what doesn't kill ya

Thursday Thirteen, the Friday version

I jumped on the Thursday Thirteen bandwagon thanks to Paisley's urging.  Yeah, I'm a day late, but JESUS CHRIST.

Thirteen Things I won’t do this weekend:

1.          Wax my husband’s back.  His back is naturally hairless.  God, I love that man.

2.          Attend a church service.  I never go to church.  Except, this one time?  I got married in one.

3.          Listen to country music of any kind.  If I am taken hostage and my life or that of my child is threatened, I may reconsider.

4.          Watch “Desperate Housewives.”  Admittedly, I’ve never watched the show, but knowing who stars in it is enough to make me prefer old reruns of “Mama’s Family,” “The Lawrence Welk Show,” or ANYTHING ELSE. 

5.          Prepare a nice, home-cooked meal.  This Heather, the ME version, knows her own limits.  I do not fool myself into thinking I could win “Jeopardy!” – even the dumbed-down college version.  Likewise, I don’t attempt to go all “Rachael Ray” up in the kitchen.  Although sometimes I do add EVOO to the boiling water when I make macaroni and cheese.

6.          Have friends over.  Not in our tiny apartment.  This is an All Kids, All The Time! marathon weekend.  Teenage boy?  Check.  Two pre-teen girls?  Check.  One almost-kindergartener?  Check.  Two adults wanting to go on a 3-day bender right about 2:00 p.m. Saturday?  Check.  Of course, the friends could always hang out in the meeting room downstairs and play bridge with the elderly who’s who of our apartment complex.

7.          Relax.  See #6.

8.          See “Basic Instinct 2.”  Puh-leeese.  Doing a sequel/prequel over ten years after the first movie might have worked for George Lucas with “Star Wars,” but:  I KNOW George Lucas and Ms. Stone, YOU ARE NO GEORGE LUCAS.

9.          Sleep.  Okay, I don’t know for sure, but having worked for Rural Mental Health Clinic (never mind having common sense), I know that the best predictor of future behavior is past behavior.  Historically, my behavior is, well… WAKEFUL.  So I won’t be checking out the insides of my eyelids, unless I take a sleeping “aid.”  Forget Ambien – I night binge enough as it is.

10.      Go to Nordstrom.  I hate, and I do mean HATE, not just strongly dislike, Nordstrom.  When I was a teenager in California, I loved me some Nordstrom. I shopped in The Brass Plum – the junior’s section.  It was quite the love affair.  Now, I can’t even look at the place without cringing and won’t enter the store unless I’m looking for a fight.  Everything about the place has become incredibly pretentious, and the employees and patrons alike make me see red.  I cannot contain myself while in that store, so I avoid it.  And if you have one of those trés chic little license plate frames that say “I’d Rather Be Shopping at Nordstrom” I will follow you to your destination and I will cut you.   

11.      Take a nap.  Alright, I know – enough with the sleep fixation already.  My middle name is Ruminator.

12.      Eat a bowl of Cap’n Crunch.  Because I finished off the box yesterday.  And I won’t be buying any more, because it’s FULL OF SUGAR AND I WILL NOT BE EATING ANY MORE BOWLS OF SUGAR.  My new favorite cereal is Cardboard Crunch.

13.      Pop a wheelie.  Um, I kind of did that on Wednesday.  I took a speed bump a little too fast in the Green Race Rocket (read: minivan) and caught wayyy too much air.  That and a curb.   Ahem.

Sampler Platter Numero Uno

I’ll be honest – sometimes turning what’s spinning around in my head into written form is, well, daunting. Especially after days - NO, WEEKS – of crappy sleep.  I am better served by jotting these random thoughts down and giving my brain a cleansing, a colonic, if you will.  Except the only shit you have to worry about here is figurative.  Plus, no one has to violate me with a plastic tube.

Behold!  I present to you the very first Dorkette Sampler Platter, a smattering of thoughts, observations, opinions, and pretty much whatever the hell I want:

J           Okay, all this talk about sampler platters has me thinking of mozzarella cheese sticks and jalapeno poppers.   The ones with cream cheese, not cheddar cheese, people.  Cheddar cheese rocks in its own right, but keep it away from the poppers.

