Butt fur the grace of God

Posted on January 22, 2013 | 3 comments

There are many distinct advantages to having a dog vs. having a child. For instance, when your child is misbehaving and you just can’t take it anymore, sticking them in a crate for six hours while you get some much needed “me” time usually results in “jail” time. Likewise, it is frowned upon by authorities to hit your kid with a newspaper (and/or a September Vogue when they’ve been a VERY BAD BOY!) or to rub their face in their own feces to get your point across. Not to mention, have you ever seen a toddler sit and stay upon command? Without the assistance of duct tape, that is?

But the one area where dogs don’t have a distinct advantage? Sickness. Specifically the flu (or whatever the dog-version of the flu is, which is what I suspect my dog Buffy currently has). Because when either one gets sick, it’s pretty much the same scenario for the caregiver–

You will spend at least the next 24 hours cleaning up every manner of vile substances that can squeeze (and/or explode) itself out every orifice imaginable from their tiny bodies.

Which is why my Tuesday thus far has consisted of:

Taking my dog outside so he can poop.

Taking my dog outside again so he can poop.

Cleaning up the vomit I discovered after I got out of the shower.

Taking my dog outside again so he can have an explosive case of diarrhea and then immediately dragging my dog to the bathroom without having his backside touch anything (Note: I was unsuccessful).

Throwing said dog who has an intense hatred of baths into the tub so I could cut out his butt fur that had been tainted with said diarrhea.

Scrubbing his backside in case I missed any of the tainted butt fur.

Trying to get him back into the tub after he escaped and then rinsing him off as his wet body clings to mine with a strength I honestly didn’t think his 32-pound body could possibly possess.

Disinfecting the tub and bathroom floor with the butt fur and diarrhea remains.

Cleaning up all the other areas where he decided to spontaneously sit while being dragged to the bathroom.

Scrubbing my hands for 45 minutes until they bled and then sitting by the water bowl trying to coax Buffy to take a drink since I know I have personally just cleaned up every single ounce of liquid his body could possibly hold.

And that pretty much brings us up to date, with my exhausted dog cuddled up next to me on the couch as I sporadically check to make sure he’s still breathing while I type this and the vet’s number queued up on my phone in case he gets any worse.

Now, I could be angry about this situation. Or at least unhappy. Or at the very least starting to question what horrific life decisions I had made that had led me up to this point where I spend the majority of my Tuesday scrubbing a dog’s butt.

But I’m not. Because as it turns out, this couldn’t have happened at a better time considering I woke this morning to the Facebook announcement of yet another person in my circle happily proclaiming that they’re pregnant. A proclamation, I’m not proud to admit, that made me irrationally mad.

See, after my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage in October, my husband and I have started to try to conceive again, which has yet to be successful and which is subconsciously bringing up some of those horrible feelings we dealt with this fall. And which is why instead of being happy for couples who are expecting like I should, I react with:

“But that’s not fair! They already have kids! And now they get another one? Like it’s just so easy to get pregnant! How dare they! How dare they be so happy when I’m not! How dare it be so easy for them when it’s not for me!”

Like I said, irrationally mad. And exceedingly unfair to the happy couple, I know.

But after today, I realize it’s probably a lot harder (and a lot more anxiety-inducing) to deal with a sick kid. Or to deal with even a healthy kid. Because poop-covered-fur-cutting-out aside, my dog is pretty self-sufficient no matter what the circumstances. And if I was dealing with a sick kid, I wouldn’t be able to drink this vodka I’m currently holding in my hand.

So, I’m holding onto that for right now, because I need to hold onto something other than the disappointment of getting my period yet again. And for right now, it’s enough to just try to find the upside of only being responsible for the life of a dog, a creature that has more instincts for self-preservation than a toddler who thinks sticking a fork into a light socket sounds like a downright dandy idea.

And to try to remember that there is always next month, which, of course, is easier said than done, but hey, it’s something.

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But…white girls are always on a diet, aren’t they?

Posted on January 11, 2013 | 4 comments

You guys…I don’t know. Is it just me or does this new year just seem…I don’t know…a bit lackluster? A bit blah?

I mean, 2013? Thirteen itself is just a crappy number. Unlucky, even. And was anyone happy when they turned 13? Of course not. You had acne and hair sprouting in weird places and were the very definition of awkward and everyone hated you because you were SUPER annoying.

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Even the end of the world Mayan prediction was a letdown, unable to live up to the hype of Y2K.

Then again, maybe it is just me. I’m just not feeling the bright, shiny part of this bright, shiny new year. I couldn’t even gather up the energy to make a resolution this year. Not even to lose weight, which, as a white girl born and bred in the Midwest, has been my standard Jan. 1 promise since I was four.

And, come to think of it, maybe that’s the problem.

