No. NO. Reboot.

You know what? Fuck what I said the other day. I don't feel guilty at all.

Can anyone explain why people who talk a big game seem without variation to be hypocrites?

(For example, almost every outspoken anti-gay politician turns out to be gay. I say stick that dick wherever you'd like, just own it. OWN THAT DICK, Senator.)

The people I speak of preach safety! And security! And good will towards men! They are citizens who take action against hooligans! They build fences to protect their children from danger! And they have a big problem with people who don't take those same things seriously.

But when shit hits the fan and the big game talkers are implicated in a dangerous situation, it suddenly becomes someone else's problem. Some other person's responsibility. No apologies, no concern. They feel that the problems they "caused" not only should be overlooked, but all those other rules about safety and community involvement fly right out the window because suddenly, they are the ones under fire. They are the ones out of line.

Hypocrisy at its finest.

I agree that their lives are hard enough as it is right now, which really does suck. That's why I've tried to be helpful.

I can't do anything but hold up a mirror and hope they see themselves in it when what I really want to do is smash the mirror into their thick skulls and scream, "WHAT THE FUCK?!?! WHO ARE YOU!?!?"

So I take it back: I'm not sorry. I'm pissed, and I have every right to be.

BlogHer '11 or bust. Or bust in general.

So.

My hotel bed sheets are all...leaky. Black and ishy.

Probably should back up and explain that.

I um...well, I don't know what I was expecting from the conference this year, but it wasn't even close to what I was expecting, whatever that was. I got here on Thursday afternoon and I spent about two hours at the conference. Then Friday I went to twenty minutes of one workshop.

And I was done.

I left the convention center and walked around downtown, got some lunch and drank some beers, then went back to my hotel and waited for my cousin to show up. When he did, we drove around through Balboa Park and then went to somewhere (La Mesa?).

And then these happened:

I only cried a *little* around hour forty-million of the needles.

Then we crashed at my cousin's house, played with his crazy fucking kitten, and then came back to the hotel where I got hit on by a bum, met Jessie James, learned how to open beer with a lighter, and fell asleep for houuuuuurs.

I never returned to the conference, not even for the parties. I only used one of the ten drink tickets they gave me. Hell, if I were expecting something from this trip, it's probably that I would have been hung over AT LEAST half of the time, but no. Not even once.

And now I'm packing all my shit up for the return trip to Minnesota, where I've never been so happy to live at the moment.

Did you know that chicks here in San Diego are, like, BLINDINGLY gorgeous? It's kinda painful to look at. And then it makes looking in mirrors just that much more awful.

Airplanes are my best friend now, apparently. If they kill me, I'm so going to unfriend them on facebook.

Totally boned. And not in the *good* way.

Hi.

I have so much drama happening and I can't talk about any of it. SUCKY. This is the first time in Zippy's history that I've been unable to use you freaks as free therapy.

Wait, is there a confidentiality clause on the internet?

Hmm. Didn't think so.

Instead of telling you anything AT ALL about what's going down in Zippy town, I'll have to be content to show you these.

Why has it never occurred to me to glue shit to MY car?

Someone left this hat at my house. I don't know who. I also don't know what I'm doing with my hand.

Someone else left THIS hat at my house. It may have been my dead grandfather.

This is me at the hospital with my broken toe. Did I mention they didn't give me enough pain pills? The worst part about this injury is that I just purchased a bunch of shoes on Ebay. And I can't wear any of them for four to six weeks.  Baaad savings karma, clearly.

I miss this.

My new motto. Except...it's also retroactive.

What happens when you hand me a paintbrush.

Inside joke. Most of you have probably heard it. Guess that makes it an outside joke.

Good god. HOW BIG IS THE 500+ lbs TOILET? I'm afraid to know.



What. The. Hell.

Where have I been, you ask?

Wait, you didn't ask? Good thing I don't give a flying V, eh?

Let's see, I...

• Went to the shrink to learn that I'm not bipolar. I'm just really, really wacked overall. So there's that. Lots of therapy lies ahead of me.
• Then I got laid off. Excuse me, I got "temporarily furloughed," and so did Gray.ON THE SAME DAY. So it's going to be just *that* much more difficult to pay for said therapy.
• Then I helped one of my very best friends start packing because she is moving WAY FAR AWAY.
• While I was helping her move, I slipped down the stairs and broke my big toe in two places. No joke, the fracture is "L" shaped. And no, I wasn't drunk. I wasn't even drinking. Except coffee, but it wasn't laced absinthe with or anything. I AM JUST THAT FUCKING CLUMSY.
• Then Angel Butt and Five Head came to visit and we've been alternating between subsequent, ridonkulous video game challenges issued from Gray to Five Head (some kind of odd 35 year old to 12 year old bonding thing, no? They have more in common than Gray and I do.) and sleep overs with 4-year-old girls. Did you know that children don't push themselves on the swing? That you have to do it FOR them? It's all very exhausting. 
• Then, thanks to the no-jobs thing, we ran out of booze. And painkillers. Did I mention I broke my toe? And then Angel Butt accidentally stamped on it just when it was starting to fit into a regular shoe again?
• NO JOB THING.

So I'm a bit stressed. Turns out polishing up my resume is about the exact opposite of fun. Or exciting. Or bearable.

