Head Trauma

 I think it's possible that I am losing my dayum mind.  According to WebMD, that bastion of excellent diagnostic capabilities, it could be early onset dementia, but more likely it's a tumah.  As attractive as the thought of a potential tumor always is, this time I'm going to lean towards senility, because the whole "it's a tumah" thing is getting a little old, WebMD.  (It's always a tumah.  Always.  One night I had to get up to pee like 400 times, which obviously made me determine I probably had diabetes, mostly because how is it possible for one small person to retain that much damn water? So I googled the symptom of "excessive peeing" and WebMD very logically diagnosed me with a possible tumor on my prostate.  As it turned out, I actually WAS retaining that much water and the peeing wasn't potentially fatal, but still.  It absolutely could have been a tumor on my prostate.)

(See how I wandered off on a tangent there?  That happens a lot.  One minute I will be talking about left and then I'm all, "Speaking of left, remember the time I went right?" and then half an hour later I'm still talking about how Basenjis can't bark and why I hate Rachael Ray.  And if you asked me what on earth that has to do with left, I could totally tell you.) 

So anyway, I may or may not have given myself a brain injury this morning.  I've shared in the past that my husband snores like it's his job, yes?  He snores long, he snores hard, and he snores all freaking night long.  (Which is not nearly as sexy as it would be if I'd left out the words "he snores" in all of those scenarios.  Since I did, it's not sexy at all.  It's just annoying.) 

His snoring has been a bone of contention for many, many years.  He doesn't just snore, y'all.... HE SNORES.  (Yes, I am using "y'all" totally ironically.  I never say it in real life, because if I did, I would sound stupid.  I don't do southern or redneck real well.  But I do like writing it, because it has a nice way of rounding off a sentence, yes?)  His snoring is so bad that I can't escape it. No one can.  It permeates the atmosphere and creates it's own dimension that once you've entered, you can never escape.  I can't fall asleep while it's going on, I can't sleep through it, and even if I leave the room and go downstairs and decide to sleep on the couch just to get some peace, I can still hear him.  He snores in surround sound.

It makes me the slightest bit homicidal.

Seriously.

If I kick and nudge him and tell him to roll over, he rolls over and continues snoring.  If I wake him up and scream at him (not that I ever would.... *cough*) he mutters an apology and within nano-seconds, continues sawing wood with the volume of a thousand rusty chainsaws. 

Imagine the buzzing of a million hungry mosquitoes honing in on your ears at 3 o'clock in the morning.

Or the hum or a jillion wasps building a nest on your headboard as you lie there, paralyzed, with no means of escape.

Dramatic, yes?  Frightening even. 

Welcome to my nightmare.

Finally, after years of lying awake and plotting his demise (what?  did I say that?)  it came to me that I should invest in ear plugs.

(Okay, actually several people have told me several times over the past several years to buy ear plugs.  Have I mentioned that I'm a huge procrastinator?)

Ear plugs.

So simple, yet so effective.  And cheap.  Cheaper than a hit man.

Why the hell didn't you do this sooner?  you are probably asking.

Shut up.  I don't know.  Because I'm stoopid.  Bite me.

At long last I was able to shut out the cacophony and drift blissfully off into slumber (with the help of wonderful pharmaceuticals and occasionally, vodka). 

*purrrrrrrrr*

 
But alas, there is a rub.  As mentioned previously, I seem to be losing my dayum mind. 

I noticed, as I was meandering downstairs to make coffee and take the dogs out, that my head seemed to be plugged.  I smacked the side of my head a few times, blew my nose, and bitched to my husband that I seem to be getting a cold.

"By sinuses seeb to be plugged," I informed him. 

"Mumble mumble mumble," he responded.

"Whaaa?" I said.  "I can't hear you."

At this point I jammed my finger into my ear to do that thing you do when you have water in your ear or something and shoved the ear plug that I thought I had removed directly into my brain. 

I saw stars.

What.  The fuck.

I could distinctly remember taking that bitch out when I woke up this morning.


No really... I DISTINCTLY REMEMBER TAKING OUT MY EAR PLUGS.

I checked the other ear... Sure enough, it wasn't there. 

