Acccckkkk - my body is failing. Ctrl+Alt+ Del!

I've been in pain for three years now; I was convinced it was all in my head and yet, I'd try to rationalize what was going on with my hips and thighs. 

Because hips don't lie.


Maybe I'm just shitty at sleeping and my body is all fucked up from contorting so much. 

Maybe Carl uses me as his personal trampoline while I slumber.

Maybe the toddler uses me as her personal trampoline while I slumber. She does when I'm awake so . . .

Maybe all those late night snacks aren't helping me. Phbbbbbttttttt. That's fucking ridiculous. Cross that one off the list.

Maybe I had an accident I don't remember and my life is really some elaborate ruse to try and take all my money. If I only I had a shit ton of money.

Maybe. . .

I finally went to see an orthopedic doctor. Read: expensive co-pay for a diagnosis Carl gave me two years ago: bursitis. There were a lot of medical terms that followed, but I stopped listening as usual.

Plan of attack: six weeks of physical therapy and anti-inflammatory meds, meds which make me super foggy and dizzy. Yay!

Couldn't I just do some stretching at home, I asked the doctor.

He glared at me like I had crashed his medical bachelor party and asked, Do you want to get better?

I could see where this was going. He wanted to play games. Answer questions with questions. I'm the queen of that, but he probably heard about my street cred and left before I could decimate him in this game of games and let his nurse finish the debrief.

I had my first hour of physical therapy yesterday. Insert: sighs, eye rolls, belly-aching, memories of younger, pain-free days.

An hour of PT - which was really just stretching which I could have done at home - with a 20-something who is bubbly, energetic and perky (are those all synonyms of one another?) made me want to put my eyeballs in traction.

I have to go back next week. 

Will my attitude get better? Will the eye rolls cease? Will those peppy 20-somethings who giggle when I talk about stuffing my face with potato chips leave me alone?

Tune in next week when we find out the answers to all those questions is NO.

It's Friday, people - live it up.

This is how I treat my friends

So I finished Serial the other day. 

Now what to do I do with my oh-so precious time?

My friend Sean - Mr. Know-It-All of all things comics, some weird game I can never remember the name of and general smarty pants - suggested I broaden my horizons and start listening to something called Night Vale

He's been telling me about this podcast for like two years. 

My reaction has generally been: eye rolls, shoulder shrugs, smirks, pretending to not hear.

But I finally looked up Night Vale the other day.

Can I call Sean an *asshole because he suggested I listen to a podcast that dates all the way back to July 2012? Seriously? Almost three years worth of episodes to listen to?

I think not, good sir.

But then I couldn't resist and put the darn podcast on.

And it turned my shitty day into sunshine and lollipops. 

So maybe Sean isn't such an asshole after **all.

*said in the nicest way possible, with just a little snark. Okay. Maybe a little more. 

**to be determined since I'm writing this while on anti-inflammatory meds (screw you - body!) that is making me really drowsy and my brain function is lower than usual.

I'm pretty much clueless all of the time

I'm clutching my laptop like Kate Winslet clutching Leo in Titanic, taking small gasps of air and rationalizing to myself why potato chips are the perfect breakfast meal. 

In the pantry.

With my cell phone.

And the toddler.

Because the air conditioning unit decided that my pre-menopausal state isn't intense enough for me and decided to quit on us over the weekend. 

And my parents say I don't do well in stressful situations.


While the rest of the country is experiencing shitty weather, it's supposed to be in the 80's down here today. Read: the inside of the house will be hovering at just over hotter than hell.

After my seconds of research, the pantry is the coolest place in the house for now, but it's also the most dangerous because food. 

Everything I can't eat - fuck off, gluten - resides here and is tempting me and I am going mad. I am stuck in a David Lynch movie and Isabella Rosellini is laughing outside the pantry.

Two terrible movie references down.  Many more to go. 

The toddler, as usual, is no help. Despite my awesome parenting and suggestions of having oatmeal and fruit, her face is buried in some box of crackers, the scent of which I cannot escape and ohmygod, I must have some. I must eat the entire contents of the box. NOW. 


But the voice of reason calls out to me in the distance, is it you, Bridget Jones (that's number three, if you're counting)? No, unfortunately, it's just Carl. 

What the fuck are you doing in there? he asks so compassionately.

Sewing curtains into lederhosen, I reply (number four).

Is the toddler in their with you? He may be serious now.

No, she's out running errands for me. I, however, am not.

Do you have any idea where the iron is? He throws the doors of the pantry open and stares at me. Like I would know where the stupid iron is. I haven't seen that thing in over a decade. I think, though, he's staring at me for other reasons.

Carl slowly closes the doors and walks away without saying anything. 

The toddler says, Daddy, don't stay out there - you're gonna burn!

I think she meant to say, Shane, come back (number five)!



I'd take credit for Serial if I could

So yeah.

I finally started listening to the Serial podcast last weekend.

I know. I'm the last person on Earth to do so. Unless. . . you are?

