Because the idea of being "left out" makes my skin crawl almost as much as Percocet

Speaking of which, anyone have any Percocet?

Because apparently brain injury + concussion = migraines which arrive out of nowhere and are vomit-in-the-shower-crippling, and are also virtually unaffected by anything known to man (except an illegal substance of which I certainly have never partaken, I'm just assuming since weed is used medicinally for migraines, it must actually work. Which reminds me, I need to move to California, because I could get an Rx for weed for any number of my ridonk ailments, from migraines to anxiety to depression to boredom. What, boredom is TOTALLY a medical condition.)

What was I saying?

Ah yes, it's time for me to hop on the band wagon and write a year-end wrap-up post because we're about to begin The Year the Mayans Got Bored with Making Calendars.

I'm pretty sure they just ran out of weed, but when they called their dealer, his voice mail said he wasn't available to sell  because he was busy getting sacrificed on an alter or some shit.

There's something else we can thank weed for: Postponing the end of the world until 2012.

Anyway, I'm sitting here in my bedroom, surfing the interwebnet because I don't want to watch the UFC fight that's on my TV because EEW, blood is grody, and I'm thinking about how crazy this year has been in almost every way.

2011 was supposed to be my first full year of marriage to my best friend, and while *technically* that's true because no court papers have been filed, I'm pretty sure everyone would have an opinion on just exactly how "married" I am. Not only are we not really married, not really living together, and certainly not best friends any longer, I'm hard pressed to get Gray to speak to me these days.

It's completely understandable, of course, but sucks just the same.

So I lost our beloved Bampa, as well as my husband and friend, not to mention all the brutal alienation such a split inevitably causes. So many of our friends are mutual, and most of those have no interest in my life at this time (I assume) out of loyalty to my husband, which again is understandable, and again, sucks.

The few friends I called my own, mostly from work, I lost touch with when I quit my job, but I think really they were relieved because I was proving to be more exhausting than awesome to them. Also understandable, when our lunch chats morphed from my wedding plans to my dating plans.

I'm an acquired taste at my very best, so throw in a few impulsive mistakes, a few irrational behaviors, and more than a few drunk texts...folks seem to appreciate some space.

So, New Years.

I'm not so naive to believe that January 1st is some kind of magical date. It's not a re-set button. It's nothing but the end of a calendar year, a calendar which was determined thousands of years ago by people WHO SLAUGHTERED OTHER PEOPLE IN THE NAME OF GOD.

So, really, they were a lot like we are now.

But this is what we do, we Americans. We talk about our kids and our ailments and our jobs and our wardrobes, and then we speculate on how those things may change in the next 52 weeks. We make predictions, we make grand statements about our intentions, we set unattainable goals, we thank everyone for believing in our ability to attain those goals, and then we get hammered and watch an electric comet plummet into Times Square, half-way hoping something will go horribly wrong and the ball will go rolling down the sidewalk, taking out every single one of those paper hat-wearing revelers, half-way relieved when it doesn't happen.

And so, I'll jump on that train because it's what I do.

In 2012, I intend to Get My Shit Together, Financially Speaking. I'm starting a really wicked new job on the 9th, and it should more than be enough for me to catch up with my medical bills, et al. I hope to find a second roommate to rent out the other bedroom upstairs, which will help financially as well. I plan to keep my part-time job and work nights and weekends, depositing that chump change into a separate account that I will use for "fun money," leaving the rest of my accounts untouched except for necessities. I plan to start over with a 401K because retirement sounds better every moment I'm alive.

I'd like to grow a tail, but that one is up in the air.

I plan to quit smoking, preferably forEVER this time.

I also intend to train Ramsey and Lucky to bring me beer in bed, and possibly to clean the toilet.

As far as relationships go, I plan to get back in touch with many of my friends. I'd like to make new ones. And I want to be sure that my partnership with Daylow doesn't grow stagnant, predictable, or co-dependent. I have a history of all of those things, and they don't bode well for Happily Ever After.

I'd like to drink less.

I want to camp more.

Daylow and I are going to plant a big garden this year, hopefully saving a small fortune on vegetables and herbs.

I want to see my family more than I got to this year.

Finally, I plan to win the lottery. Sadly, this may be the most likely of all of my goals, although if I do win the lottery, I'll be able to buy toilet-cleaning rats and pay people to be my friends, so it would kill several birds all at once.

Now with 100% more rodent incest

Well, I'm back and I can honestly tell you that I don't have a fucking clue where to start.

I've wrestled back and forth for months now about how to approach the future of this blog, in light of the face that when I began writing here in 2008, I was blissfully pregnant and madly in love with Gray; but now, about three years later, I'm not pregnant (nor am I a mother), Gray and I are in the process of ending our marriage, I have two completely new men living in my house, I quit my job, I lost many, many friends, and I worried the hell out of almost everyone who knows me.

So what to do?

Speak the balls-deep truth about my failed marriage and risk hurting Gray even more than I already have?

Pussy-foot around the truth and kind of...phase my new life into the blog and just hope nobody notices?

Start over with a completely new blog?

Seriously complex first-world problem, right? Boo to the hoo and suck a toe, right? More specifically, CAT, suck on the infected toe of reality and find something more important than this stupid online journal to worry about, like keeping your house and not being psychotic?

Here's the thing though: This stupid online journal is part of what keeps me from going psychotic. It's like therapy. Really, really unethically based therapy. And I'm starting to need this therapy again. It's mid-December in Minnesota, and snow or no snow (currently, it's looking like a shit-stain Christmas), I have my annual SAD flaring up, otherwise known as My Perilous Grasp on Sanity, or My Single-handed Funding of Kleenex Factories World-wide.

I need this blog to survive another life or death battle with my personal Interloper.

But using this blog as an anti-depressant isn't going to do a damn thing, I've decided, if I don't continue writing my real story. The things nobody wants to hear me say. The truth.

Plus, when I look back into my archives, I realize I don't remember 99% of the stories I tell you, which means that in the last few months I've spent on hiatus, I've forgotten at LEAST fourteen separate instances of drinking myself stupid, seven of my Epic Shits, and many other small, ridiculous fluffery that I consider far too closely and then write about here.