*ponder*

As I dug out the rogue ear plug with tweezers (because I had shoved it that far into my ear) I contemplated what could possibly have gone awry.  All I can come up with is that after taking out the first ear plug, I totally forgot what I was doing and didn't bother removing the other one.

How does that even happen??


How do you forget you have only removed one, when you have had two ears your entire life???


That's, like, 50 years of ear awareness. 


And thus begins my descent into madness.

Things that happen frequently (daily) that should have been my first clues:

1.  What did I do with my glasses???  I just had them on!  

2.  Where the fuck is my phone??

3.  Wait... what did I come in here for??

4.  Oh shit... who am I calling??

5.  Why did I need to go to the store again??

6.  Huh?

7.  Did I rinse off my conditioner?

8.  Where did I park my car??  Why can't I find it?  WHERE THE HELL IS MY CAR??  Oh yeah... I didn't drive.  Heh.  Heh.

9. Who? 

I always knew it would end this way.  It's just my luck that it's over-lapping with menopause so I won't even get to enjoy the latter.  I'll be too busy forgetting who I am and how many ears I have and where the hell did I leave my pants.

I will chase squirrels and call them "kitty!  Heeeere kitty kitty!"

Oh God.  I will wear a badly fitting wig, draw lipstick beyond my actual lips, wear bright pink blusher and cook the family parakeet for dinner.

I'm pretty sure that when I go crazy, I'll do it in a big way. 

And when I die, it will be on the toilet.

(Some things are inevitable.  That is one of them.)

I'm not necessarily afraid of parting company with my sanity, I'm just afraid of  what direction it will finally go.



I want to be the kind of crazy that has a fabulous time and doesn't have a clue that I'm making a spectacle out of myself.  I want to embarrass the hell out of everyone with me and not give a damn. 

As long as I'm wearing pants, I'm good with it.

(And as long as I don't randomly pee in inappropriate places because I think I'm sitting on a toilet.  That would be bad.)

 

Livin' Large in Big Girl Panties

Dear Bitches Who Wear Thongs And Claim They Are Soooo Comfortable,


You lie. 

You wear them because men think they are sexy. 

Do you know whyyyy men think they are sexy?

Because they don't have to wear them.  They make thongs for men... oh yes, they do.  Yet how many men do you actually see sporting a whale tail? 

None, that's how many.

Except possibly European men.  But they don't count, because they also wear Speedos.  And like woman with way too much body hair.  And kiss each other.  (Not that there's anything wrong with that.  I'm just explaining why they wear thongs.)

You say it's purely practical because you don't want panty lines?

I call bullshit.  You can buy panties that cover your entire ass and do not leave panty lines.  I know this because I have some.  And nothing is up my ass and flossing my crack when I wear them.

Plus if you don't want anyone to know you are wearing panties, why do you feel the  need to hike the waist band of your thong up over the top of your britches to announce to the world that you are wearing one?  Do you do that with your period panties?  (Period panties:  The giant white cotton pair you wear when Aunt Flo arrives and you are too bloated and crampy to wedge anything up your ass.)  When's the last time you wandered around the mall with your white cotton panties billowing out over the waist band of your low rise jeans?  Are you all, "Yeah I'm wearing big white panties and a maxi pad!  I'm sexy and I know it!"

Let's get real here.  (Yes, I am briefly channeling Dr. Phil.  Deal with it.)

Women wear butt floss for men. 

They need to knock it off. 



Here's the truth:

Thongs are uncomfortable.  And they're impractical.  And if God forbid you get a hemorrhoid?  They are lethal. 

They can kill you.

Oh, don't get me wrong... I like pretty panties as much as the next girl.  But after spending a few years constantly feeling like I had something crawling up my ass, I found pretty panties that didn't saw me in half.  (Oh, they're out there.  Trust me on this.) 

I moved on to boy shorts, which are cute, comfy, and don't leave a panty line. 

And let's face it, only one person other than myself is ever going to see them, and considering the state of most of HIS underwear, I could wear a plastic grocery bag with legs cut out and the straps pulled up over my shoulders and still come out ahead in that contest. 

