’s like being in my early 20s all over again, that feeling of insecurity, of constantly worrying what other people think of you, if you’re DOING it right. I hated that shit then – I have to re-live it now?

I think there is also some post-wedding-honeymoon-time-of-my-life letdown going on too. You’ve seen the pictures – it really WAS that awesome. But now the anticipation of the whole thing is over and it will never happen again. I will never get married in Italy again, that was IT. And it was so great. What could possibly top that?

And then one recent Saturday night, sometime after my 12th beer or so (I’m exaggerating, but it was up in the high numbers I’m sure), it dawned on my drunk self that I was drinking to get away from feeling like shit. And that is the WRONG reason to drink, my friends. You drink to have fun, to celebrate something, to be with friends, to have a delicious wine with dinner or a funky cocktail in a fun bar. You don’t drink to escape. So I gave myself a break from the alcohol. It’s been eight days, and will likely last awhile since people keep telling me my skin looks fabulous. I can’t help but think it’s because of being off the sauce.

And then the other day whilst facing a mountain of dishes in the kitchen, I blasted “99 Problems” by Jay-Z and started to dance around the kitchen. And like a little kid peeking into a room where he sees Mommy and Daddy are kissing, I giggled sheepishly at myself and realized this is something the normal me would do. Am I coming back? Every day since that moment has told me “yes”.

I wanted to share this with you because I didn’t want you to think I have forgotten about you – I have been wallowing and unsure of how to even tell you this stuff. But I also wanted to share this with you because I want the nature of this blog to be more personal. I love that you are with me on this journey. Now that I have the time and space to focus more, you will be seeing more postings from me, I promise. And I hope you will keep reading. Dealing with problems, especially the ones we can’t see, is part of life, and I do still have a lust for it, even when it’s difficult to feel that lust.

Speaking of lust, The Husband has been so supportive and understanding through all of this and I know my ass has NOT been easy to live with. And for that, I am supremely grateful. To quote Jay-Z, “I got 99 problems but a bitch ain’t one.”

The Icing On The Cake of My Little Purple Pill

Some of you (ahem, Dani) may have noticed a lack of postage lately by moi. Well, there’s a reason. At first I was dallying because I wanted to get some photos from our trip to Cabo on here and tell you all about it, got super busy with work upon my return to said work, then my health took a nosedive. Being the ever-divulgent one that I am about all things me-centric, I will tell you what happened so you know I am not neglecting you, Dear Reader.

I awoke last Friday morning at 3:00 a.m. to a pain in my stomach and then barfed my guts out for awhile. Oh great, I thought. That spinach I ate last night was maybe NOT so restockable on the shelves of Trader Joe’s after all. I lay on the couch so as not to wake the slumbering Derek should another attack of The Hurlies come my way and watched what I always watch when I feel like crap and it happens to be on at 4:00 a.m.: So I Married An Axe Murderer (besides, of course, Aliens, Showgirls, Flashdance, Roadhouse and Blazing Saddles -- all comfort food movies). I just so freaking love Mike Meyers playing his own father, singing Rod Stewart songs and mangling the words. I love the best friend cop who whines at his boss that he doesn’t yell at him enough and he wanted to be Serpico and his boss is all “Sounds like somebody needs a hug!” But I REALLY love Phil Hartman playing Vicki, the Alcatraz tour guide (RIP, Phil -- we miss you, dude).

So then I start to feel that familiar old achey feeling in my bones. Neat. I have the flu. I call in sick and proceed to watch every single movie on HBO, Movie Channel, IFC and Sundance, and read every single Real Simple and In Style mag in the house that I have been neglecting. Twice. I can’t eat anything because the pain in my stomach will not allow anything but the stray saltine cracker to pass my lips.

The whole weekend goes by.

Still sick. Still pain in my stomach. Still can’t do anything. Don’t have even the faintest desire to try to look cute. Feel sorry for Derek, people. He had to live with this.

So by Monday, nothing having gotten better with my stomach, I start to panic. Something is really wrong. So between bouts of crying like a big wuss and then being angry that my body is not fixing itself, I manage to drag my sorry ass into my local urgent care clinic.

