New Year's Resolutions

1) Travel More.

2) Sell kidney so able to travel more.

3) Move. Anywhere. Now? End of lease? CHANGE IS GOOD.

4) Maybe stay here.  It's safe and I have friends.

5) Stop being wishy washy about resolutions.

6) Go on one date.

7) Try not to judge date too harshly.

8) Eat cookies and drink wine when date is as bad as I assumed it would be.

9) Repeat 6-8. Probably a lot. Until I swear off dating again.

10) Positivity!

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And never brought to mind?

Should old acquaintance be forgot

And auld lang syne?

For auld lang syne, my dear

For auld lang syne

We'll take a cup of kindness yet

For auld lang syne, for auld lang syne

Eff that. And Eff Auld Lang Syne.

Humbug

I love the holidays.  Love them.  As soon as the holiday season starts, I'm hooked.  I decorate.  I plot Christmas gifts. I watch Hallmark and Lifetime holiday films ad nauseum. And I cry. A lot.

It doesn't take much.  A sad moment on a cheesy Joey Lawrence film that starts the sniffles.  A Christmas card.  A photo of kids seeing Santa. Kevin looking cute in his new candy cane bandana.

Nothing feels lonelier than the holidays. I get to spend time with my family and friends, but there's just something missing. Some joy that I'm not able to access.  I find joy in the little moments, but as soon as they pass the shadow appears to eclipse the joy.  Where's the hope, the peace and the joy when I'm back home with my Charlie Brown tree and my television screen?

I'm trying this year.  Trying not to feel lost and forgotten in the hubbub.  But it's very, very hard.  I don't really have anything right now. No improv.  No singing.  No nothing. Maybe that's why I'm doing St. Baldrick's.  To be a part of something. To do something. Anything.

My friends are all just...gone. I'll get a call if they need something. And part of me knows it's probably time to move on. New friends, new place to live. I give it another year before I'm ready. Also, I have a lease.

There's a next thing out there. A solution. I want to do more than this wallowing.  I want to stop feeling like I don't matter. I WANT TO STOP CRYING AT THE DROP OF A SANTA HAT.  I'm crying right now.

This may just be the two Cheryl's cookies talking. I'm gonna go for a bike ride or something. Anything.

"You're not REALLY shaving your head, right?"

Yes.  Yes, I am.

I've been known to do some weird things in my life. Maybe because I went to Europe when I was 18. Maybe cause I've always tried to get past fear, depression, or anxiety. That all changed when I read a post on my Up With People cast page. A Canadian friend posted that she's heard through the grapevine that another cast mate had found out very suddenly that her five year old daughter had a brain tumor.  It's hard to stay in touch with 170 of your closest friends from one of the most amazing years of your life, but I started paying attention. I watched every day for updates, and saw pictures of a beautiful, smiling little girl who was going through such a difficult time with such grace. I cried tears of joy on the day she finished treatment.

And I started thinking.

What can I do? What can I ever do to help someone so far away?

I do weird things for charity.  I created my own comedy show to benefit a cancer charity in Ft. Lauderdale. I jumped off a building for the same charity.  I had a member of the country club I work for come in and talk about an awesome event he participated in with the fire station where he worked.  The firemen shaved their heads. For kids. With cancer.

Sunday night I was sitting on my couch, pondering a next adventure. Would I jump off the building again? Would I plan another event? What could I do?

I made a quick decision and signed up before I could doubt myself.  I secretly have always wanted to experience the freedom of a shaved head. I kept eyes peeled in college for productions of Wit, as I love the show and thought I could be as badass as Emma Thompson with no hair. I registered. I posted on facebook. Added it to my website. And now, I'm blogging about it.

St. Baldricks donates 80% of all moneys raised to juvenile cancer research. 80%. Over 33 million dollars was donated last year alone. It is an amazing organization, and it deserves my support. And my bald head.

I'm nervous, but the support so far has been overwhelming. Yes, I am scared.  Yes, I'm nervous of how my bald head will look. I'm vain enough to worry that I will look like a bald chipmunk with giant, Disney-esque eyeballs and cheeks. But I know that it will be so worth it when I hold up a sign saying hello to Alex as I video my hair falling from my head to the whirring of an electric razor.

Living Single

This morning I woke to sunbeams shining on my face, caressing my cheek with their warmth as birds sang outside my window. I stretched luxuriously, grabbed Kevin's leash, headed down my new stairs and walked with my fuzzball for 40 minutes around a lake. There was a blue heron in flight as we turned the corner. Squirrels chattered at us as we passed. Neighbors said hello as we wandered. He pooped on our next door neighbors patio.  We arrived home, I got ready and arrived at work 10 minutes early. I made coffee for everyone. Then the day got weird, as our catering director got in a shouting match with a nasty member in the hallway outside my door. I gave her brownies. She also asked the mother of the bride at a wedding this past weekend if her daughter was pregnant.  She wasn't.  But I digress.

I'm not sure how, but my perspective has changed in the last few days.  The weekend was filled with stress, disappointment, and delight. Seeing my home come together...seeing Kevin get comfortable with an extra spring in his step from running up and down stairs...feeling my ass muscles hurting as I run up and down the stairs...it's wonderful.  I have cable. I have internet.  I have wireless. I have space.  I have the ability to sit around in my underpants.  I cooked the last two nights.  Not in the underpants. Grease spatter hurts.

I can't figure out how to turn this photo.

I've lived in apartments before.  But never one with this much character and space and potential. I have an office. A little nook where earlier I ordered Kevin's rabies tag while staring at Bruce Campbell's signature on an Army of Darkness poster I've owned since college.  It never seemed to fit. I never seemed to fit.

But I fit here, for now. I started paring down my life before this move, and I feel that the good times are about to start. I've gotten rid of the baggage. I bought new pillows today. PILLOWS. AND A WINE RACK. AND A BASKET. And I've never been more excited about a purchase. This place is me. The new me.  The happy me. The me that loves floral pillows that complement my poppy field poster hanging over my head. The me that loves wine.  And the me that is starting to love me, a little bit more every day.

Change?

I want to chop my hair off and go blonde. Maybe stick my tongue out a lot and use foam fingers in inappropriate ways.

I want to workout every minute of every day so I can be sleeker. Different. Like Jennifer Grey's nose.

I want to look at the world and not hate it. Not all the time. But a lot of the time.

I want to succeed. In anything. Anything at all.  Business. Without really trying.

I want to stop burying my life in taking care of the dog and live. With the dog, of course. He ain't going nowhere. But do I worry about him at the detriment of my own life?

I want change. They say it does you good.  I say it just slides out of the coin purse and pools in the bottom of your handbag.

I've been failing a lot the last week or two. Saying the wrong thing. Having people hold grudges for assumed slights when I can't even see where there was fault. I've been sleepless. So sleepless that up until my writing this at 1am, I've been staring at the blinking green light that indicates my cable box is still not working.  Over and over it blinks and over and over thoughts flit through my mind. I take drugs. They don't work til too late and then I'm sleepy in the morning. Viscious cycle.  Was sick. Lost Bailey. Tried to be strong for my family. To be there for them. But who's gonna be there for me?

Eh. Vomitous blog. Positive is that I'm gonna be too busy the next few days to even think about anything but surviving an ill prepared emcee gig and a writers conference. Who knows. Maybe selling PMS will be my success. Or maybe not throwing up from nerves tomorrow will be one.  Fingers crossed. Now to sleep. Here's hoping.

This is not a fun blog.

Sorry.  It's just not.  Go read The Oatmeal or 27bslash6 if you want fun.

Dogs are awesome. They love us, unconditionally.  I needed that about three years ago.

I had moved home after passing out alone in the living room/rent was raised.  I was a mess. Depressed. Thin. Full of self loathing and derision.  Why had I been so stupid?  How was I back at my parents house at 29? Why couldn't I do things right? Dumb, dumb, dumb. And slowly, I got better.

My parents were a gigantic help. I mean, they're rock stars.  Equal parts badass and comfort. But what got me through the worst of the worst was a little furball named Bailey.  Bailey loved me when I didn't love myself. I would find him laying next to my bed, looking up at me as I curled in a fetal position and cried. During bad weather, he would run into my room and shake while thunder rolled and I tried to calm him.  I would put him on my bed and try to soothe him.  I was there for him, and he would always be there for me.