It's time for comfort, ladies.  Comfort and JOY.  (Also?  I'm 50 and let's face it, NO one wants to see my ass cheeks dissected down the middle.  NO ONE.  Especially not me.  Imagine THAT looking back at you when you're trying on clothes in a triple mirrored dressing room at Kohl's.  You're casually bending over, sliding your foot into a pair of pants that probably won't fit and suddenly, THERE'S YOUR ASS.  BOTH OF THEM.  TIMES THREE.  COMPLETE WITH DIMPLES, CELLULITE, AND THE SCAR YOU GOT WHEN YOU ACCIDENTALLY SAT ON A STEAK KNIFE.  It's terrifying and tragic.)

See?

Here's some harsh and ugly truth for you, and I'm only telling you this for your own good.


This is not what you look like:

THIS is what you look like:

Odds are that from behind you look like your ass is eating your underwear. 

Not all of you... Of course there are a few of you who have gloriously perfect bums without a blemish or a wrinkle who can rock a thong like no one's bizness.  And I hate you.  No really, I do.  You can just kiss my dimpled, wrinkled, cellulite riddled ass and move on down the road. 

(I'm reaching that ugly age where youth and beauty just piss me right the hell off.)



Okay, I have a confession to make:

This rant really has nothing to do with underwear.  It all actually started when I was staring into the sink with last night's dirty dishes and trying to work up the motivation to deal with them.

I hate dirty dishes in the sink.

But even more?

I hate touching dirty dishes.  It's like, other people's food.

This may surprise you, but I'm actually kind of a priss.  Shocking, right?  Especially considering my morbid love of anything and everything to do with murder, mayhem, serial killers, and the occasional romp through a photo gallery featuring Victorian death photos.  But those things are not icky. 

"Icky" is food left on dirty dinner plates.  Or touching raw meat (shudder).  Or something slimy that your foot touches in the water that literally propels you screaming and splashing towards the surface and causes spontaneous levitation.  (I'm pretty sure that Jesus's walk on water had more to do with something gross bumping into his sandaled foot than an actual miracle.  He was just saving face in front of the Disciples.  He was all, "Dudes, seriously... I totally levitated.  I screamed and splashed because I was filled with the love of the Holy Spirit.  I swear.")

*waiting for lightning bolt*

*long pause*


Whew.

So yeah.  I was staring at the dirty dishes and mentally preparing myself to turn on the water and start rinsing and in my head I thought, "Just put on your Big Girl Panties, Danielle... you can do this."

One thing led to another and I started thinking about thongs and women who swear they wear nothing else and how comfortable they are and then I got annoyed. 

Stupid bitches make me tired.


Love,

Dani


 

The Terrible Secret

It's like this:

The back of my head?  Is totally flat.

Flat, I tell you.

From the front I look like a normal woman.  Chin, nose, forehead... (five head, actually... you could use my forehead as a movie screen, no lie) ... all the basic parts that offer the appearance of genetic perfection.  (Meaning I do not descend from apes.  At least not recently.)  My head slopes upward and has a nice, rounded dome where my skull has allowed room for my brain.

(My knowledge of basic skeletal anatomy is astounding.  I'll give you a moment to experience awe.)

Then?  There's the BACK of my head. 

From the back I look like Herman Munster.

Only shorter, with fabulous edgy nicely highlighted hair and cuter shoes. 

It's tragic, really.  It's also the main reason I always leave a room backwards. 

And why I covet a Bump-It. 

I spend hours per day trying to tease, torment, and fluff out the back of my hair to give the appearance of a normal skull.  I spritz, spray, wax, mousse, and gel that shit up and out.  I never rest my head against the back of a chair because my hair will either break off because it's so brittle from the product or burst the air pocket in back that is holding my hair out and irrevocably flatten it for the remainder of the day.

It's my cross to bear, people. 

It's why there is always the faint look of sadness in my eyes.  It's why I carry with me the slumped shouldered posture of a person who has lived and suffered unimaginable woes.

It's what has made me the person I am today.

My flat head was always one of those things that was there, but no one mentioned.  Oh, we were aware of it... Kind of like when you have a friend with a giant wart on the side of their nose and you never make direct eye-contact with it because, well, you know.  You want to pretend it simply doesn't exist. 

Thousands of stylists through the ages would cut and color my hair and look away after handing me the giant mirror to check out the back of my head.  Nope, no flatness there!