K           I’ve started making jewelry again – earrings, bracelets, etc.   I went to a bead store the other day, and honestly, I was skerred by the women I saw there.  A whole gaggle of them was hanging out, working on projects in the store.  I’m all for creativity and whatnot, but THE FRUMPINESS.  And the headgear – scuba-mask-like things with magnetic lenses and lights.  I was frightened that I might be having a glimpse into my future.   I decided that I must be vigilant in avoiding the frump.

J           I haven’t cut my hair (other than an at-home trim) in 2.5 YEARS.  I don’t want to cut it because I really like the length.  Plus, trimming my split ends relaxes me.  Because my hair is so long, I can curl up with some cuticle scissors and go to town. Weirdo?  Check.

J           I’m really digging the new season of “The Sopranos.”  And “Big Love” is pretty cool too.  HBO kicks ass.  I’m still bummed that “Six Feet Under” is no more.

K           Noelle was playing Twister the other day.  She got all tangled up like a pretzel and exclaimed:  “Mom, I am officially freaked out!”  That makes two of us.

L           Last week I had what I fondly refer to as “BAS,” an acronym for Busted Ass Syndrome.  In other words, diarrhea.  This week I have been blessed with a sinus infection.  Ah, the power of daycare.

L           The New Way of Life, a.k.a. the diet from hell, is not going so well.  Let’s just say that my dependence on pie has been a hindrance.  Oh, and the elliptical trainer I bought last month?  It’s a great conversation piece.

J           I’m totally crushing on my friend Paula’s baby boy, Noah.  Damn, does he ever get the estrogen flowing.

L           Songs that make me want to set my ear drums on fire:  “Mony Mony,” anything by Liz Phair, “Kokomo,” “Kiss Me,” and “Breakfast At Tiffany’s.” Bluah.

K           Easter is coming up and I could care less.  I know this sounds harsh, but Easter has never been a favorite holiday of mine, despite the proliferation of chocolate bunnies and Marshmallow Peeps.  I am not religious (in a categorical, traditional sort of way) so that whole aspect of it is lost on me.  Easter doesn’t affect me much, except that the M&Ms I stuff my face with are pastel for about a month.  That and I like egg salad sandwiches.

What's got the office abuzz, until someone gets canned

A few days ago someone stuck a long, thick needle through my skin.  It hurt worse than I thought it would, and I winced.  The pain made my eyes water, but I didn’t cry.  The sickest part about the whole thing is that I paid someone to do this to me.

I got my nose pierced.  Yes, me – a thirty-something thrice-married mother.  My boss asked me if I was having a mid-life crisis, which I vehemently denied.  I’m too young to be considered mid-life, I mean DUH.  The thing is, I’ve wanted to do this for a while. Husband Version 2.0 was dead set against it though, and I didn’t want to be subjected to his wise-ass comments about it, so I let it go. After my divorce I started thinking about doing it again, and decided to do it, but never got around to it.  Last week I got around to it.

I’m sure to others, this screams: LOOK AT ME, TRYING TO BE A REBEL, WOOO HOO, LOOK AT ME, ME AND MY HIPNESS.  Actually this isn’t what I’m aiming for at all.  Part of my interest began because of a longtime friend, who is East Indian. She and her mother both have their noses pierced, and it is more of a classy, cultural thing to them.  I’ve been around them for over 20 years, so the piercings didn’t seem odd or out of place to me at all.  I’ve admired the way their piercings looked and started considering one for myself.  Thing is, I’m a white girl and people assume I don’t have a cultural reason for my piercing (they happen to be right).  What seems classy on someone else is perceived as trashy on me.

Despite all of that, I still like it, and I’m still glad I did it.  A small diamond chip in my nose doesn’t mean I’m smoking ice or wearing all black and dyeing my hair primary colors.  (Although they say purple is the new brown.)  If people don’t like it, too damn bad.  It’s not offensive, and besides – I’m classier with the stud in my nose than they are with their stanky, dumpy asses, mangy hair, frumpy clothes, and bad breath.  My daughter likes the way I look too, even though it looks like I “have a round silver booger” on my nose. 

And really, that’s all that matters.

