Don't mind me - I'm just in a pissy mood. As usual.

I have a cardiology appointment tomorrow morning because apparently I'm at that age where my body is trying to kill me and my brain is too stupid to know what the fuck to do with this mess so it give up and plays dead like a possum.

Trying to remain calm about said appointment is much easier said than done. All I really want to do is scream and maybe do a little cry and don't even play any of those goddamn New Adele songs because those will just ruin me and there's not enough tears in this body to do those songs justice.

Carl keeps assuring me everything will be fine, but my brain keeps replaying every fucked up hospital scene where the doctor is telling the patient I'm sorry - you only have a few weeks to live.  And then he leans in and kisses the patient passionately and. . . Oh wait, wasn't that like every episode of every soap opera ever made?

The only thing that has distracted me from tomorrow's impending doom is the news that guys are decorating their beards with glitter. No joke. Who do I crotch punch for this fail of an idea? There is no getting rid of this images from my mind - kinda like the time I walked in on my college roommate and she tossed out an uneaten order of large McDonald's french fries because she was full.   

Please make all that sparkle go away. Isn't there some unicorn that needs it more then your beard?


Holy bleep! What have I been doing with my life? (Hint: not much)

I am a walking cold medication ad, but instead of some woman shuffling across the bedroom in fluffy slippers and a drab robe, I'm wearing shorts where the elastic waistband is basically non-existent (perfect for comfort eating) and a shirt that shrank in the laundry years ago and I have no right to wear it (not perfect for comfort eating). 

I hope I don't forget that I'm wearing this crap show on my body before I have to walk the dogs because some of my neighbors have security cameras.

Visual evidence can be used against you in too many ways. 

Carl keeps saying I should go to the doctor which is difficult to do since the next available appointment isn't until the new year. I should probably insert some witty comments about the state of healthcare here, but I am incapable of doing such serious conversations that have nothing to do with pop culture.

I'm afraid your cold and cough will get worse if you don't get some medication, Carl says.

Here's my cure-all, I proclaim, as I dip apple slice after apple slice into a jar of almond butter and then the apples run out and I have to scramble to find a spoon because I am a woman obsessed and must empty this jar of almond butter because I don't like to give up.

I should probably open up my own practice with all the knowledge in this brain.

I'd take credit for that bird that filled an antenna with acorns because totally awesome

I just stepped onto the weigh scale. 

The one minute process is always the same: suck gut in, step on, wait for magical number to appear, wrong and excessively high number appears, release gut, shoulders droop.

Then lots of swearing follows for at least five minutes.

I am a glutton for punishment and I do not know how to stop.

This week I learned that insanity seems to drive me and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

This is just one of the many things that can happen to you when your body tries to bleep with you

Our neighborhood is run by cats. 

They are under our cars, sleep in our bushes and await for us to open our front doors so they can hiss and frighten us into thinking they are the devil reincarnate. 

Last night, the dogs kept pawing at the sliding door and looking at me. Didn't these two know I was ready to doze off on the couch? That's what these sweatpants mean. Apparently, their bladders didn't give a fuck about fashion signs.

The three of us stepped out into a thick fog, illuminated only by a single street lamp. It was like something out of The Exorcist and if the were a creepy set of stairs close by, a mysterious force probably would've pushed me down said stairs. That or the dogs because I was rushing them and getting freaked out by this scene and all they wanted to do was sniff every single blade of grass. 

In the distance, a lone shadow stood staring at us. The dogs looked up briefly and then continued sniffing around for hidden gold or whatever dog's sniff around for. 

The shadow moved towards us and I thought: what an odd color for a cat.  

Fifty feet. Thirty feet. Fifteen feet. The cat slinked closer and closer. Why weren't the dogs barking? Why were they just staring at the cat?

I could almost reach out and touch the kitty's tail. We were mesmerized.

But wait. There was something wrong with this cat. Its eyes were dark. Too dark. The tail was long, almost disgustingly so. And its back arched high.

And as my eyes finally focused at what stood before me, I screamed and ran back into the house, the dogs trailing after me begrudgingly.

As I retold my tale of terror to Carl, all he could do was shrug his shoulders. "You know, raccoons aren't animals to be trifled with."

I know, asshole. I know. 