I was so deeply in denial that I assumed it wasn't that bad.  I mean, if no one mentions it, it CAN'T be that bad.... right?  Right?  RIGHT???

Wrong.

Several years ago I needed an emergency hair repair (due to my terrible habit of believing I can cut my own hair) and my usual stylist was punishing me by refusing to show up and fix it for me.  (I am totally not making this shit up.  I called her and she was all, "I told you the last time that the next time you did this I was going to make you suffer and look stupid for a week to teach you a lesson.")  I was desperate.  DESPERATE.  (I may or may not have had a brief moment of insanity where I thought to myself, "You know, I could totally use clippers on the back of my hair... that would look good, right?"  and then followed through with my dastardly plan.)  So I called another stylist who said she could fit me in. 

That'll teach you, Mean Regular Stylist. 

As I was sitting in her chair and she was assessing the damages, she suddenly said casually, "Wowwww... the back of your head is rillyyyy flaaaaaat.... I don't think your hair is long enough to hiiiide thaaaat..."

Whaaaaaa...??? 

Me:  *nervous, self-conscious giggle* 

Her:  "No rillyyyy... it's suuuuper flaaat....  How do you usually style it?"

Me:  "Um... you know... blow dryer, round brush, mousse, gel, hair spray, tease it..."

Her:  "Wowwwww... yeahhh, this is baaaaad..."

It's... it's... it's... BAD?  Like, fatally bad?  I can die from this???  I have a rare form of flat head cancer???!!!

She sighed and clipped and snipped and shook her head, wiping the sweat from her brow as she tried valiantly to camouflage my tragically flat head, only to finally finish and say resignedly, "Well... this is the best I could do..." and then hand me the huge mirror to check out her work.

Wowwwww.  There's like a sheer, frightening drop from the slight cowlick at my crown to my scrawny neck.  It's a perfect head to skydive off of,  or to possibly commit suicide from.  One leap and there is literally nothing to break your fall:  Not my flat butt, not my skinny calves, nada. 

What. The. Fuck.

I realized, for the first time ever, that I am totally flat from behind.  No hills, no valleys... seriously.  It's like at birth my mother flipped me onto my stomach and ironed me flat from head to heel. 

How could no one have told me???  How could they let me live like this, happily walking in front of people and acting like I'm not a freak of nature??  HOWWWW???

When I got home I confronted my usual stylist and demanded to know if she had realized my head is rillyyyyy flaaat.

She was all, "Ummm... yeah?  Why?"

Me:  "HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME??"

Her:  "Dude, seriously... HOW COULD YOU NOT KNOW?"

It's like finding out for the first time ever that you were born a boy but they dressed you like a girl and changed your name from Robert to Suzie because you had an abnormally small penis and they never told you. 

Or like Steve Martin in the movie The Jerk where he finds out at the age of 40 that he isn't black.

Or like one of my "friends" on Facebook who was born to an upper middle class family in California's Central Valley, who has never spent one day of her life in the woods, on a farm, or living in a remote cabin in the deep south but who thinks she's a redneck.  (God that irritates me.  You have no freaking idea.  I'm all, "DUDE... I KNOW WHERE YOU'RE FROM!!!  STOP WITH THE FRIGGIN' 'Y'ALLLLL' AND THE MEMES FEATURING HUNTERS DRESSED IN CAMO AND TALKING ABOUT THEM TAKING YOUR GUNS OUT OF YOUR COLD DEAD HANDS!!!!  YOU BUY YOUR MEAT AT SAFEWAY!!!"  GAHHHHHH!)

Lost my train of thought for a mo... sorry.

Anyway, I had to get that off my chest.  I've been holding it in for a long, long time and I just need you all to know that when you stare at the back of my head or walk behind me, I know what you're thinking.  I know that you know.  And I want you to know that I know that you know.  You need to know that I know that you know that I know.

Now you know.




 

Confessions of Nerdvana

There's always been a part of me that was aware that I bask on the outer edges of Nerdvana.  I mean, there have been clues:  I read a lot, I can wax eloquent on most subjects (except Math... Math and I have been feuding since Algebra), and I begin wayyyy to many sentences with the word "Actually..."