Like the tampon vs. the chapstick. WHAT THE FUCK IS UP WITH THAT?

Thank christ I wrote it down.

So here I am, Lolita Razzle Dazzle, resuming my life's work of offending and humiliating other people.

And it feels so good to be home.

PS: I now have two fancy hooded rats named Lucky and Rachel Ray, and they're going to fuck each other soon if I don't separate them. We thought Lucky was a girl, and so we bought a female from Lucky's litter to be a companion, but then giant testicles appeared on Lucky, and Rachel Ray is most definitely rocking a vagina, and they're almost old enough to mate. But I can't justify two separate cages because WHAT WOULD THAT SAY ABOUT ME, plus the ball python Raven is already irritated that she didn't get a chance to eat Lucky and Rachel Ray, and I don't like pissing off snakes if I can help it.

So either one of the rats becomes snake food (which I cannot do, no fucking way, they're my bayyyybeeeeees), we split them up and get two completely different companion rats that they cannot fuck (unless they swing that way), or we allow these little bastards to have incestuous rat sex and produce up to fourteen separate baby rats, which would then need to be hand fed because Rachel Ray is too young to nurse her babies properly, and then I'll end up living in a house full of rodents because all the babies are my grandchildren and I am insane.

So here: Have some cute rats

Pity Party!

Hi kids. It's me: The MIA Nutjob.

Since last we met, my life has been demolished like a really ugly skyscraper on the Vegas strip. It was exciting to watch this giant, solid structure implode and collapse, and my mind whirled with the possibilities for that vacant lot and what I might make of it.

And then I started cleaning up the debris. FUCK. The debris. It is everyfuckingwhere. And it's heavy. And it's seemingly endless, because I'll hoist a big fucking cement chunk up on my tiny little shoulders and crawl over to the dumpster with it, spend an eternity trying to raise it up high enough to tumble into the roll-off container, and then turn around to crawl back for another chunk, all the while hoping my legs won't collapse and leave me in a puddle of urine. When I get back to the clean up site, there is no visible difference in the amount of debris. The piles of broken walls and the throat-closing dust haven't shifted. Haven't shrunken. I feel like I'm shoveling and endless pile of steaming horse shit.

Granted, it was my idea to demolish that building on the strip. It is my dreams that made the mess. I chose to end my second marriage. I chose to quit my job. I chose to work in an environment that is such that I fell AGAIN and cracked my skull AGAIN and am now on two weeks bed rest. AGAIN. It was me who decided to adopt a third dog, and also me who broke down into a sobbing, screaming puddle when I realized I don't have the strength in my legs to make that situation work.

All of this was my idea.

So I guess it's time to buck the fuck up and just make it work. Keep shovelling the shit, even when I'm so exhausted that it hurts to open my eyes (thank you concussion). I will not lose my house. I will live without cable and internet. I will not eat out. I will sell every damn thing I own that is of any value. I will not sink. I will not sink. I WILL NOT SINK.

I keep trying to imagine myself as a Phoenix bird - the beast who dies in a fiery mess of debris, but then returns, stronger and more beautiful than before.

I'm trying.

Ode to what once was

I'm remodeling four or five rooms in my house. At the same time. Technically by myself. With almost no first-hand knowledge of what I'm doing and a hell of a lot of tools I can't ever find.

HAS ANYONE SEEN MY PHILIPS HEAD DRILL BIT?!?!?!

I figure I've watched enough This Old House, DIY Network, Bath Crashers and Design Star to have a PhD in Remodelology, including installing new door hardware (which is simple, right?! WRONG. Try installing 2011 lock hardware in three separate 1915 doors and you tell me how simple it turns out to be. Fucking non-standard widths and original hardware that left the core of the doors empty.)((IT WAS HAIR-RIPPING MADNESS).

So my porch is done, and two bedrooms, and my bathroom is down to plywood subfloor.

My ONLY bathroom has been reduced to plywood and screws and sharp tile shreds.

Oh the panic: I have until November 1st to replace the vanity with a pedestal sink, have the toilet moved, repair the subfloor (because some DUMBASS laid tile directly on top of plywood and used CEMENT to adhere it, so it was no shocker when the tile came up and the subfloor under the toilet is rotting and discolored, SO SO WET), install a new toilet over the new plumbing, move an electrical outlet from over the sink (still not sure if I *need* to do that or not), install an exhaust fan and figure out if it can be recessed between the joists of the ceiling or if I need to build a soffit, lay waterproof barrier down and install a new floor. Oh, and paint everything. And cut/install floorboards and trim. And reinforce the heating vent, which is basically just floating over a huge hole because it's not attached to any kind of stud or wall support.

I CAN HAZ LOTS OF SHIT TO DO, YA'LL.

But this huge Fail of a project honestly isn't the biggest change happening right now. Our families have been more or less updated now, so it's relatively safe to tell all you Interweb strangers.

Gray and I decided that we make better friends than spouses. We decided to make a split, and he has moved out of the house.

Divorce #2 by the age of twenty-eight! If it weren't for Brittany Spears, I'd have the world record of Really Big, Expensive, Hurtful Mistakes.

It's a much, MUCH longer story than I'm going to share here, mostly because it's a private matter (you know I don't consider much sacred here, so I must mean business) and I have no desire to rumor monger when it comes to one of the best men I've ever known in my life. He didn't do anything wrong to cause any of this.

As it is, Gray and I aren't angry with each other. We're not fighting, nor are we blaming each other, nor pushing our friends and family into choosing sides. Gray and I will always be very, very good friends. He will always be Uncle Jeremy to Angel Butt. I'll always call his mother Mama. Our mutual friends (and there are MANY) will always be mutual friends. Our dogs will always belong to us both.

It's just that I've learned (via therapy and an excruciating trial and error process) that I am not the type of woman who is cut out for marriage. Or monogamy, for that matter. So we're reverting back to our original status of really good friends.