Perhaps this is my punishment for having pizza for breakfast

In the process of being an unwilling guinea pig to a pleasant allergist, two egotistical gastroenterologists and one distracted dermatologist, no one has been able to tell me what exactly is going on with this body of mine that seems to kick me down every chance it gets.

Right now, in fact, on doctor's orders, I must consume gluten to take another blood panel to really make sure I have celiac disease because no one is willing to pay attention to previous bloodwork and no one gives a shit about facts. Also, apparently, all the stomach pain I experience is in my head and I should probably just resort to a life of sipping Miralax out of a wine glass.

But today, I was told the the results of an echocardiogram I just had because I haven't been able to breathe well and previously mentioned allergist said it's not due to my asthma. Listen, buddy - I'll decide who gets the fucking blame here. 

Enlarged aorta. Cardiologist. Right away. That's all I hear on the phone before my brain starts fucking with me and provides me with terrible images of heart attacks, ribs being cracked and an egged-up mashup of many depressing episodes of E.R. And Grey's Anatomy.

I kinda want to cry right now because this is not the type of news you expect to hear on a Tuesday. Definitely news for Wednesdays, but not Tuesday's. That's fucked up.

But I feel nauseous and my stomach is doing some Rock 'Em Sock 'Em Robots thing because I just consumed massive amounts of gluten on doctors' orders.

Maybe I should start listening to someone else. 

Oh god. Who the fuck is playing Nickelback right now?  

Everyone just saw my granny panties and now their lives are changed forever

It's skin allergy test day and once again, I don't put any thought into what I'm going to wear, however, I do pose three questions to myself: 

  1. is it dirty?
  2. how many times have I worn it?
  3. are there any visible stains because that's the true evidence of a lazy slob.

Hello - I am said lazy slob.

I throw on a dress I find on the floor of the closet because it's easier for me to get to that instead of finding something neatly hanging on a hanger or nicely folded in a drawer. Also, I am bloated as fuck and feeling more like Jabba the Hut than midlife crisis mom, so this dress definitely fulfills my criteria for the day.

As I'm waiting for the nurse at the doctor's office, I catch a glimpse of myself in the window. My god - I look fantastic. I've got this Asian Karlie Kloss thing going on with my hair and my skin has never looked so good. This make-up free look is definitely going to be trending with me this weekend.

Unfortunately, when I look at myself in an actual mirror, I realize it's all a mirage and my hair is frizzy as fuck and my face is ruddy like a weathered sea captain with a wooden peg leg who tells tall tales about fish and women.

The nurse comes in and blah, blah, blah talks to me about the allergy test. She tells me to take my top and bra off and smirks when she sees that I'm wearing a dress. She revises her previous statement: take everything off, except your panties.

I giggle uncontrollably because who says panties and then I realize that most adults probably say panties and have no problem with the aural and etymological nature of the damn word.

She hands me a sad, ugly hospital gown and tells me she'll be back in a few minutes, Before she walks out, she points to the window and says, you can see out, but no one can see in and why do I suddenly feel like I'm in one of those fucked-up psychological experiments that the'll make into a movie in five years and some former Nickelodeon actress who is down on her luck will portray me?

The hospital gown feels like the apocalypse on my skin and I wonder what idiot designed these stupid garments where the ties never seem to logically line up correctly with anything and always look like rags you would use to wash your parents' car with.

I stare out the window and wonder if all the doctors and nurses enjoying their lunches can see me as I examine my middle-aged body swathed in this fabric.

The nurse returns sooner than expected and catches me pushing my boobs up in the hospital gown. I laugh uncomfortably and tell the nurse no one's boobs are going to look good in this thing. She's gonna have a pretty good story to tell her colleagues during her lunch break later.

She tells me to lie belly down on the examination table as she opens the back of my gown. I suck my gut in because I feel like I'm all sorts of exposed here and maybe this is the one person I can fool into thinking I'm a fit individual.

Too bad the fluorescent lights give my body away. 

I can feel the intense scrutiny of my backside and cellulite as the nurse chats away about the Kardashians. Why did I eat pizza last night?

After pricking my back about a million times with allergens, she leaves my back exposed and tells me not to let anything touch my back - you should just lay there for 20 minutes until I get back, she says.

