Fatty Con Queso

I hate it when I'm hungry but nothing sounds good.  I generally have a bevy of healthy options open to me but rather than grab an apple, I usually decide that it's easier and makes more sense to either a) slice off a piece of cheese and eat that or b) pop some popcorn.

I have a serious popcorn issue.  I will eat it for any meal, if no one else is around or I don't feel like cooking (which generally happens if no one else is around).  If Dan wants me to cook him something that I don't like, I'll make him his meal (usually steak... I don't eat steak) and I'll eat popcorn.

Hungry in the morning but don't feel like unwrapping a breakfast bar?  Popcorn!

Need a quick snack and grabbing some baby carrots out of the fridge is just too time-consuming?

Popcorn!

Home alone and nuking a Lean Cuisine just too labor-intensive?  

Popcorn!

Need some protein with all those salty carbs?

Cheese!!!  

You know what goes good with cheese?

POPCORN!!

I'm pretty sure that I single-handedly have been keeping Orville Redenbacher in business for the past 5 years.  

Dear Orville's Nerdy Horn-Rimmed Glasses and Bow-Tie Wearing Kinfolk,

You're welcome for the yachts, mansions, and European vacations.

Love,

Dani

P.S.

You're welcome for all the damn suspenders, too.  Dude... buy a belt.  Seriously.

Maybe take some of that popcorn money and get a personal buyer and a suit, yes?

Meanwhile, Dan left me home alone all weekend.  Which isn't a bad thing... I kind like being left to my own devices.  However, what I like and what's best for me aren't necessarily the same thing. This was my menu for the weekend:

Saturday morning:  Coffee and a handful of Good n Plentys (shut up... they're good and they go amazingly well with coffee)

Saturday lunch:  Popcorn and Diet Pepsi

Afternoon snack:  Cheese

Dinner:  Nothing... I was still full from the cheese.

Bedtime snack:  Popcorn... because it had been like 12 hours since I'd eaten it and I was having withdrawals.

Don't bother me... I'm eating.

Sunday morning:  Coffee.

Sunday brunch:  Popcorn.

Sunday lunch:  Cheese and an apple. 

Sunday afternoon:  Diet Pepsi and pie.  (Don't judge me.)

Sunday dinner:  Greasy, disgusting chicken strips that Dan brought home.  Yuck.

Sunday before bed:  Popcorn and Ambien.  (I needed something to soak up the grease from the chicken strips.)

Sunday after Ambien:  A bowl with peanut butter and jelly in it.  (As discovered after reading text messages sent while sleeping.)

There is a slight possibility that I scooped up the PB&J with pieces of cheese, but I refuse to go there.

Naked Truth

I'm pretty sure I have some sort of disease that causes me to do incredibly stupid shit to my hair when I get overly tired, overly bored, overly hungry, overly stressed, overly happy, overly sad, overly passive, or overly normal.  This isn't something new... I've had it for as long as I can remember.  I'm afraid it's terminal.

The first episode I recall was when I was about 7 and I cut my sister's doll's hair.

She had a "Puddin'" Madame Alexander baby doll that she named "Cindy."  I have no idea what came over me and I don't specifically remember cutting her hair (I think I blacked out or something) but I do remember the back-lash.  It wasn't pretty.  There was crying (my sister... seriously, what was the big deal?  I cut MY dolls hair ALL THE TIME and didn't cry like that... Drama Queen), yelling and threats to take away all my favorite toys (my mother), and denial (me... I mean, even though there was no one else in the house to blame, I flatly denied doing it and even, at one point, blamed my sister for doing it and then pointing the finger at me).

I don't recall my punishment but I'm pretty sure it was harsh.

But it also didn't deter me.

Because next?  I cut my bangs.

I was grounded from scissors and there is a noticeable chunk missing from the side of my hair in my 1st grade school picture. (I also had a missing front tooth, so it actually was not a bad look.)

