Thursday, December 20, 2012

Good Will toward only a Reasonable Amount of People

I've discovered something new.  Its a freakin' Christmas miracle.

This is the first year that I have not done Christmas cards.  If you're normally on my list and didn't get a card, don't feel bad.  No one on the list is getting a card this year, and its - dare I say it? - LIBERATING.  I am waiting to get arrested and for the earth to stop spinning on its axis, but so far the only place the world is ending is the Mayan calendar.

But that's not the miracle.  Every year, I make candy and cookies and all this crap and I put it in pretty bags with pretty ribbon and I make little handmade tags and I hand these creations out to neighbors and the postal carrier and the dog groomer and the piano teacher and anyone else I need a little gifty for.  Well, not this year.  You know what?  The piano teacher got cash.  The dog groomer?  Cash.  And I bet that's what the garbage man is gonna get, too.

Cash, people!  So simple!  I have always tried to be thoughtful and personal and save a little money on gifts.  But you know what?  I have paid!  With my sanity!  And how many of those thoughtful, home-made gifts ended up in the trash?  Probably lots of them!  (I will say, though, that if those peanut butter pretzel balls covered with chocolate got thrown out, that is just a crime.  I want to eat my way out of a ball pit filled with those things.)

All the cards and the candy and packaging and mailing has started my Christmas seasons off in a grim way, and I scarcely recover by the time Christmas has rolled around because I also have to shop for actual gifts, and wrap them, and mail some, and bake cookies with Leila etc. etc. 

Its a revelation!  Who knew that doing less for fewer people over the holidays was the secret to a merry Christmas? 

P.S.  Chicken Korma?  Fantastic!

Tuesday, December 18, 2012

Eau de Bacon

Today was a better day.  Regardless of what is happening in the world, the people I live with demand that there is food to eat in the house, and that they have clean underwear, and that things are "picked up" around here.  They also insist that I must wash the sheets that the cat puked on a week ago.  Fine, whatever.

Today I made bacon jam.  Yes, it was bacon jam day.  Its like jam, only its bacon, see?  You use it like jam, only on things that taste good with bacon.  Like everything.  Tomorrow, Leila will be taking a bacon jam and peanut butter sandwich to school.  She's no moron.

It was hard to continue to feel entirely blue while the house smelled like bacon for hours.  Its was also hard to feel entirely blue when Corn Pops AND Double Stuff Oreos were ON SALE at the supermarket.  Its like the universe wants me to smile and get fat.  I bet those oreos would taste awesome with a little bacon jam on them.  I'm not going to find out.  I have limits.  (Why does the spellchecker think oreos is spelled wrong?  Don't you think "oreos" should be in the dictionary by now?)

Tomorrow I have to clean the house, and I'm going to Whole Foods to by two teaspoons of tumeric and ground coriander from the bulk spice bin.  I tried to buy them in the supermarket today, but the only ground coriander was in a large jar and that just chaps my hide.  I don't need 6 tablespoons of ground coriander that will sit in my spice drawer until I die, I just need half a teaspoon.   I would even have settled for one of those little jars, just to save myself the trip to Whole Foods tomorrow, but noOOOooo.  I'm making Chicken Korma.  Its Indian.  I think.  The recipe also calls for a cinnamon stick, but screw that.   Watch the bulk spices cost more than it I had bough the big jars and just thrown out the rest.

Christmas is in a week.  I should be panicking by now.  I'm not.  Something's wrong...

Monday, December 17, 2012

Friday, Saturday, Sunday

Its Sunday as I write this, and I am having a really hard time getting past the tragedy on Friday.  It leaves me wondering if my comeback is more fragile than I thought or whether crying in the shower is the only sane and rational response to what happened.  I've decided its because they were little, little kids.  Which, when you think about it, is kind of ridiculous: The people who died in Aurora were somebody's kids, and the mall in Portland, and Gabbie Giffords, and the victims of the other senseless acts of violence that occur every day around this country.  Were any of those people assholes who deserved it?  Maybe a couple, you never know, but probably not, right?  Maybe its just that these little kids didn't even have enough time on this earth to potentially become assholes.  They were sweet, untainted, innocent little babies. And teachers.  Brave, brave teachers.

L doesn't know anything about what happened, but I suspect that by the end of the school day tomorrow she will.  I will have to answer questions.  Like, Why?  I have been trying to teach her that there is more good in the world than bad, and I truly believe that there is, but its kind of hard to make a convincing argument right now.  For a kid like Leila, who likes rules and order and tradition, how can I teach her that she will have to leave room for chaos and randomness?  And that sometimes, even when it seems impossible, she's going to have to bend her brain around things like Friday?  Or should anyone bend their brains around it?  Maybe that's the problem; we've gotten used to things like this and our brains are already bent and we need to unbend them.

I'm rambling.  I'm so sad.  My stomach hurts and I'm having trouble getting to sleep at night, and I have to go to a basketball game in and hour.  I'm going to watch little kids wrestle on the floor over a basketball, get fouled, make and miss baskets, and I'm going to cheer for both sides, and try to get my mind closer to home for a while.

God, this sucks.

Tuesday, December 11, 2012


I'm so sorry. Where have I been?  I don't know. Doin' stuff, not doin' stuff, whatever.  I would like to be able to blame my unreliable posting on recent depression but I think its just my ever present laziness.  Need to get back in the habit.  I have been thinking about you, about what to write, like how I wish there was drive-thru everything; drive-thru pet supplies, drive-thru frozen yogurt, drive-thru post office.  And I wanted to write about this fun bus shopping trip that I went on (sort of drive-thru, but I did get off the bus.  It would have been weird if I hadn't.) but there wasn't anything funny about it, it was just fun, but not "ha ha" fun.

I could write about how Leila keeps using my 26 year old Schick Personal Touch razor to shave her one armpit that has 5 hairs on it.  The blades aren't 26 years old, don't worry.  I have never bought another razor before (that was my first one and I'll probably have it until I die or I'm too indifferent to shave) and I discovered that they still sell them on the internet so I'm getting L her own Personal Touch razor.  Those 5 hairs need their own personal touch.  I'm thinking of giving it to her for her birthday in front of people, along with some ProActive and Are You There God Its Me, Margret.  Too much?

In the last post I told you about the military giving brunch that we were planning.  It was a smash hit.  Not only were my baked goods delicious (although the donuts were the first to go) but people brought so much stuff for care packages!  I have filled 5 boxes, and I still have a ton to pack up!  This trip to the post office is going to be a doozy.  Check it out:

Half my dining table is now cleared, all the personal hygiene items are packed, and now I have snacks and books and magazines left.  People are awesome.

We also got a Christmas tree, so right now, there are three huge Christmas boxes, tons of tissue paper, boxes packed with stuff for soldiers, a table half full with stuff waiting to be packed, and the kitchen is still a mess from making tacos last night.  Yesterday, I was on fire; total housewifapalooza up in this bitch.  Laundry, grocery shopping, packing stuff, cleaning things, MAKING DINNER AT 5:45, but today I am far less motivated.  Its just such a mess, I can't face it.  Its 10:30 and I'm not dressed.  I'm supposed to make a meatloaf.  No wonder I'm writing today!  Its a great way to procrastinate!

I have to start, though, right?  I have to dig the house out of the mess, right?  CAN'T SOMEBODY ELSE DO IT????


Tuesday, November 27, 2012

Be the Change

I'm having a little brunch party thing in two weeks where people will come with their children and we will all write letters to soldiers serving overseas and also to military families here in the U.S.  I also asked people to bring some items for care packages for soldiers, and Leila and I will divvy them all up and take them to the post office.  I got the idea after Leila and I watched this Oprah thing about military spouses, and she was very upset.  We had to have the whole "But why is there war??" conversation, which was a bummer for both of us.  Because, really, WHY IS THERE WAR?  Its so frustrating!

I told her that there is a lot of ugliness and unfairness in the world, but that there is even more beauty and grace, and if you focus on the ugliness and not the beauty, well, its not a good way to live.  Then I asked her if she knew who Gandhi was and, lo and behold, she did, and we both said together, "Be the change you want to see in the world."  I was astounded and delighted that she knew that quote.  I told her that maybe when you're a ten year-old girl you don't feel like you can make a difference, but I think you can, and we decided that this party was something we could do that would make a difference, however small, and be the change we want to see in the world.  She also just found out that the U.S. has been at war he whole life, and she was all, "WHAT?  Are you SERIOUS?"

A few days later we sat down to invite lots of people with an Evite.  This part was excruciating.  She likes all the designs that I don't like, and I WANT IT JUST THE WAY I WANT IT.  So we compromised, and neither one of us got our first choice, but we agreed on something, and I also just wanted to get that part over with.  We sent the Evite to 25 people, and I've gotten, like, five responses.  So, now, this is what I'm doing:  I'm going to my computer every five minutes, hitting refresh on my email, even though that's not necessary with these new fangled computers, and waiting, impatiently, for more responses. 

Evite makes me very needy and obsessive.  I need to know how many muffins to make, people!  I realize that this is stupid and a waste of energy.  People need to think about it, check their calendars, weigh whether they want to come at all, and if they do come and don't bring anything for the care, packages, will they be judged?  You want to know what else?  I am terrible at responding to Evites.  Terrible.  So I guess its just karma, this need to constantly check to see if anyone else has RSVPd.

If you're reading this, and you know me and want to come to the brunch, leave me a comment, you're welcome! I will not judge you if you didn't have time to get anything for the care package!  There will be mimosas!  And if you don't know me, and you live far away, and you want to be the change you want to see in the world, too, go to Michelle Obama's official website which will lead you to a place where you can send letters to military families, or go to for information on sending care packages and letters.