My parents would go away and it would be Bailey and I rambling around the house. Up at 6am. Let him out. Feed him. Fall asleep on the couch for a little while, snoozing as I heard him plop beside me with a grunt. One such occasion saw the onslaught of tropical storm weather.  I cleared out the downstairs closet in case of a hurricane, cleared off the couch cushions and made a cozy bed for the two of us in view of the Weather Channel and that cleaned out closet.

He is a sheltie. He is beautiful. He is neurotic. He is sick.

I was on the phone with my mother yesterday. My very strong, very independent mother.  We were discussing a writer's conference we are going to together, and were discussing the need for doggy care for Kevin. I said, "Well, you're gonna need to get someone to watch Bailey."

There was a moment of silence on the other end of the phone. Then, "We have an appointment on Thursday. He hasn't been eating.  He's been throwing up what little he does eat.  He's skin and bones and I'm not going to let him suffer."

I've never been around when we've lost a pet. Our first dog, Gizmo, went to live on a farm. An actual farm, not the fictional one that parents create when a pet dies. Our first sheltie, Maggie, died while I was in Europe and it broke me. Our second sheltie, Shelby, died during a hurricane in a horrible way. My mom was there for both. I understood why she was hesitant to tell me. And I realized I'm stronger than I was then.  I know it's better for him to pass peacefully than in pain.  He helped me in my time of need, and I'm gonna be there for him in his. It's still hard. But it's the right thing to do.

I called my brother and sister last night to tell them the news.  Both expressed a desire to say goodbye.  I'm going to be there tonight to say goodbye, myself.  All of us are sad.  But we're gonna deal with it together.

I'm gonna hug my weird furbaby extra tight today and tomorrow. Ya'll wanna do the same? For me?

Everybody Hates Singles

I love being single. In a squirrely, never want to leave the house kinda way. I enjoy my own company and I am unashamed of that fact.  But our society has been giving me more and more signals that single is not the way to go.

One bedroom apartments in safe neighborhoods are 15 gazillion bazillion dollars.  One bedroom apartments in crappy, scary areas with chalk outlines of bodies are in an affordable range.  It's cool.  I'll sell some eggs or a kidney for that 800 sq. of safety and comfort.

Plus One on a Wedding Website RSVP-Won't go through unless the second email for Guest is filled in. Umm. Thanks for your generosity, but I don't have a plus one. So, I put myself as my date. Suck it, happy couples who are getting married and love each other.  I'm having chicken AND steak.

Single Serving Frozen veggies-Broccoli and cheese is mostly stalks. WHY DO COUPLES/FAMILIES GET ALL THE FLORETS?  GREEN GIANT, YOU BIASED BASTARD(S)!

There are two Twix and 4 Kit Kat. I have no one to share with, so end up feeling like a glutton when I scarf that stuff.  I CAN'T JUST PUT THEM BACK IN THE PACKAGE AND I CAN'T THROW THEM AWAY. That would be wasteful.

SleepNumber Commercials. Why's it gotta be all about couples?  Maybe some days I like the left side to be super hard and the right side to be super soft.  That way, when I roll from one side of the bed to the other (WHICH I CAN DO AS I HAVE THE WHOLE BED TO MYSELF AND DON'T HAVE TO WORRY ABOUT GETTING KICKED, SMACKED, OR SNORED AT), I can enjoy a different sleep experience. Also, maybe Kev might like a soft side. Pets are people, too.

Publix key lime full pies are too big.  Half pies are too big. But not if you eat them over 3 days.  Right?

I'm gonna drink the other half of this bottle of wine cause I don't have to spend as much money on alcohol cause I only have one or two glasses at a sitting. HEY! Being single is great!!

YAY!

Insomnia Makes a Great Mirror

I haven't been sleeping well. I'm too...something. Too wired. Too antsy. My legs won't stop twitching and my mind won't stop wandering. I dwell on the inane and the insane.

Thoughts:
"Why are my veins all protruding recently? Am I dying?  What would WebMD say?"
 "Is Kevin happy? Why does he lick himself so much? Why doesn't he lick himself more?"
"Where am I going to live in two months?"
"Why am I so mean to myself?"
"Why do I try so hard?"
"Why don't I try harder?"
"What do I want to do?"
"Who do I want to be?"
"Is there ice cream in the freezer?"

On this, the third night of raging sleeplessness, I decided to take a melatonin early so that I could drop into sleepy time without a hitch. It hasn't worked yet. I read a book.  I watched some Netflix. I took pictures of my dog.  Then I decided to get ready for bed.  The roommate is away, so I've been T-shirt and
underpant-ing it up for bed the last few nights out of a weird sense of rebellion.  I know.  Underpant-ing is not a word. Get your own blog.

I washed my face and scrubbed with all my might. I used my water pick. Brushed my teeth. I took out my eyeballs. Took my hair down and applied night cream. And stared at my reflection in the mirror. Make-up less except the smear of mascara I always miss under my right eye. Hair in disarray.  White long underwear shirt and granny panties with a paisley pattern on them. I've been skipping the hair dye as it's expensive to do right and a mess to do myself. The mousy brown strands that I've been dyeing since I was 12 peeked out from above the dark brown ends.  I looked.  And looked closer (I'm blind without my eyeballs.) And I realized something extraordinary.

I like myself. I finally like myself. I felt more beautiful and together in those few moments than I have for the last few years.

I've been panicking for the last couple of months...

whereamigoingtobewhatamigoingtodowhoamidopeoplelikemewhyamidoingthisjobidon'tknowhowtodowhyaminotgoodenoughmaybeishouldrunawaystartoverwhydidiscrewthatupican'tdoanythingrightsomeonetellmewhattodoi'mnothappywillibehappywillieverbehappy WILL I EVER BE HAPPY?

The answer is yes.  I will.  I am.  I just have to look more. It took a mental breakdown at work, a vacation with people I love, lots of wine and lots of puppy kisses, but I am happy. At least with myself and the rest can fall into place.

I like the mousy brown. It's me. It's who I am and who I was meant to be. I don't need to hide that person anymore. I'm not fooling anyone by being this figment of who I really am.  I can have hard days and I can have joyful days.  I just need to LOOK and realize that no matter what I do or where I am, what I wear or what I say, the constant is me. And liking me is the first step in an awesome adventure that is the rest of my life.

NOW IF THE MELATONIN COULD KICK IN, EVERYTHING WOULD BE GREAT.

VMA is more like T&A. Random thoughts.

The other day I was watching a concert.  I'm really not sure who the act was, but it was a group of rocking, soulful 20 something men dressed in jeans and tanktops, screaming into mics and thrashing poor instruments until it looked like either their fingers or frets were going to explode.  Hordes of screaming girls populated the audience, scantily clad in the outdoor arena in what looked like summer time.  I know. My attention to specific details is amazing.

This imagery started me thinking about the music industry in general. How is it that men can be un-bathed, wearing disgusting undershirts with ratty, pulled off the floor jeans and ladies have to dress like hookers?  I can barely walk on stage to sing a 3.5 minute song in regular heels.  I can only imagine 3 inches.  Actually...I wore huge heels once while at Shadowbox. I fell over on the way off stage and almost took everyone out, dominoes style.  It was uncomfortable and unnecessary. Though my legs looked fabulous, I almost died trying to get down a set of stairs in the shoes, and for what? So I could look like an orange Muppet turbo hooker with pink hair for a live version of Roam by the B52's.

As a side note-how come Justin Timberlake can barely sing half of his songs cause he's doing choreography at the VMA's but have a lady try to pull that off (Beyonce at the Super Bowl) and she's lambasted while he is glorified?  Can we all just admit that his falsetto sounded like he was a normal range singer who got kicked in the balls?  BUT GOOD ON HIM AND SASHA FIERCE FOR SINGING LIVE WHILE DANCING LIKE IDIOTS.