I continued on in my career as a self-proclaimed stylist by having random moments of bangs chopping, the most notable when I used my mother's thread clippers in 6th grade to give myself a "trim."

After a series of panicked over-corrections, I wound up with bangs that were, at best, 1" long, crooked, and disappearing into my hair-line.  Sadly, (for me, anyway), my mother used that moment as a Lesson.  After I was through sobbing, bawling, and feeling horribly sorry for myself because I wound up with a stupid hair cut (by my own hand, which just adds insult to injury, ya know?) I begged her to take me to the salon and have them "fix it."  (Hair extensions had not, as far as I know, been invented yet in the early 1970s, at least not for 12 year olds, so I'm not sure exactly what I expected them to do, but there had to be something, right?)  My mother said Horribly Cruel Things to me along the lines of, "I'm GLAD you messed your bangs up!  Now maybe you'll leave your hair alone!" and "I just wish it would STAY that way... then you'd stop cutting your hair!" and "What do you expect them to do?   Glue it back on?"  (My mother can be vicious.  Vicious.)

I was the New Girl In School that year and was struggling to fit in, so showing up with ugly hair was just one more way for me to feel like a freak that year.  (12 is a really horrible age, people.  My mother should have bought me a wig.  It's the least she could have done.)

However, the Lesson was not learned...

Because I continued cutting my own hair, with disastrous results, for the next 36 years.  

Which leads me to today.

As you probably already know, if you've read my blog for any length of time, I have The World's Worse Insomnia.  My insomnia is legendary, beginning when I was very young and continuing on throughout my life.  I think the only time I've fallen immediately to sleep was after being in labor for 5 days while giving birth to my first child.  (I literally looked at the baby, accepted a cup of ice water because I hadn't been able to eat or drink anything from May 19th until May 23rd except friggin' ice chips and promptly passed out, dropping the cup and making everyone around me grateful that I wasn't holding the baby.)

I googled 'insomnia' and this came up.  WTF?

Even with my beloved Ambien, it takes me at least an hour to be able to fall asleep.  

Anyway, I've had 2 hours of sleep since Sunday.  Today is Wednesday.  I'm exhausted.

In fact, exhausted doesn't even really cover it.  I'm so tired I can't even chew food because I don't have the energy.  (I've eaten scrambled eggs two days in a row because everything else takes too much effort to eat.)  I can't think, I can't focus... I just keep drinking ice water and caffeinated beverages in an effort to remain semi-alert.

So here's what happened:

I gave Maisy (my stinky pug) a bath this morning, because even though she only steps foot outside to pee and poop, she manages to work up a stench that is fairly impressive.  While I was bathing her in the bathtub, in my sleep-deprived mental state I accidentally turned the hand held shower head the wrong way and wound up totally hosing myself and the bathroom down while Maisy remained completely dry.  

I finished bathing the dog, even though I was sopping wet and had water streaming down my face and body.

I dried her off, and cleaned the bathroom (which was also soaked... did I mention that?  I don't remember and I'm too tired to go back and re-read what I've already written).  

Then I took a shower.

I dried my hair and decided I hated it.  It's growing out, it's not cute,  I can't do anything with it, and when I put a hat on to cover it all up, bits and pieces of it stick out randomly and make me look like Oliver Twist.  And not in a good way.

I know this isn't Oliver Twist but it's a fairly good representation of what I look like in a hat.  Sad but totally true.

So I did what any rational person would do:

I grabbed my husband's clippers, put the #8 clip guard on, and shaved the sides and back of my head.

Because a faux hawk will fix everything.

Yes?

Yambien and Baileys babyyyyyyyy!!!

So it turns out, Ambien Dani is a unrepentant drunk.

I had no idea.

Backstory: When you move from one state to another, at least if the state you move TO is New York, the refills on your prescriptions are meaningless. They don't care if you have 5 refills left over on your blood pressure medication; you'd better hop-to and find a local doctor if you have any intention of NOT DYING. When I moved to New York with a fistfull of medication required to keep me alive, my awesome doctor in CA had made sure that I had enough refills to keep me that way for at least 9 months, or until I found a compatible doctor(she loved me so much she gave me restylane as a going away present... top that, New York). What we didn't bank on was the fact that those refills would be rendered null and void the second I called them in to the local pharmacy.