And I'm praying to gods I don't believe in that I won't ever be stupid enough to make the same mistakes a third time. It's okay to hurt myself, but not other people.

They must have a Divorcers Anonymous somewhere, no?

So to Gray, my best friend and the man who has been there with me, by my side every day, for more than four years as a partner, and before that as a rock-steady confidant and friend, through months in the hospital, through more changes of address than I can remember, through our miscarriage, our family dramas, through my staggering, life-shattering bouts with depression and anxiety and suicidal thoughts.

Thank you Jeremy for everything you've done for me, all of the memories we built together, and all of the ways you helped me to find who I really am.

You taught me to be my true self, even if I don't know who exactly she is. You're taught me how to search for her.

I love you and I'll never regret any of our time together, not for a second. You stepped back from something you love so that I could be free to follow my own path, one that was hurtful and doesn't include you in the same capacity that you'd hoped. You selflessly gave me back parts of my life that I've never truly had: independence and the promise/fear of an uncertain future.

I hope more than anything we still have decades of memories to build together. We will always be family. You'll always be my lobsta.

And I hope that you find the happiness that you are so over-qualified to enjoy. You are the best thing that's ever happened to me in so many ways.

I'll never be able to thank you sufficiently for that.

And so we're off to start new chapters of our lives, embarking on some not-necessarily-welcomed adventures of our own, and altering our world views to include a future that doesn't involve growing old together as husband and wife.

It's terrifying and sad. It's also hopeful and liberating, at least for me.

There will be a long period of adjustment for us both, as well as our friends and family who know us as happy and well-suited for each other. In the end, I believe we've made the best decision for us both.

And that, ya'll, is really all we can do.

Selfish-less-ness: The Sequel

I've had the best morning ever, and I'm not even drunk.

Remember waaaaay back when I wrote about selfish-less-ness? Of course you don't, you drunken whores. For those few who do, I think about my grandparent's story every once in a while and I was startled today when I searched for it and realized I wrote that post nearly three years ago. It was one of my first posts, actually, because this shit-for-brains blog has only been around for three years (this Sunday).

I try to be kind to strangers as much as possible, when I'm not flipping them off and blowing smoke in their children's faces, but it's been a while since I've done the whole Pay It Forward routine. I've bought drinks or dinner here and there, and that has been done for me as well, but nothing involving complete strangers and without the guarantee of a sincere thank you in return. I simply haven't been out buying designer coffee lately because, well, I CAN'T TASTE IT, so seriously you could shit in a blender and add some milk and pour it into a cup and I wouldn't know the difference. Starbucks seems a bit of a waste in the face of that.

One thing I have done recently is commend several parents on the exceptional behavior and politeness of their children because it's rare that you find a young girl who is eager to hold open the restroom door for you for no reason whatsoever other than because she knows it's a kind thing to do.

I've done a few generous things for others lately, but since this is more of a family-friendly post, I'll neglect to mention those things now.

This morning, I was in a drive thu grabbing an ill-advised breakfast and chiding myself for eating such crap, when I overheard a woman in the Jeep ahead of me say, "And there's a white car behind me. I'll get hers." I recognized the gesture immediately and realized it's the first time a stranger has paid for my order.

A smile stormed my face, and I decided I should pay it forward to the car behind me as well. I double-checked my wallet and decided that even if the woman behind me was ordering quite a bit, I could swing it. Good deeds! They are happening! Woo hoo!

So as I sat in line waiting to pay, grinning like a mad man, I investigated a lump in the tiny zipper on the outside of my wallet and found...wait for it...ONE HUNDRED FUCKING DOLLARS I FORGOT I HAD. There is no telling how long the cash had been there - seriously, I've been paying for gas with quarters all week long - and I honestly have no memory of putting the money in there.

I don't believe in karma, like, AT ALL, but jesus christ. That was a happy fucking surprise. And the stranger behind me...her order was only $1.07.

The moral of the story is that you, too, should prevent forest fires. Or maybe just buy a coffee for the guy behind you, even when you're low on cash.

You never know...the secret wallet compartment fairy may find you, too.

Well, I'm home now. Most of me, anyway.

I left a lot of blood in San Diego between the tattoos and the fact that an escalator at the San Diego airport tried to eat me.

Human flesh. OMM NOM NOM.

I am officially banned from using stairs of any kind for any reason at any time, including the self-propelled variety.

I won't say that I had a horrible time on this trip because I actually had a lot of fun. It was just a different kind of fun. My cousin is a total freakshow, which is probably why we get along so well. Best voice impersonations EVER, wears a beanie when it's 80 degrees outside, and dances. A lot. It was pretty awesome getting to hang out with him for the first time in my adult life.

I did meet some interesting people, got a lot of surprises, and ate a lot of really good tacos. Oh, and I tried Thai food finally. So there's that.

I am, however, so so so so so happy to be home. My bed, it was magical. Sleeping beside my husband was something I missed for a long time. The Scary dog flung herself onto me and refused to detach, sleeping all night long ON MY FACE. I was even looking forward to work today, although typing without three fingers is kinda tricky.

I can't wait to unpack and do laundry. Go grocery shopping. LAY AROUND ON THE COUCH. I have so much planting to do in the yard now that our windows have been installed. Millions of putzy little projects and I am so excited to be home so that I can sit around thinking about them for so long that I never actually get around to doing them.

I'm also happy I don't have to get on a flying death trap for a long, long time.

This message is brought to you by psychosis. And also insomnia.

So.

I'm going to see a new shrink today, mostly because I saw a new phychiatrist last month (the kind with pills) and he read through all of my past therapy files and summarized their contents out loud to me - all of the things in my past that have been done to me, all of the things that I've done, all the fucked up stuff that I'm afraid most people have dealt with, but apparently they have a gene that I'm lacking, the one that instructs them to move the fuck on already, it's in the past, something I've never been able to do - and after reading the notes, the psychiatrist looked up at me and said something like, "No wonder you're depressed."

And all I can say to that is HA. HA HA HA HA HA. Yeah, no shit.