See, normally, this time of the year is downright magical. The time when we women research and plan and empty our pantries full of junk and buy pills and powders and that yoga DVD which goes perfectly with the brand new cute yoga outfit we just bought and we write out our daily menu for the next two weeks based on the latest, trendy diet book we also just bought. It’s a time of hope, the time when we truly believe THIS diet actually IS the answer to our weight loss woes, unlike the 42 others that we’ve tried and failed miserably at, and the time just before reality sets in and we’d stab a three-legged, orphaned bunny just to get our hands on a piece of chocolate cake.

I can’t explain why the majority of us women love putting ourselves through this year after year. But we do. To the tune of $600 trillion* a year for the diet industry. So there must be something enjoyable about it. Even if we have yet to figure out what that enjoyable element actually is.

*Figure might not be accurate considering I just made it up on the spot.

Not to mention, we’re encouraged by an endless parade of publications putting out their health and fitness issues and Facebook and Twitter feeds of everyone talking about their new, amazing diet:

“Just lost seven pounds on the leek soup diet!!! I’ve passed out 32 times but can totes fit in my skinny jeans!!! Jajajajaja!!!”

So maybe I’m just feeling a bit left out. I have no desire to put myself through all that again. It just seems like too much work for something that has a proven fail rate of 100 percent.

But if I can’t get excited about a new diet, honestly what else is there to live for?

Hmm…then again, maybe I’m being too pessimistic. Maybe this is actually a healthy step for me. Perhaps I’ve finally gotten to the age where I accept and love my body for what it is, muffin top and all.

Or more likely, I’ve reached the pivotal point in my life where I’ve subconsciously decided to just let myself go and start that muu-muu collection that I’m always (kind of) joking about.

Either way, I’m going to eat this pie. And not feel guilty.

Or at least not as guilty as I’d usually feel.

Or at the very least, feel guilty but then have another slice anyway and then start planning my new diet for the start of 2014.

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The Pizza Principle

Posted on January 5, 2013 | Leave a comment

You know, I often wonder what it’ll be like when I’m old. You know, like, when I’m 35.

Ha! I kid. Thirty-five is now the new 12. You’re not technically old until 44. Everyone knows that.

But seriously, I do often wonder how things will be when I’m in my 70’s and I’m (hopefully) a grandmother to grandkids who are way less messed up than my actual kids. And they all gather around their Ninja Gammy (<—–trademarked) and ask “What was it like when you were young, Ninja Gammy?”

“Well, kids, it was a simpler time, when Dr. Dre and Snoop Dogg (now Snoop Sphinx) was blasting from the 800-pound five-CD changer in my car trunk (remember, kids, always keep your mind on your money and your money on your mind) and we communicated via pagers, which were tiny machines that beeped to alert you someone wanted you to find a landline phone (which was a primitive and barbaric form of the cell phone) no matter where you were so that you could call them back immediately so that they could inform you they needed a ride, and we had to walk 30 miles in the snow without shoes to let our best friend know what our status update was, and when we wanted to watch a TV show we had to wait until the actual day and time that the TV network broadcast it, and we were forced to write (by hand!) in the now mythical language of ‘cursive’.”

And as if all that wasn’t embarrassing enough, I still have to figure out how the hell I’m going to explain/justify MySpace and Gangnam Style to them.

“Uh…there were bath salt zombies back then, children. What do you want from me?”

See, the problem is that technology is simply moving too fast. For instance, I remember my grandma playing music on a record player while I was jamming to my cassette tapes (pieces of crap that always had to be fixed with a pencil, kids). But it wasn’t a completely foreign concept to me. As a kid, my cousins had a toy record player that we used to play crappy kid’s albums on. And even though we all had cordless phones (slightly less barbaric versions of cellphones, kids), we could all figure out how to use the rotary phone she had because the generation gap wasn’t wider than the technology gap.

But now…oi vey…

Which brings me to the point of this post. Being the Smart Phone/Facebook/Twitter/Instagram addict that I am, I had an eye-opening experience just the other day that taught me a very valuable lesson about all this runaway technology we’re living with today.

Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…Flashback Wavy Lines…

It was just after New Years. My family was in town. Considering it was January in Boston, it was cold (which was confirmed by the 52 Instagram photos of thermometers in my feed). So we decided to take advantage of home delivery, the culinary technology break-through that made it possible for hot food to be delivered to your door (like in Star Trek: The Next Generation, only slower and without the whimsy).

Considering there were five of us, we decided to go with pizza, the ultimate crowd pleaser and the least likely choice to result in a fist fight.

Or so it would seem at first glance.