New Way of Life, WITHOUT PIE, Day One

A few weeks ago I noticed that John was having shortness of breath, particularly after going up the stairs.  I bullied him into seeing a doctor, after threatening to drag his happy arse to one myself, and warning him that he’d be one of THOSE men, the ones who ignore all the warning signs until they’re in the ER with a heart attack.  And not entirely different from the men who coil eight super-long hairs into a spiral on top of their heads to cover up their bald spots.  He obliged and set up an appointment with an internal medicine specialist.

I accompanied John to his first appointment.  I watched him get on the scale.  Warning Number One:  overweight.  So I get on the scale, you know, just for shits and grins because I’m the kind of person that likes to torture herself.  I’m overweight as well; to the tune of fifteen pounds since the last time I stepped on a scale.  The nurse takes John’s blood pressure.  Warning Number Two:  high blood pressure.  We go into the exam room and wait for the doctor. 

The doctor comes in – a nice, very tall East Indian gentleman. Cute, too.  Not that I noticed or anything.  He looks over the chart, reading the chief complaint and checking out John’s weight and BP.  The doctor asks John what he does for a living, and whether or not he has a stressful job.  John tells him yep, absolutely he has a stressful job.

It’s around this time that my memory gets a little fuzzy.  I remember their exchange about the job, but after these two words, I kind of black out:

CHEST & PAIN.

The appointment wraps up with the doctor ordering a complete physical and a round of blood work.  As soon as we go outside, I let loose.

“You’ve been having chest pains?? Since when? Why didn’t you tell me?”

“I told you… didn’t I?  I thought I did.”

“NO YOU DID NOT TELL ME YOU WERE HAVING CHEST PAINS.  I would have remembered!”  Angina just isn’t something that can be forgotten, like say, car keys.

“Well, it’s not all the time and it’s not that bad.  It only happens at work.”

“Not that bad?!  All chest pains are bad!  How could you not tell me?  You have to tell me these things!  What if it were me?  You’d want to know, wouldn’t you?”

And thus began my tirade.  My WHY WHY WHY didn’t you tell me, why have you been letting this go, don’t you know your health is more important that anything tirade.  My I swear I’ll march right over to your work myself and tell them all to go to hell!   Quit your job!  I don’t care if you stay home! I need my husband!  I need you alive! tirade.

After which I disintegrated into a puddle of tears.

At John’s follow up appointment two weeks later, his doctor told him what both of us assumed:  high blood pressure, high cholesterol, headed for a heart attack if you don’t straighten out right quick.  He recommended John begin the South Beach Diet and start exercising right away.

Being the devoted wife that I am, I cannot let my husband suffer alone.  Okay, yeah, I need to get healthier too.  My blood pressure is fine, but my weight and cholesterol suck arse.  So John and I will be embarking on the diet and exercise journey together.  Phase One of the diet has practically no carbs – no bread, no fruit, no sweets (duh), and worst of all:  NO PIE.  I love pie.  Pie is my friend.  My sweet, yummy friend.  Ice cream pies and cream pies and fruit pies alike, I love them ALL.  And now I must bid them a tearful adieu. 

On this, Day One of New Way of Life, I am sad.  Sad and yeah, I’ll admit it – downright scared.  I am honestly scared of a life with no pie, no cream-filled Hostess chocolate cupcakes, no pancakes with blueberries and syrup… wait, make that warm syrup, and can you bring some extra whipped cream please?  I’m scared of a life without pasta and garlic bread and desserts and – ooh…   I digress.

Now, if you’ll please excuse me, I have lettuce to chop and jogging pants to squeeze my ass into.  If you don’t hear from me for a while, you’ll know I died from a broken, pie-less heart.  Give Marie Callender my love.

Attention Good Sleepers: Congratulations. Now suck it

I suck at sleeping.  I get insomnia quite often.  When I don’t have insomnia, I’m having crazy, epic-like dreams while I sleep.  Dreams that are so vivid and intricate that when I wake up, I feel as if I have been up all night watching HBO.  Dreams that are usually quite negative, and sometimes, downright disturbing.  Although two nights ago I dreamt I bought a car from Donald Trump.  The strange thing was, he paid me.  He said, “Heather, you drive a hard bargain,” and handed me an envelope filled with crisp $100 bills and a certificate for a free facial at the Trump Tower salon.  Which I could really use, by the way.