Anyway.

I finally got in to see a doctor, which wasn't easy... I am now one of the billions (millions, whatever) of Americans without health care. Which not only makes me a statistic, but also makes me undesirable as a potential patient. I spent two months calling around to doctor's offices until I finally found one that was willing to see me. And then I had to wait two MORE months for an appointment.

(Sidebar: I could totally go off on a rant right now about health care, or the lack thereof, but I won't. I will save that for the people who actually know what they're talking about. You're welcome.)

Longggggggg story short, I finally got in to see the doctor. She was fabulous in that uptown New York kind of way... She told me how hard it was for her to "move Upstate" after living in "the City" her entire life (I was enthralled, by the way, with her "I summer in the Hampton's" upper-crust accent... she could have said, "And the cow jumped over the moon" and I would have been all, "Oh my god, like, you're sooo wiiiiiiise...") and was beyonddddd sympathetic about how miserable and lost I am in this hell-hole. She tossed me a few compliments on "how well put-together" I am (meaning, I assume, that I wasn't wearing a tank top and Mom-jeans like the 47 other women in the waiting room and had graduated from the Bimbo hair-style so popular among the northern New York set) and asked me, in so many words, what an intelligent person like myself (right? Tell me I'm smart and pretty and I'm allllll yoursssss) was doing in this neck of the woods (is it wrong that I love when people think I'm too good to live somewhere? Because I totally do). I kind of wanted her to be my new BFF, but couldn't figure out a way to work it into the conversation. Also? Very few of my BFFs have given me a breast exam, so I couldn't exactly find a good time to ask her over for girly drinks, gossip, and doing each other's make-up. Girlfriend has fondled my boobs and knows exactly how much I weigh. I'm not sure we could ever recover from that.

(Disappointing. Maybe I'll run in to her at the Price Chopper or the Big M and we could start over, with me fully clothed.)

Eventually we got down to the business of all the things that are wrong with me and she filled my important prescriptions. (Blood pressure, thyroid... you know, the ones I need so that I don't die, New York. Not that you care.)

Unfortunately, she didn't consider Ambien to be one of the medications necessary to keep me alive.

"I don't prescribe Ambien," said she, and that was that.

What kind of doctor doesn't prescribe Ambien??

No sleep for you! EVER!

Finally, after days of not sleeping, I called my doctor in California. I explained my lack of sleep, the bags under my eyes, the fact that it was aging me by the minute and that no one in New York cared... and bless her heart, she faxed my Ambien prescription to my local pharmacy and they filled it. And now I have valid refills.

I'm so happy.

Which brings me to...

Last night, I was home alone. Dan was out of town so I decided to watch Bridesmaids, take an Ambien, and go to bed early.

Which is what I thought I'd done.

I woke up bright eyed and bushy tailed this morning and went about my business, feeling well-rested and alert, happy as a little piggy in a pile of shit that my sleepless nights are ovahhhh.

Until just now, when I decided to send a text to a friend I'd been texting yesterday

As I scrolled down to find her, I started seeing messages I didn't remember sending. And to what did my wondering eyes should appear but...

This:

To one friend:

Me: "Yambien and Baileys babyyyyyyyy!"

To another friend:

Me: "Haaaaaaaa Baileyzzzz on the rocks YO!" (This was not in response to any question, fyi. I just sent it. For no good goddamn reason. It just needed to be said, apparently.)

To yet another friend:

Me: "Say my name, BITCH!" (NO clue. Why are these people still friends with me??)

And so on. It only gets worse from there.

I have absolutely no recollection of drinking last night. I have never sat down and drank Bailey's, ever. I've put it IN stuff, like coffee or eggnog, but I can honestly say that I've never just had a glass of Bailey's.