Being that this was my territory, I clicked onto Foodler.com, my go-to magical food portal, an absolutely brilliant contribution to humanity that lets you type in your address and then tells you what restaurants deliver to your ‘hood (complete with full menus for each eatery) and then LET’S YOU ORDER DIRECTLY FROM THE WEBSITE. I know I talk up toilet paper a lot as the best invention of all time (with the Snuggie as a close second), but seriously, I’d be willing to go back to leaves and/or our collective left hand in order to keep Foodler.

The problem was, however, that the majority wanted Regina’s pizza, which was not listed on Foodler. So, trying to be a good hostess, I Googled Regina’s delivery. Found out they do deliver. Clicked on link. Was taken to a new Foodler-esque website. Started to order. Discovered I also had to set up an account, complete with username, password, password hint, security questions, personal info, mother’s maiden name and itemized list of everyone I’ve ever had sex with. Decided to scrap that idea. Sooooo then…

Went directly to Regina’s website. Discovered they had a tab for delivery. No menu listed. Had to create own pizza from list of 3,000 ingredients. Twenty minutes (and 42 stitches later) we realized we cannot, as a family unit, create our own pizza unanimously (or at least, not without Thunderdome breaking out). Sooooo then…

More Googling. More half-hearted attempts to create “accounts” on other third-party food delivery websites. More “your food will be delivered in approximately 3 hours and there will be a $652 delivery fee.”

And just when we thought all hope was lost and we’d be forced to eat leftover Christmas food that may or may not have gained consciousness…

Someone suggested, “Uh, why don’t you just call the restaurant and order the pizza?”

Ninety seconds later, the pizza was ordered. Ready in 15. Have a nice day.

Lesson learned: Technology isn’t simplifying our lives. It’s simply making us stupid.

So, just remember that, kids, when 30 years from now it takes you three hours to order a pizza via the Internet.

And that’s only if you can remember your password.

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It’s the end of the world as the Mayans know it

Posted on December 19, 2012 | 5 comments

Even though technically I’m writing this before the supposed end of the world on Dec. 21, I’m going to go out on a limb here and assume that we didn’t all meet our fiery doom simply because the Mayans got lazy with their math homework. And if I’m wrong, well, pffft…what are you going to do about it? Judge me? Shove it in my face? You’re freaking dead.

But even though this prophecy is complete bunk (unless, again, I’m wrong, in which case, who cares because I doubt there is an Internet comment section in the afterlife…unless you end up in Hell where you are forced to read “c0mn3ntz buY peepz wh00 truely h8 da Englesh langwuid” all day), it does have the interesting effect of making one reflect back on their life. This is also amplified by the fact that we are staring straight into a bright, shiny new year, which always casts a magical spell on us and makes us promise to do things we actually never, ever intend to do.

So, with this in mind, I’ve been wondering how my life has stacked up so far.

Childhood? Happy. Or, at least as happy as any childhood can be in a world where wearing floral leggings in fourth grade will get you the nickname “Petunia Butt.” And, sure, I still had to deal with bullies and insecurities and childhood fears (I’m still convinced those troll dolls from the ’80s come alive at night) and boo-boos and disappointments (ahem…Kent Blackford likes me but doesn’t “like” me like me) and that horrible process of trying to figure out your place in the world. But at the end of the day, I always knew I was loved.

Adolescence? Ugh. Let’s just say it was the best of times, it was the worst of times. Or better yet, if we take out the years 13 through 15 (and any and all photos taken during that period), it was actually pretty damn good. Although there was some pretty awful poetry produced in the remaining years.

College? Two degrees. No STDs. Sixty percent of memories still retained. So, overall, successful.

Career? Currently not where I want to be. I mean, I never really achieved my 7-year-old self’s dream of being a model-doctor-marine biologist-author-female Indiana Jones. But I did become a writer and a journalist, my 15-year-old self’s dream. I’ve seen my byline in multiple newspapers, including the Boston Globe, won some awards and was once told by an 87-year-old woman that I was funnier than Carol Burnett, which, let’s be honest, is by far the best compliment one can receive. I even achieved my goal of becoming a paid photographer, my 25-year-old self’s dream. Sure, I still haven’t written that book that is destined to make me rich (or at least get me out of the Ramen Noodle bracket of the middle class) or become syndicated yet, but the fact that I often write currently for publications for free proves that I really am doing what I love.

Love life and other grown-up relationships? My husband tells me I’m beautiful when I just woke up and resemble Wednesday Addams (both in looks and attitude), my family supports me to an embarrassing degree, my in-laws are straight out of some magical Hallmark Christmas movie and my friends, both life-long and recent and everything in-between, are the new, improved Algonquin Round Table.

Hmm…somehow I thought this post would be more cynical. But as it turns out, when you reflect on your life, somehow the good always outshines the bad. Which leads us to the most important question of all:

What would I do if I knew in advance it was my very last day on Earth and that I would shortly be forced to read the worst, most ignorant comments the Internet has to offer for the rest of eternity?