I watched the Miley Cyrus thing. Unfortunately.  And it's not just an issue of overly-sexualizing herself in an attempt to get as far from her squeaky clean teenage image.  It was almost like watching a completely crazy person lose her mind in front of an audience of millions. The tongue sticking out.  The weird ass behavior. The twerking. Robin Thicke and his team were also to blame for this. But there would be no need to see this shit if it wasn't for the glaring discrepancies in how we treat male and female musicians in this society.

I want Beyonce to come out on stage ONE TIME and be able to wear a shitty looking shirt with comfortable looking jeans. I want to focus on the person and the voice. I love artists like Sara Bareilles who allow themselves to just be. SB is all eyeballs and hair.  And I love that!  I love that.  As a performer, I get it. I get that you put on a persona and that's who people expect.  But I can also say that some of my favorite performances have been when I'm in boots and a cute dress, being me and not some Barbie/Vampy/Trampy version of myself.  And maybe if we move towards that aesthetic, then crap like dancing teddy bears and strippers won't assault our eyeballs and the eyeballs of the thousands of teens who are being brainwashed by this garbage.

That's a Coldshot, baby!

Feeling poopy.

Don't worry.  This blog is not about poop. Not really.

I got super sick on Monday. I ate a crab cake at work, and immediately felt awful. Itchy.  Flushed. Ran back and forth to the bathroom for the remainder of the afternoon. Went home early cause I was feeling like fire was running through my body. Doc at Urgent Care said it was an allergic reaction to crab.  Next time could be anaphylactic shock. Cortisone shot in my ass for swelling. Suggestion of over the counter meds for tummy. Swing by Walgreens. Crackers. Coke. Cherry flavored Nausea Suppressant for food indiscretions. Really. It says so on the label.

I go home. I walk Kevin, in a daze. Make it short cause I can't make it more than around the block. I'm weak. Get in bed. Sleep. Sleep some more.  Poop. Poop some more. Eat a bunch of crackers. Eat more crackers. Get a text to call someone as soon as I can. Call.  Goes right to voicemail. Text an hour later saying I called but went right to voicemail. Get a text back, "At dinner." Wait for a call back.  Wait some more. Wait some more. Sleep. Poop. Throw up. Poop. Wait.

I got pissed. Pissed that this person would put an onus on me to call them, then completely blow me off. This person is poison to me. The few times I've been really angry lately have been when this person is involved. And I was done. Done being a doormat. Done being this person's go to everything, but never having that person be there for me.  Done trying to make this person happy while compromising myself and my mental/physical health.

I've had more than enough.  So, I'm done. I'm done with him.  Done with the business we created together. Done with feeling less than so he can feel more than. I'm walking away which is something I should have done months ago. People don't change.  Or won't change. And the only thing I can do is change how I interact with them.

I'm moving on. Life is too short to surround yourself with people who make you feel less than. I'm tired of it. I had a wonderful experience last week performing improv without the need to produce or direct it. And it was liberating. I realize now that I don't have to be in charge anymore. I can put my trust where it will be protected and earned. And I can do it, on my own.

Online Dating...again.

My mom signed me up for Plenty Of Fish. Again. Last night, she told me that she started messaging people in my stead. I was annoyed at first, cause 'GOSH, can't I just be single and be happy and that can be ok? ' But I realized that I am not ok. I mean, I'm ok in that I am happy with my life, but I'm not ok in that I've spent the last 3 weekends hanging out with my dog or my parents. So, I know I need to get back out there. Today is a slow day at work, and my boss is on vacation, so I decided to look at the profile that Wendy had created and maybe jazz it up a bit.  Here it is in all it's glory.

ABOUT ME

I am co-founder of an Improv troupe. I sing, act and do stand up comedy any where and any when I can. I'm writing and starring in a comedy web show starting in August. I love my family and my dog, mostly in that order. I love being outdoors and trying new things. Last year, I learned to fly on the trapeze. This year, I went skydiving and rappelled down a building for charity. I write a web comic and am currently working on a graphic novel based on the comic. I have gone to San Diego Comic-Con the last few years, but will miss this year because of my brother's wedding. I hate him for getting married to his best friend and compromising my Comic-Con nerding out. I'm also planning the wedding for them. My dog will be dressing up like Chewbacca for Halloween and I will be Leia. Not Slave Leia. I'm not there yet.

I challenge myself to do one brave thing every day. I started training for my first 5K two weeks ago and I haven't died yet, though South Florida weather is not helpful in that regard. I've already signed up for two races. One where I dress like a superhero and another where I'll be floundering in mud for 3.10686 miles with my lady friends. I love to travel and have been to Europe, Canada and almost all 50 states. I'm not afraid to travel by myself, but would love to have someone special with whom I can share those experiences.

I'm going to be honest here. My mom signed me up for this site, and she has probably awkwardly messaged you pretending to be me. I hope you're ok with that. She's on a mission to prevent spinsterhood. Her heart is definitely in the right place, though she uses LOL a lot when messaging and I think that's the first time I've ever typed it in my life.

I'm looking for someone that loves the arts but also likes sports, video games and beer. Someone who chews with their mouth shut. Someone who can take a joke and who loves to laugh. Someone who isn't afraid to jump off a cliff into the ocean but is also content watching movies at home.

Would you date this?

NAILED IT! HERE COME THE MENS!

Poopers.

My family talks about poop a lot. We think about it a lot.  We are a family of poopers. There's discussions of diet. Consistency. Turns of phrase like "I just peed out of my butt" at the dinner table.  It's totally cool and totally acceptable and totally bizarre to be a part of if you are uninitiated to the ways of the Poop in a Jars (a childhood nickname.  Good one.)

Nervous poopers...allergy poopers...coffee poopers...IBS victims.  That's us.

Road trips are planned according to clean pooping stops.

I would SOOOOO poop here.

Meals are coordinated depending on the distance one has to drive afterwards. We comment on poop. If someone disappears after dinner at the parents house, we know exactly where they are heading. Typically, mom has a book or two in the bathroom along with lit scented candles.  Decorative paper towels and vanilla scented soap are always in stock.  Every now and then, there are wipes!  It's all part of the dinner party prep.

We recently went on a family road trip, and we all ended up flying together.  Each sibling has their own form of poop Kryptonite, and the strategy for a no-poop flight was discussed, ad nauseum (literally) for the entire wait for the first flight, and during our 3 hour layover.

While traveling, I am a poop camel.  I have such air travel control issues that I just won't go on a plane. Ever. I flew from West Palm Beach to Dulles then on to France once and I only peed in Washington.  I refuse to drink anything but tiny, baby sips of water. I barely eat unless it's something that is carb-tastic with no dairy or soy. Coffee can happen first thing, but there has to be a buffer of at least an hour pre-flight so that can get taken care of before boarding.

After a week with my family followed by a series of flights, poop was still on my mind.  I ended up bringing it up with my co-workers on my first day back. They looked at me first in terror and disgust, then started cracking up. We're all so much more comfortable around each other, and it was a real bonding moment.  I actually came up for this idea after a spectacularly bad lunch decision.

Listen. Everybody poops is not just a children's book.   It's also a common denominator for human kind. No matter the color of your skin, no matter your sexual orientation, no matter your eye color, hair color, language, style, political or religious viewpoint...everybody poops. You never know who you'll need to ask to spare a square. So love everyone or get poopy on your panties. OK?

That got weird.

Drunk Running

A lot of my blogs lately have been super serious.  It's ok, right?  We all go through serious times in our lives, and that's ok.  I usually hide those trying times and dwell instead on the weird and funny. So, let's get back to that.

In an effort to train for a 5K, I decided to start a run/walk combo program called Couch25k.  It's pretty awesome. Combining it with Weight Watchers, I have made the effort to get healthier for my 32nd year.  I've signed up for two 5K's. One in October and one in November. Both will be fun times. If I don't die.  Though having survived one day of training after a bottle of Malbec and half a pizza, I think I can do anything.  They may frown on wine consumption at the Foster and Adoptive Parents Association 5K, but what they don't know won't hurt them, right? IT'S FOR A GOOD CAUSE, HIC!