Guess what? I have an ulcer. Apparently they can be brought on by a stomach virus. Oh, how marvelous for me! I was prescribed Nexium, which stops the production of the stomach acid to allow the stomach to heal itself. I have to take it for a month. I was also prescribed “bland foods”.

Derek and I sat and discussed it later. We went over diet options. Here is what I can eat:

mashed potatoes
rice
mashed carrots
applesauce

Here is what I cannot eat:

Everything in the universe that is good and delicious and tasty and satisfying and fun.

In the ensuing feeling-sorry-for-myselfness, it was decided that I should name my evil nemesis that is residing in my person in order for me to best conquer said demon and resume a normal, fulfilling life free of prescription drugs and bland foods. What name could possibly befit such a beast?

Ulcifer.

Here is a typical dialogue between myself and the loathsome fiend who has taken up residence in my poor, meek duodenum. Because I was watching So I Married An Axe Murderer when Ulcifer first came on the scene, he has a Scottish accent.

ME: Wow, I haven’t eaten anything but saltines in three days. I need some vegetables. I wonder if I should make some broccoli tonight?

ULCIFER: What, are you new? Yew will eat the bloody saltine and lyke it!

ME: Oooooh, everybody at my table in the sushi place is getting the tastiest spicy tuna rolls and tempura. I bet I could just have one little bitty tuna roll . . .

ULCIFER: Waitress? Yes, we’ll have the wee cup of miso and a wee side of white rice. AND STEP ON IT, YA WEE BITCH!

ME: Mmmmmmm, lots of cookies leftover from today’s meeting. Hmmm, which one do I want: chocolate chip, white chocolate macadamia, ooooooh, the oatmeal looks good too. God, it’s been so long since I had some sugary goodness.

ULCIFER: AHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA!!!!! You’re veddy funny. And stewpit! Read mah lips: Neeeeeeoooooo.

ME: Driving past Tacos Por Favor. Sigh. Oh man, I would love one of their breakfast burritos right about now. Mmmmmmmmsanchezburrito.......

ULCIFER: Bitch, are you high? NO FARKING BRECKFUST BURRITEW FOR YOU AGAIN, EVAR! YOU WEE NUMBSKULL OF AN ARTICLE!

ME: (dissolving into defeated tears, popping Nexium like it was candy)

So yes, my dears, that has been my plight. I’m feeling a little better now and hoping to be back to my old sassy self again soon.

The Return of Surge Is Imminent

About a month ago, I bought a juicer. Specifically, this juicer. Now I know you all think I’m mental to begin with, but now you’re really going to think my porch light’s not on.

I named the juicer. Seriously. I named it Surge. I did this for a few reasons:

1) Surge sounded so much nicer than JE95;

2) I used to have this really bitchin’ awesome cat named Serge, and just saying the name brings back warm fuzzy memories of a warm fuzzy kitty who was the spawn of a cat I adopted when I was 19 and moved into this shithole house in Simi Valley with five other girls and the girl who lived in my room before me abandoned this cat who it turns out was pregs, and then during the week of the summer solstice shortly after she gave birth to her kittens, she was abducted by Satan worshippers along with all the other dogs and cats on our block so I had to painstakingly bottle-feed four screaming-clawing-with-razor-sharp-claws-on-bare-legs-in-summer kittens six times a day and kept the little baby long-haired grey and white girl who later it turned out was really a boy whose little gonads hadn’t yet dropped but I was already treating him like a girl and using my high-pitched girly-pet voice and imagined he must have been gay because of how I treated him all girly, so the only name that seemed to fit was that of the dude from Beverly Hills Cop (“Vould you like a little lemon tvist?..... Nah, it's no trouble, dun’t be stewpit.”) and later in his adult life when I lived in Redondo Beach, Serge would go up and down the driveways of all my neighbors’ homes and chat with them individually each day, and they all knew Serge (by his name tag), but didn’t even know me, that’s how cool of a cat he was -- I would be in front of my house and people I didn't even know would walk past and go "Hey Serge" and Serge would go "Hey, 'sup dawg?". He lived to a very ripe old age. And nobody could ever replace Serge. That’s why I spell the juicer’s name Surge. But it still makes me happy to say Surge. Or Serge.