Nothing.

Or more specifically, the same thing I can be found doing on any average Saturday. Cooking breakfast with my husband, yelling at the dog, talking to my mom and cousin on the phone, heading into the city and stopping for a beer at some dive bar and at the end of the day, writing it all down.

Because, as it turns out, it’s in the every day that the magic of life lives.

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‘Twas the month before Christmas…

Posted on November 29, 2012 | 2 comments

This one is dedicated to my husband, the brave hunter

‘Twas a month before Christmas, when all through the house
Not a creature was stirring, except for my husband (who was hunting a mouse).
The traps were all placed in the kitchen with care
In the hopes that a dead rodent soon would be there.

I was nestled all snug and a ‘lil drunk in my bed
While visions of sexy fun times danced in my head
But Ryan in his PJ’s, armed with those silly traps
Refused to stop ’til he won against those rats

When suddenly, BOOM! There arose such a clatter
I fell (gracefully) out of bed to see what was the matter
Away to the kitchen I stumbled all lady-like
Cause sweatpants are always classy, am I right?

Through the haze of perhaps a bit too much wine
I looked around to find that husband of mine
When what to my wondering eyes should appear
But him laying on the floor, on his face a big sneer

“I found him, babe! I have him caught under here!”
He declared, so happy his victory was so near
But alas, the poor man was about to lose face
Because soon a half-dozen more took its place

Now, look here Mighty! And you too, Minnie and Mickey!
And don’t think I forgot you, the Brain and dumbass Pinkie!
You guys are all over, coming out of the walls
And I want to bash your stupid heads, bash away them all

Get the hell outta my house, you tiny assholes
You rejects of nature, you hamsters without souls
You’ve invaded our home for much, much too long
And the way you’ve invaded our life is just wrong

Because it’s the same thing every single night
The scurrying and pawing happening just out of sight
And us laying in bed, seething at the thought
Of the havoc and ickiness you have wrought

And trust me, no lie, I used to feel bad for you
Buying humane traps and making much ado
About how your stupid little lives mattered too
A decision I would quickly come to rue

Because your eyes! How evil and so beady!
Your tails, ugh, so gross! Your motives how seedy!
Your stupid little mouths and your need to pee
Not to mention poop on every surface I can see

Thanks to you jerks I now compulsively clean
A habit now I don’t think I’ll ever ween
Going to Lady MacBeth lengths, until I’ve bloody hands
While you laugh and mock and take over the land

But while you have won the battles thus far
We’ll win the war and rule like demonic czars
Turning our house into a mecca of death
Hunting you down like addicts looking for meth

Cause while you may have evaded all our tricks
Never taking the bait and getting your kicks
From outsmarting us and making us look daft
Live it up because, trust me, we’ll have the last laugh

So forget poison and those glue traps as well
Because our next idea is downright next to swell
And I don’t think I’m lying when I say you’ll be quite smitten
With the fact I’m going out and adopting a litter of kittens

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Happy HalloChristGiving, Charlie Brown!

Posted on November 26, 2012 | 4 comments

Hey, you know what the world needs more of? (Warning! Warning! Sarcasm bomb about to detonate!) People complaining about how Christmas comes earlier and earlier every year. We just don’t see enough of that, you know? And I bet if we did complain more, it would totally change things.

Just like how complaining about politics and cold weather and people who think Instagram was created solely so they could share what they’re eating for lunch (Blackened salmon with roasted asparagus? Well, aren’t you fancy!) makes all those things better.

(I sincerely apologize to anyone who got hit with sarcasm shrapnel. Unless your Instagram account is just filled with food. Then you deserved it).

Yes, people complaining about how Christmas has completely obliterated Thanksgiving and is quickly encroaching on Halloween’s thunder is about as cliché now as people complaining how ironic it is we go out and shiv little old ladies to get 40 percent off TV’s and unnecessary shaving kits the day after a holiday centered around giving thanks for what we already have.

But as futile as I think it is to bitch about Christmas being three months long now, I must admit I side with the complainers. Because even though you’ll never convince Sharon, your co-worker who starts wearing light-up Happy Holiday sweaters in October, that she needs to stop, your silence means you approve. And you don’t approve. Because Sharon is ridiculous and owns a cat named Gingerbread and has a weird, creepy crush on Santa.

I too don’t want to have to sift through a bunch of candy canes before I find the Halloween candy at the grocery store in October; or a bunch of eggnog before I find my gourd-based beers at the liquor store in September.

And I sure as hell don’t want to see Christmas commercials when I’m having my annual psychotic breakdown in the kitchen on Thanksgiving.