I really am taking this health stuff as seriously as I can. There are definitely days when I know for a fact that I will not be very successful in my training. My leg hurts. My nose is full of snot and I can barely breathe when walking let alone running. Allergies are super bad this time of year. My asthma kicks into high gear and I'm panting like Kevin after an especially trying wang snarfling. But I do it anyway. The diet is difficult, as my brain keeps telling me that half a bag of Smartfood popcorn is equivalent to a balanced meal. But I put the points in and register the fact that I'm over...under...above..beyond. I'm taking full responsibility for what I put in my body (not THAT, pervs.) I'm not fudging what I eat anymore. Mmm. Fudge.

Every time I go out  I say to myself, "Just get to that tree." "Just run til you pass that light post." "Breathe into your diaphragm and out of your mouth....you've got this."  Then I swallow a bug, or one flies up my nose, or I run into a spider web. And I laugh.

This past Saturday, I decided to run in the afternoon. I needed to get my 3rd day of week 3 out of the way. I was wearing a 3 quarter sleeve shirt, and it was freaking hot. I got back to my apartment, with my legs on fire and my lungs puffing, sweat dripping down my face.  My roommate was sitting in the living room watching television, and I flopped onto the floor to recover.  "Are you ok?" she asked, a concerned look on her face as I lay there with my arm flung across my head, panting and trying to recover my ability to breathe normally.

If I could have uttered anything, I would have told her that I was fine, wonderful, fantastic.  Because I've finally discovered the me that wants to be an athlete.  The me that is ignoring the gawky nerd that I have seen in the mirror since I was 8 years old.  The new me, who wants to challenge her body to better her soul. The new me who got her bike fixed yesterday and felt like she was flying as she rode 3 miles around her neighborhood. The one who really needs a new seat for her bike now, as her ass hurts even when sitting on her comfy desk chair. And, who looks really, really stupid in her new helmet. What?  I have a giant head.

Memories

I updated my iTunes. It was very exciting.

Surprisingly, the update pulled some videos from the recesses of my 2008 Compaq from a trip to Arizona.  I was there for my 10 year Up With People reunion and Grand Canyon tour with my very good friend from my Shadowbox days, LoJ Hunt.  I pushed play on a video of the Canyon, reminiscing about our road trip and my first view of the giant hole in the ground. Sunset softened the pastel colors of the canyon, and I narrated in a slap happy voice the feelings that I was experiencing.  Then I turned the camera on myself for a goofy moment to mark this epic occasion.

The me of today was shocked. Startled. Stunned. The girl in the video was thin. Super thin.  Scary thin.

The me of today envied the me of 2009 in that she was in a size 4 pant. The me of today also ate pizza for dinner. The me of 2009 barely ate anything. She couldn't control anything in her life other than food. The me of 2009 ended up passing out in her apartment, being rescued by her parents, then went to fry pickles with her sister.  And that was the turning point.

Skinny Spaz

I never sought help for my anorexia. I just stopped starving myself. And over the past few years, I've gone the opposite way.  Not denying myself anything food wise because I was scared of a relapse. Now I'm faced with another dilemma.  I want to be healthier.  I want to feel comfortable in my skin.  I couldn't love myself then and I can't love myself now.  I know I can be a better version of myself without the harmful brain patterns that lead me to drink coffee for breakfast. Eat a small salad for lunch. And completely ignore dinner.  I AM healthy. My cholesterol is great.  My blood pressure is fantastic.  I may be clumsy, but that's a different story.

Plus size Pottinger

I didn't let my scale calibrate the other day and thought I had lost 13 pounds in 2 weeks.  WHA?  But no worries, friends. I didn't lose 13.  I lost 4. And a good portion was period bloat. So I'm still on track and I'm still being healthy. I'm gonna keep those videos to show me what NOT to do to be fit.

Not every day is a bad day in the Guarded Area.

Yesterday, I bought books.  Tons and tons of books.  Ok. Not tons. But I had a gift card and I spent it ALL! 8 wonderful books are heading my way via standard FREE SHIPPING.  I feel like such a swanky swank. I will love them all the same.  It's strange that it was the best feeling in the world to hit that confirm order button. It took me two whole weeks of looking through the Barnes and Noble website for titles, trying to get the most out of my money as well as the unofficial series I love in the correct reading order.

I'd contemplated buying a NOOK, as I'm old and most of my authors are not carried in stores.  Then a friend posted about reading paper books until her dying day. And I read an excerpt from a book where the author railed against e-readers, stating that nothing beats the feel of paper under his fingers.  Both these instances reinforced the fact that my love for the written word needs to remain secure in the paper book realm.

There's a joy in browsing shelves.  After my web order, I realized that I had neglected to purchase a new release that I really, really, really wanted to read as soon as possible. I headed to my local Barnes and Noble, and let out a contented sigh as I entered, inhaling the aroma of books, nerds and coffee.  I grab the last two copies of the book I came in for, then notice a 50% bin with a book by a long lost favorite author. $6.00. Then happened on a Jim Butcher book for 45% off. $8.00.  HOW COULD I PASS THEM UP?!?! As the cashier totaled my purchase and placed in a bulging plastic bag, I was giddy. I couldn't wait to get these books home and READ THE CRAP OUT OF THEM. 

Sometimes I feel that the simple joys in life are the only things that keep me from being a shut in.  Which is odd, considering these books are going to make me a recluse for a bit.  So.  That's confusing.  I have dinner plans tonight and tomorrow, and plans with myself for Friday, but Saturday and Sunday you'll probably find me in my room, curled up with a quilt, a dog named Kevin and a shit ton of books.

OH MY GOD! I GOT CONFIRMATION THAT IT SHIPPED!  IT SHIPPED! YAY!

 

 

I just peed a little bit.

 

 



Ding dong, DOMA is dead!

Yesterday, I woke up to rain. Sunny rain.  I groaned. Walking Kevin in the rain is always a bit complicated as anyone living in an apartment with a pup knows. One arm for leash.  One arm for umbrella. Do you compromise leash holding or umbrella holding for poo pick up? So many complications. So little time (I like to sleep in til the last minute.)

So, girded with a huge golf umbrella, my poo bag purse with Kevin's polka dot leash in hand, we headed out into the sun shower. As we turned the corner of our apartment building, I looked up and saw the most beautiful rainbow I had ever seen, full bow in view. Kevin and I stopped to stare at it in wonder (well, I stopped in wonder.  He was peeing on a lamppost.)

Kevin did his business, I cleaned up without having to compromise either umbrella or leash as the rain had ceased by the time he boom boomed, and we headed to the house to complete our usual morning ritual.  I watched him eat his breakfast, cause he won't eat if I don't watch.  I stepped into the bathroom to shower while Kevin hopped in and laid down in the shower in protest. You know.  Normal dog/human stuff.

I got to work and hopped online. I changed my profile picture to show my support of LGBT rights.

15 minutes later, a news story popped onto my feed saying that DOMA had been declared unconstitutional. I cried. At my desk. And rejoiced in the fact that the people I love can love whoever they want in whatever capacity they want without federal intervention. A decision had been made.  A decision that made me believe in my country again. A decision that made me think to myself, "Someday, someone is going to ask you where you were when you heard the news. And you'll have to say you were at work and facebooking when you should have been working."

I am not a lesbian, as much as my mom tells me it's ok if I am. I don't even know if I ever want to get married.  But the fact of the matter is that no one should be able to tell me who I can and can't love.  Who I can and can't tie myself to.  Who I can and can't have at my death bed. Who can and can't benefit from my life insurance/health insurance/tax bracket.  I'm not angry at the people who wanted to restrict the rights of my friends and family.  I'm just sad that it was ever a question.

I didn't realize how symbolic that rainbow would be when I saw it through bleary eyes on a Wednesday morning. The full arc reaching across the sky will come to mind any time I think about the day that DOMA was overturned. And if any of my gay or straight friends need a wedding planner/singer/officiant, you know how to get a hold of me.

Failure

I'm laying on the pull out couch in my grandmother's home. Crying. Not sure why. Maybe it's the 4 days of driving. Maybe it's the stress of a wedding. The stress of family. Hormones. Going into my grandfather's shed and being reminded that he's not here.  Wondering what he would think about me. I don't know. But it's been a weird day, and I'm not sure what to do.