I realize this post is not very funny, so fart fart fart, Autumn, doing dishes. 

Be the change, people, BE THE CHANGE!

Monday, November 26, 2012

How Thanksgiving made me look Good

So here it is:  I ruled Thanksgiving.  It was beautiful, the food was tasty, people had a good time, and the dog only stole four crackers off the coffee table. 

But let's dig a little deeper.  You may know how my family calls my husband "Poor Rob" because he has the misfortune to be married to me which makes it necessary for him to "do everything."  In the last few months, during my little break from, you know, life, he did do everything, but usually I do way more stuff than my family thinks I do.  Rob is very comfortable and calm in the kitchen, and I am less so.  Especially when there are things on more than on burner; that can send me over the edge.  But I wanted to make sure that my family saw that I was just as involved in the kitchen as he was, so I told him to make sure I looked good.

At one point during cocktail hour, he went into the kitchen to get his burners on, and I was all, "Do you need me in there?"  and he was all, "No." and then I gave him the death stare, imperceptible to anyone but him.  Two minutes later he came out of the kitchen and said, "Actually, I do need you in the kitchen." so I went in and was all, "What do you need me to do?" and he was all, "Nothing, just look busy." 

Turns out, I only cooked two things: soup the day before, and stuffing the day of.  And it was Stovetop Stuffing, so its not like it was hard, even if I did saute apples and celery to put in it.  I did clean the house, though, and set the table, so there's that.

Then, after Thanksgiving, Rob cleaned up the whole entire mess.  I didn't ask him to do it, but over two days he ran the dishwasher four times, put everything away, washed the table cloth and napkins, and I didn't life a finger.  I was exhausted, and still am, but so was he.  Don't know what got into him, but I'm not complaining!

So, I did it.  I hosted Thanksgiving.  It blew the doors off.  Now, its a month until Christmas.  Time to gird my loins.

Wednesday, November 21, 2012

Have a Thankful One

Guess what I'm doing tomorrow?  I am hosting Thanksgiving!  For the first time, EVER!  I will spend today prepping my house.  I've already made soup.  And yesterday?  You know what?  I cleaned the bathroom!  Yes, I made that bathroom my bitch.

Except for the floors and the tub and all the hair molecules that are stuck in the bead board.  I'm saving those for Rob because I can't physically do them, and they are his hair molecules stuck in the bead board, so he should clean them.  He's also in charge of making the front porch look presentable, and he will be making the turkey and the gravy since a) he knows what he's doing and does a really good job, and b) I don't like to touch raw meat.  The rest of the stuff we will cook together.  Because togetherness is so beautiful.

Leila will be in charge of dusting everything, including all the base boards, and I'm going to teach her how to polish the small amount of silver things that I have.  She is also making place cards out of leaves.

I am feeling great!  I don't know if its the anti-depressants, the birth control pills, or that my little nutty finally ran its course, but the sun is out, the trees are so stunning I could stare out the window all day, and I feel like my old self again!  I have a therapy appointment this morning, and I have no idea what to talk about.  Maybe the therapist and I should just high-five for 50 minutes, and then I'll write him a check.

Happy Thanksgiving, every body!  Save room for dessert!
View from my back door.  Love it.

Thursday, November 15, 2012

What Kind of Farter are You?

Have you heard of that blogger, Bored Housewife?  She's terrible.  She never writes.  What's the point?  Such a let down.

So I dropped off the planet again.  Not as bad as last time, but enough that I was uninspired and felt completely unfunny and blah and like no one would have any interest in what I was up to, especially since I wasn't up to anything: Get up, get kid off to school, go back to bed/watch TV/maybe take a shower.  The end.

But I'm feeling better now, almost like my normal self.  I say almost because I don't know when I'll regress.  I sure hope this shit is over.  I have stuff to do.

I graduated from physical therapy today.  Nothing more he can do for me.  Last week, I had an experience that we have all had at one time or another, and if you deny you've had this experience, you're a dirty liar.

You know how sometimes, when you're at, say, the gynecologist's, or getting a massage, or, in my case, at physical therapy, and, at the worst possible time, you need to fart?  This usually happens while in the stirrups, or, in my case, while my physical therapy torturer guy was doing the deep tissue massage on my foot.  So my foot is up by his shoulder, and I'm all, Oh shit.

You do everything you can to hold that fart in.  No one wants someone to fart in their face, and no one, except older brothers, want to fart in anyone else's face.  So you lay there, and you suck that fart in as hard as you can, and you hope that that doctor or whoever gets a phone call or something so that you can just let that little guy out and relax and focus on what you're there to do, rather than putting all your energy into holding the fart in.

At some point, though, you realize that if you suck that fart in too hard and too long, it will turn upside down in there and come out quietly.  And stinkily.  So, you have to ask yourself: What's worse? Farting out loud in front of your care giver, perhaps even in their face, and then you laugh and say Oh my gosh how embarrassing! I'm so sorry! and you both have a giggle, and by the time you leave everyone has forgotten about it.  Or, do you risk the SBD and stink up the joint?  If you do this, you and the other person in the room will both know its you, because you're the only two in there, and the other person is not gonna call you out on it, and you're not going to say, Sorry, I farted and it stinks because then you might be calling attention to something that maybe the other person doesn't smell after all.  But, really, who are we kidding?  They totally smell it, and the minute you leave, they're going to tell their co workers about how you ripped a hot one and you'll be known as Farty Pants in the office from then on.

The rub is, that even if you go the fart-out-loud route and get it over with, and even if it doesn't stink, you and the other person will be subtly sniffing to see if you do smell something, and, I don't know about you, but if someone farts out loud around me, I always smell something, even if there's nothing to smell.

Clearly, I've thought a lot about this.  Maybe too much.  But I've decided that, barring the fortitude to hold that sucker in until I'm out the door, I'm choosing the fart-out-loud option.  You can just hold your head high, laugh it off, and show what a great sense of humor you have. And then you can just say, I bet you guys are all gonna call me Farty Pants after I leave, huh? and then they wont actually do it because they'll feel bad, and you've appealed to their humanity.  You can't talk about the fart too much, though, because then you're the weird client who brought way too much attention to an innocent little fart.  Hey, wait...

My mom is in her 70s, and the farts just come rumbling out of her.  They don't typically smell, but when she does it in the super market, she just prances along as though she doesn't hear a thing while leaving a trail of farts in her wake.  And that, my friends, is the right attitude about public farts.

Monday, October 29, 2012

Let's Go Giants, Let's Go!

So, the San Francisco Giants won the World Series.  You know me: normally, I'd be all, Isn't that nice, good for them.  What's for lunch?  When I have gone to baseball games at the park with Rob, I brought a book and took a nap.  But this year, for the first time since I was 10 and Joe Montana played for the 49ers and they were in the super bowl, I actually gave a shit.

The last game of the play offs, I said words to my husband that no one, man or beast, ever thought I would say.  I said, "I think I'm going to go in the other room and watch the game."

Can you believe that shit?

Rob wasn't watching the game.  As much as he loves sports of all kinds, he doesn't care at all about my San Francisco Giants.  He's a Reds man, and that's all there is to it.  The only competition he is watching right now is The Voice.  He and Leila are glued to it.  He kept scoffing at my new found fandome of a sports team until finally I had to say, "I have fake cheered for all your stupid teams over the last 18 years, the least you can do is pretend to root for my Giants!" and that did the trick.  He faked it real good.

So, Bored Housewife watched baseball, alone.  And, although I didn't watch every second of the world series, I did switch over to it every few minutes, and I did learn players names and stuff, and I did watch a lot of the final game, which is more baseball than I've ever watched IN MY LIFE.

Its probably a passing fancy.  I'm probably just so bored with all the other offerings on my TV.  But it was fun to be part of Giants fever.  Go Giants!  Woo Hoo!

Friday, October 26, 2012

Reluctantly Reformed Boozehound

Over the course of this little adventure I'm on, I have filled 9 prescriptions at the pharmacy, and picked up 8 over-the-counter drugs.  That's a grand total of... wait a sec... 17 drugs that have made their way through my body and one time or another over the last two months.  All of the prescription drugs, and one of the over-the-counter drugs come with the warning against drinking alcoholic beverages or operating heavy machinery.  The heaviest machinery I have operated is the TV remote (I've left my excavator in the driveway) and, because I am a rule follower, I have not consumed any alcoholic beverages, besides a half a weak margarita and a little sangria. 

I am off most of those drugs now, but still on two with the alcohol warning.  I am driving my car again (never under the influence of anything remotely sedating; I'm no dumb dumb) but I have not cracked open a bottle of chardonnay. 

The other night, I ventured out to a friend's house and she poured me a half glass of wine.  I sipped at it, drank about ten swallows, and I was drunk.  Not falling-down drunk, but enough that I asked instead for fizzy water, and left the rest of the wine. 

This is a big disappointment to me.  There is nothing I love more than going out for a drink or two with some girlfriends, or opening a couple of bottles at home with friends, or just having a quiet glass of wine at home with dinner.  Or having several cocktails and glasses of champagne and not being able to walk a straight line to the passenger seat of the car of the person driving me home. 