So the main problem I've encountered with talk therapy is that my previous shrinks take a lot of notes and nod their heads a lot, occasionally asking questions, but mostly just waiting for me to blurt shit out. Anyone who's "met" me knows that BLURTING IS NOT A PROBLEM FOR ME. So while perhaps getting patients to discuss their sexual abuse or their history of self-mutilation is a major break through, for me it's like DUDE. Save us both some time and just read my fucking blog.

What I need is a shrink who will grab me by the throat and shove my face into the sentence I just said, hold me underwater and scream at me, "LOOK AT THAT SHIT. WHY DID YOU DO THAT. That's what you need to figure out, dumbass."

I need someone to push me.

Someone to call me out.

Someone to actually HELP me.

So this morning, I have the very typical (for me) Patient's Remorse, the feeling I get when I'm at the point of no-return before a therapy appointment, when it's too late to cancel without paying for the session anyway, and I'm all, "But see? I'm not even that depressed today. This is like going to get a manicure after pulling all of my nails out with pliers. KIND OF REDUNDANT."

The psychiatrist I saw last month upped my dose of the anti-anxiety medication I've been taking for two years with fairly remarkable success, and it seems the slightly higher dose is helping because now I feel like I'm normal again.

Except.

Except this feeling is something I've experienced before a bajillion times, and what it means is that I'll be peachy-golden-sunshine-and-unicorn-farts for about two weeks and then all of a sudden, I'll feel like the entire world is spinning, the color will drain out of everything and I'll watch it slip away like shit down the toilet, and I'll be like, "Fuck. Shoulda kept that therapy appointment." But then, I'll be too depressed to pick up the damn phone, so I'll suffer through it until I'm feeling better.

Lather, rinse, re-fucking-peat.

Defeats the whole purpose of therapy, really. I'm tired of using crutches. I want to fix the fucking break inside of me. Forever.

It's exhausting, always trying to decide if living is worth the trouble.

So.

The trouble with...

...getting out of bed in the morning is that it means I am likely to accidentally do things.

And have any of you ever noticed how I tend to...how do I say this...OBFUCKINGSESS about those things that I do?

Yeah, I'm doing it again.

Now that I've started writing, it's like I can't turn it off, and I've found myself with 7 new drafts in my blogger dashboard and countless tiny, indecipherable, middle-of-the-night notebook scribbles, all of which is good I guess, but it's also frustrating because none of them are "publishable" in even the loosest "hit publish button on blog that nobody even reads" sense, and all of them are completely fucking different topics and ideas, but I have this suspicion that they're all related in some way, and so I'm starting to see a pattern and a way that they can go together to make an entire readable thing, but the problem now is that I have to actually make that happen, and holy shit, ya'll.

Writing is hard.

All of this is compounded by a few things, like that I called in a refill for my crazy meds last week but didn't realize it needed a refill authorization from my doctor, so I ended up having to miss a couple days of medication, then the pharmacy forgot to call and tell me the Rx was ready, and then I forgot that I needed to call the pharmacy to see if the Rx was ready, but finally I remembered to check on the website and saw that it WAS ready, so then I forgot to go pick it up. For two days.

Needless to say after my recent behavior, I can report that I am absolutely confident that I should be medicated. AT ALL TIMES. And by any means necessary. Which reminds me, I need to order this medication in the anal tablet form so that in the event I accidentally staple my mouth to someones couch, I can still get my absolutely vital daily dose. Ya'll, I lost track of the number of times I sobbed over things like the color of Lily's sad eyes and that the dishwasher was full of dishes, but those were clean and I had nothing to replace them with, so the poor dishwasher was going to be lonely.

And has anyone noticed that "breaking up" with a friend is really fucking awful? I've had to do that a couple of times in the recent past, and it's honestly more painful (for crazy lil ole me) to lose a friend than it was when I got divorced from my first husband.

Both times this has happened, it was due to both a parting of interests which make continued friendship more harmful than awesome, and also to my BIG. FUCKING. MOUTH. that I cannot seem to ever stop from running around naked while metaphorically flipping people the bird in between swallows of Svedka.

Between my lack of medication, the overwhelming inadequacy and pressure I feel when I'm trying to produce actual words with actual meaning, and the social turmoil of the week behind me, I can honestly say that I plan to get so motherfucking drunk tonight that I will not wake up until Monday, and when I do, I probably won't be able to locate either my pants or my face.

PS - I will need a ride home on Monday. Any takers?

Took the hillbilly out of the girl

My mom was born without two of her adult teeth, so they just pushed her entire bite forward to close the gap. Then because most of her worst genes passed right on along to me (skin, nose, TEETH, giant ribs, probably moles if I counted mine up...), I was born with the same problem.

But since I lived in Arkansas when my baby teeth fell out, I was doomed to the hillbilly version of Mom's Missing Teeth, which means only one side was missing, which means they couldn't fix my smile by moving things around, which means OF COURSE THEY COULDN'T.

So my parents installed braces on my (mostly there) teeth to be sure I could have a dental implant and a chance at a normal mouth.

I just realized I failed the "normal mouth" test in more ways than one, but you can't correct obscene language with dental hardware, so again - not my fault.

My orthodontist was either an idiot or a fraud (based #12 on this list, and the fact that I NEVER BROKE MY NOSE and therefore began making up different stories about skiing accidents and pony kicks to appease him, I'm guessing he was an idiot) and allowed my canine tooth to move so that it blocked all access to my jaw, which meant NO TOOTH IMPLANT FOR ME.

Look at me...I'm crying on the inside *of my mouth*

At some point, Dr. Genius decided to attach a little fake tooth to my braces so I could pretend I wore shoes and had indoor plumbing. It would spin around on the wire sometimes, and that was kind of hard to explain to Joe, whom I wanted to feel my boobehs.

They went un-felt for years.

When my braces came off (after 3 years) but after we went to get my implant and the oral surgeon laughed us out of his office, we returned to Dr. Genius and had him PUT THE BRACES BACK ON in order to straighten up the canine tooth and make room for an implant in my jaw. He put the braces back on for another year.

The canine didn't move.