But I've always managed to counter-act the obvious by being kind of ditzy, a tad bit shallow, and by having a penchant for saying/doing stupid things.  (Plus I fall down.  A lot.)   As my darling 16 year old nephew pointed out once while watching The Big Bang Theory, "Aunt Dani, you're like a cross between Bernadette and Penny." 

Huh.

(I didn't ask him to clarify because let's face it, I don't really want to know.)

Lately, however, it's become glaringly more obvious that I may be more of a nerd than I've given myself credit for.  (I'm not saying it's a bad thing, I'm just saying it came as something of a shock to me.  That's all.  Do not herd your nerds and send me hate mail, please.  I AM ONE OF YOU.  I AM YOUR QUEEN.)

In fact, I may not just be the President... I AM ALSO A MEMBER. 

(Hair Club For Men... remember that?  No?  Just me?  Never mind, then.  Okay fine, I'll explain:  Hair Club For Men was an organization that made fake hair for men.  The spokesperson would show videos of men with full heads of fake hair hiking, biking, and having fun without their wig flying off.  And at the end of the commercial he would say, "I'm not just the President, I'm also a member!" and would show a before and after picture of his shiny bald head which is now covered with fur.  True story.  And yes, it was much funnier in my head.  Screw you.)

I HATE IT WHEN I LOSE MY TRAIN OF THOUGHT.

So anyway, how 'bout them Niners!!!

Right.

Anyway.

I've always considered myself a reasonably smart girl.  I mean, I know most of the words, I can coherently express myself, I can comprehend information and use it accordingly.  I know how to tie my shoes and rarely leave the house without my pants on.  All good signs, yes?  I got good grades in school when I applied myself, good grades even when I didn't apply myself, not so good grades when I didn't give a damn or make any effort whatsoever (hello, Algebra... my old nemesis!!).  In fact, my Freshman year in high school, after I had knowingly and with malice aforethought not turned in one single piece of math homework and quite stunningly earned myself a big fat F, my Algebra teacher Mr. Groll, or something like that (he looked like Oscar Madison.  If you don't know who that is, google it.  I already feel old ever since you didn't get the Hair Club For Men reference) kept me after class and said, "I'm giving you a C.  You didn't earn it, but if you had bothered to try, you would have.  Plus I don't want to deal with you again." 

Winning!


I think I've been led astray by the Nerd Myth, whereas Nerd Girls wear glasses, no make-up, are poor dressers and socially awkward.  I'm usually not any of those things.  My nerdishness is more subtle, less in your face.  It's more of a state of mind.


A Nerd state of mind...


Confession:

I am freakishly addicted to Discovery ID.  I know everything there is to know about serial killers, but were afraid to ask.  I read about them, I watch shows about them, I google them and research them.  My husband is afraid of me, as well he should be.

I know how to hide the body.


Confession:

I love playing Sudoku.  Love it.  The harder the puzzle, the happier I am.  When I recently discovered Sum-duko (you find the number placement in the puzzle by solving the sum... omg, heaven!!!)  I totally forgot to blog for like four months because I was too busy solving all the puzzles in my Sum-duko book.  Don't bother me... I'm Sum-duko-ing!  I also may or may not get something of a charge out of the fact that I am exercising my brain.  My brain is Jack Freaking Lalanne. 

Confession:

I kick ass at Jeopardy and scream "BOOYAHHHH!" when I get one right that none of the contestants knew.  I also may or may not perform a victory dance when I am the only one who gets Final Jeopardy.  And I think Alex Trebek is a douche.

Confession:

When I was a nerdy little girl, going to the library was my absolute favorite thing to do.  I could read at a level way above my age and would check out books from the science and research section.  One summer, when I was around 8, I took it upon myself to study dog breeds all summer.  42 years later, I can still recognize any dog breed, tell you their AKC standard height, weight, coloring, and temperament.  I even went further than that and studied where the breed originated, what they were originally bred for, and what their health and longevity is.  When I was 8, you guys.  8.  What freaking 8 year old spends a summer doing that?   A nerdy 8 year old, that's who. 

I was Brick from The Middle.  Without the whispering.  Oh my God.

I could go on for days but I'm starting to get embarrassed.  What brought all this to the forefront of my Nerd Acceptance was a Trivial Pursuit game that took place Friday night.  (The fact that I was playing Trivial Pursuit on a Friday night may also be a clue.  Hmmm.)