Now, it seems, in addition to the physical therapy, the regular therapy, the acupuncture and the doctor's appointments, I'm going to have to build up my tolerance for alcohol all over again!  I wasn't the best drinker in the first place:  If I have a glass of wine with dinner, or any time before Leila goes to bed, the evening just takes FOREVER, and all of my parenting duties are extra annoying.  I cannot start at 4 in the afternoon like some people.  Also, if I am "bad" and have a glass of wine with lunch, which I love to do, I can count on being less than productive for the rest of the afternoon.  I'm also that girl who, on the rare occasion that I actually get drunk, I walk around saying, "I'm so drunk!  I'm having so much fun!  Are you having fun? I'm so drunk!"  Just adorable.

So what to do?  I cannot be the mom that goes out with the girls and has one glass of wine and has to be carried out of the place.  And I don't want to be the mom that just drinks sparkling water or virgin daiquiris.  What am I, Mormon?  So I'm going to have to train.  A few sips at a time.  At home, before I swallow the drugs, and after Leila goes to bed, and without getting that excavator out of the driveway.  Work work work.

Thursday, October 25, 2012


So, if you've been reading me for a while, you know that I try to be the coolest mom ever when it comes to talking about puberty and sex and stuff with my daughter.  My mother, who was so wonderful at so many things, was terrible at this part of parenting, and I swore I would do better.  I'm not one of those moms who wants to be friends with their kid, though; she will have plenty of friends, but only one mom, and that mom has a job to do, and one way I promised myself I'd do that job better than my mom did was to be open and forthright and funny and sometimes completely embarrassing about the tough subjects.  Like when I look at my beautiful daughter we have the following exchange:

Me: "Hey, Leila."
Her: "What?"
Me: "PUBERTY!!!!"
Her: "Mawmmmmmm... dork...."

We have had the period talk, the sex talk, the pimple talk, and all the little talks in between.  I have been gearing up for this stuff since before I had a kid, and thank God I had a daughter because if I had had a son, practicing that period talk would have been a total waste of time.  

Now, she's almost 11 and folks, she's getting her boobies.  I discussed bras with her and told her that when she felt it was time to get a bra, she should let me know and we would go out and get one together.  I told her the whole story about riding my bike to JC Penney with Kelly Fitzsimons to buy my own first bra because I was too embarrassed to ask my mom, and that I never wanted her to feel like that.  I didn't tell her the part about how right I was not to ask my mom seeing as she laughed and laughed when she saw my bra and said, "I didn't know they made them this small!"  See?  Terrible. 

A few weeks ago, when I was really in the thick of all this pain and depression and anxiety bullshit, I was crying one morning in my room and Rob came in and said, "Hey, Leila is in her room freaking out.  Do you think you can talk to her?" and I pulled my shit together and she came in and I told her everything was going to be okay, and that this whole situation was temporary and I know how awful it is to see your mom cry, etc. etc. She listened quietly and seemed to understand.  Then she looked out the bedroom door to see if the coast was clear, and said, "Its time. Can we go bra shopping this weekend?" This is the stuff  I live for.

You may think this is a little personal for me to be sharing with the entire internet, but here's the second part of the story where you'll realize its payback time.

Friday night rolls around, and my mother-in-law takes Leila out for dinner as she sometimes does and they end up at the Gap and... you know where this is going, right?

She bought Leila her first bra.  She wasn't the only culpable one, though.  Leila saw the bras and got excited and decided she just couldn't wait for me, and asked, and tried them on, and there you go.  One of my biggest cool mom moments, stolen from right under my nose. 

I was really upset.  I actually cried.  But I was crying every ten minutes at that point, so that's not saying much.  I talked to Leila about it and she felt really bad.  But as mad as I was, I had the presence of mind to try to not make her first bra story a bad memory like mine, and I let her off the hook.  Her consolation prize to me was that I can buy her her first tampons.  Great, thanks. Can't wait.

The whole time we were talking about this, Rob was locked in the bathroom where he is banished when Leila needs to talk to me about something private.  I asked her to go put on one of her new bras and put a T-shirt on over it to see if it made a difference, so she scampered off to do that, and I let Rob out of the bathroom.

L came back out in a T-shirt and it did make a little difference, and then, after all the secrecy, she pulled her shirt up over her head and said, "Dad! Look!"

Tuesday, October 23, 2012

Dr. Douchebag is Back

Update:  I guess I'm doing better.  Its hard to say.  My foot hurts and I'm moody and tired, but that could really describe any day that ends in 'Y'.  I went to the Apple store on Saturday, and that was NOT a good idea. 

I haven't done a normal post in a while, so here's something:

Remember Dr. Douchebag?  The asshole who was such an asshole to me when this whole foot thing started?  Well I Yelped that guy.  I refrained from calling him Dr. Douchebag or using profanity, but I did spell out my experience and gave him one star, which is unfortunately the lowest score you can give on Yelp.  There were two other reviews on him, both bad, and in one of them the patient ended up losing a toe! 

Well, I guess he checks his Yelp reviews periodically because he sent me a letter of apology!  It was a while ago, and I can't find it right now otherwise I would show it to you, but it was clear that he'd read the review.  If you really want to see it, let me know and I'll check if its in the mile-high pile of papers that I need to go through. 

Then yesterday, I got something else in the mail from him, and it was a bill for $10.  Can you believe that?  I can, because usually the billing people have no idea what the doctor is doing and vice-versa, but for a minute I thought maybe he was refunding me the over $100 I spent in his office.  I thought about sending a copy of his apology letter to the billing office and telling them where they could stick their ten bucks, but that doesn't really do anyone any good, does it?  Its just misdirected anger, and no one, especially some poor slob in medical billing, wants to be on the receiving end of that. 

On a more positive note, my general practitioner has been an absolute dream.  I love her so much, I want to make her cookies. 

Tuesday, October 16, 2012

Evil Cheeseburger

I'm feeling a little better.  I ate a cheeseburger on Friday night, and even as I was eating it I was thinking, this is a bad idea.  I'm going to live to regret that bite, and that one, and that one.  And you know what?  I was right!  I regretted that damned cheeseburger all night long, and all day the next day, and you know what else? My long suffering husband got to regret it, too!  But I'm back on track now, the slow track to getting back to myself.  I can't possibly explain how a cheeseburger relates to my ongoing anxiety, but it does.

On Sunday night, I had a burrito, but with no beans or cheese or anything good, just vegetables, and I cut it in half right away and was not tempted to eat the other half.  It did not turn out to be regrettable.  I drove my car yesterday for the first time in a month, to a bakery where I got an enormous apple croissant, of which I only ate half during the breakfast hour, and then nibbled judiciously for the rest of the day.  It was not an ativan-free day, however, and I'm trying not to see that as a personal failure.

I had a first appointment with a new therapist.  I had performance anxiety.  So stupid.  He was very psychologisty: grey hair, glasses on the end of this nose, legal pad, soft spoken, and his office had a day bed and a doll house in it.  We didn't have any break throughs or anything, but we covered the big stuff, and I only cried a little bit. 

So that's where we are.  I had a big day yesterday, what with the car driving, and the croissant, so I'm taking it easy today.  I did seven minutes on the eliptical and had to lie down for a half hour afterwards, I took a shower, I made a smoothie, and now I'm going to lie down again. 

Thanks to all my friends and readers who are reaching out and checking in!  You are wonderful!

Friday, October 12, 2012

My Savior

You know what?  I'm bored.  I think this is a very good sign.  I'm going to spend a little time this weekend getting some confidence back by driving my car, and doing an errand or two, all with Rob in tow in case I freak out and he has to take me home.  Baby steps, you know?  I think the worst is over, but I don't want to speak too soon.

I am currently in my pajamas sitting on the couch with my loathsome black cat, watching Barefoot Contessa on the foot network.  After two months of sitting around, I have watched a lot of television.  Let me save you the legwork: there is nothing on TV during the day.  Unless you love reruns of The Mentalist or Law and Order, which I don't.  In fact, crime shows and Kardashians take up most of the channels.  Even HGTV, my favorite, has a remarkably small number of plain old decorating shows.  Most of these shows, even the cooking shows, have either a competitive nature or manufactured tension between the client and the decorator or realtor, and, in my fragile state, I don't need that kind of stress. 

I've seen every rerun of Friends, Everybody Loves Raymond, Gilmore Girls, you name it.  I've also been watching The Cosby Show with Leila which makes me long for a time when you could actually watched sitcoms with your children because every joke and story line wasn't soaked in sex. 

But do you want to know what I think saved me, in addition to time, friends, drugs, and guided meditation?

Downton Abbey

My friend loaned me seasons 1 and 2 of Downton and I watched all of it in 3 days.  I am obsessed.  It was the first thing in weeks that I felt engaged in, that I cared about, that I stayed awake for.  It was a big deal. 

So, thank you Lord Grantham and the whole Downton clan, except for Thomas, you asshole.

Wednesday, October 10, 2012

Nothing Regular about this Programming

Okay so here's the deal.  I'm not sure about saying this out loud to the whole internet, but here goes:
you've heard about the foot, and the leg, and the pain, and the medical leave; now its time to hear about Bored Housewife's little nutty.  Or big nutty.  Big BIG nutty.  If I were a celebrity, which I am decidedly not (no thanks to you,) I would probably have my PR person tell TMZ that I've been checked in to Promises Malibu for "exhaustion."  But here in Bored Housewife Land, I am my own publicist, and the only place I've checked into is my bed. 

Yes, its true.  My pain lapsed into anxiety which dipped deeply into depression accompanied by more anxiety, debilitating anxiety, and this all lead to doctors and drugs and - oh my poor husband.  I have sought the assistance of medicine, both eastern and western, energy healing, guided meditation, anything to get myself back, and slowly - excruciatingly slowly - I am coming back. 