We gave up because, you know, I was kind of graduating high school and moving away from home and it's hard to make those regular orthodontic visits when you're in a different part of the country and stuff.

So I got a retainer with a fake tooth on it. It was my mini-denture, but it stayed put really well thanks to the retaining wires running all over the place.

Once the retainer grew old (you know, when my grand kids started asking why I wore antique dental hardware, don't I know retainers haven't been around for more than 1,000 years, like, I should totally sell that on Ebay and buy them candy), I paid (out-of-pocket) for what is far-too-happily-referred to as a "flipper".

No, it's not the good kind of flipper.

It's the gross kind. the kind you learn to pop out with your tongue, just to fuck with your friends' heads. Because it's both disgusting and it's horrifying in some completely inexplicable way. People shudder, like, literally when I do it. And I shudder myself because - somehow - my hijacked #7 tooth is the thing I am most mortified of in the entire world, including Hitler.

That bastard had all his teeth.

Maybe it's KINDA like a dolphin...

And this poor girl knows exactly how I feel:

But I FEEL THAT WAY NO MORE.

Last year, my hot dentist told me about a new kind of partial that won't damage the surrounding teeth *much* and won't have to be removed for cleaning or, you know, for giving blow jobs. (Seriously, have you ever choked on a big piece of plastic and then had it rammed FURTHER DOWN YOUR THROAT by a distracted recipient? It's not cool.)

This year, my insurance agreed to pay for part of the work, which is kind of a miracle because my hillbilly tooth hole has always been considered a preexisting condition by insurance companies and potential suitors.

Yesterday, I banished my flipper forever.

This machine carved my tiny new tooth.

This computer program made my teeth look like a very yellow mountain range.

And now I can smile without having to think, "SHIT. Did I remember to put in my tooth?" or "Fuck, I didn't expect to see my neighbor so early in the morning, TALK WITH MOUTH CLOSED" or *upon waking up with a killer hangover* "HOLY GOD which toilet is my flipper swimming in and how many times did I pee on it in the night?!"

Which means that now...I'm no so ashamed anymore. 


                                  

Here's me "before' with my flipper (third tooth from left)
It's darker than my other teeth because we went ahead and did some bleaching up in this bitch.

Here's the ::vomit:: shot.

My after shot, bitches!

My directly-after shot when I tried to smile but half my face was still numb. Damn. I coulda been Elvis.

We're considering installing a chair lift

Well, we got the green light from our OBGYN to Make! Babies! Promptly!

Most people don't think to visit the doctor before conception, but I had a lot of google time on my hands as I waited for the goddamn class D seizure/migraine medication to clear out of my body, so when I read (on a very medically sound message board, I am sure) that a preconception check-up was sometimes recommended, it took less than forty-five seconds for me to schedule that appointment.

Except that's not true because that's not how it happened.

See, when my neurologists assured me that my traumatic brain injury, skull fracture, parietal lobe bruising, and related cervical nerve damage would in no way effect my future pregnancies, I didn't believe them for a fucking second.

It doesn't seem possible that a head injury can just...dissipate and go away like a broken arm or a bad reaction to shell fish. My past experience with brain injuries, albeit from the sidelines, was telling me a different story.

In December when I was finally given the okay to begin DOING ACTUAL THINGS again, I emailed my faithful OBGYN (we'll call him Dr. Noggin for the sake of not saying "OBGYN" every six sentences) and although he had already been notified of my injuries (via fax)((at my request)) by the hospital where I'd been treated, he didn't yet know the whole story. When I explained what had happened to the best of my knowledge, I was met with a response that didn't surprise me, but DID scare me a little.

Dr. Noggin said there were definitely risks and concerns, namely my "focal neurological deficits" (my loss of hearing and my dizziness, which have since gone away completely, and my loss of taste and smell, which have not), high blood pressure during pregnancy, and pushing during labor and delivery. Basically, we have to be wary of anything that could potentially knock a blood clot loose in my brain and cause...well...whatever they cause, and while that is always true of any pregnant woman, apparently women with TBIs in their past are at a much greater risk.

Dr. Noggin forwarded my information to a perinatologist (high-risk pregnancy specialist) at the Mayo Clinic for more information, and he came back with even more semi-scary news.

Though I knew this already, it was something else entirely when he said, "Your head injury is the most important thing in your medical history now, NO QUESTION ABOUT IT." Dammit, I guess Mummy Hand must take a back burner. Forever.

He said that we'd "re-evaluate next year," which is now, and said he'd prefer to see us back in his office before we made the decision to commence Operation: Get In My Belleh, Baby.

So we went, and although it was a much happier appointment than the last time we were there together, it was still a little nerve-wracking. We found ourselves beyond punchy and giggling like little girls over something involving head cheese and the word "moist". I, of course, was starving because I'd fasted all day in preparation for my cholesterol test, and Gray was exhausted, probably from playing too much Mortal Kombat, and so there we sat, in the room full of miniature vaginas, models of ovaries and diagrams of cervical positions, laughing so loudly that we drew a bit of attention to ourselves.

When Dr. Noggin came into the room, it was time for business. He began with, "So you're normal now," and when neither Gray nor I could answer that in the affirmative, he chuckled and said, "Well, not "normal," but better. Head-wise."

There is no mistaking me for "normal."

I expected some questions about my brain to be interspersed with others about my menstrual cycles, my lifestyle, exercise, immunizations, and all the other topics I'd googled about preconception check-ups. What I didn't expect was a very pointed interrogation about my brain injury, doctors, time in the hospital, recovery, symptoms, headaches, medication, mood, and other completely brain-centric questions. He also had me sign a form so he could get my last CT scan. Just in case, he said.

I was a little taken aback because at this point in my recovery, I consider myself back to how I was before, even though that doesn't equal "normal".

But as Dr. Noggin pointed out, a traumatic brain injury resulting in ten days in the hospital, some of those in ICU, is not something that I can ever "gloss over," not for the rest of my life. And I'm beginning to realize that the implications of one stupid fucking fall down the basement stairs will be much farther-reaching into the rest of my years on this earth than I ever imagined.