I keep hearing negativity. About how fat people are. About how eating is bad. About what's wrong with this person, with that person. With me. And today, I had to walk away. The noise was too much. And I kept seeing this person, who is alone and reminded of it in subtle ways. A person who is overweight, and is reminded in subtle ways. A person who isn't enough, and is reminded in subtle ways. And this boiling anger just sat there, in my stomach, until it lashed out. I always feel like I'm the one to blame. That if I was less this and more that, then all would be well.

"I just want to go home." I texted that to my business partner and friend.  But where is that?   What's there for me? My dog. My apartment. My stuff. My friends. A job I like sometimes. But what am I doing other than being fat and emotional and annoying? Who am I effecting? I'm constantly reminded of this person that I used to be. Am I ever gonna be that person again? Am I ever going to evolve? Am I ever going to be enough, for anyone? Am I ever going to stop crying?

Part of me wants to go out to my grandpa's shed and just sit.  That may be the second shot of tequila talking.

I suck a lot.

Today was a rather slow day at work.  I've been on this kick of reading inspirational articles and trying to learn to love myself a little more, and today was full of this kind of study, as no one was in and no one was calling. After lunch, I decided to water the plants in our front lobby.  While I was filling up the jug in the bathroom, I really looked at myself in the ugly gold plated mirror above the sink. Really looked, not just the usual perfunctory glance. I didn't avoid the hair I neglected to blow dry as it was pouring down rain and what's the point.  I didn't avoid the rushed make-up job based on being flooded in my apartment all morning, only to be called in to my job at a GOLF COURSE IN A TROPICAL STORM. I turned to the side, looking at the way my dress hugs my stomach which has always and will always be the bane of my existence.

I stared at myself and let out a huge sigh. That sigh released the tension that is perpetually in my midriff area, as I am constantly sucking in.  It doesn't matter what I'm wearing or where I am. In my pjs. In a dress for work. I'm perpetually trying to make myself look like something I'm not. When I let out that sigh, I let out the somewhat plus sized but not girl that just wants to be on the other side of skinny. I let out the need to be perfect, to be slim, to be something that I'm not. I let out the girl who would gag on a bite of food because she needed control of anything in her life at that moment, and food consumption was all she had.  I let out the girl who would pretend on the outside that she had it all together, but that on the inside was being crippled with fear.

I know these blogs lately have been kind of depressing. Life up til now has been kind of depressing.  But I'm finding more and more ways to be happy, and I can't help but share that with the world. I read an article yesterday that stated that women need to stop fat shaming themselves, and I finally get it. I look at pictures of myself from a recent dinner with distant relatives, and I realize that even though the woman in the pictures is bigger than her body is supposed to be according to science, she still has perfect blood pressure. She's O negative.  She's a universal donor who can save the life of anyone who needs blood or platelets through her donations.  She's got pretty eyes. She smiles a lot. She ignores injuries so she can get a bear hug from a 4 year old and wears Batman shirts whenever she sees him cause it makes him smile. She loves books. She loves dogs.  She loves her family.  And none of that is dependent on what the scale says. 

Super happy fun times.

So, I've been depressed a bit in my life. I talk about it a lot here, cause it's something that has effected me since I was 12 years old and lost my grandfather to cancer.  I can't currently afford therapy, so this blog serves as therapy for me. Lucky you!  There have been times in my life that were so low that I felt like the only thing to do would be to just not be anymore.  2 years ago, I went through a very, very rough patch. There was a break-up. A nasty break-up.  I was anorexic at the time, and the lack of caloric intake into my system exacerbated my depression to the point where I would get home from work, lay on the floor of my apartment and just NOT GET UP until the next day when I would start the whole thing over again. Coffee for breakfast. Small Salad for lunch. Apathy and lethargy for dinner. Rinse. Repeat.  The turnaround happened when I called a Suicide Hotline and my ATT service said the call could not be connected. And I laughed...

Technology hates me. It took me 20 minutes to get this photo on here from Instagram.

I've come a long way since then. The change started with a therapist.  It has transitioned to bombarding myself with positivity. Treating my body better.  Indulging when I need to and starting to realize that life is too freaking short to spend it on the floor of your apartment. I still cry sometimes. I still have nights where I lay on the couch and stare at the TV until I drift off, but it's a choice and not giving up.

I'm writing this to tell you about the decision I made recently to just be happy. The toughest decision I ever made. I still have anger issues, and they're next on the docket to be addressed, but they're not self anger issues anymore. I've forgiven myself.   I've started taking multivitamins. Drinking water. Eating healthier but not kicking myself when I break down and go to Chipotle/eat ice cream out of the container/eat a stick of butter just to see what it's like. I bought a LivingSocial Deal for B12 shots, and after the first week I can say that it makes a difference. I have energy. My mind is clearer, even with the painkillers that I'm taking for my jacked up shoulder.  I ate Brussel Sprouts last night.  I had a nectarine for a snack today.  I'm taking longer walks with my dog, who honestly has been the biggest happiness boost in my life. How can I be depressed and laying on the floor when he NEEDS TO PLAY RIGHT NOW?!?  How can I be worried about everything that is wrong with my life when he's eating grass and making me worry about his gut and butt?  How can I ever, ever hate myself when he loves me without judgment? He does love EVERYONE immediately, but there's a special bond that occurs when you are the one feeding him special dog treat turkey bacon.

I'm planning for a future. My future. The one that I wouldn't have had if that Suicide Hotline hadn't hung up on me. The one that may or may not include a man in it, but that will someday have a home. I've found a cute little place that I want to make mine. It'll be tough, but it'll be mine. My mom recently told me I should have a baby through a sperm donor, and imagining that life didn't upset me. It made me hopeful.  My destiny is mine, not my brain chemistry's. I can shape it and make it better than the existence I had two years ago. It doesn't depend on others. It doesn't depend on what if's.  It just depends on what now.

See?  Everyone gets dumped. 


EDITORS NOTE: MY MOM WOULD LIKE ME TO CLARIFY THAT SHE ACTUALLY SAID,"YOU DON'T NEED A MAN ANYMORE TO HAVE A BABY. AND IF YOU HAVE A HOUSE WITH A SPARE ROOM, THEN YOU CAN HAVE A BABY." SO. THERE'S THAT. 

I'm bored.

So I'm going to tell you a story.  About Habersham, cause Erin's a jerk. :) I googled Habersham, cause I was pretty sure she'd just typed a bunch of letters together, and found listings of a county in Georgia. They have a winery and a farmer's market. So. Habersham Farmers' Market it is.  As a sidenote...don't google killing roosters when you're eating a chicken wrap. Just. Don't.

Nice Melons

The rooster crowed. A piercing reminder that it was time to get up and start the day.  The little asshole seemed to be waking earlier and earlier.  I had half a mind to wring it's little neck and enjoy a nice meal of fried rooster that night at the dinner table. There was little time to contemplate it's demise though, as I had to pack up crates of fruits and vegetables and haul ass to the swanky shopping center where I peddle my wares on a weekly basis. A single man running a farm does more work than a one armed paper hanger.  Though why a one armed man would go into paper hanging is beyond me.  But from 8 am to 1pm every Saturday, I sit and watch hipster douchebags and collagen filled harlots handle the literal fruits of my labor and try to talk me down from $3 a pound for strawberries while carrying purses that cost more than my pickup.

"Are these certified organic?"  If I hear that question one more time, I might scream.

I get to the market and go to my assigned booth. I glance briefly at the paper sign indicating the name of my neighbor.  I groaned as I read, "The Tea Lady." She is the absolute worst for business.  She wears flowing scarves and calls everyone darling while trying to get them to sip her swill from paper cups she crams on a plate in order to shove them in the faces of passersby. People avoid her like the plague, and their avoidance trajectory typically takes them far past the booths on either side of her. Looking around to see if I would get caught, I grabbed the sign off her table and switched it with the sign of the booth on her other side.