Today is the first day that I have felt like writing.  I have gone almost 24 hours without a crippling anxiety attack, I have not taken an ativan today, and I made my own lunch, which involved turning on the stove and using a can opener.  This may not seem like a lot, but it is a god damn miracle for me right now.  Also, in case you were wondering, I am bathing and washing my hair, but my legs haven't been shaved in weeks, and my fingernails are luxuriously long from not doing anything but pulling the covers over my head. 

So, now you know.  If a I disappear for a while, it is because "I" have disappeared for a while; if you know what I mean.

Its not all doom and gloom, though.  I had a huge laughing fit the other morning thinking about Pigpen, the dirty guy from the Peanuts gang.  Have you ever really considered that character?  He is completely filthy, has clouds of dust and specs of dirt that follow him around every where, his name is PIGPEN, for heaven's sake, and none of the other Peanuts characters judge him, if I recall correctly, except Lucy and she judges everybody.  Where were his parents?!  Why was everyone so okay with him being so dirty?  What did his house look like?  Where was CPS?  Can you even imagine having a character like this on TV today?  A kid so filthy, he's surrounded by a literal cloud of dirt?  Look at him:

Look at his hair. He looks like he works in a flea-infested coal mine. And he seems happy!  Really consider Pigpen for a moment, and you might laugh like I did.

But I'm fairly crazy, so what do I know?

Wednesday, September 26, 2012

Still Pausing

Hello, readers,

I'm here to tell you that I am still on medical leave from writing.  So sorry!  The back thing has snowballed into all kinds of weird symptoms that leave me unable to focus, and make me a complete nervous wreck.  Do a google search on "hysterical bloating" and you'll get an idea of what I'm dealing with.

I hope to be back soon, 'cause I can't take much more of this shit.  Wait for me, will you?

Monday, September 17, 2012

A Pause in the Action

Hey Peeps,

I'm going to be laying low for a while.  This back thing has taken over my life, and all the drugs make me type like this: dsaitn ;a lent;aiot.

I have some good stuff for you, tho, so check back and stay tuned...

Thursday, September 13, 2012


That night I couldn't sleep and was obsessed with repainting that dresser, I watched about a dozen Youtube videos on how to do it.  I made some decisions about how I wanted to do it, and I made a list of supplies I'd need.  I finally went back to bed at 2, and was asleep by 2:30.  Rob indulged me the following day by taking me to the paint store and getting everything on the list. (Tangentially, the paint store guy told me that they can put any color paint you want in a spray can!)  Rob then set up a work table with the dresser outside so all I had to do was sit down and start sanding.

I didn't start sanding, though.  It seemed kind of depressing to do it alone, especially since I really don't know what I'm doing, in spite of Youtube's best efforts. 

Yesterday, a friend of mine who has experience doing this stuff came over to help.  How awesome is that?  She just went down into the yard and started sanding.  It was so easy!  I thought sanding would take forever, and it was the easiest part!  She pointed out that when you are sanding for repainting, its not that big a deal versus sanding for staining.  Easy! 

Then I primed the thing!  I couldn't believe it!  I feel like, when my body is back to normal, I could refinish furniture every day!  I really wanted to paint it, too, but by the time it was primed, I couldn't even sit anymore, let alone stand, and it seems to have wiped me out for today too.  So maybe this weekend it will get painted and sealed and I will have a custom piece of yellow furniture for my front hallway!  So excited!!!

Here it is half done.  Not a great pic since I couldn't drag myself all the way down there.  Love it!!!

Wednesday, September 12, 2012

Good Mom/Bad Mom?

Leila woke up to day not feeling well.  She has a sore throat and wanted a lozenge first thing.  Then she dragged around and whined, but ate her breakfast and got dressed.  She actually said the words, "I don't want to go to school, I want to go back to bed."  She never says that kind of stuff.  She is all go the minute her feet hit the floor in the morning.  I said that kind of stuff every day when I was her age.  I never wanted to go to school.

She did not have a fever, but I gave her some Advil for her throat and her general malaise, crushed up in vanilla yogurt since she will not even entertain the idea of learning to take a pill.  She has just given up on that possibility for life, and thinks that when she's 30 she will just crush up pills in yogurt.  I even bought tictacs so she could practice, and it was the most dramatic act of swallowing - or rather, attempted swallowing - anyone has ever seen.  Gagging, tears, sheesh.

Before I realized she really wasn't feeling well, I yelled at her for leaving a pair of dirty undies on the floor of her closet less than 24 hours after I told her not to do that anymore, and less than 24 hours after I'd cleaned out her drawers.  I had just put a white load in.  Its so annoying!  She wanted to explain how they got there, but I assured her there was no possible explanation that would make it okay to not put dirty undies in the hamper that is right across the hall from her room.  I told her the next time I found dirty undies on the floor, she would have to give me $5.

Her walking buddy was ten minutes late, and Leila looked like she was going to cry when I shoved her out the front door. 

I don't really have a lot of moments when I doubt my mothering.  I probably should, but I have a maybe unreasonable confidence in my parenting.  But this morning, I had doubts.  Should I have kept her home?  Did I need to yell about underwear?  Did I need to nag her about her back pack?  She had a crap morning, and I just told her, "You'll make it, you'll be fine, have some Advil."

After she was gone, I noticed she had forgotten her lunch.  She really didn't need that this morning.  So I threw on some sweats, and hopped in my car wearing my slippers and drove toward the school and intercepted the girls at the shopping center and handed her her lunch, which she hadn't noticed she'd forgotten. 

Does that redeem that bad mom part?

Tuesday, September 11, 2012

DIY Dreams in an Invalid World

Its 12:23 a.m. on Sunday morning as I write this.  I can't sleep.  I'm on drugs, for pain and for sleeping, and the pain part is sort of working, but not the sleep part.  I had a really good night's sleep last night, so maybe that's all I'm gonna get this weekend.

My mind is just racing around.  What I'm thinking about most is refinishing that yellow dresser I got at a garage sale a few months ago.  This is what happens when you're flat on your ass and there's a Sarah's House marathon on HGTV.  Get me to a hardware store, followed by a fabric store, followed by a paint store before I just explode with all these creative DIY ideas!  DIY ideas that I cannot execute myself because I'm flat on my ass watching HGTV.  Add an hour or more of looking at Pinterest gardening boards and you've got yourself a honey-do list a mile long.

Then the husband comes in, tired from the honey-do list you gave him today, and you make him look at rugs.  He reminds you that the last Visa bill was hum-dinger, and that maybe you should wait and not be so impulsive, but he eventually relents and says, "Fine, order the rug." and you try to, but the size you want is sold out.  You're actually kind of relieved, because you were being impulsive, and you know that you've already ordered those throw pillows off Etsy without your husband's knowledge. 

So now I'm in that non-sleeping state where my mind is just repeating the same thoughts over and over again.  Here is an excerpt of the current loop running in my mind: Let's see, I will start with some steel wool, then 150 or 175 sand paper, maybe both.  But I'll need a piece of poster board to cut out a template for the glass top.  I'll need a ziplock bag for the hardware, too.  Should I paint the feet the same color as the rest of the dresser or spray paint them burnished bronze?  Maybe I should do a white chevron pattern on the top.  That wouldn't be too hard.  Should I spray it or paint it?  Painting would be more accessible, but spraying might work better with all that scrolling.  I could go on, but since I'm already so bored of it, I can only imagine how you probably feel.

So, no decorating shows tomorrow?  More sleep aids?  Less coke?  I don't know.  I'm hoping that since I've written all this down now I can get it out of my head and sleep.  My cat is very agitated that I am awake.  I think he's more agitated than I am.  I've just got tons of energy right now.  I wish I could just go get that dresser and start sanding it RIGHT NOW.  But that would be ludicrous.


Monday, September 10, 2012

How Does He Do It?

I have been a stay-at-home mom for almost 8 years.  At this point, pretty much unemployable in my old profession, which is okay because I don't ever want to go back to my old profession.  I think I was pretty good at my old career, pretty resourceful, faked it, and learned a lot on the job.  Once my boss walked in and said "I need you to set up and manage our stock purchase program." and I was all, "Okay, sure, no problem." and then I went on the fledgling internet and looked up what a stock purchase plan was.  I figured it out, and it all worked fine, and I pulled that rabbit out of my hat a bunch of times over the years I worked at that place.

I've been doing this stay-at-home mom thing for longer than I had that last job, and there are things I still haven't figured out.  I have made it up as I've gone along, but there are some big chunks I've overlooked.  Maybe its all this mothering that's been distracting, or the blogging, or the facebooking, or the sitting on my ass in front of the TV.  Anyway, one thing I have never been able to learn is how to plan dinner, make dinner, eat dinner, clean up after dinner, and, above all, go grocery shopping.

My family is not starving, and we usually have eggs and milk in the fridge, and the animals all have their respective gluten-free foods, but these weeks that I've been laid up have really pointed out to me that I suck at this whole food thing.

Rob has taken over this part lately, and the man is a master.  We have food in the house!  I go to make some lunch, and there's food in the fridge that I actually want to eat!  And then I eat it!  And its good!  And then in the evening he comes home, and bangs around in the kitchen and comes out with dinner!  Good dinner!  Balanced meals even!  Vegetables!  Last night, he made cheeseburgers with tater tots and steamed broccoli (he's always looking out for my colon) and the night before he made sausages with saute├ęd Brussels sprouts and bacon, and a salad. Monday night we had leftover curry that he made over the weekend, and Tuesday we had pulled pork sandwiches. Then he turns around and cleans the kitchen, and then we even have dessert!  Its a revelation!