3) Surge got me off coffee. I swear. And we’re talking about a serious coffeehound since the age of ninth grade when cramming for finals became a part of my adolescent repertoire. I love me some coffee, man. But with the green lemonade that Surge gives me in the morning, coffee, eh! Sniff! It has no appeal for me. I am so jazzed up and stoked with vitamins that there is no need for caffeine. Even for a non-morning-person! This I consider the act of a friend. A friend helps you say goodbye to unhealthy habits and embrace healthy new ones. A friend would not be named Model JE95, or “the juicer” (sounds waaaaaay too OJ Simpson for me), or just “that there appliance gizmo thingy there”. No, a friend has a name. And my friend’s name is Surge.

Well, a couple of blissful weeks after getting Surge, and having fresh green lemonade daily or fresh carrot/apple juice (shut up and try it!) or whatever combinations we came up with, there were sunshine and unicorns and flowers in my world, but it became apparent that Surge had a problem. Surge would spit juice out the sides whenever the produce went down the chute. I don’t just mean the “Say it, don’t spray it” kind of juice that comes out when you’re talking to an over-enthusiastic close-face-talker, I’m talking more like the kind of spray that comes out of a broken sprinkler.

This sucks rotten eggs.

I called the company and they said there must be a defect. Surge shouldn’t be doing that. I would have to pack up Surge and gingerly place him in a box with wadded up Old Navy shopping bags and send him back. In other words, I would have to part with Surge for an indefinite period of time. Ooooooh this made me very, very bitter and cold. But I did it with the hopes that soon, there would be a new Surge in his place that didn’t spew out juice in my face in the wee early morning hours.

Days turned into a week. A week turned into a week and a half. Finally, I couldn’t take it anymore. I called the company again, tense and shaking, and inquired about the whereabouts of my new and improved Surge.

I think I stated my issue quite calmly. In my mind’s version, it went something like this:

Me: “Well hello, jolly good sir, I wonder if you might give me the latest status on the arrival of my new juicer. An ETA, perhaps?”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: “Jolly good of you, kind old chap. Cheerio!”

But I’m sure it went more something like this:

Me: (crackhead edgy stuttering) “Look, man. WTF is my new juicer, man???? What’s the holdup, man????? I once had solid hope for like, the concept of like, having to get up and exist in the mornings, man. That hope is gone, man! Gone! Gone daddy gone! Love is gone! You took it away from me, you, you, you, you dickface! Gimme back my juicer, man! Even if it’s still broken! Alrighty??!!!! Then I won’t have to cut you!”

Juicer Company Guy: “Why yes ma’am, that juicer is en route to you and should arrive tomorrow.”

Me: (grateful sobs) Click.

Thank God. Thank you for Surge. I never knew I needed him so bad.

P.S. -- Recipe for Green Lemonade. One try, and you will understand how it can get you off coffee and make you happy to be alive and stuff. (All ingredients organic, of course.)

1 whole head of celery
1 whole lemon (unpeeled)
1 whole apple (Fuji rocks the best in this)
5-6 pieces of kale

Put all in juicer and drink. The lemon cuts out that greenie taste that nobody likes and makes it taste like -surprise!- lemonade. This recipe is from the book The Raw Food Detox Diet by Natalia Rose.

I Got Beaned

After recently overcoming somewhat of a lazy spell, I took it upon myself to take the large brown dog out for a jog last night. It was warm out, yes, but not stifling. And besides, sweating is cleansing, right? So I’m walking along in the park to warm up, feeling a little bit sassy and all like I’m hot stuff since I’ve lost an eensy bit of weight. There are wanna-be World Cuppers playing with their balls EVERYWHERE in the park these days, and last night was no exception. I had on my headphones for my MP3 player. I do this while jogging for several reasons, not the least of which are:

1) I seem to have tons more endurance when Nine Inch Nails and Rammstein are pounding in my ears.

2) It gives me an acceptable excuse for not acknowledging the douchebags who walk by me and insist, “SMILE!” like I’m supposed to be just walking down the street smiling continuously at nothing in particular. I am working out, Foolio. I am intensely imagining myself on a beach in Mexico sipping a Chi Chi rather than being here, exerting myself and sweating my ass off in my craptastic Target sweats and stained wife beater. Shut the hell up and leave me alone.