In fact, the only Bailey's we had were these two little bottles that Dan had gotten as a Christmas gift last year from his boss. One was caramel, one was coffee, and they were wrapped together. Unopened.

At least... they were unopened.

I got up and looked in the cupboard...

And there was only one bottle.

Opened.

Hmmm.

I looked under the sink in the recycling, and there it was... a completely empty bottle of Bailey's caramel, licked clean.

*cue Twilight Zone music*

On the plus side, I'm a conscientious drunk, very aware of my carbon footprint, since I put the empty bottle in the recyling bin...

And I woke up without even the smidgen of a hangover...

Win-win, yes?

Maybe?

Adventures in Ambien, Part Infinity

I've been really good about ONLY taking Ambien if I haven't slept in 5646738756 days.  Basically, I take it about once a week and I'm very responsible about getting into bed as soon as I take it, so as not to have any head shaving, dog shaving, eating everything in sight mishaps.  (Or texting, phoning, messaging, emailing, Tweeting, FBing, etc.) 


(Read:  Dan is very responsible about getting me into bed as soon as I take it and keeping me off the phone and out of the fridge and away from the clippers.) 


I've been averaging 2-4 hours of sleep a night for the past week and yesterday I finally succumbed to a migraine and exhaustion and took an Ambien at about 8:00.  I meandered into the bedroom with the fan, and passed out face down on the bed and slept like the dead.  


Dan, being unusually thoughtful and considerate (and really glad that I went to bed early so he could channel-surf to his heart's content, which drives me 100% batshit crazy, and watch the Met's game without me sitting on the couch huffing and puffing and being bored), stayed up until about 10:30 then tip-toed into the bedroom without turning on any lights and apparently passed out next to me.


(Sidebar:  Speaking of channel surfing:  THIS DRIVES ME NUTS.  NUTS.  NUTS, I TELL YOU.  Dan cannot sit and watch ONE PROGRAM.  He watches ALLLLL of them at the same time.  I seriously CAN'T STAND IT.  And while he's watching umpteen shows, he's also constantly scanning the guide to see if he's missing anything.  I'm all, "PICK A SHOW!  OH MY GOD!  JUST PICK ONE AND WATCH IT!"  And he's all, "Why does this bother you?"  GAHHHHH!)


I woke up at 2:30, so hot and sweaty that there was literally a puddle between my boobs.  (Sexy, right?)  I got up, peed, pondered briefly on why it was cooler in the rest of the house than in our bedroom, and went back to bed, pausing briefly in front of the fan to air dry myself.


Ugh.  Hot hot hot.  No air.  Miserable. I kicked off the sheet, flopped around a few times, accidentally knocked Javi off of the bed and elbowed Dan while I was flailing around trying to find a cool breeze.  Dan woke up, got up, peed like a race horse (that needed to be said because seriously... WHY DO MEN PEE SO LOUDLY????)  and came back to bed, muttering something about it being too fucking hot to sleep.


Eight seconds later he re-commenced snoring and I drifted back off.


At 4:30 I was awake again,  sweating like a cold drink on a hot day.  I got back up, peed again (I mean, I was awake, so why not?  It's kind of my M.O.  If I wake up, I pee.  Period) and once again stood in front of the fan for a few minutes to cool off and air dry.


Plopped back into bed, trying to figure out why the fan wasn't putting off enough of a breeze to cool us off from less than 5 feet away.


Cursed the fan.


Cursed the heat.


Cursed the bloody Empire State.


Cursed the bloody Empire.


Cursed.


Sweated.


Fell back asleep.


When we got up this morning we bitched and moaned about how miserably hot we were last night, how little Dan slept due to the heat (apparently he snores while he's awake and annoyed about not sleeping), and how we apparently need a new fan because this one?  Ain't workin'.


Dan went to work and I went back into the bedroom to grab the fan to bring it out to the livingroom.


Hmmmm.


Something doesn't seem... right.