Trader Joes has been very helpful.  He went there last weekend and stocked up, and everything looks so appetizing and easy, and he was just inspired.  We have snacks and fruit and beverages, everything normal families have in their pantries and refrigerators all the time.

I don't know why I can't do this.  I know I do not like to start cooking at 5:30 in the evening (or 6:30 like Rob does, even worse) and when I go to the grocery store I only stock up on enough things for other people's lunches for the week (never my own) and maybe what we'll have for dinner that very night.  My repertoire is pretty limited, I guess.  Rob says I can't find the middle ground between making a grand recipe requiring special cuts of meat, and having cereal for dinner.  He's right.

My favorite dinner preparation is to be inspired by a recipe I see, or the weather, or the time of year (November is chicken-pot-pie month in our house) and then go to the store, get what I need for that recipe, and spend the morning listening to music and preparing it.  Then it sits on the stove all day, melding away, and by dinner time it is delicious and wonderful, and everyone oohs and ahs.  That's what I like.  Trouble is, it ends up meaning a lot of frozen dinners and take out in between flashes of inspiration and rainy weather.

I have to work on this.  I don't really want to work on this.  I really don't like peeling myself off the couch at 5:30 and cooking.  Maybe I don't have to work on this.  Maybe I can just continue to do it my way, and hand the rest over to Rob.  He's so good at it.  He makes it look so easy.  He doesn't seem to mind it, either.  Its only been a week, though.  Eventually, he will get sick of coming home to his wife and child in a heap on the couch watching cooking shows saying, "What's for dinner?" right?

Yes, probably.  And I can't blame him.  But for right now I don't really have a choice, so I'm just going to continue licking my chops and praising him.  Tonight he has softball, so its sandwich night.  But I just got invited to a friend's house for dinner.  My friends are taking pity on me, or maybe on Rob. Its hard to tell.

Friday, September 7, 2012

How Many Cupcakes is Too Many Cupcakes?

I'm not going to talk about my foot again, but I will talk about drugs.  My days right now are all about chronicling which drug I take when, and how many, and finding the right balance between prescription and over-the-counter to manage pain.  I'm doing okay.  A side effect of one of the drugs is depression and suicidal thoughts; I haven't thought about killing myself yet, but I am blue.  Last night  I watched that show on OWN where they are counting down the best moments of the Oprah Winfrey Show, and that little Matty Stepanic really got me going.  Then I cried because Rob made such a good dinner. 

The hardest part has been making it all the way through the night without pain, without waking Rob up.  Poor guy is working all day, taking care of me and the kid all evening, squeezing in a workout or some softball, and then crashing into bed.  He's been truly wonderful.  I have this hydrocodon to help with pain and sleep, but I'm afraid of becoming addicted to pain killers and winding up on Intervention.  I can so see how this happens; you just want to effing sleep and have some relief, so you take narcotics every night and the next thing you know you're on a plane to some rehab center in Phoenix. 

So instead of heading down that road, I took two Tylenol PM.  Jee -zuss.  It did get me through the whole night, and knocked me out most of the day, too.  I got L off to school, walked the dog around the block for the first time in 6 weeks, and then slept soundly on the couch for two hours while gardeners used blowers and chain saws in my own backyard.  I will probably go to sleep again right after I'm finished writing this, and those two Tylenol PM from last night might take me all the way through until tomorrow.

When I finally pried my eyes open at noon, I was hungry.  So I ate a salad and some left over pulled pork.  But it wasn't enough.  Remember how I made that emergency chocolate cake with mayo the other day during my cake crisis?  Today I made vanilla cupcakes, with actual butter this time, and they are so fucking fantastic I want to eat them all right now.  I didn't have enough cupcake liners, so I made half a recipe.  If there are any left by dinner, it will be a miracle.  I've had at least 4 of them so far.  Probably more, but who's counting?

I'm on steroids for pain right now, so I'm blaming that.  I did walk around the block this morning so I probably burned off about 20 calories worth of those cupcakes in advance.  Leila and a friend are playing in the backyard, and have walked right by the cupcakes several times without noticing them.  They're not frosted (the cupcakes, not the children) so they probably can't even see them.  Kids are all about the frosting, I am all about the cake.  Not that I am anti-frosting, but that was way too much work and I need a nap. 

ADDENDUM:  Kids just noticed the cupcakes.  When they threw their wrappers in the trash, L's friend looked at all the crumpled cupcake liners from my eating extravaganza and said, "Wow.  She sure at a lot of cupcakes..."

Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Number Three

You know how I've been seeing odd people?  Like the guy that called in my license plate, and the guy walking down the street with a rabbit?  Well, there was one more. 

I don't want to goof on it, because it is a real disability, but I saw a blue person.  There's a disease or syndrome or whatever called Argyria, which comes from over exposure to silver or other metals or something and it can turn your skin blue.  I saw it once on Oprah.

I was picking up some buttery baked goods one morning a few weeks ago, and there was a blue lady eating breakfast.  Really, I swear.

Its always so hard to not stare and ask questions when you really, really want to.  But I was good.  Got my baked goods and went along my way.

So: to sum up: a crazy license plate-calling-in guy, a guy walking his rabbit, and a blue person.  Do odd things like this come in threes? Because then I should I be done.

Tuesday, September 4, 2012

Just One More

I told myself I was not going to write about my foot anymore.  No one wants to hear it.  We are all far too young to start hearing about each others ailments.

But then yesterday happened, and I can't not write about it.  Sorry.  This should be it, not to worry.

Remember how I told you I was having a touch of sciatica?  (I know: how old am I?  70?  80?)  well that touch went completely off the rails on Thursday night.  The last time I had pain like that, they handed me a baby when it was over.  My whole leg, from my butt to my big toe, hurt like a mother fucker, and, unlike labor, there was no relief. It was constant.  I was awake most of the time, moaning intermittently, getting up to walk back and forth in the living room while crying and quietly cursing my husband for being asleep, which he really wasn't.  I tossed and turned and cried and neither one of us slept.  I didn't want to take my hardcore pain pills because I have a child that I have to drive to school in the morning and I thought it would not be a good idea to get a DUI.  Or kill a family of five with my station wagon.

So Rob called in late to work and got Leila out off to school, and we called the Dr.  Not Dr. Douchebag, but my neurologist, Dr. I-love-her.

She sent me to the emergency room.  Yes, the emergency room.  You may remember that most of the time that I go to the emergency room, nothing good happens.  They make me stay there and have IVs and stuff.  No sir, I don't like it.  But off we went, anyway.  They checked me in, I met my nurse and Dr., both nice, and they gave me two shots of Dilaudid.  I recently found out that Dilaudid is pharmaceutical heroin.  Now, I don't endorse the use of recreational drugs (except pot, sometimes) and I would never encourage anyone to try heroin, but, dude, I completely understand the allure.  Its so wonderful, especially when you've been in extreme pain for 12 hours.  I love you, Dilaudid, you complete me.

They didn't make me stay there, or get an IV, and I got to go home, with my leg pain all but gone, and high as a kite.  I slept all afternoon, and then, as it was my 16th wedding anniversary, we had a special thai dinner in bed, the I dozed through Sports Night on Netflix, and then I had the best night's sleep I've had in weeks.  And just enough heroin left in my body to have NO PAIN!

Today, I feel good, but I'm not going to be an idiot.  I'm keeping my foot up, keeping up on my meds, and taking it super easy.  I'm watching TV with one eye, and shopping for rugs on the internet with the other.  I have a curled up kitty and a bowl of Starbursts, and all is good with the world. 

Thursday, August 30, 2012

Its an Emergency!

This is getting ridiculous.  Now I've pinched some nerve and my whole leg hurts, not just the foot.  I'm a pill-poppin', couch-sittin', TV-watchin', cake-eatin'... person.

Yesterday I really felt like eating cake, so I made this recipe I have called Emergency Chocolate Cake.  Its for cake emergencies, so it was perfect for my predicament, but in reality you have to wait one to two hours for it to cool, and I don't know what kind of emergency can wait one to two hours.  So maybe I wasn't really having a cake emergency, maybe I was just having a cake crisis. 

Wanna know what the main ingredient in this cake is?  Mayonnaise!  Let's all say it together: "Ewwwwwwww!" Yes, mayonnaise and flour and cocoa powder etc.  And it is delicious.  Very moist.  No one would ever know it has mayonnaise in it. 

Anyhoo, so now I'm cutting little squares of cake off and eating them all day, and they give me the hiccups.  I went to a movie, so I finally got out of the house, but now I've got to go sit on the sofa and put my foot up again because it seems that the universe really, really wants me on that couch. 

Sorry about this post, its all I have today. 

Tuesday, August 28, 2012

Grumpy-ass Weirdo

Okay, people, I've taken one of my new pain pills.  It says that it may cause dizziness and drowsiness, so lets see how this goes.  So far, we're okay.

The weirdest thing happened the other night.  I was driving home from my parents' house after dark and I was stopped at a stop light when a grumpy looking man crossed in front of me.  My windows were not open, but I did say to myself, out loud, "What a grumpy-ass dude." or something like that.

Before he reached the other side of the street, he stopped in the crosswalk and pulled out his cell phone and made call.  I said, probably out loud, "Oh nice!  Stop in the middle of the crosswalk to make a phone call!" and then he came over to the passenger side corner of my car and I watched his lips as he said my license plate number into the phone!  Grumpy-ass called in my plate!!

The first question anyone asks me when I tell this story is "Are you sure that's what he was doing?"  So let me just say that there is no doubt that's what he was doing.  He was standing in front of my car, in the crosswalk, staring at my license plate, calling it in to someone.  Then he closed his phone and continued on his way.  He didn't look at my face, he didn't make any hand gestures, just made the phone call.