I avoided it mainly because I didn't want to be one of those people jumping on the bandwagon just because I read about it on the interwebs somewhere. Or overheard hipsters discussing the legal ramifications of something Adnan Syed said. 

But here I am. 

Hello, bandwagon.

I'm on episode 10. 

I've tried to stop. I want to stop, but I can't.

I'm drawn to this story. Moth to a flame.

The host, Sarah Koenig, is brilliant in a matter-of-fact, no nonsense sort of way.

So this is how I spent the past week. 

What did you do?

This week, I learned I'm really good at listening to stuff on the interwebs while vegging on the sofa and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

Why can't it still be Saturday? 



I need a Shawshank Redemption today

My head is a jumble - drowning, racing, screaming.

And I am so, so tired.

The kids? They're great. They are hilarious, kind, beautiful, talented, smart, inquisitive, independent, stubborn, loud, opinionated, talkative, never-ending. . .

Sometimes I just need to get away. From them. 

So I play this song

It is atmospheric, it is dreamy, it is everything to me on this Wednesday, this Wednesday that is trying its damndest to keep me down today.

The gnarly fingers of a panic attack reach for me, but I duck and run as fast as I can just to stay one step ahead.

And my identity bobs in and out of me. I'm more than Mom, I yell back and hold onto my identity before I lose it again.

My face and body keep changing before I can get used to it, before I can even appreciate it. I wish I could shape everything so - I don't want to be perfect - nothing jiggles or sags. That's not too much to ask, right?

But this song, this song makes me forget about everything, even if it's just for a few minutes. 

So I sit quietly inside the minivan with my eyes closed inhaling the solitude.

I'm not taking credit for Valentine's Day

Yesterday, I stuffed my face with slice after slice of pizza because it was just another day to me.

Also, I wanted to pop all those stupid Valentine's Day balloons.

And don't come to me and talk about Fifty Shades of Grey. I may hurt you.

This week I learned that I'm probably on Hallmark's shit list and I don't care and: 

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:

Cupid, death and the non-holiday

Today is stupid because today is a day that no one should celebrate.

The animosity I feel towards the yearly celebration of this commercialized holiday is too great for any one person to bear.

Every year on this day, I've written about my countless humiliating stories at the hands of cupid or my frustrations with this non-holiday like this and this and this.

I was going to write about another shitty memory of feeling depressed and lonely on this non-holiday and how boys just never noticed me, but it's too sad and why even bother today?

I went grocery shopping today. The aisles that were once full of cards, candy and chocolates looked like a hungry mob of teenagers invaded that area and all that was left were the carcasses of pathetic little cards no one wanted.

People were buying flowers like they were going to someone's funeral. Really? You're gonna spend $125 on something that's not even gonna last a week before it withers up and dies? What does that say to the person you're giving the damned flowers to: our love is dying soon?


I am in for a full day of eye rolls and swearing under breath and waiting for Friday the 13th so we can actually celebrate something that's meaningful.

Okay - I fucked up. I thought today was the non-holiday I referenced above, when in fact, it is tomorrow. Ohmygod. I have to suffer for another day?

Also, I didn't realize that today is Friday the 13th. What mischief can I get myself into?

Brain melt. 

This is what happens when you shut yourself off from the world and only hangout with a three-year-old who thinks wearing diapers and saying you have a big butt is hilarious.


I'm not taking credit for Saved By The Bell

I didn't watch Saved By The Bell. When I did watch the show, it was either A) I was at a friend's house who was obsessed with Zack Morris (insert eyerolls) B) There was crap on T.V. and since my parents didn't get cable until I was in high school, I was strong-armed into watching the four or five channels we did get and suffer through this horrible, horrible show (why didn't I just turn the stupid T.V. off?).

I really hate acid washed jeans.

Why do people love this show (see Jimmy Fallon's Saved By The Bell Reunion. Ugh)? This coming from someone who watched Beverly Hills 90210 and Melrose Place religiously.

Fuck. This explains too much.

This week, I learned my brain works in mysterious ways and:

The interwebs is an infinite and mysterious place:


You're a mean one, Mr. Grinch

I'm a little spoiled living here in South Florida. While it's miserably cold in most parts of the country, it's a balmy 75˚ and I'm wearing shorts and flip flops. 

I see you rolling your eyes there.

But sometimes, I wish it would snow down here so we could have snow days and the kids and I wouldn't have to get up before the sun comes out and I wouldn't have to pretend to be pleasant to people in the morning.

I think these antibiotics the doctor gave me are making me grumpier than usual.

The emergency room will close their doors if they see me coming

I'm sick again.

The fuck.

I swear - these goddamn kids come home from school with a plethora of germs on purpose. I'm on antibiotics, but I don't feel like it's helping me at all. Actually, I'm feeling worse. A lot worse. Maybe these stupid antibiotics are just sugar pills and instead of getting better, I'm just gaining weight.

My doctor hates me. I know it.