*Lightbulb moment*


Apparently, in my Ambien fog, when I hauled the fan into the bedroom last night and set it up, I pointed it TOWARDS THE WINDOW, so it was blowing air OUT of the bedroom.  Every time I got up and cooled myself off in front of it, I was standing between the window and the fan.


Oh my freaking DUH.


Guess what Dan isn't going to hear about this evening... 

Dance of the Shameless

(*Author's note:  Total shout out to my friend Amanda... She demonstrated to me once how the Walk of Shame can be morphed into the Dance of the Shameless.  Since I tend to be rather shameless myself, I've been practicing.  Turns out, I'm a natural.  I am ready to do competitive Shameless Dancing in the Olympics.)


The alarm went off at 7 this morning and I floated out of bed, so bright eyed and bushy tailed that squirrels and bluebirds perched on my shoulders and sang a happy song.


"Tra la la la laaaaaa!"  I sang.


"Tweet tweet tweet tweet tweet!" they whistled back.    


I greeted the sunshine and all the little woodland creatures that sew my clothes and help me with my chores, then skipped into the kitchen to turn on the coffee pot and pack up Dan's lunch.   


"How did YOU sleep last night," he asked me, as he grumped through his bowl of cereal and prepared to go to work.


"Faaaabulousssss!" I trilled, and kissed him good-bye, slapped his ass, and sent him out the door.


Okay, confession time:  I'm in such an obnoxiously well-rested state because, you guessed it:  I broke down and gave Ambien a booty-call.  


I couldn't take it anymore, you see.  Lying awake night after night, listening to Dan snore, hearing all the night time sounds, counting how many thumps it takes Mr. Awesome to turn his most recent skank into a devoutly religious woman of prayer ("Oh God Oh God Oh God Oh God!"), entertaining myself by getting up to pee every 15 minutes... I was pretty much over it.  My days were spent in a state of such complete exhaustion that every obstacle was met with an emotional breakdown.  I was crying so much that I was getting wrinkles around my eyes.  (Oh, honey... NO!)  I spent so much time crying while I was talking to Dan that he quit asking me what was wrong.  (He just accepted that his wife was losing her mind and apparently, he was okay with that.)  


After a complete breakdown on July 2, which involved me screaming hysterically into a stranger's voicemail (oops... thought I was calling Dan.  He was camping with his parents and I took that time to become unglued.  I couldn't figure out why he wasn't calling me back. Sorry, whoever has a cell # in upstate NY that ends with 8995.  I'm sure you're not the slime shit that comes out of a snail's ass OR a pathetic little mama's boy.  Mea culpa ) I decided enough was enough was enough, already.... And, with Dan's enthusiastic encouragement, I phoned in my refill.  


(Me:  *defiantly*  "I can't take it anymore.  I'm getting my Ambien refilled."
Dan:  *excitedly*  "Good!"
Me:   *menacingly*  "What do you mean, "Good"?
Dan:   *confusedly* "Ummmm...."
Me:   *threateningly*  "What are you implying here, motherfucker?"
Dan:   *backpeddling rapidly*  "Ummmm.... that maybe you've been in a slightly bad mood?"
Me:   *snarlingly*  "Uh huh... uh huh... And you don't think that's even partly your fault?"
Dan:  *nodding in agreement*  "No no, you're right... it's all my fault.  You don't need Ambien.  You need me to stop being a jerk."
Me:  *homicidally*  "What do you mean I don't need Ambien?")


Lack of sleep makes me just a little bit irrational, apparently.  


Lo and behold, my Ambien arrived and I could barely wait for bedtime.  Oh, to sleep, to dream... I don't care if it makes me fat or causes me to shave my head in the middle of the night, Ambien is my soul mate, my one true love...


I slept like the dead last night.


I don't even think I woke up to pee.  (Totally unheard of, but if I did get up to pee, I don't remember it.  I do know that I didn't stay in bed and pee, so that's something.)


Welcome back, dear Ambien.  Let us never be apart again.