I totally freaked.

When the light turned green, I pulled into the gas station and decided to drive the back way to my house, but not before taking ten minutes to hide in the Calico Corners parking lot with my lights off.  Both my headlights are working, my car passed the most recent smog test, I was stopped at a stop light, so he couldn't have seen me speeding, which I wasn't doing anyway.  I passed Grumpy-ass on the way to the parking lot, and I really wanted to roll down my window and say , "Hey! Why did you just call my plate in?!" but then decided, woman alone, after dark, guy could have a gun, so that little mystery will go unsolved.

Here's the thing, though: I had had some wine at my parents' house.  Its pretty hard to get out of that place without ingesting any alcohol, its just the way my family is, but I was no where near drunk, and I would never get behind the wheel if I was remotely inebriated.  I have spent two hours watching TV with my dad, drinking water, waiting to drive home if I've had too much wine there.  I'm that kind of girl. 

My thinking was, if this guy randomly called my plate into the highway patrol, and they stop me based on his call, and let's say he's said that I was driving erratically, and they ask me to take a breathalizer, and I say no, and then they arrest me and haul me in on suspicion of a DUI, and then what if I actually ended up arrested for a DUI even though I was fine to drive... How about that for the first day of school?  PTA MOM, BUSTED ON DAUGHTER'S FIRST DAY OF 5TH GRADE.

I drove home with my eyes on the rear view mirror the whole time.  I did not get pulled over.  Was he just messing with me?  Did he read my lips and see me call him a Grumpy-ass?

Then two days later, I saw a man walking down the main road holding a large, docile rabbit.  Things are just getting weirder and weirder.

Monday, August 27, 2012

Dr. Douche bag

I am continuing to deal with this foot thing.  It is getting a little better, no thanks to the Podiatrist I've been seeing.

What a douche bag.

I had my fourth appointment with him.  I have been in a lot of pain, like can't go to sleep, wakes me up, clench my eyes kind of pain, and we still don't have a specific diagnosis.  His prescription is to wear my storm trooper boot, and rest.  Wait-and-see doesn't work with me particularly well, so I made some calls and got an appointment with a neurologist and did a little internet research on nerve pain and stress fractures.

Well.  I made the mistake of mentioning that I had done some of my own research, and the man lost his mind.  He was rude, he was combative, and that fucker actually made me cry.  Its pretty hard to make me cry, unless you're a really heartfelt TV commercial or a particular James Taylor song, but he did it.  It was a perfect storm: Take a woman who is hormonal, and in severe pain, put her way up in the air on a foot-examining lift so she can't get down and leave the room, and then berate her until she cries.  Easy.  Since I was way up in the air, I had to stretch my arm way down and over to the Kleenex and I couldn't reach it; Dr. Douche Bag just stood there, continuing to argue with me.

Then he says we could do an MRI, but that would cost $750, and seeing a neurologist would cost $1500, and I'm thinking, do I look like a bag lady?  So I say, "My husband works for the government; I have excellent insurance."  So he gets these things rolling, even though I already had made an appointment with a neurologist on my own, and at the end of this nightmare appointment, I ask, "Is there anything else I should know, or anything else I should be doing?" and I'm thinking of hot compresses, or epsom salts or incantations, and do you know what this douche bag says? "Do you think there's something I'm keeping from you?  Do you think I'm whispering with nurse 'Lets not tell her to do this or that'?"  What an asshole.

Of course, at that time, I was too upset to be angry.  That's the part about crying that I hate the most.  It ruins my ability to stand up for myself and call a douche bag a douche bag in that moment.  Instead I just whimper and then limp to my car in my big boot and call my husband and cry some more, and then I let it ruin my day and my night, and only after about 24 hours do I realize that he is the douche bag, not me, and that his behavior probably has nothing to do with me, and everything to do with his impotence, or hair loss, or the affair he's having.  He never would have spoken to a man the way he spoke to me, I'm sure of it.

By the time I got home, there was a message from his office.  For a moment, I thought it was an apology for being a douche bag, but it was just his office saying I needed to make a follow up appointment for the next week.  Yeah, I don't think so.  You're fired, Dr. Douche Bag.

The end of the story is, I was able to get in with the neurologist the following afternoon and now I have a diagnosis, a prognosis (3 - 6 months recovery time) and some specific nerve pain drugs, and a treatment plan.  I've had an MRI, nothing is broken, and I can stop wearing that boot which I discovered, after a weekend of not wearing it, was making things more painful instead of less.

So, Dr. Davis, if you ever read this, here's what I have to say to you: You can choose to be nice.  You can choose your words and your tone.  You don't have to choose to be a douche bag.

Wednesday, August 22, 2012

Give me 5 Bees for a Quarter

First day of fifth grade.  I did not schedule anything for today because my calendar said "first day of school" and now I'm sitting here with my thumb up my ass until 2.

I had a weird experience this morning.  Leila insisted that I walk her to her class room.  She's been insisting this much longer than any of the other kids, and last year I kept pointing out to her that I was the only mom dangling outside the classroom waiting for the door to open.  She said she didn't care, she wasn't embarrassed, and asked me if I was.  I wasn't, but even if I had been I could really tell her, "I'm embarrassed on your behalf."

I told her that I would walk her to her classroom for the first three days and after that I would walk her to the crosswalk with the dog and she would take it from there.  Then comes the foot injury bullshit, and all that walking is out the window, much to the chagrin of my dog.  I drove to the school, and, I'll admit it to you here: I used my long-expired disabled placard.  I was in a lot of pain, and I have the big boot on, and I decided that if someone messed with me I would just write down my license plate number for them and point them in the direction of the police station across the street and tell them to bite me.  Before we were parked, Leila yelled, "There's my friend!  Let me out!!!"  and I was all, "No way!"  She was the one that made the stink about me walking her to her classroom, and here I was trussed up in my boot ready to do just that, and I WAS BREAKING THE LAW in the process.  No way was she getting out and running ahead.  I walked her to her classroom of her new school, met her new teacher (who looked vaguely stoned.  I'm sure she wasn't, but I grew up in the 70s when we were sure they were.) and hobbled back to my car.

Then I started to weep. Just a little, and just for a minute, because I realized that this was it: I have walked her to her classroom for 5 years, and now its over.  I will probably never walk her to her classroom again, and she's going to grow up and get boobs and text people and I'm old and unhip and lame.

Three years ago, on this very blog, I described a time when Leila was in second grade and wanted to walk from the lunch tables to her classroom by herself.  It was a big deal.  She scampered off and said, "Wish me luck!" as if she might get lost or mugged on the way.  And now here we are.

I'm not sure I've ever felt so old.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

Koom Ba Ya

I don't know why I seem to like writing in the middle of the night lately.  During the day, I look at the computer and choose to do something else.  Like watch TV, or nap, or eat Lucky Charms.  But now its after midnight, and I've had a little wine, so of course its the perfect time.

My foot sucks.  I had the fungus, I had a stress fracture, only it did not turn out to be a stress fracture at all.  I've had two sets of x-rays, neither of which show any proof of a fracture, and now we don't know what is going on.  Nerve damage?  Joint damage?  My doctor says it could be regional pain syndrome, and my friend who is a nurse says that that is what doctors say when they don't know what it is.

The good news is I finally remembered the incident that caused all this bullshit.  I slammed my foot in the car door two weeks ago.  I was hobbling around with a swollen, painful foot convinced that I had either A) been injured as a result of my imminent osteoporosis, B) had a camping/ambien/midnight frolic that I couldn't remember, or C) injured myself while too drunk to remember the injury or the drunkenness.  Turns out it was D) Injured while in my 40s, where I can't remember the very recent, totally sober injury that lead to this:
Storm Trooper Chic

I don't like to sit around and feel sorry for myself, and no one likes a whiny gasbag, but THIS TOTALLY SUCKS. 

I'm supposes to walk my kid to her first day at the middle school next week, and its not going to be possible. Its not getting worse, but its not getting better, and no one knows what's wrong. 

If you have any ideas, I'd love to hear them.  In the meantime, I will go to bed and try to think healing thoughts.  Koom ba ya.

Monday, August 13, 2012

Lost, and not Found

While I was in Europe with my parents and daughter, we had some kind of shitty things happen.  Actually, my mom had some shitty things happen.  She lost her suitcase out of the back of the rental car.  Actually, I may have lost her suitcase out of the back of the rental car.  I'm not sure it was my fault exactly, but I am sure that I didn't have absolutely nothing to do with it. 

I spent two hours in a German police car with Officer Schultz (I'm not making that name up) and we looked everywhere for this suitcase.  I took away two things from this experience: 1) German officers are allowed to smoke in their police cars, and they don't feel the need to ask if the civilian sitting in the passenger seat minds.  2) My German language skills kicked serious ass.  I really didn't know I could speak German.  I mean, my parents have been speaking German with me all my life, and I understand them perfectly and don't even notice whether they're speaking German or English, but I don't really speak it ever, and when I was a kid I was too self conscious and scared the speak it.  Stupid.  I fully rocked the German, man.  It did not help me find my mom's suitcase, but I still felt pretty good about myself. 
Officer Schultz, smoker, filling out a very detailed German police report

The night we lost the suitcase, we stayed in a hotel somewhere in Germany, and while I was trying to sleep, I heard a bug buzzing around.  It sounded like an enormous bug.  I was envisioning those palmetto bugs in Florida that I have never seen, but I've heard they're the size of your fist.  So I'm looking around in the limited light of our hotel room, trying to see if I can see the huge bug in the room.  I see something up on the ceiling and I'm sure its the bug, and I start thinking, "Holy shit, that thing is going to eat my kid."  But then I concentrate a little more and it turns out that its the sprinkler. 