One of the questions that I got was "What was the name of the Landlord's black eyed daughter in Alfred Noyes' epic poem, The Highwayman?"

Me:  "Oh, hang on... let me see.  Bess.  Her name was Bess.  She died for her love in the moonlight."

Dan:  "How the fuck do you know that?"

Me:  "I dunno... doesn't everyone?"

Dan:  "No, Dani.  Not everyone knows that.  In fact, NO one knows that.  You are such a NERD."

*lightbulb moment*


Because I not only knew that, I can recite the whole friggin' poem. 

And I have no idea why.


That's when it hit me:  Soooo many times I will blurt out trivial facts and information that literally no one cares about and someone will say, "How do you know that?"

And I never know how I know that.

I just... do.


Welcome to Nerdvana. 

You can never leave.

Ugh... now I have Hotel California stuck in my head.

 

The One Where I'm Not Dead Yet

But I'm not dead yet!

It all started when my doctor quit taking my calls and refused to prescribe my thyroid, blood pressure, and I Don't Care pills unless I made an appointment and actually came in for a check up.

Shit.

We had finally come to the end of my free ride.  I'd been phoning it in for over a year and now, the jig was up.

Mother.  Fucker.

I HAAAAATE going to the doctor.  HAAAAATE it.  Even if I feel fine, even if 10 minutes before I reach the examination room I am fit as a fiddle and rarin' to go, I just know they will find something wrong with me.  And it will undoubtedly be something hideous, embarrassing, fatal, and most likely butt-related.  (I know I will inevitably die from an ass-born illness/injury.  It is my destiny.) 

Things I Would Rather Do Than Go To The Doctor


1.  Have a root canal.  (Dentists don't scare me.  And plus I'd get Vicodin.  Or Percocet.)

2.  Fly somewhere.  (I hate flying almost as much as I hate going to the doctor.  Almost, but not quite.  Plus airports are awesome.  I could totally live in SFO.)

3.  Read Jane Eyre again.  (Most boring. Book. EVER.)

4.  Show up at a class reunion sans Spanx, make-up, and with an additional 50 lbs. 

5.  Tell the world how much I weigh.  Without lying. 

6.  Wear a bikini in public.  Without shaving or waxing.  And run into an ex-boyfriend while I'm lying bloated, pale, and hairy in the sand.

7.  Give a stranger directions by exposing my belly and using my stretch marks as a road map.

8.  Talk about my sex life with my mother.  (*shudder*)

9.  Sit next to someone eating a mayonnaise sandwich.

10. Send my father in law to the store to purchase my feminine hygiene products.  And then discuss my period with him.


So yeah... that's how much I hate going to the doctor. 

So when she staged a coup and issued her ultimatum, I figured it was time to man up and get it over with.  I decided to turn it into a girl's day with my 10 year old niece, with a minor pit stop at the doctor's office before we did shopping and lunch.

Riiiiiiight.  Like THAT was going to happen.

"Not on MY watch!" screamed Karma, laughing maniacally and clinking glasses with Fate.  "Bwaaaahahahahaaaaa!"

I was perched on the examination table, chatting away with the nurse while she took my blood pressure, when out of the blue she shooshed me.

She shooshed me.


Me:  "Blah blahblah blahhhh blahblah blahhhh..."

Nurse:  "SHHHHH!"


Uh oh.


She looked very serious as she pumped the cuff so tight I winced and my chubby little fingers became sausages, right before my very eyes.

Then she left the room without saying a word and the doctor came in with her.


Well, this can't be good...


Again, she took my blood pressure.

Naturally, I immediately began to panic.   Oh my God, I thought.  It's cancer of the blood pressure.  I know it is.  Or cancer of the asshole.  One or the other.  But definitely cancer.  It's always cancer.

Me:   *casually*  "Soooooo is everything okay?"

Doctor:  *not so casually*  "Are you taking your blood pressure meds?"

Me:  *nodding vigorously, proving I am a responsible adult who would never show up at the doctor unprepared*  "Yes, every night."

Her:  "Well, your blood pressure is 185/112.  That's the lowest reading we've gotten."


Snap.