My sleep problems began after Noelle was born five years ago.  Since then, sleep has been the proverbial carrot dangling in my face.  And it’s not that motherhood has been the only culprit – there was my ex-husband’s “health” problems, divorce, depression, etc.  I can actually name the date of my last decent night’s sleep. 

The last time I woke up feeling… wow, rested:  December 24, 2004.

Since then, I have been struggling for a decent night’s sleep, without the aid of sleeping pills.  I am afraid of getting hooked on them.  Recently the insomnia has gotten so bad that I’ve gone nights with just an hour of sleep.  Consecutive nights.  The lack of rest is showing in my appearance, and manifesting itself in an inability to concentrate and think clearly.   I stare at the same piece of paper for what seems like hours, trying to FOCUS, FOCUS, FOCUS.  Only to say to myself, uh, what am I looking at?  Huh?  What was I doing?

There are some factors that, if I had any common sense, I would address to keep  from exacerbating the sleep problem.  Like, caffeine.  I drink wayyyyyyyy too much Diet Coke.  So I’ve tried to stop that after 3pm.  Another: watching TV in bed.  Also:  no exercise.

What really kills me, is the husband.  John can fall asleep in seconds.  Literally.  He can be talking and mid-sentence, there’s a snore.  He likes to deny it but it is so true.  And I am incredibly jealous.  I fantasize about how I would feel, what I would be like, if I could only sleep like him. 

So, I’ve reduced the caffeine intake, and stopped watching TV at bedtime.  It has helped some.  Now the exercise…. well, I can’t change overnight, can I???  Okay, so my elliptical machine arrived two weeks ago, and I’ve yet to use it.  Tomorrow, I say.  After I have a good night’s sleep.  Except there NEVER IS ONE. 

So I’m just going to have to bite the bullet, take a hit in the ass, what have you, and get on the damn elliptical already.  And enough with the cheese and the carbs.  My ever-expanding ass is taking on a life of it’s own, and summer is fast approaching.  Never mind that the consistency of my blood is like Crisco, my cholesterol is so high.  My grandmother died of a heart attack at 48, so it’s not like I have genetics on my side.  If I follow her model, I’ve got only 15 years left.

I need someone to hold me accountable.  Someone to push me, someone I can give a giant BITE ME to when they nag me about exercising and eating right.  Better yet, I need a miracle sleep-diet pill hybrid and a plastic surgeon.  Know anyone?

Next Stop: Tupperware Parties & PTA Luncheons

And so the day has come.  The day when I must resign myself to the fact that I have become a member of a club I didn't really care to join.

I now own a minivan.

Hold me.

The minivan became a necessity once we admitted to ourselves that throwing one of the kids in the back of our SUV was grounds for a traffic violation.  Oh yeah, and dangerous too.  The SUV seated five; there are six of us two weekends a month. 

All six of us went to the car dealership “to look.”  All six of us.  What on earth would possess someone to drag four kids, ages 5 to 16, to a car dealership?  Stupidity.  It turns out, though, that our doing so actually pushed the General Manager into wanting to please us and get us the hell out of there.  While John haggled and test-drove, the older kids kept themselves amused by teasing me about being on my way to becoming a soccer mom. !  Nooooo.  Stereotypical soccer moms are my kryptonite.   I reminded them, the little turds, that it was BECAUSE OF THEM that I would be driving a shoebox on wheels, and that if they had just quit whining about bumping around in the cargo area of the SUV, I could have kept it, and thereby, maintained my coolness. Or something.  Sort of.  Ahem.

After making the deal and trading our SUV for a minivan, John toyed with the idea of trading in our Silver Bullet, otherwise known as the Anemic Base Model Economy Car. Six incredibly long hours after we left the dealership, we went home with a minivan, a sedan, and wicked headaches thrown in for free.  I refuse to call our new family vehicle a minivan (ATTENTION: DENIAL ON AISLE FOUR) and instead call it The Big Green Bus.  Now just how twisted does that make me, that I would prefer a green bus over a van?  Very twisted indeed.