I woke up in the morning and the bug was still flapping around the room.  Here it is:
I don't know what kind of bug it is, but its about the size of my pinky nail rather than my meaty fist.  This little shit kept me up half the night fearing huge bug poos falling on my forehead. 

Saturday, August 11, 2012

And Then my Body Broke

I went to Europe a while back, and it occurs to me that I haven't written anything about it.  Here's why: apparently, going to Europe for three weeks and walking 6 hours every day and seeing more relatives and artwork than you have in three decades will kick your ass.  I swear I'm still tired.  I have a good day, followed by a day where I can hardly keep my eyes open.  Add to that a 4 night camping trip and a toe infection, and I think I am entitled to my somnambulism.  Is that an awesome SAT word, or what?

And you know what else?  All those projects that I left before that three week trip ARE STILL HERE.  Miracles did not occur, and my walls still need to be touched up and that garage sale dresser is not going to paint itself. 

And now guess what?  That toe infection? It cleared up.  But, in its wake, it left a stress fracture.  I'm wearing a very unsexy boot and hobbling around, and people ask me, "what happened to your foot?" and I'm all, "I HAVE NO IDEA."  Because I really don't.  I was told that anyone who has feet can get a stress fracture, and I read that especially athletes can get stress fractures.  So this is the second athlete's disease I've gotten in the last month (athlete's foot was the first,) and I haven't done anything remotely athletic.  Unless you call stirring up a pitcher of margaritas athletic, and I didn't do that with my foot. 

Is this what we all have to look forward to?  Mysterious injuries?  Fungus?  Totally uncool.

Wednesday, August 1, 2012

Oprah on the Brain

I can't sleep.  Its not that late, or anything, but I was so tired that I went to bed early and watched TV and now I can't sleep. I was watching the Oprah network, her behind-the-scenes show called Building a Network, and now all I can think about it how I would love it if Oprah were impressed enough with me that she would invite me to her house in Montecito and interview me about my fascinating life and my unique and extraordinary world views.

Then I start thinking about what I could do to make that happen, and I know she likes books and I like writing so I think, I've got to write something major, then she'll invite me.  But let's face it: Oprah is not impressed by people who drink cokes while they sit around watching TV between folding loads of towels and cleaning the camping stove, even if they do write about it as brilliantly as I do.  I have to write something more meaningful.

Then I get bogged down in what that might be, and I have some ideas, but then I think, There's no freakin' way I can pull that off.  Which leads me to writing this bullshit on my computer at... 11:12 p.m.  Oprah just gets me all riled up.  Yes congratulations, Oprah: you've achieved your goal of making people lay awake at night figuring out how to be their best selves and impress you in the process.  Well done.

Its dark in here.  And quiet.  Even my annoying cat who constantly bothers me while I'm trying to sleep is somewhere else tonight. 

I don't know what else to write about, and if I stop I'll have to get back into bed and toss and turn and try to impress Oprah in my mind.  Oh, to hell with it.  I'll fall asleep eventually, and maybe the answer will come to me in a dream.  

Nighty Night.

Tuesday, July 24, 2012

A Fungus Amongus

My body loves a good fungus. 

I just went to the doctor because my left pinkie toe was all swollen and crazy looking, and, since I'm going camping the day after tomorrow, I thought I'd better get it checked out before I develop something nasty like gout, or gangrene.

(tangent: Leila is oddly fascinated with gangrene lately.  She always thinks she has, or is going to get, gangrene.  We can thank kid's fiction for putting that into her head, along with those soul sucking things from Harry Potter.)

I thought I had a touch of the athlete's foot (which really needs a different name for people like me: I can assure you I did not develop this as a result of my athleticism.) and I thought I had scratched it too hard and that's why it was red. 

No.  That would be too easy.

Turns out, I have a yeast infection in between my toes, that developed into a bacterial infection.  So freakin' typical.  If its not one fungus on me, its another.  I don't even want to describe the powders and lotions and unctions I have to apply daily to prevent all different flora from growing on me.  Its obnoxious.  I'm in constant fungus/bacteria/yeast management mode. 

So now I have to take antibiotics, and slather my foot in anti fungal cream, and keep my foot clean and dry, and wear a clean sock, WHILE IM CAMPING THIS WEEKEND!  Plus, my period is due any minute now. 

You have to laugh. 

Thursday, July 19, 2012

If its Thursday, it must be America

Hey, you guys!  I'm back!  I've been gone 22 days.  I feel like I've been gone 222 days.  I got home and couldn't remember where we keep the garbage can.  To be fair, I'd been through United Airlines hell for the previous 48 hours, but still. 

There's so much to tell, and I will, but first I want to say that I was so careful about posting all my links on the facebook page before I left so you wouldn't forget me, and then facebook got all weirded out by someone (me) trying to log in from Germany that it made me change my password from my home computer (which Rob did for me) and that made all my links not post.  I didn't notice this until yesterday.  Best laid plans!  So, sorry if you normally get here from facebook and was thinking that I had abandoned you.  I would never.

I don't even know where to start.  How about backwards?  Everyone has an airline horror story, probably having to do with United Airlines (or AirTran, those bastards) so I wont go into mine except to say that we were delayed over 24 hours, seats were changed, and we hung out on the tarmac so long I thought we would just start to live there.  The first day we tried to leave, we were sent to two different lines and asked repeatedly if our carry-ons had been with us the whole time, who packed them, and if we had bought anything since the last time they asked us.  The next day when we lined up, no one cared about those questions.  They also told us we were waiting for the video system to be fixed so we could leave, and not to pay any attention to the fire engines cleaning up the fuel leaking from one of the engines on the right side of the plane.  They think we're morons.

The day before we left Paris, the water heater went out in our apartment, so I couldn't take a shower.  I needed one (it was day three) but I thought, no matter, I'll be home in a day.  Not so.  The shower at the hotel near the airport was so wonderful I nearly slept in there, but they only had body/hand/hair wash, no conditioner and no comb.  So Leila and I had full on zombie hair.  Add to that the fact that when I fly I manage to spill anything I try to put into my mouth all over myself (I should really travel in an apron,) so when we finally took off, I was wearing two-day old underwear, a stained pink T and grey yoga pants, and The Hair. 

I took a walk around the plane to stretch my legs and I thought I'd be adorable and fun loving and smile and make finger guns at all the kids while I was doing my lunges down the aisle, and about half way through I realized what I must look like, and quickly took my seat.  In the middle.  Next to an Italian business man who almost got thrown off the plane for daring to complain to the flight attendant that we didn't give a flying fuck (no pun intended) why we were delayed and to get the damned plane off the ground.  I was okay in that middle seat until around hour nine, after I had spilled chicken and rice on myself.  I was out of xanax and the wine was terrible.  Leila watched the movie Treasure Buddies three times in a row. 

But we're mercifully home now, the suitcases are unpacked, the laundry is in, and I'm going to eat some stinky camembert that I smuggled in my luggage.  Take that, United.

Monday, July 16, 2012

I'm Almost Back!

It is currently Wednesday the 20th of June, 2012, and I have just finished scheduling out all the rerun posts.  I hope they weren't too tedious.

Today, I will be getting back from my three-week trip.  I bet I am exhausted.  I predict that I'm going to have to sleep for a week.

Right now, before the trip, I have a little trepidation.  I will be traveling with my parents and my daughter, so, really, I'm on my parents' trip.  Then it will be just my mom, me and Leila for a week.  I'm going to need some alone time, and some time to eat whatever I want without my mother counting my calories.  I told her I wanted to eat some great meals on this trip, and she that was "stupid."  Just throw her a banana and some bran flakes and she's good to go.

I hope to have lots of pictures and stories for you this week, and I hope you are all having a nice summer.  Talk to you soon!

Friday, July 13, 2012

She Blinded me with Chardonnay

Friday: the day of White Pants' big party. WP's husband goes away every fall to watch a football game in his home town (guys are weird) and WP ships her kids off to her mother so she can have the house to herself for two entire days. If you don't happen to have children, let me 'splain that a weekend alone in your own home is like, like almost as good as being on an island beach alone with nothing but a good book. The silence, the cleanliness (or at least the knowledge that the messes are your own, and you're not cleaning up after anyone else) the uninterrupted television and the possession of the remote, the eating anything you want whenever you want, and the dancing around in your underwear singing Jesse's Girl into your hairbrush. And the sleep; the glorious, heavy, sound sleep.

WP kicks off these weekends with a big bash. She invites 50 of her closest friends, makes a ton of Trader Joe's frozen appetizers, buys cases of white wine, and awaits the rockfest. There were a lot of women, eating, drinking, yapping, then C brings out the Karaoke machine. The usual suspects do a couple of numbers, and they've been bugging me to try karaoke, and I'm thinking, "If I'm going to do it, this is the way to do it: most of these people aren't listening." I'm thinking maybe they just wont notice me on the couch (about three or four people left the couch, clearly fearing that they would find themselves with a microphone singing Cocomo, but I hate standing at parties SO MUCH, that I didn't want to lose my seat.) Suddenly, they start chanting my name into the microphones. I quickly start shoving cocktail shrimp into my mouth (can't sing with a full mouth, right?) but I relent and agree to sing She Blinded Me with Science. For future reference, this is not a good karaoke song; you think you know the words but you really don't. Anyway, L, who is sitting next to me, says she'll do it with me.