But before you go thinking I’m all bah-humbug-y, Grinch-y, evil corporate guy in every Christmas special ever, let me throw this at ya.’ Christmas is actually my favorite holiday. Always has been. I love everything about it. The lights. The cooking (until the inevitable psychotic breakdown). The gift shopping. The wrapping. The decorating. The 37 emails back and forth with family about who got what on everyone’s list. The music. The claymation marathons on TV. The awkward reaction I get from salespeople when they say “Happy Holidays” and I reply with a cheerful “Merry Christmas” because they think I’m going to be that A-hole that gets mad that they said “Happy Holidays” when really I couldn’t care less because my body is composed of 82 percent hot toddy at that point.

And it’s because I love Christmas so much that I’m angry everyone is trying to artificially manufacture Christmas spirit prematurely. Because you know what happens when you try to artificially make something happen? It…well, let’s use an awkward metaphor to explain it…

It’s like getting all dressed up in your sexy lingerie, hair done perfectly and actual makeup on your face besides chapstick and anti-wrinkle cream, because you want to surprise your husband with some sexy, fun-time, naked, grown-up stuff. And so you carefully lay yourself on the bed in just the perfect position so that all your wobbly bits and fat pockets are hidden. And you’re just practically vibrating with excited anticipation for the night.

And then you wait.

And you wait.

And then wait some more.

And then he’s three hours late coming home from work and by the time he gets to the bedroom, you’ve already downed half a bottle of wine and eaten three-fourths of a pumpkin pie while wearing sweatpants over your teddy because all the anticipation, and thus the fun, has vanished.

That’s what you people are doing to Christmas.

If you build this holiday up too big by starting it way too early, the only place it can go is to an anti-climatic, sputtering dud. So that by Christmas Eve, you downright rage in a foam-at-the-mouth homicidal spree every time you hear “Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Reindeer” because it is the 37th million time you’ve heard it and the human brain can tolerate only 34 million times (there have been studies, look it up).

So stop ruining Christmas. Be patient. Let’s make this season a reasonable, wonderful, exciting, month-long celebration. Instead of building it up starting July Fourth only to arrive at the end with an attitude of “that’s it?”

It’s what Charlie Brown would have wanted.

And that weird, freaky-looking Yeti in the Rudolph special.

 

 

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Geez…Happy Lamesgiving

Posted on November 21, 2012 | 2 comments

Is it just me or has everyone gone nuts for Thanksgiving this year? No, I’m not talking about getting a jumpstart on the traditional holiday season bender a vast majority of us go on this time of year. Hell, most of us started that in August.

I’m talking about the abundance of thanks people are publicly listing on social networking sites such as Facebook, which started as early as November 1st.

Every. Single. Day. Posting what they’re thankful for: Their children. Their health. The fact that every time they bitch on Facebook it’s only for First World Problems.

Last time I checked, Thanksgiving was only one day. For only one day did I have to be thankful for crap. Which was then followed the next day by beating up people in Aisle 10 of Wal-Mart in order to get the last Tickle Me Binder Full of Women or whatever stupid, popular toy some manufacturer didn’t make enough of for all of us in the world who have the time and luxury to camp outside a store for a week.

I mean, I wouldn’t care, but it’s bad enough Christmas starts in March now. Does Thanksgiving really need to be a whole month-long?

And honestly, who really cares what you’re thankful for?

The answer? No one. So knock it off and keep it at the Thanksgiving dinner table, where it belongs.

OK, OK, enough complaining. I digress. Let’s move onto the topic of this blog.

Here’s a list of everything I’m thankful for this year:

“Jersey Shore” is finally ending.

Season Two of HBO’s “Girls” begins in January.

My dog Buffy has yet to succeed with his plans to take over the world.

Speaking of the world, I’m also glad we got a heads up that it is ending this December, which means I don’t have to go out and buy Christmas gifts for anyone. Suckers.

Hats that make babies look like bears.

That Facebook, Twitter, Tumblr, YouTube, Instagram, Blogger and WordPress didn’t exist when I was a teenager, thus documenting all my stupid ducky-wip pictures and lame, melodramatic “poetry” for all eternity on the Internet.

Toilet paper (look, I know I say that every year, but seriously, think about it…think about life without toilet paper…yeah…exactly).

That I didn’t kill myself quite literally about an hour ago when I noticed the gas on our stove top was on and had been on for about four hours ever since I cleaned it this morning and accidentally turned the dial on. And that I didn’t go with my first gut reaction, which was to light the stove so that it would use up all the excess gas (I swear, I have two college degrees).

Hummus. Which I use to confuse with haggis. And which is why I never ate it. Until someone finally told me the difference (did I mention I have two college degrees?).

Saturday Night Live. And specifically, Bill Hader. Who I would like to do dirty, dirty things to while he does his Clint Eastwood impression.

That if I ever become homeless, I will own the most books of any homeless person ever. I don’t care how many Kmart carts I have to steal from their parking lot. They’re ALL coming with me to the creepy alleyway.