More vendors started to arrive as I attempted to make spaghetti squash look appealing. I don't understand why human beings need their produce stacked and symmetrical, but if it makes 'em buy, I'm doing it.  I was so engrossed in the placement of plums to notice that my new neighbor had started unloading. Their fruit.  And their vegetables. I realized my mistake too late to do anything about it. Hoping that the quality of their product would cause more traffic to head my way, I peered over the side of my table to get a view of their goods and noticed a figure hunched down over a crate.  I saw a ponytail of brown hair with the gold highlights associated with working outdoors, not chemical treatments, pulled through a tattered baseball hat. A long tanned neck stuck out of a ratty flannel that had certainly seen it's share of days drying in the sun. I continued to stare, taking her in as she stood.

"Good God, " she said, hand flying up to her chest. "You scared me!"

"Sorry 'bout that," I answered, suddenly embarrassed and bashful now that the full force of her cornflower blue eyes hit me like a sickle bar mower knocking down an alfalfa crop. "I was just looking at your melons."

Her eyes narrowed, her hand reaching up to the buttons on her shirt as I realized how that sounded. "NO! I mean...no. I meant your melons.  Your MELONS.  I can never get mine to grow that big. " I pointed at a stack of watermelons the size of toddlers laying on the table. Her eyes moved towards the large fruit as her eyes crinkled, a smile turning into laughter as she realized what a ridiculous scene we had just made.

I laughed with her then introduced myself. "I'm Will."

"I'm Stephanie, " she said, reaching her hand towards me in a gesture of friendship and goodwill. Her handshake was firm and her hands calloused.

"Stephanie,"  I repeated, liking the way it felt on my tongue.  "It's a pleasure.  Tell me something...do you like fried chicken?"

  

Hypochondria and A*&holes

I'll admit it.  I can be dramatic at times when it comes to my health. I overreact and rely on WebMD to try to figure out if what's happening is going to a)kill me b)lame me or c) lame me then kill me.  Recently, I've been dealing with this shoulder debacle. And by dealing, I mean doing everything I can to heal faster, know more, be stronger and it's not working.

Yesterday, I went to my orthopedist and he reacted strangely to my MRI.  My supraspinatus was solid white with inflammation, and the surrounding muscles were the normal dark grey that usually shows up on the MRI. There was a also a tiny tear in my rotator cuff.  'OK, Lauren.  You're just being sensitive.  That low whistle and shuffling of papers didn't mean anything,' I said to myself.  Then the dude told me that I might have a degenerative muscular thingy, spouted off a name so quickly I can barely remember anything about it but that it might have started with M,  then told me he wanted to try steroid therapy to get the swelling down. Great. Let's do that.  They called a script in. As I was checking out, I heard the doctor in the hallway chatting with another doc about me.   Comforting.

I started the Prednisone this morning and followed instructions to a T. I had no plans after work, so settled in to some time on the couch and catching up with Doctor Who. As I was laying there, my hands started to tingle. Then turned numb. They're still numb as I type.  I didn't freak out. My roommate suggested it was the way I was laying, so I adjusted that.  Still tingling. Worse, actually. So, I looked up side effects to Prednisone.

"Contact your doctor immediately if you experience these side effects: Shortness of breath.  Pain in calf. Tingling or numbness in hands and arms."

I asked the roomie what she thought I should do and decided to call the ER where I originally went for my injury. A nurse got on the "help" line and I told her what was going on after she got out the obligatory, "What's your information so we can bombard you with mailings and emails and prove we're helping people" deal.

Here's the rant part of this blog.

"Did you lay on your arms or hands while you were resting?"

Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I believe I have been speaking pretty intelligently with you up until this extremely asinine question.  NO, I wasn't freaking laying on my hands or arms. They've been numb for over an hour, jerk face. AND NO, I wasn't putting pressure on my elbows or wrists either.  Thank you for absolutely nothing.  Now, instead of just numb hands, I am also irate.  And thank you, very much, for the comforting "You should call your pharmacist cause I have absolutely no idea.  Do you want to receive mailings from us?"

The pharmacist was equally irksome. "Were you laying on your hands or arms?"  NO, you FUCKING ASSHOLE. I understand you get calls from morons all the time. I get it.  You're jaded. But I can't feel my hands and you're making me want to numbly punch a hole in something.  Her final answer: "You should call your doctor in the morning."

Thank you. I will certainly do that.  If I can feel my hands enough to dial the fucking phone.

Rant over.

Mother's Day

My mom is awesome. Period. I love her and am glad to be slowly turning into her. With some additional neuroses.

She may be confusing at times.
Mom: "No, I don't want any presents, but there's a necklace at this store for this price and this is what it looks like, so...."

She may come up with interesting nicknames for me.
Mom: "Hopeless! Get down here!"
Me: "Mom, did you give me the middle name Hope so you could call me that? Or is it a side benefit?"

Mom, about to hang up with me cause she's tired of talking:"Ok, boo boo. Talk to you later."

She may have crazy advice sometimes.
Mom: "I read an article about a guy who only owns what can fit on his back and he just sublets apartments in New York while pursuing his acting career.  YOU SHOULD DO THAT!"

She may be a little too protective.
Mom: "Hey, you want me to go to your doctors appointment with you?"
 
She has the neatest sayings.
Me: "I have a problem....complain, complain, complain."
Mom: "It is what it is, Lauren. It is what it is."

Me:  "This person is driving me crazy!"
Mom: "You can't change people.  Only how you deal with them. But, yeah.  That person's a jerk."

She comes up with the greatest schemes.
Mom: "Ok, your 31st birthday is the 15th and we want to go to Ohio.  Let's drive to Savannah on your birthday, stay over and explore the city then drive to Grandma's house. Sound like a plan?"

Mom: "Ok, we're going on a trip to Scotland next year.  Figure it out."

She's my mom, and I love her.

 

 

 
 

A glimpse into the Guarded Area.

No. I don't mean THAT Guarded Area. Gross.

I had a rough day today.  I'm not even sure why.  The tragedy in Boston. The letdown of the skydiving experience being over. Not looking cool in front of the hip skydivers while I yarfed. Weird rehearsal and late nights. Basically, all this piled up and I acted like a jerk to a lot of people while crying on and off for the entire day.  I had no control over my emotions or over my anger.

So, I made a promise to myself to take care of me tonight.  I ran the errands I needed to run right after work so I wouldn't need to leave the house again.  I bribed the dog with a walk and new toys. I made a light dinner as I'm still feeling off and queasy.  I watched comedies. I drank lemonade, then water and avoided the bottle of Malbec that was staring me in the face.  I walked the dog one final time and was about to head to bed at 10 so that my 6:00 am alarm didn't cause this non-morning person too much distress.

Then things went to hell.  I started talking to my roommate as I ate a few spoonfuls of lemon sorbet.  The next time I looked at the clock, it was 10:40 and I excused myself, called Kevin and went into my room to prep for slumber.

"Take your melatonin.  It'll help you sleep and calm your legs," I said to myself, and headed towards the bathroom.  As I approached the vanity, I noticed a build up of toothpaste in the bottom of the sink. "THIS WILL NOT DO!" I thought, reaching under the sink for my Green Works wipes. Cleaning the counter means moving beauty product, as I'm an addict.  Moving beauty product means more cleaning. My toothbrush cup was dirty. The cotton ball holder was empty and dirty...and needed Q-tips! The Q-tips were in a drawer that wouldn't open all the way as it was blocked by the linen closet door, so shift everything in the closet til it opens. The mirror was smeared. I had to go back out to the kitchen for product. I came back in and scrubbed. These beauty products should go under the sink as I use them infrequently. Oooo. An anti stress face mask! I need that.

It's like a weird Andy Warhol of selfies.

I go to the kitchen to put the product back AND CLEAN ALL THE COUNTERS IN THE DARK. I fluff pillows in the living room. Move some stuff around so the place looks organized. Drape blankets dramatically.

Then I go back in my room and say, "I should blog about this."

THEN, and only then do I take the melatonin, brush my teeth, wash the blue gunk off my face, pop out my eyeballs, pet Kevin, clean off my dresser, write a blog and NOW I will go to bed. Maybe.  I'll probably watch my skydiving video again.

I jumped out of a plane and then...I barfed.