So by the end of the appointment, we got the green light, but I feel it was granted in a near-begrudging manner, and with very strict orders to report any type of change in vision, hearing, motor skills, touch, ANYTHING WHATSOEVER OUT OF THE ORDINARY, and Dr. Noggin said he would not hesitate to order and MRI and refer me to a high-risk specialist if my blood pressure rises or other warning signs present themselves.

I don't think he'd hesitate to spank me if I neglected to follow his orders.

Landers, The Laptop

December 25, 2008 - January 31, 2011. Landers dyed peacefully in his home after a long battle with a broken vagina. He was two years old. At the moment of his passing, he was surrounded by dog dander and banana vomit, thanks to several weeks of not vacuuming and the fact that Nintendo was trying to kill Cat. More on that exciting news later. Landers was born in an Acer manufacturing facility in 2008 and was purchased as a Christmas present by Gray for Cat, both because of his respect for her exceptional writing talent, but also because he dreamed it would result in additional blowies.Gray is still recovering from the loss of that dream. Lander's arrival with the family resulted in Cat's month-long infatuation with different versions of "Single Ladies (Put a Ring on It)" on YouTube and an epic battle to un-install Windows Vista before it clawed it's way into Cat's brain and ate her few remaining cells for dinner. Oh, and free internet porn also became a feature of the family's bedroom. Landers is survived by almost every other laptop in the history of the world, as well as a loving family who is choosing to grieve by harassing Craigslist spammers from the computer at work and drinking copious amounts of sparkling apple juice while pretending it's tequila. In lieu of flowers, the family requests that you send ACTUAL tequila. No, really. Cat can't taste it now, so tequila trumps vodka. A memorial service will never be held because of the family's full DVR and Cat's new obsession with power tools. Look for Cat's obituary, coming to blogs near you.

The Color Purple. It Sucks.

You have to be fucking kidding me, Universe.

It wasn't enough that there was a K-9 shit explosion in our bedroom this morning, one that required removing the bed skirt and scrubbing down a dresser.

Then our little dog ate a shit-ton of chocolate and had to be force-fed hydrogen peroxide so that she would vomit uncontrollably into the bathtub and threaten more K-9 shit explosions for the next two days.

Neither Gray or I was having a bad enough Tuesday, so you gave him a roaring headache and roiling nausea, then you decided to TURN MY MOTHERFUCKING HAND PURPLE. So purple was my hand that co-workers insisted I visit the company's EMT, who insisted I call my doctor's nurses' line, by whom I was told to go immediately to the emergency room, to which I was transported by a kind security officer, where I was stripped of my shirt and solemnly told I might have a blood clot...all while I shook my head and laughed and said, "This is ridiculous."

Gray raced to my side so that he could sit with me in the same ultrasound room where, in 2008, we learned that our little, tiny fetus wasn't visible on the screen. He sat there next to me as the vascular ultrasound technician squirted my neck and armpit and forearm with blue lube. He tolerated my bad jokes about armpit fetishes.

And then, Universe, you fucking asshole, you decided that there was nothing wrong with me. Literally. The emergency room doctor said his diagnosis is, "::shoulder shrug:: I dunno." He said he's been a doctor for 25 years and never seen anything like my purple hand and no blood clots. He said it might go away on its own but that I should return if it does not.

WHAT THE MOTHER FUCKING FUCK FUCK. This was supposed to be MY year. You know...the one where I didn't have to go to the emergency room for any reason? No miscarriages? No broken arms? No skull fractures? THAT is the year I ordered up.

And I didn't make it even a fucking month before I returned for a pointless trip to the emergency room. A very EXPENSIVE and pointless trip.

Sure, it's true that now I know I'm not going to die from a blood clot. The kicker is that I'd consider that option right now.

Despite the Medical Bullshit

July 17th, 2010 was the best day of my entire life. Everything else that has happened pales in comparison. Despite it all, 2011 will be hard pressed to top this year in which I got engaged, adopted our doggy son, married my best friend, went to BlogHer, bought our first home together, and celebrated it all with friends and family from all over the country.

Happy New Years, you losers.

On a Lighter Note

We got a lot of snow here this weekend. I was confined to the house (thanks to Nurse Gray) and therefore could only take photos of him clearing the snow. Nothing interesting, but also...nothing cold. Or slippery.

Or interesting.

Thankfully, some friends of ours had mercy and let us borrow their snow thrower. As you can see, the accumulation was rather deep on the driveway, so it would have killed Gray to shovel it all by hand. 

Our driveway, unlike most of our neighbors, begins on at the front of our house and continues all the way to the rear of our property. Then there's the front sidewalk, the side-sidewalk, the back sidewalk and the deck, then we have to shovel a path for walking to the garage, and another for rolling the garbage bins around the side of our garage, where most of the (SMART) neighbors have just a short pad to park their cars.

When the deck and yard was filled up with so much snow that Bampa was waist-high, and shovelling was pointless due to the crazy wind, he decided just to crap inside. We couldn't blame him.

The weather is much better this morning, but the driveway remains impassable. Gray is chomping away with the shovel until the snow is a manageable depth for the snow thrower, but he's also exhausted and probably losing his mind a little bit. Unless he's pretending he's an arctic explorer, in which case it's too late for him anyway.

Oh, and the Metrodome broke under the weight of the snow. HOORAY! No football today!

Bundle up, kids.

Wrath of an Angry...Everyone

I'm not feeling like my old self yet.

It's kind of like the very first day at a new job, except I've worked the same job for well over two years and I am, of course, beloved by all. Oh, and I feel this way whether I'm at home with my husband, on the phone with a bridesmaid (i.e. a GOOD friend), or at work. Part time. Where half the people didn't realize I was even gone.

But still, I'm nervous about how others perceive me now: my double chin (thanks, HCMC, for the enormous amounts of sodium you pumped into me) which is accompanied by a very significant weight gain, so none of my clothes fit, my very short (yet somehow already way outgrown) pixie cut, my stammering voice, my inability to remember certain words, an overall halting confidence in my ability to be funny, fun or fucktastic.