The karaoke machine tipped over in C's car on the way to the party, so it wasn't working properly. I used that as an excuse to completely suck, but here's what really happened: So L is singing next to me, and she knocks my socks clean off. I know L as an accounting type with an unsettling love of spreadsheets. She lets me boss her around and clean out her closets and stuff, but she's afraid to get rid of decades-old bank statements and cables that lead no where. I just love that girl, and now I have a reason to love her more. Turns out, accounting lady knows EVERY WORD to EVERY SONG that comes up on the karaoke machine, and the stereo all night, AND she can sing like a mo' flicka. I kept looking at her like, "Who ARE you??" The Karaoke machine was packed up pretty soon after that. I've decided to believe that it was not my singing or my lack of Thomas Dolby lyric knowledge that made them cart it off, but I was relieved that they did. Can you believe I forgot my camera? Dang it!

The evening progresses, girls are leaving, much to WP's chagrin as she has fantasies of rock 'n' rolling all night long and partying every day, and in the end its just me and L and WP, laying on her sofa, listening to loud music. WP assures me that I didn't over stay my welcome, but she looked pretty tired, and had a lot of food to put away. So L and I finally leave, and I drive L's hybrid (its like a space ship!) to her house with her in the passenger seat, bombed. We get to her house, and I decide that, even though I was fine to drive, I would just walk home. Its just before 2 a.m. and she flutters into her house, and I start the trek to my house.

There is no reason to be scared in my town. It should be made of gingerbread, its so safe. But L lives in a canyon, and its dark, so I call Rob at home to let him know that I'm walking and if I'm not home in 20 minutes, he should come looking for me. He sleeps through the phone. Awesome. My only real fear is that I'll trip, but I don't, and the walk is cool and quiet and wonderful. Not one car passed me, I didn't see one raccoon or cat or anything, I saw lots of stars, and it was a nice way to clear my head before hitting the hay. Rob didn't wake up when I got in bed either.

I told WP that I hate taking my makeup off late at night, and I wish I could just leave it on and go to bed, but I'm afraid that it will stain my pillow case. She assured me that, based on personal experience, it would not, and she was right! I slept in my party makeup and there was no evidence on my pillow case in the morning. I did have a hangover, though, and Rob went and got me a McDonalds breakfast (with a small coke, I admit) which is the best hangover food, bar none. But I couldn't write that day, I was too tired. I was too tired yesterday, too actually.

**ADDENDUM: As my friends read this post, the hangover stories are pouring in. I wasn't the only one! I also found out that a friend who lives in the canyon right below WP's house heard us singing for HOURS...

Thursday, July 12, 2012

Fat Ass in Fleece Pants - from 2008

I did something totally crazy today. I was coming home from dropping the dog off for a hair-do, and I had on my sweats and sneakers (typical morning attire) and I decided to go to... THE GYM.

Part of my new be-more-healthy plan is to exercise more (or, exercise at all, as the case may be) and I've been planning on going down to the health club where I take Leila swimming and see about getting on one of those new-fangled exercising machines. Usually, the only exercise I get when I go to this health club is turning the pages of my magazine while sitting in a beach chair watching Leila dive for colorful rings, but not today. There happened to be someone available to train me on a couple of these exercise devices, and suddenly there I was, huffin' and sweatin' on something called an elliptical. The machine said I burned 300 calories, but my trainer-guy, Mike, said they run a little on the high side (its nice to know my machine wants me to feel good about myself, though.)

The machines have TVs on them, and you can plug your headphones into them and watch a show while you're torturing yourself. I hadn't planned on this, so I watched The View with closed captioning. I do not recommend this. Those View women are always talking over each other, which is usually tolerable, but I don't know how the person typing in the closed caption can keep up with them. There was never a complete sentence on the screen, and, if you've been reading this blog, you already know that I prefer long, rambling run-on sentences, complete with commas and semi-colons, rather than short, incomplete sentences. Next time, I'm bringing my headphones, and not wearing fleece pants. I was boiling and looked like a lunatic. The other women who were working out were all thin and fit (no wonder: it wasn't their first day at the gym) in their cute work-out clothes and their Wall Street Journals, and looked like they were going to go on with their super days with energy and efficiency and super-duper attitudes. I did not fit in.  I can't really put my finger on the kind of negative thinking these women bring out in me, and I am aware that my snarliness is really about me and not them, but it does make me feel better when I tell myself, "She may be thin and fit and together on the outside, but I bet she's drinking chardonnay by four in the afternoon."

I may have been prompted to go to the gym because I went out for chinese food last night, coupon in hand, and ate all manner of things that probably do not fit it to my 1500 calorie-a-day thing. Now its lunchtime, and Rob did not take the leftovers with him to work as instructed ("Get the greasy chinese food out of here, and nobody will get hurt!") so I'm sitting here salivating (I'm not kidding, I really am) over the thought of leftover mongolian beef and curry chicken, because the only thing better than fresh chinese food is leftover, room-temperature chinese food, and my will power is well hidden right now.
I plan on going back to the gym on Friday in preparation for the Halloween night candy bonanza (I'm going to set the machine's calorie goal to a million) and this time I'll be prepared with more appropriate work-out pants, a pony-tail, headphones, water bottle, and maybe I'll bring along a Wall Street Journal, just for show. Act as if, right?

Wednesday, July 11, 2012


Okay, its confession time. I really like to bare my soul here and tell all the embarrassing and shameful things about myself (like farts and dirty bathrooms and stuff like that) because I feel like, deep down, you know exactly what I mean, and you have had similar experiences and doubts and my admissions will make you feel a little bit better about yourself. You can thank me later.

The other day, while Leila was in school, I went to the movies by myself. I love to go to the movies by myself in the middle of the day, and I can't remember the last time I did it. Okay, I did it last week, too, but before that, it had been years. So I went to the movies, and I got myself a small coke and a box of those mini butterfingers. I want to emphasize that I did not finish the butterfingers, but I did finish the coke. On the way home, for reasons I can't explain, I pulled off the freeway and went through the McDonalds drive through. The car just steered its way in there. I got a $2.99 mini meal with a double cheeseburger, small fry and a small coke. It was, as always, delicious.
Now, there are women out there, wives, who hide spending from their husbands. They buy new clothes, or something new for the house, and they hide the receipts and pay the visa bill before hubby knows anything about it. I've seen extreme cases on Oprah where women have essentially bankrupted their families with their shopping and starbucks habits, and they lose their houses and stuff. I do not hide spending, it would never occur to me. But what I do hide is eating, usually junk food, but not always. Eating out, even if its $2.99, always feels indulgent to me, like something reserved for special occasions that I don't deserve. I often look to Rob for some kind of permission to eat out, as if his approval removes all costs and calories. This is so f***ked. He long ago learned that to reason with me about food is to beat his head against a wall, and if he judges my food choices, he never shows it. I just love that guy. Anyway, I get Mc Donalds, or a burrito, or my favorite sandwich, or a piece of coffee cake, or candy at the movies, and I hide the evidence. I either throw the bags and containers away someplace other than my house, or I try to bury it under other garbage in our trash can. Sometimes, I leave it in the car, and he eventually sees it, and he never says anything. He knows that these are my own personal demons, and he can't get between us. 
So, I had my mini meal, loved every bite of it, was wonderfully full, and I hid the evidence.
Later that same day, he called to tell me that his new glasses were ready, and we decided he would take the bus to Sausalito to pick up his glasses, and Leila and I would pick him up there. Then he suggested that we stop at In N Out Burger for dinner on the way home. Ugh.
I was still full from the mini meal, but I'm so lame that, instead of just saying, "I'm not really that hungry." the crazies got in: If I say I'm not hungry, he'll know that I ate like a pig today, and he might ask me what I ate, then I'd be forced to tell the truth, and he'd find out that I had McDonalds. The subtext of which was, The fact that I am a pig will be re enforced for the one millionth time and this time will be the one that puts him over the edge and he wont love me anymore, and I'll be alone with my loathsome cat and my size extra large pants and my remote control. It took one fraction of a second for all of that to go through my head. My neuroses are really fast. So, I said "Okay!" and knew I was doomed.
I picked him up, we went to In N Out, and I got us a table. It didn't occur to me that I could, at that point, say that I wasn't that hungry and only wanted the smallest possible thing. When I get inside a restaurant like that, the part of me that thinks going out to eat is for special occasions only wants to take advantage of the situation and rational thought leaves me completely. Rob came back to the table with a cheeseburger, fries, and a coke. And I ate it. To my credit, I did not finish the coke, not even close, and we split two orders of fries with Leila, but I ate every delicious bite of that cheeseburger and I don't know how, I was so full. I was platzing.
We got home, put the kid to bed, etc. etc. and then Rob set before me a plate of orange sections. Now, I wanted to puke looking at more food, but here's the thing: I never eat fruit, and the only way I eat it is if he cuts it up and puts it in front of me. I have asked him to do this so that I don't die of malnutrition. Earlier in the week, he had put an orange on the counter for me, and I had, of course ignored it. He kept telling me I should eat the orange, and I told him that putting an orange on the counter was not the same as cutting it up and putting it in front of me, and that orange would stay on the counter until flies started swarming. I just never reach for fruit. So when he put the orange slices down in front of me, I couldn't very well say I wasn't in the mood for fruit when I had just made a big stink. So I ate it. On the last section, I really did think I was going to die, so I just left it.
Here's the tally: Three cokes, two cheeseburgers, two fries, one orange, and 2/3 of a box of mini butterfingers. I think I had breakfast, too, and I'm hoping it was a simple bowl of cereal but who knows, I can't remember. 
I have issues.