A couple of months ago, my friend Diane sent out a call on Facebook for someone to join her in a Groupon Skydive.  Of course I was game. We scheduled it for a Sunday in April, and basically didn't talk about it again until 3 days before. There were a lot of "I'm going to poop my pants" comments back and forth, and the anticipation built.  Finally, the day came. I had breakfast with a friend in Boca and time got away from me.  Flying down the turnpike, I got to Diane's house with 20 minutes to spare. We got to the field, and parked across from the hangar where the Miami Skydiving Center was located.

It was a mess.  A bunch of dudes, a bunch of couches, and a bunch of parachutes being repacked while we waited.  The young man behind the counter came out after our check in to put us in our harnesses.  Diane and I are both improvisers/stand ups, so the jokes were flying as our nerves were fraying.  After a short wait, we both met our tandem skydive instructors, and hopped in the plane.

Diane went first. The small Cessna only held our two groups, and our instructors kept asking us the same old questions.  Pooping pants was mentioned again...several times. Finally, the door opened and Diane was gone. My instructor slid us back to the door, I flung my legs out and away we went.  Arms crossed, back arched and legs up, we free fell for a bit before he told me I could put my arms out at a 90 degree angle.

X-Men shirt, mother fronters!

It was amazing.  Exhilarating. Wonderful. We dropped through thick cloud cover that blinded us to the ground and closed in around us as I laughed. The chill was refreshing as we made our way down, down and down. My instructor took my goggles off so I could see everything around me.  I screamed, " Alonzi!" At some point I said, "I'm going to throw up." But I smiled the whole time.  My instructor yelled in my ear that we were about to prep for landing. He told me to keep my legs up and slightly bent, that he would do the work and that he wouldn't do anything to damage my beautiful butt. We skid across the grass and spun around as I laid there, trying to recover.  I felt like I was going to throw up and said so. Diane came over to me and started unbuckling my harness. I staggered over to the car, and the boys allowed me to sit up front on the 5 mile ride back to base.  I kept my eyes closed and listened to Diane charm the boys in the backseat.  Freefall titties were mentioned. I did breathing exercises as we flew through Miami traffic.

We arrived at the airport, and in front of us was a car parked in the middle of the street as the idiot driver tried to take a photo of something in the sky. This is the moment I almost lost my breakfast. I thought I could keep it in, but as we pulled up to the gate, I knew I was done.  I told the driver I was getting out.  As I turned from the car, I threw up. I managed to get my hand over my mouth, caught it, pushed it back in and had it come flowing out of my nostrils as I ran across the street to a set of log parking dividers. I draped myself dramatically over the log and tossed my cookies.  3 times. Ended up all over my face and hands as I finished up and headed over to the bathroom where one of the guys from the car had GONE IN TO USE THE BATHROOM LIKE A DOUCHE.

I cleaned up as Diane hitched a ride to a convenience store to grab me a water. SHE IS THE BEST.  We got our t-shirts, our DVD's and left after posing in front of the Miami Skydiving Center sign (me throwing up, her laying on the ground as if she were dead.) I dropped her at home and ran to Walgreens to grab some Pepto, Saltines, and a Coke. With all my goodies, I got on the road...and promptly had to pull into a parking lot and lay down for 20 minutes before I attempted the 2 hour drive home to Kevin, who vomited shortly after we went for our after dinner walk. His was a little bit more unsightly than mine. And I didn't have to clean mine up.

Now I want to eat the world.

Video of me being an idiot.

4/15/13 Edit: I took a Dramamine and all that. Still barfed.  Maybe cause Diane gave me a drowsy version when I had a less drowsy.

I hate clowns.

I had a date tonight. I felt kind of crappy all day, and was trying to decide whether or not to cancel as I honestly thought I would throw up all over the place, thus humiliating myself (and acquiring an awesome date story!) But I decided to take a nap and see how I felt afterwards.

It didn't help. I still felt like crap, but I heard my mom's voice in my head. "You have to TRY at life, Lauren." So, I tried. I tried to keep down a waffle. I tried to shower and I tried to decide what outfit to wear, while trying to be on time.  I met him at Starbucks, and we grabbed coffee while I tried to decide whether or not he was going to kill me on the ride to the comedy club where his friend was performing.  I tried being sweet, tried being funny. We had a good time over lattes.  I decided that he was harmless, so we got in his car and drove to Boca.

We got to the club, and it was a country club disguised as a comedy club.  The small stage looked like it had been decorated by the people who set dressed The Golden Girls condo.   We got our required beverages, and the opening act came up on the stage.  His set was ok.  Then they started the introduction of the headliner. The voiceover track announced that this gentlemen had performed with various circuses.  I laughed to myself. What the hell is happening?

Then it happened.  A huge, smirking clown came striding towards the stage.

This guy. I'm smiling but crying inside.

I looked at my date and whispered, "I hate clowns. They're terrifying."  My grandmother had a clown doll that sat in her basement. You pulled a cord, and the thing laughed. AND LAUGHED AND LAUGHED.  Sometimes you wouldn't have to pull the string.  It just WENT OFF. It was terrifying, and after reading Stephen King's IT at the age of 10, I have been scarred for life.  But back to the present. My date laughed, and the show started.  The guy was creepy and funny, but I kept having moments where I was reminded that there was a fucking CLOWN staring at me with his creepy, bulging eyeballs and leering grin.  I sipped my $10 beverage nervously, then switched to water.  I didn't want to have any sort of anything hindering me from beating the crap out of that clown if he came anywhere near me.

I went to the bathroom after avoiding the guy in the lobby, and as I washed my hands I resigned myself.  My date was outside with his friend, so I went back to the area where the comedian, The Disgruntled Clown, was hawking merch. I walked straight up to him, said, "I'm scared of clowns, but that was a good set. Thank you." He put a sticker on my jacket that said, "I've been clowned" then asked if I wanted to buy a shot glass.    I said no but asked for the above picture.

I conquered my fear of clowns. At least that one clown. And I tried at life.  And stopped myself from throwing up on my date on the way home.  WIN,

Social Anxiety and Online Dating

My mother signed me up for an online dating site. She filled in the profile, uploaded a picture (that unfortunately looks nothing like me at this current weight) and started messaging people she thought would make good dates/boyfriends/husbands/fathers of my children. She also asked me to promise to start working on my life, to get outside of work and losing myself in pet projects to try.  Not to try anything specific, just to try.  And it's hard. It's hard to put a facsimile of  yourself together to project to a world of men who have access to any kind of woman they want on the internet. It's hard to not slip into comfy sweats after walking the dog and do anything but lay on the couch catching up on my favorite television shows while Kevin lays on my lap. I've gone through a lot in the past three years.  I've overcome anorexia.  I've fluctuated between scary skinny and (according to Nutrisystem) obese. I've built things up and torn things down. And I'm scared that who I am won't appeal to who they are. I'm scared that the comedian will come out and I'll put up the number of walls that are standard when I'm getting to know someone new.  I'm scared, period.


I have rescheduled a date with a handsome sommelier 2 times, making up some excuse about needing to prepare for my improv show, or telling him that something came up at work. HE'S CUTE AND KNOWS ALL ABOUT WINE.  NO BRAINER.  But I'm afraid to sit across from someone and feel the judgment that I'm not skinny enough, or that I'm not as pretty as my photo. I'd hate for them to think to themselves, "Man, she was so witty on her online profile. What happened?" Because when I get nervous, I joke and I laugh.  And act weird. I wear my strangest accomplishments on my sleeve so that this person knows who I am and they can deal with it or not.  Most of the time, they can't or won't.  They don't.  Ironically, I just got a message from someone that read, "HEY, is your improv troupe The Rejects? My friends and I just came to your show." See, Mom? Maybe being a psycho workaholic can be trying to have a life. Boom.  Though my brain immediately said, "He's seen you in person and knows this photo is a lie."

That little voice in my brain is now telling me to type out another excuse to the poor sommelier who just wants to have a glass of wine in a hotel bar. It's cajoling me to slip into those sweatpants and just go to sleep instead of trying. That little voice is getting louder as other voices are chiming in with "What are you going to wear so he can't see your gut?" "How are you going to do your hair so he doesn't see that scar on your neck?"  "How much makeup can you slather on so he can't see the pimples on your face from stress?" "How are you ever, ever going to find love when you don't even love yourself?"