True, most of these insecurities existed before, but now they seem to be present in all social settings including between myself and close friends, family, and even here with you freaks.

I suppose any sorta-near-death experience makes a person re-evaluate certain aspects of her life - I, for example, have managed to cut ties with one friend, one family member, and completely alienate another (granted, easily-alienate-able) family member. JUST THIS YEAR. One of the best years of my life has also been one of the worst, for which I'm only partly to blame, but due to which I was already struggling to forgive myself and move on.

Now? It's like I have to come to terms with all of that shit all over again.

It's like waaaaay back when I first began this blog, I told you about my ex and his (much worse than mine) traumatic brain injury. I was his primary caregiver, although I'm pretty sure his family would argue with that statement. But we owned a home and a vehicle and dogs together, so fuck it. We may as well have been married at the time. You can ready about it here, if you're so inclined.

One of the very difficult parts of my ex's recovery was that he lost a LOT of short term memory, which meant that we literally had to rehash every single argument that we had ever had. EVER. Because he remembered part of the disagreement but not all, and part of his cognitive therapy was to work on remembering.

The original purpose of this blog, actually, was to let off some steam because caring for a loved one with TBI fucking sucks. SUCKS. It's terrifying and lonely and painful and disgusting and helpless and funny and not funny and exhausting.

And now I get to rehash my recent arguments, and while those were terrible, I now can add that I've put my existing friends and family through the same trauma. I've doubled my co-workers' responsibilities. I've been a bad patient who had to be sedated and tied to the bed. I yelled at my mother and my husband. I'VE FLASHED MY COOTER TO PEOPLE WHO DIDN'T WISH TO SEE IT. I was unconscious when it happened, of course, but still.

I've been a terrible, finicky, seriously un-funny person. Did I mention chubby?

And now my punishment has been dealt:

I think my dog marked his territory INSIDE MY BRA, but I can't smell to verify the validity of my theory.

Check Out My Headlights

I DROVE TODAY FOR THE FIRST TIME IN SEVEN WEEKS. And will continue to do so, indefinitely.

Fuckin-A right!


PS - I won't mention that the last time I drove, I hit a parked car. In my parking lot at work. Under a surveillance camera. That would dampen the mood.

Your Breath. That's on the Pro Side.

The longest-lasting and possibly permanent damage as a result of my recent tumble (besides a possibility of high-risk pregnancy and dangerously high intracranial brain pressure during birth) is this thing called anosmia.

Anosmia is the complete loss of the sense of smell which subsequently causes a near-total loss of the sense of taste, because our tongues are only able to detect four things: salty, sweet, sour and bitter.

What this means for me is that everything is fucking WEIRD. I can't smell anything. I can't taste anything. I can feel food, but that's not exactly what I'd consider necessary for excellent holiday noshing. In the afternoons I'll think, "Hmmm what should I make for dinner?" and the answer is always, "Who fucking cares, I could drink tap water sprinkled with sea salt and it's going to be the same experience as the finest chowder in the universe" because FUUUUUCK. I can't taste anything.

This anosmia is also a detriment to my cooking skills because I refuse to follow recipes. I prefer to add "dashes" of shit and then taste it to be sure I'm comfortable feeding my concoction to another person (who didn't come to me with a death wish). Garlic used to be my closest friend. I kept a clove in my pillow and whispered my secrets to it every night. Sometimes I used it when my vibrator battery died and I didn't have a replacement.

Now I'm terrified of garlic because is it too much? Too little? What if I drop a piece on the floor and don't notice when I'm cleaning up because I don't smell the lingering garlic, what if my dog eats it and DIES?

Does my sauce need more salt? You'd think I could figure that out since salt is one of the things I can detect, but unfortunately because it's ALL I can detect, I nearly threw out a pot of cooked spaghetti because it seemed so salty I thought I was hallucinating Hawaii again. It was perfectly good, not overly-salty spaghetti, I've just lost my ability to taste what others around me are tasting.

I don't have kids yet, but when I do, my method of detecting a poopy pant will either be constant diaper checks or it will be shit-squirting alerts. I may never bake my own bread again. What's the point?

WILL I NEVER SMELL A BABY'S HEAD AGAIN?!?!?!

There are other, slightly more dangerous problems with anosmia, like the inability to detect gas leaks in your home, spoiled food in your fridge and giant turds in your toilet. That aren't yours. Smoke in your house or neighborhood. Many people end up over-eating to compensate for a lack of food-related enjoyment while others stop eating because, again, what's the fucking point? Loss of libido, depression, all kinds of crap has been blamed on the disorder as well.

On the up-side, because you know I'm such an optimist, there's the fact that blow jobs will now be odorless, I can sit next to my husband and we can both fart away without my noticing any consequence (I just chalk the look on his face up to that awful Mountain Dew shit he drinks) I may some day be able to eat sea food without being reminded of diseased genitalia.

Oh, and alcohol QUALITY hardly seems important now.

Upside is My Shit Don't Stink

Um, yeah. So. Despite my best intentions to write here...you know, GET BACK AT IT, and stuff...it seems my concentration has been compromised and I"m much less likely to post to my blog than I am to take a nap or eat another Tootsie Roll.

I often complain, "Why am I so tired? Why do I sleep so much?" to which Gray responds, "I don't know, but that's what you're supposed to do. That's what the doctor's told you to do," to which I respond, "I hate the doctors."

Because really? REALLY? Sleeping 12 hours and then needing a 3 hour nap? And I don't mean just because I'm at home with nothing to do (although now I'm allowed to go online or read books or watch movies, whereas the first 4 weeks were "rest only" orders). If I get up and take a 10 minute shower, it means I will inevitably need either to hit the sack for the night or a really long nap. FROM TAKING A SHOWER. It's physically exhausting, just taking clothes off and putting them back on, standing in the water (now that I've outgrown the shower chair, that is), brushing my teeth.