My husband. Without which, I would have to move every time there was a spider in the house.

My in-laws (yeah, I have awesome in-laws…how much do you hate me right now?).

My 2004 Hyundai, which is not only paid off but has a sassy chassis that keeps running like a dream (well, a dream with a broken muffler that makes it sound like a monster truck eating a fourwheeler).

I finally have a dining room table…like an ADULT.

Vodka.

Merlot.

Captain Morgan.

Beer.

Scotch.

Pumpkin beer.

Rum.

Eggnog.

Christmas-themed beer.

Cherry Bounce (which is a family recipe involving vodka, cherries and I swear, body parts from a unicorn).

Beer in a bottle.

Also a can.

And occasionally out of a jar.

And FINE! I’ll give a legit one. GAWD. I’m thankful that even though I lost the title of mother this year, I was quickly reminded by some wonderful people that I still hold the title of beloved wife, daughter, sister, aunt, niece, cousin, in-law, friend and kindred spirit.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

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BEWARE! Hormonal woman on the loose

Posted on November 14, 2012 | 2 comments

CONFESSION: I haven’t been a teenager in approximately (sound of a muffled number due to a hand over the mouth) years. And yet, for the past three weeks, I remember EXACTLY what it was like to be a teenager.

Because apparently my hormones are currently on a cocktail of meth, bath salts and Nyquil. The same concoction they were chugging when I was 14.

And 15.

And 3/4 of my 16th year.

And OK, yeah, some of 17 too.

Possibly also 22.

And for a brief period when I was 27. And 30.

But I digress.

*Now, for you fellas reading this, I realize as soon as women mention anything about the H-word, you zone out and/or start stockpiling weapons for your own safety (as well you should). Hormones are simply a fancy doctor term for “Holy crap, I might die at the hands of this person who used to resemble my girlfriend/wife/friend with benefits.” But stick with me here. Just a little bit longer. At the very least for the benefit of your own safety.

As wacka-a-doo cuckoo crazy puffs as I am right now, I can officially say that this time there is a legit reason (other than “He left the seat UP AGAIN…APRILL SMASH!”). About four weeks ago, I had a miscarriage. Which was devastating. And which I’m still dealing with. And which I wrote about in a post linked here.

And one side effect of this horrific event is that when your body goes from being pregnant to suddenly not being pregnant, it also suddenly decides to go on a hormonal bender. Meaning I’m less of an actual person and more just a bag of skin and bones that is carrying around wayward hormones that have a GIGANTIC chip on their shoulder.

And which also means that anyone in my path is a potential victim of Hurricane Hormone. For example:

  • My dog, who has been yelled at thus far for breathing, for shedding, for pooping too much, for looking at me too long and for that weird, irritating noise he makes when he’s licking his paws.
  • My husband, who tried unsuccessfully to console me after I broke down crying when I saw a mouse dying from the poison the exterminater put around our house.  And trying unsuccessfully again when I sobbed uncontrollably at a deodorant commercial. And an episode of “Teen Mom 2.” And at a Triscuit that I thought looked like my recently deceased grandma.
  • My medical bill, which upon finding out that it cost me $300 to confirm that I did indeed have a miscarriage, was crinkled up, thrown against the wall and then stomped on. It would have also been set on fire, but my husband (rather wisely) hid any and all potential weapons in the house, including lighters and matches.

And just like when I was a teenager, I hate my body with a passion that only a white girl with First World Problems can. I have inappropriate responses to mundane inquiries (“Hey sweetie, how much was our electricity bill this month?” “Gaaahhh, what do you want from me!?! I’m only human. Sorry I have to keep my lousy phone charged. WHY DOES EVERYONE HATE ME!”). I alternate between being wildly insecure and thinking everyone besides me is an idiot. And, instead of being jealous of the Prom Queen, I am now jealous of all the women I encounter who are pregnant and/or have babies and so make up horrible gossip about them in my head (“I bet her stupid baby will grow up to live at home until he’s 41. Ha! Serves her right.”).

My only solace is that this will all pass soon. And I can go back to normal. Which means instead of being a crazy, hormonal 31-year-old teenager, I’ll be just a plain, old, normal, crazy, hormonal 31-year-old woman.

But since I’m not sure when that will be, I bought helmets for both my husband and my dog.

And the mailman.

Just to be on the safe side.

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I am the 40 percent

Posted on October 22, 2012 | 28 comments

The longest day of my life began at 4 a.m. on a Tuesday.

I had gotten used to waking up early ever since I found out, which I chalked up to the lack of massive amounts of caffeine in my body and my newly formed habit of falling asleep around 8:30 p.m.

But this time was different. This time it was the dull ache that gently woke me up. Clumsily making my way to the bathroom though, it was the blood that jolted me awake.