That last one is the worst and the most important question I've asked myself in a while.  Why can't I love myself, skinny or chubby? Why do I focus on the negatives when it comes to self worth and not the positives?  Why can't my life be like a romantic comedy, where the perfect guy falls into my lap, we date, we break up because of some major difference, then get back together cause really, was that difference so bad?  Because with my luck, the perfect guy will but he'll type "your pretty" instead of "you're pretty" and it'll be over before it's begun.

There's an irony here as my co-worker's radio was playing "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and transitioned into "Love is a Battlefield."Stupid radio.

I'm sniffing an apple.

I don't really know if I want to eat it. Sure, it looks nice.  It's a Braeburn, which is my favorite kind of apple.  I bought it with the INTENT of eating it, as I'm trying to turn some sort of corner in the health arena and kick this weight gain in the buttocks . But I'm just not sure.  A co-worker just walked in on me sniffing it and asked what I was doing.  But it's kind of hard to explain that while the apple looks and smells delicious, I'm just not sure I want to put in the effort to eat it.  As soon as I take that first bite, I am committed. There's no turning back unless I want to stare into the mottled, browning flesh as I try to eat it later.

An apple a day keeps the doctor away.  I can hear my mom screaming, "Why would you want to keep the doctor away?  DATE HIM!"

Eating an apple is a little bit like life. That first bite is telling the world, "I am ready to invest in the mastication of this food stuff.  I'm willing to sink my teeth in time and time again in order to fulfill my needs."  Just like taking the first step in any direction is saying the same thing to the Universe.  I did it wholeheartedly when I started doing iPlay in college. When I accepted a position at Shadowbox and worked there for 3 years. When I moved to Florida and joined Gated Community, later known as The Jove.  The same with starting and running The Rejects.  It's exhausting, and fulfilling at the same time.  But it's easy to bite off a chunk of the professional "apple" and focus 100% on that to avoid upset stomach from trying to ingest other life foodstuffs, like relationships, friendships, and personal health.

I know I'm in a weird mental place when I can get all this from bringing an apple to work for a mid-day snack.  This weekend was weird. I got super depressed, as I felt that my friends/coworkers/past loves were functioning superbly without my presence in their lives. That even when I was reaching out to someone in an attempt to be a good friend, they were more than willing to not respond. I got so low on Saturday that I was checking and re-checking every social media outlet for any sort of effort, mention, like, or post so that I could have SOME connection with SOMEONE. I even accepted an invite from a young couple that joined the club several years ago and have been asking me and asking me to hang out with them. I worry that because I have focused for so long on the professional aspect of my life that I have in some way compromised my ability to be happy when I am not working.

So I'm going to bite that apple. I'm going to put the work apple aside and chomp down on a big ole friendship/relationship apple.  I'm going to make new friends. I'm going to meet new men. I'm going to be persistent in making sure my current friends know that I am here and that we should be seeing each other more often.  And I'm going to stop feeding my life with work.

And I'm gonna eat this fucking Braeburn apple. Eventually.

Child-like joy

Growing up, my mom never let me play with my food. Ever. She's a jerk.

I'm kidding.  She's not a jerk. Even though she really never let me play with my food.

My sister and I would cross our fingers that the parents had to run errands while we cleaned up dinner.  As the garage door closed behind them, we would look at each other over our half eaten plates of spaghetti and yell, "Hands Free Dinner!" We'd then put our arms behind us and plant our faces in the loops of noodles and tomato sauce.  If we ever, EVER had mashed potatoes, I was in heaven.  I'd take any leftovers and plop them on my plate, using my fork to create wonderful mountains and valleys awash with gravy rivers. I would beg to be able to do the dishes. I'd grab the remaining potatoes that I knew my mom was going to wash down the drain, and I would make little balls, dig my hands in and enjoy the squishy sensation.  She eventually caught on to my ploy and would immediately rinse that bowl so I would be unable to fulfill my goal of playing with my food.

I'm now almost 32 years old, and I live on my own.  I have a dog, a savings account, and a car loan. I decided last night to make my own dinner.  I bought a stuffed flank steak and popped it in the oven at 350 for 30 minutes after doctoring it up with spices.  I contemplated side dishes, and pulled out instant mashed potatoes.  I made my portion, plated both items, and poured myself a glass of wine. I had no thoughts of shenanigans, just planned on eating in front of the television as my roommate was out and I could watch all the shows I'd missed last week.

I took a bite of steak.  Delicious. I segment my food eating, so finished that before moving on to the potatoes.  I stuck the first creamy bite into my craw, and a flashbulb went off in my head.

There was no one there to tell me no.  No one who would judge me. No one to rinse out the bowl before I could play.

I'm an adult. But this totally happened last night, and it's sure to happen again and again.

Look, Ma! No hands!

Tune in next week when I eat an entire plate of spaghetti and meat sauce...WITH NO HANDS!!

Decisions.

I sometimes make decisions that I am going to call period decisions. I'm sorry if you started reading this blog thinking it was going to be some sort of in depth delving into my life and the decisions I've made recently and now are thinking, "Ewww. She's going to write about periods?"  To which I say, "Have you seen my web comic?"  (If not, PMS Adventures )

I have a medical condition known as PMDD. In laymen terms, it means I get bat shit crazy the week before my lady time. I know this, and have weened myself from the chemistry altering drugs that I was prescribed a couple years ago for this stupid yet overwhelming disorder. I've been pretty good, but every once in a blue moon I do something insane the week before my cycle that I now call a period decision.

Examples:

2007: I decide to move home to Florida from Kentucky. My dad has a minor skin cancer scare at the same time as my PMDD, I freak out and pack up my car.  I was also completely broke, in debt, and sick all the time.  But I blame the PMDD.

2008-2010 are pretty quiet. But that's probably because I wasn't dating anyone/doing anything weird.

2010: I decide to quit my improv troupe as we had a rehearsal and I felt I was not being respected as a performer.  A tear filled, explosive phone call occurred and my three year career there was over.  Two days later, period time.

2012: I was dating a guy for a couple of months, and we grabbed breakfast one Sunday and went to see the Dark Knight Rises. We go back to his house, and this panic rises up in my chest and I break up with him.  3 days later, PERIOD!

2013: I get offered a position with a non-profit company that helps abused children.  5 days in, I am completely overwhelmed and decide it's not the right fit for me.  I quit and return to my old job where I feel loved and supported.  2 days later...PERIOD.

I'm pretty sure I should start tracking my lady time a little more closely so I don't make important decisions when I am less than stable hormonally.

The Dog of my Dreams

If you read this blog a lot you know that I am sometimes a strange person.  I'm about to reveal to you something I've only told a few people in my lifetime. It's a sweet story about my expectations for love as a young girl.  Some girls cut out photos of wedding dresses and flowers, dreaming of the day when they'll meet that special someone with whom they'll spend eternity.  They create collages of babies, homes, and lives that they someday hope to grow into. I was not one of those girls.
 
I never dreamed of a true love that would sweep me off my feet and ride of into the sunset with me upon a loyal steed.  I never put a towel on my head and pretended to be a blushing bride while carrying a bouquet made of paper flowers.   I dreamed of the day when I would meet the dog of my dreams.

It's true. I'd pick up stray dogs and hope against hope that they were the one for me.  The Beagle mix I found wandering the streets of Palm Beach Gardens.  The Great Dane in KY. The red, fox like dog I fostered in my small apartment in Highland Heights.  But they never fit.  They were microchipped and went back to their loving homes, or were just too energetic to be forced into the life of an apartment dweller.  I'd keep my eyes peeled, looking into abandoned cardboard boxes to see if there were any cute puppies that would bond with me and be by my side for as long as they could be.  To no avail.

Then, my friend told me about a dog that needed a home.  I said YES!  before even really thinking about it. This dog came to me on Christmas Day, and has slowly become the dog of my dreams.  He may be older.  He may be a little cranky at times.  And his breath can peel paint. But he's MINE now and I'm gonna do everything I can to make the rest of his life comfortable and amazingly fun.

Where have you been all my life?