3) Hearing stripper music gives me the notion, however far-fetched, that I may one day have a stripper bod.

So anyhoo, since my stripper music was pounding away in my ears, I had no warning of what was about to be. A ball. Kicked at furiously high speeds. Aimed right at my head.

BAM!!!!!

My ear buds flew out and I almost fell, face-first, to the ground. It took me a second to figure out what happened, so I am sure the look on my face was something along the lines of WT-effing-F??????

This dude came up and frantically apologized in broken English and asked if I was okay. I glared at him.

“Okay? Huh. Okay. Okay? Hell no, I’m not okay!”

Again, more broken apologizing.

I hesitated, unsure of what to do. Normally, a genuine apology is plenty for me, but I still felt I might actually pass out from the blow, and this pissed me off.

“I almost just lost consciousness, dude. And stuff. You guys need to be careful. (more bitter scowling). Or something. Cuz. You know, people are walking. And stuff. Whatever.”

I’m sure I sounded like a total idiot and they had a good laugh at my expense over their Coronas later. Eh, what can you do? Sometimes it is dangerous providing entertainment to the public.

Rats -- The Epic Saga Continues

So last night, as the huge raindrops began to fall, I happened to be in our bedroom near the closet when I heard it -- the scurryings and scamperings of a hundred little rodent feet coming in out of the rain and settling in for a nice game of cribbage and some old scotch. Without paying any rent. I decided to raise the roof on their little party by taking a hanger and poking the little attic hatch thing upward from whence the scamperings were emanating, so that they would know that the owners of the house in which they are squatting are displeased and thus, a damper would be put on their little party, if you will. The hatch thingy went up and came back down, and as it did so, a rat turd fell out and right into my eye.

Yes, you read that right. I got a turd in the eye. Oh yes. It’s ON, bitches.

Nobody drops turd in MY eye, dammit. NOBODY.

Derek went out in the yard this morning to discover another carcass of yet another offender who met an unfortunate end. The carnage has only just begun.

Aw, Rats!

So Derek left at 6 a.m. for an early meeting, so I got to sleep in and drive alone to work. I roll out of bed around 8:00 after hitting the snooze button about 16 times, let the dogs out to go pee with my eyes half closed, get showered and dressed and looking all cute in my new Old Navy pink shirt and my cute pink heels with the butterfly design on them and my hair all freshly did and everything and proceed out to the garage to feed the hounds when I am stopped short by the sight of a GIANT DEAD RAT WITH A GIANT RUBBERY TAIL LYING THERE WITH ITS HEAD STILL IN A RAT TRAP. Which was thankfully face-down. And folks, I did the super lame cliché girl thing to do.

I screamed.

It was just so shocking, I mean, I almost stepped on the thing. Here, in my cute little shangri-la paradiso springtime beautiful yard on this beautiful sunny day, this poor dead nasty-ass creature stood out in bold and gross juxtaposition. And the dogs are all looking at me like, “Bitch, GET MY CHICKEN, ARE YOU NEW? Daddy always feeds us by 7:15! What do we have to do, suck in our cheeks and show some ribs? We are not Nicole Richie!!! This delay is un-freaking-acceptable! Step over the thing and get your ass into the garage and snap to it!”

But, I digress. See, up until recently we had been kind of in pleasant denial about any rodent problem. Sure, I had seen them last summer in our peach tree, greedily devouring every last morsel of fruit before it had even ripened enough to be picked. We had nary a bite of peach from that tree because of those little bastards. I even took the super high-pressure nozzle hose to those mo-fo’s while they sat in said peach tree, all fat and loaded up on sugar and giving me the rat-finger since they were too high up to reach them and kick their rat-asses. Yeah, I took that sprayer hose and was all Bruce Willis from Die Hard on their asses: “YIPPEE-KAI-AY, MOTHER F---ERS!!!!” whilst spraying my water uzi with glee. That was kind of fun, actually. But I always assumed they went off and lived in some other place like Ratville or Rattamonica or maybe Rat Hills and then commuted to our apricot tree during the day. Sadly, this is not the case.