Spotting, I told myself. Mild cramping. No big deal, my head said while my body frantically looked for the right section in the book. Yep. Totally normal.

I laid down on the couch in total darkness and turned on some crappy late night/early morning/not really suitable for human consumption TV. I absent-mindedly rubbed my lower stomach, a sort of unconscious gesture meant to signal reassurance for the both of us. I’ll be fine.

We’ll be fine.

By 5, the crappy movie was over and the meaningless dull ache had forced me into a fetal position. By 6, I was walking around bent over in an effort to relieve the meaningless pain that had meaninglessly grew into an intense ache. By 6:30, I was lighting a cigarette from the secret stash I hadn’t been able to throw away yet even though I had quit smoking. Just one to calm myself down.

Everything is fine.

As my husband woke up at 7 and as dawn broke, casting brutal light on the situation, I allowed myself the first tears. He ran to the store for Tylenol and maxi-pads, a first aid kit for a gaping fatal wound. By 8:30, we were on the road to the women’s health clinic, an appointment that had actually been made weeks ago.

Good one, universe.

No one even knew yet besides a handful of close friends and family. Eight weeks pregnant. Keep it quiet for now. Just in case…you know.

And suddenly, I knew all too well.

We nicknamed it Poppyseed in lieu of the popular moniker “It” so many other couples use during those early months. Poppy, for short. It was a private joke courtesy of my cousin, who upon finding out my new condition three weeks prior, pulled a poppyseed off her cheeseburger, pointed at it and said, laughing, “that’s how big your baby is right now.”

Urine sample. Blood sample. Weight and height check. Hello, I’m Carol. Is this your first pregnancy? Congratulations. Symptoms could be normal. Your cervix is closed. Good sign. Hmm…can’t find a heartbeat. Let’s schedule you an ultrasound…just in case…you know.

I was due in May, which was perfect. If it was a girl, her name was going to be Mae. A decision made long ago. Because Aprill is always followed by Mae. If it was a boy, well…Milo has a nice ring to it, don’t you think?

Two hour wait. Silent tears. It’ll be fine, honey. Don’t worry. Mrs. Brandon? Nice to meet you. Hop on up here. Now what happened exactly this morning? Relax your legs. Too small to see on the monitor. Let’s try this.

Just the other day I had planned on shouting the exciting news from the virtual rooftops of Facebook and Twitter. After our first doctor appointment. Once we made sure there was little chance of any sort of just in case.

Well, there doesn’t seem to any pregnancy tissue. You may have passed it this morning.

There’s nothing you could have done. Or did do. These things just happen. Forty percent of pregnancies in the first trimester, to be exact. Most women only have one in their lifetime. Chances are high you’ll conceive again.

I know they have to say this. The doctor. The nurse. The now demoted future grandparents. The friends and co-workers.

There really is nothing else you can say.

But it doesn’t help. At least right now. Because no words can erase the image of your husband, so strong and stoic the entire time, finally breaking down on the phone when he calls his boss to tell him he won’t be in today. And because what died on that horrific morning wasn’t just a fetus. What also drowns and dies in that tsunami of blood and cramps is that movie montage you’ve been playing over and over in your head the past eight weeks until it’s the perfect mental screenplay of the rest of your life.

But then, the dream of a completely different future than the present you are currently living in fades slowly to black.

Suddenly you can no longer see the labor scene where you hurl hilarious insults at whoever is standing by, ones that even give the nurses a giggle. Or the moment you both sob like idiots when it’s all over and you’re holding a baby that has your eyes and Praise Jesus! his nose.

The never-ending need to count all his perfect fingers and toes. The uncontrollable urge to kiss her little face all the time.

The framed photo of her sleeping on her dad’s bare chest or his first Halloween where I dress him as Frankenstein’s monster simply so I could send out a photo card with the caption “We have created LIFE! It’s ALIIIIIIVE!”

Christmas mornings. First birthdays. ER trips because someone couldn’t resist shoving a Lego up their nose. Catching her digging through the trash with the dog as her accomplice. Him helping me make pancakes.

Ballet recitals. T-ball games. First girlfriends where I whip out every single embarrassing photo I can find, including the one of him in a dress having a tea party with his female cousins. First heartbreak where I cuddle with her on the couch and we eat ice cream while watching “Love Actually” and I let her cuss in front of me for the first time.

Graduation. Marriage. Becoming a grandparent myself. And everyone coming back home for Thanksgiving, filling our quiet house with welcomed chaos.

It all died too.

So, for now, I mourn the loss. Of her. Or him. And of the dream.

And hopefully, after time, and some Merlot, and maybe a night or twelve of healing vodka, we’ll be able to try again.

And I can start to dream again.

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Project Ducky Wip

Posted on October 15, 2012 | 2 comments

This past weekend, my husband left me for four days.