So while I'm reading like my life depends upon it, and I'm doing all kinds of junior-high level cognitive worksheets (like, there's a map where all the streets are numbered and you have to name the streets based on vague clues), I'm having a hard time writing. Being creative in general, really.

I really hope it comes back, because I am noticing other subtle changes in myself that I do NOT approve of.

For example, Gray came running out of the bathroom yesterday exclaiming that he had a poop story that I would love, and he told me that his very own giant poop had clogged the toilet, but he was unable to bring himself to plunge because of the turds which remained in the bowl (it was "gross" he said, as if the plunger would otherwise be a showpiece), so he grabbed a doggie poo bag, two of them actually, and plucked his own shit from the bowl, disposing of it as he does Bampa's waste - it the outdoor garbage can. THEN he plunged.

The whole time he told the story, I was cringing away from him in disgust, adamantly wondering, "DID YOU WASH YOUR HANDS?!" and wishing he hadn't told me. (After he left for work, I had to go and scrub the damn thing down.) He responded that "of course" he washed his hands, and sulked away saying he thought I'd love a good poop story, which normally I would. Like this one.

Minutes later I couldn't resist warning him, "I'm going to have to blog about that."

"I figured you would," was his reply.

It appears that my injury has inflicted at least a temporary aversion to poop stories. ON ME! It's bad enough I can't tell a banana from a sirloin, a bottle of water from a bottle of Ensure. It's unjust that I can't enjoy so much as a glass of wine until next summer (which means it's a perfect time to get pregnant) but I also can't safely conceive while I'm on the medication I'm taking to help my brain recover, plus I couldn't taste the damn wine anyway!

There's something horrifying about the idea that I've literally knocked the love of a really good poop story right out of myself, and I hope desperately that it doesn't extend to my love of writing and blogging and making threatening phone calls to nursing homes...erm, forget that last part.

What I'm saying is SHIT.

Now if you'll excuse me, I have to go lay down.

Things I'm Thankful For:

Tomorrow, I mean. Thankful for tomorrow.

There's a reason Thanksgiving is only a one-day holiday. Otherwise, people would get stabbed, or exsanguinated like Arnette, and probably by me. If you know who I'm talking 'bout, be careful not to fall down the well.

I am thankful to have an in-tact spine.

I am thankful for my houseboy/personal chef.

I am thankful for Excel spreadsheets.

I am thankful for the lusty dreams of adolescence, coming back by surprise.

I am thankful (in hindsight) for the taste of EVERYTHING.

I am thankful to friends when they send me cards in the mail.

I am thankful for shower chairs.

I am thankful that I can now burn my shower chair for warmth.

I am thankful for my handy father and his help around the new house.

I am thankful that, for the fist time ever, I have been able to hole up under blankets with mugs of decaf coffee during the first two snowfalls of the season.

I am thankful that SATC 2 is out on Blu-Ray.

I am thankful for Tootsie Rolls, which I hated until recently. They used to hurt my teeth.

Vibrators. Nuff said.

I am thankful for doctors who give the green light to resume...marital relations.

I am thankful that I get! To! Cook! just in time for Thanksgiving! Not exactly from scratch, but it beats Gray alone in the kitchen, although Stouffer stock may take a hit.

Have a good one, ya'll. Please PLEASE have a cocktail for me.

Gobble Gobble.

Perfect Time To Have Kids, No?

I'm considering a return to talk therapy, and holy christ, I was unprepared for how awkward that sentence would sound out loud: the verbal equivalent of that couple who walks around with their hands in each other's rear pants pockets, regardless of how impractical that may be when they're also, oh I don't know, trying to cross the street while making out and talking on a cell phone.

I know I stood up Dr. Crazy Socks last time, but I'm pretty sure he (meaning his wallet) will welcome me back into the crazy-fold with lots of, "So how have you been"s and "How did that make you feel"s.

I've been feeling really good, actually, considering the stress I've been under (and yes, I realize it's mostly self-induced stress, fuck you very much), but I'm still just a little big ::off:: somehow. Anxiety is slowly creeping into my brain, and as Gray pointed out last night, winter is approaching, and we all know how the onslaught of 6 dark months tend to = me in a corner with a spoon pressed perilously close to my eyeball, humming Edelweiss and stroking my stuffed lobster toy.

Also, I'm trying to figure out why I feel the need to be incessantly, exhaustively over-scheduled. I tell myself I LIKE DOWN TIME and I'm pretty sure I mean that when I say it, except when I look at my calendar for the next two months, I feel like I'm trying to emulate Barack Obama, granted with fewer black tie events and more dog poop, but I'm fucking booked solid, is what I'm trying to say, and all of these things I have going on are voluntary (besides my full-time, necessary for continued survival-type job and my part-time, why dear god am still doing this to myself college classes), and I can't figure out why I seem unable to just sit the fuck down already.

After work today, I'll be driving to the St. Paul campus (for the second time this week, and regardless that all my fall classes are online) to pick up and distribute the September issue of The Metropolitan newspaper. Then I'll hustle home to go for a walk with my dog and shovel down some dinner before biking over to my doggy client's house to take her for a walk. Then it's home to read Don Quixote for my Lit class for as long as I can keep my eyes open.

I don't even have time to drink during the week anymore. If that's not a cry for help, I don't know what is.

I'm supposed to meet my mortgage broker one of these nights to sign some documents in preparation for closing on our house on September 30th, which means I also need to start packing because HOLY SHIT WE ARE MOVING AGAIN IN ONE MONTH, but I should start packing until I've finished writing our thank you cards from the wedding, and I can't forget the writing deadlines, and then Kylie arrives to crash with us (meaning I'll want to do nothing but to paint her toenails and talk her ears right out of the room. Over several glasses cases of wine.) Regardless of this ridiculous time schedule, I find myself scanning the domestic "gigs" listed on Craigslist, searching for part-time cleaning jobs to make a little extra money because I have fifteen spare minutes every other Tuesday evening and I'll be damned if I spend that time enjoying myself. Plus, two people have told me I'm "crazy" since yesterday. Maybe I should look into that.

I think this post was a way of convincing myself I need therapy. I just don't have time to make an appointment.