Around wintertime, we started hearing strange noises coming from up in the attic and from the roof space over our bedroom. Very busy, scraping, organizing, plotting-type sounds. Derek and I would look at each other.

“Do you hear that?” (wide-eyed)

“Yeah. I do.” (eyes darting around)

“You know, I bet somebody died here years ago and they didn’t tell us when we bought the house.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Yeah. Somebody totally died here and now they live in our attic. And they’re angry that we’ve taken over the house because they don’t like our decorating scheme, they preferred the L.L. Bean country look, and here we are being all nouveau French / Asian Chic on their ass and they’re pissed. I’m going to check public records or something and find out who died here so we know who is quite obviously haunting us.”

“Okay. Good idea.”

End of story. And Denial is a river in Egypt.

Then one day recently, right after the time change, when it was still light enough to go outside after work and water the plants, I saw them in the faint glimmer of twilight. An entire FREAKING METROPOLIS of rats crawling around in the giant tree in our backyard. It looked like the tree itself was wriggling, there were so many rats crawling around in it. And they were busy doing stuff and things like crazy. I called Derek outside and made him look, and we watched as, one by one, they schlepped from the tree, to our roof, to the Ratville they have been erecting somewhere in our house. Holy crap, Houston, we have a problem.

I told my dad about it, and that I was thinking of calling an exterminator. “Oh good grief, just go get some rat traps and put them on the roof and call it a day, for crying out loud,” he muttered, and dads know about this kind of thing. So Derek got the traps and set them up on the roof the other day. And here, this morning, in front of my face, in all its carcassy glory, was the first fruit of his labors. I guess the trap snapped so hard, it went flying right off the roof and onto the patio and in front of my adorable pink shoes. And with no mens around (come on, I am a feminist and all but that shit is some men's work), I had to go get some plastic bags and pick up the wretched thing so that the dogs don’t get bored today and start thinking it’s some cool new and stinky chew toy for them to toss about the yard. Yeah. It was pretty awful.

I can only imagine the rat graveyard that must be on the roof by now. But my question is, after they’re dead, will they come back to the attic to haunt us and disapprove of our decorating scheme? God, that would just really suck.

Bitter, Party of One

This is going to be Bitchfest ’06.

Well, maybe not that bad. But come on. We had the time change over the weekend, accompanied by some nice weather. This is the best time of year for me. I’m all super stoked that it will still be light out when I am coming home from Curves at night. Super stoked about the coming spring blooms that explode around the neighborhood and on the hiking trails. Super stoked I can now manage hikes in daylight after work! I bought some new plants for the backyard and even some new super-cool teak chaise lounges for, you know, lounging in the lovely extended daylight hours.

And just look at it outside. It is pouring. Dumping. Raining like it’s going out of style and then being dropped off at the Goodwill. Talk about a buzz-kill. I woke up this morning (which is a world of suck unto itself for us non-morning people) to pounding rain and darkness. I had all these grand plans for this evening of walking the dogs, arranging the new plants in the yard, then reading some Whitman to the twilight sky above. But I guess I’ll just stay inside and listen to Morrissey, organize my sock basket and sigh a lot instead.

Bitter.

Color Me Right

Yanno, I hate when I'm right when it's something like this.

I have this theory, see, and many of you as my friends are well aware of this theory due to my past pontifications on this subject. You know how it seems bad drivers on the road are becoming worse and more plentiful? My theory is that the rate of bad drivers out there is directly proportional to the common use of prescription drugs these days. EVERYBODY is taking some shit or other for some ailment or other (even sweaty palms! Hello!!!) Every drug produces a bevvy of unwanted side effects, but I believe the majority of them should come with a warning label that says, in bold neon spazziness: WARNING: TAKING THIS MEDICATION WILL MAKE YOU A CRAP-ASS DRIVER, AND LIKELY TO ANNOY, INFURIATE, POSSIBLY INJURE OR EVEN KILL INNOCENT DRIVERS AROUND YOU. PLEASE HIDE YOUR CAR KEYS FROM YOURSELF BEFORE OPENING THE LID TO THIS MEDICATION.

Turns out I am right, right, right, according to this article from msnbc. You've heard of sleepwalking? That's old news. Nowadays, it's all about sleepDRIVING for Ambien users. What the hell is wrong with people?