Alas, it’s not what you’re thinking. Although granted, that would make for a much better essay, the whole troubled marriage thing and “two people who love each other but grew apart and are trying to find their way back to each other.”  But no, my stupid husband is perfect. Which makes for very boring writing on my part. In fact, if we ever do get divorced, it’s probably because he’s single-handedly killing my writing career by being nice and emptying the dishwasher without having to be asked.

Asshole.

Anyway, as I was saying, my husband left for four days to go to an IMPORTANT FANCY PROFESSIONAL PERSON conference in Cleveland. No big deal, right? Sure. Except for one very important freaky detail of our relationship…

Somehow, in our entire five-year courtship and subsequent two and half years of marriage, we have managed to never leave me at home all by myself. Now, this could either be because 1. my husband (probably rightly so) doesn’t really trust me home alone since I have the common sense of a five-year-old child on meth (“Babe! I invented a new game! It’s called Potato Fire Ball! Here…CATCH!”) or 2. Circumstances have simply never aligned for this particular situation.

That’s not to say we’ve never been apart. But it’s usually me leaving him to go to yet another friend’s wedding or to go visit family or to spend a night in the drunk tank (kidding…that’s only happened, like, three times, tops…speaking of which, Best. Arbor. Day. EVAH.) while he stays behind and does IMPORTANT FANCY PROFESSIONAL PERSON stuff.

So naturally, I was SUPER excited to finally be left to my own devices. And that feeling lasted for all of 45 minutes after he left until I realized how utterly boring it is. And how utterly boring I had become. It quickly dawned on me that we had become that couple that do EVERYTHING together. And now that we’re both in our 30’s, EVERYTHING constitutes sitting around in sweatpants and doing activities that can be done mainly from the couch. Which is fun as a twosome. But just sad and pathetic as a onesome.

So I passed the time as best I could. I had numerous Netflix marathons (“iCarly” is seriously underrated, you guys). I started reading “Wuthering Heights.” I fell asleep reading “Wuthering Heights.” I tried teaching my dog to fetch beer from the fridge. I spent a good couple of hours nursing a drunk dog, holding back his ears back and whatnot.

My boredom finally got so bad that I was reduced to taking on a PROJECT. You know what I mean. Not some rinky-dinky little project you do during a rainy afternoon because it will be fun. No. A PROJECT. An undertaking so big, only people on the brink of insanity caused by boredom would ever even think of taking it on. And the kind of thing you take on that HAS to be FINISHED that day in a manic flurry of activity or else it will never, ever be completed.

We’ve all been there. It’s why kitchens are re-tiled and garages cleaned out and living rooms re-arranged.

And my PROJECT was a suicide mission. But with nothing much left between me re-enacting the majority of “Grey Gardens” in my living room and me actually turning into Edie in real life, it had to be done.

So, I decided it was high time to finally organize the decades-worth of photos from childhood through post-college I had that were just lying around all willy-nilly in my closet in numerous shoeboxes.

No big deal, right? WRONG. Cause see, I have quite literally documented every moment of my life. Ever wonder what you ate before homecoming your freshmen year? Well, I don’t have to. I have a photo of it (cheeseburger and fries). Oh, what’s that? What beer was I drinking at my best friend’s 18th birthday? Natural Light, thanks for asking. And as for what Geoff was wearing at my first boy-girl birthday party in 8th grade? A striped polo shirt and backwards baseball cap.

I even kept all those wallet-sized school portraits. I have like three from elementary school of some girl named Suzanne that I don’t even remember.

So, starting out on my couch, I started going through them, putting them into different envelops organized by event and time period and how I good I personally looked in them. Four hours later, I was on the floor, photos scattered all around. Four hours after that, every surface of my house was covered in photos. And they were never-ending. Those photo boxes were like clown cars. Just when you thought they couldn’t possibly contain more, 300 from a college toga party poured out.

It was like they were multiplying. A prom photo of me and my ex-boyfriend mated with a photo of my college buddies Curt and Tim to produce a ducky-wip picture of my cousin.

It was madness, I tell you. MADNESS!

And to make matters worse, I also thought now would be the opportune time to reorganize my eight (EIGHT!) photo albums.

Sixteen loooong hours later, the PROJECT was finally done. Every photo catalogued and filed away (or thrown away if I happened to have a double chin in it). And every slot in my albums filled in a somewhat narrative order (for instance, sober to drunk for most nights out).

And despite the backache that is still bothering me from being hunched over for hours on end, the PROJECT served its purpose. Before I knew it, my husband was back. And our boring but happy life together continued as before.

And he’s now never allowed to leave again. Because I have about 10,000 photos from the past eight years stored on our computer in about 37 scattered, unhelpfully-named folders.

And that’s simply a PROJECT I don’t think I’d survive.

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