Her:  *deciding to really, really scare the crap out of me while she was at it*  "You need to get over to the hospital right now for an EKG.  I'll call ahead.  DO NOT PUT THIS OFF.  YOU NEED TO DO IT RIGHT NOW."

Me:  *panic*

I took my niece over to the hospital, where I engaged in blood work, peeing in a cup, and my very first EKG. 

I was terrified. 

*High point of EKG:  30-ish male tech asks me how old I am.  I say, in a trembling voice, because I'm a giant baby, "50..."  Him:  "No way.  Really?  That's a surprise.  I thought you were like my age."  Me:  "This is the best day ever!"

I was pretty sure I was going to die, like, right then. 

I didn't even have time to go over my Bucket List. 

Hell, I didn't even HAVE a Bucket List.

How could I not have a Bucket List???  EVERYONE has a Bucket List.  It's super trendy to have a Bucket List.  How can I not be super trendy?  Seriously, could this day suck any harder??


I sat in the EKG room with my niece and started to cry. 

Her:  "Why are you crying?"

Me:  "Because I don't even have a freaking Bucket List!"

Her:  "When can we eat lunch?"

Me:  "You're the best.  I love that you're here with me and making me feel better."

Her:  "I know, right?"

Proof that my time on this planet has not been wasted.



My EKG turned out to be normal, so I went home with a new resolve:  Stop eating microwave popcorn every single day.  No pretzels in place of a meal.  Candy is not breakfast.  Caffeinated beverages do not count as water.  Pull your head out of your ass.  Seriously.  Vodka is not a food group.


I took a long hard look at myself in the mirror, reviewed my lifestyle and realized that I have been playing fast and loose with my health since moving to New York. 

Stupid New York.  I hate New York.  It's New York's fault that I've been making stupid choices and eating like a sumo wrestler on a bender.

You're 50, I informed my reflection.  You can not continue to treat your body like a frat party. 

Then I beat myself about the head and shoulders with some cold, hard truth:

You've gained 40 lbs in two years. 

40 lbs.  That's 160 cubes of butter.  (I may or may not have had to use a calculator for that.  Don't judge.)


Fuck.  I'm pretty sure all that butter went directly to my belly, boobs and back.  I look like a potato.  A short potato with legs.  And really awesome hair.


The next day I started Weight Watchers.  Again.  Because even though I lost over 100 lbs seven years ago, I had become one of those people who swore I would never gain it back who had slowly begun to do so.

Okay, actually not so slowly.  20 lbs a year is Rock Star Weight Gain status.  I can re-fat with the best of them. 

At least you're good at something, the bitchy me smirked at the chubby reflection in the mirror.


And then I made it happen.

Or at least, I'm beginning to.  In the past month I've lost 15 lbs by eating healthily and smartly.  Not Biggest Loser numbers, by any stretch (Wahhhh!  I was hoping for double digits this week!  Wahhhh!) but seeing as I don't have Jillian or Bob riding my ass, I'm good with that.  I don't miss the foods I've given up.  As it turns out, I'd rather give up microwave popcorn than my life, and I am (almost) as happy drinking a glass of Perrier as I am sucking down a vodka tonic.  (Okay, that's stretching it.  I'm not nearly as happy with Perrier as I am with vodka.  It's not even a contest.  But I'm still doing it, because the calories in vodka are just. Not. Worth it.)

God, I miss vodka.

Meanwhile, the doctor called with the results of my blood work:

I am severely anemic.

I have high cholesterol.


I had to buy a friggin' pill organizer to keep all this straight. 


Silver lining:

I do not have diabetes. 


Platinum Lining:

She gave me a prescription for Ambien.


Diamond Accents:

I'm not dead yet.


I have a million more health tests to do, including a review of my uterus, which I may need to part company with.  Eventually I will be forced to have a colonoscopy (which I am putting off as long as possible) to make sure my anemia is not ass-induced.  (Of course.)  But for right now, I am taking all my pills, eating like a hippie, and not putting together a Bucket List. 

I don't need a Bucket List.

My best friend told me, "God won't take you a minute before your time."   And while I'm not religious, I have to agree.  When it's my time, I'll go.  I'll go peacefully and happily (okay, that's stretching it... I'll go kicking and screaming and demanding one more cocktail) but not one day sooner.

Just wondering...