Fine. Maybe I'll sleep because instead of going to sleep early, Carl and I caught up on episodes of Homeland last night.

But after two minutes, a male nurse walks into the room, apologizes, looks at my back, mutters something about allergies, probably looks at my granny panties and rushes out.

The next eighteen minutes, I'm subjected to various doctors, nurses and interns coming in and out of the room. They all have excuses, but I'm sure the department just put a bulletin up saying there's some woman in room four with the largest granny panties ever - also, she doesn't work out.

Or maybe they just wanted to see a little side boob action because these gowns? They cover nothing.

Why do I have the feeling that my weekend humiliation is just starting?

Do I take credit for Stephen Hawking's worker bot apocalypse and will it make me a genius?

The boy had the stomach flu all week. It was disgusting. I basically lived with gloves on and sprayed Lysol everywhere. A lot of good that did because now I have the stomach flu.

The moral of the story? Sue the makers of Lysol for this great injustice.

This week I learned my immunity system wants to see me in a halo of vomit and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

What is this bleep show happening with my face?

The toddler shows me a picture of me that she has just taken with my phone. Who is that person? That's can't be me? I look old and tired and irritated. 

I tell the toddler to wait before she takes another picture because I'm going to wash my face because washing your face solves everything. 

I should probably start listening to Morrissey when I wash my face because there is a lot of self-loathing up here in this bathroom.

Fuck TGIF.

I am swearing as I contort my face in ways that would probably frighten small children and adults alike in any kind of light. My face is changing as the days and years go on and the face that stares back at me seems like a Bizarro version of the face I once knew and once loved. 

A cruel connect-the-dots matrix exists across my face. People call them sunspots like they're some lovely gift from nature. They are neither, if you must know. Wrinkles are just now settling into a place around my eyes and if I look for too long, I can feel the wrinkles take root and feel them creeping through the rest of my face.

So I try this thing called squinching which I read about and laughed at at first because this is a joke, right? But desperate times. . . 

Squinching "is narrowing the eyes by tightening your lower eyelid and letting the top one drop down just a bit." It's a technique that's supposed to make you more photogenic and apparently, EVERYONE is doing it. 

I wonder if they just meant everyone UNDER the age of 40?

I stand in front of the bathroom mirror for five minutes trying to squinch and all that is happening is a weird numbness occurring over my cheeks. Also, it looks like my eyelids are spasming. Should my eyeballs be hurting?

The toddler calls out to me, "Mommy, should I call Daddy? Are you okay?"

"No, I'm fine." I try to squinch one more time and realize too late that Carl is watching me.

"Why are you glaring at yourself?" he asks.

"There are too many reasons today."

What must people think when they're sitting at the stop light and they look over and see me wiping tears away and laughing like a jerk?

So I've been listening to a lot of, and this is what the kids call it and they say this with glee and laughter - NOT ME because I'm not a mean kid who thinks their mom is an ancient seed ready for the old folks home - easy listening music. 

If this is easy listening music, then let me fucking drown in it. Drown, I said!

Of course, the first time I heard this song, I was sitting in the minivan with a fucking protein shake in my hand because I'm that asshole that thinks one stupid shake is going to make a difference after a lifetime of horrible food choices. 

Logic runs through these bloodstreams.

The kids were settled in the back of the car, headphones on to block out the world and perhaps to block out my voice because they didn't want to hear my usual dissertation on the importance of getting your homework done early and the evils of procrastination because I know about said evils.

Then this song came on the radio and I'm vocally paralyzed, unable to continue my bit on why you should avoid people who don't like animals. And then I cried, like the kind of crying where you can't breathe because your lungs are closing and your nose is full of snot and then you get to that crying line where once you cross it, there is no turning back and you're stuck in this crying limbo and all you can do is cry some more.

The kids had no idea what was going on because they still had their headphones on, but I made eye contact with the 12-year-old in the rear view mirror and her eyes got big and they quickly looked away. Is this her midlife crises? she probably wondered to herself. 

I was hit with a surge of memories of relationships past and it knocked the mother fucking wind out of me. How do memories have the ability to do that even decades later to the point where the  pain still cuts so deeply you can still feel the blisters all over?

And just like that the song ended and I was left as an exposed basket case, trying to laugh it all off as I wiped away my tears.

Good times.