And applying for unemployment is almost impossible, did you know that? There are all these...forms and...questions and...OUCHIE BRAIN.

Did I mention I've done all of this sober?

I don't write about work here, for obvious reasons (if they find the bag of body parts in my office drawer, I am totally fucked) so I have had very little to divulge except "ouch" and "ouch" and, oh: OW MOTHERFUCKER.

July is awesome so far.

All kinds of disturbing

When tearing out the hideous landscaping rock, I dug up giant clumps of roots that were halting our shovels' progress. I may have screamed at them, "I don't know what you think you are, plant, but I didn't give you permission to grow here so you've GOT TO GO."

We left a big bunch of them growing by the deck because they weren't hurting anything there and I was curious what they were. Turns out I killed a bunch of bleeding hearts. Threw them away. In the garbage. With a smile on my face.

We bought a new TV (OUR VERY FIRST FLAT SCREEN!) from a friend who is moving and didn't need this one in his bedroom anymore. I just realized I should have dunked it in Purell. Don't tell Gray.

Did I mention it's a 46" flat screen? And that we have it? In our house? Cause we do!

Things are just starting to grow here.

If you're lucky enough to live in a state in which spring began prior to May 7th, then I fucking hate you.

Kylie and I garage-saled our asses off on Saturday. She made me stop buying when there was no longer room in my car for another item. She wouldn't let me tie her to the hood. I love Kylie, but she can be really selfish sometimes. You should have seen how crowded my trunk hostages were.

I don't know what this thing is, but I want one for my very own self.

I haven't had a pedicure in a long time, but I wanted to wear open-toed shoes this morning, so I'm such a genius that my solution what to paint a non-matching color over the existing, comically-grown out polish. The result was a horrible mash up that part melted crayon, part gangrene. It didn't occur to me that I could, oh, you know, REMOVE THE GODDAMN POLISH FROM THE TIP OF MY BIG TOE.

And then I realized you can see my non-painted third toes, anyway.

Here's a word of advice to all you ass hats on Facebook whose only photos are of themselves posing shirtless in front of a builder-grade bathroom mirror with their camera phones: Not only do we not wish to see fourteen *slightly* varied poses of your jaw line, but next time you might want to include a friend in your photo. So we think you have friends. Hell, even a stuffed abominable snowman is better that what you've got.

And oh yeah: I have shingles.

Don't the graphics make them look like more fun? Because in reality, they feel like a semi ran over my shoulder, then it backed up over the other side of my shoulder, and also the semi's eighteen wheels were made from rubberized spider poison and the hounds of hell.

And because I've only read of youngish people getting shingles, and because I don't have the time/inclination to make my very own Shingle Tribute video, may I present to you Heather's:

SHINGLES! from dooce on Vimeo.

Maybe I should break my arm again

I have a giant rash on my left shoulder and arm, and I'm pretty sure it's a stress rash from HAVING TO WAIT TO FIND OUT IF I'M PREGNANT.

Have I mentioned I'm not good at waiting?

I'm trying desperately to distract myself, keeping busy every day at work and when I get home, but there isn't one second of the day that my mind isn't flashing an internal neon sign and screaming at me that I don't know if I'm pregnant, I could be pregnant, I might not be pregnant, I have no way of knowing if I'm pregnant, I MUST KNOW RIGHT NOW.

Gray doesn't understand the stress involved. He listed of a dozen other semi-major things we have gong on, and said his mind keeps busy mulling those things over instead, and then I punched him in the gut and told him to suck on his busy mind. Because I mull every one of those things over (except Mortal Kombat) every day, too, and apparently I've got a speedy mental processor, because it's like I wake up in the morning and go,

"Three days until payday *mental list off all the bills we need to pay*, Gray might be starting a second job *mental list of all the money he would make and how I can spend it*, Lily ate two sticks of butter and Scary tried to bite the kitchen island when it snuck up on her...dogs are both still in need of major training *mental list of all the ways I could dismember them and shove their pieces down the garbage disposal*, need to fix the garbage disposal *mental note to google how to fix the garbage disposal*, I start taking summer classes next week *mental list of all the shit I need to buy for school*, have to remember to take my prenatal vitimin *OMFG I MIGHT BE PREGNANT*"

And then it's all over from there. The rest of my waking hours are spent alternating between thoughts about pregnancy, worries about miscarriage, *mental list of acceptable baby names*, cringing about cervical mucus, and wondering if I'm pregnant.

Last night I decided to take one of those "early detection" pregnancy tests that are supposed to work up to five days before your next expected period is due.

Last night was exactly eleven days prior to my next expected period, so I figured my chances of getting an accurate reading were, oh, SO FUCKING GOOD.

Okay, okay, fine. I knew I was wasting a pregnancy test and my time, but was there a tiny little part of me that thought that just ::maybe:: it would come back positive? Maybe just 1% chance?

Yes, I figured there might be a tiny chance, and so during the requisite three minutes waiting for my pee to soak into the stick, I contemplated the best way to disappear into another country to escape all the scientists who would want to study me because I'm the only woman on earth who got an accurate pregnancy result before her body even knew it was pregnant.

It was negative, of course, which leaves me exactly where I was this time yesterday, which is HELL, if you're wondering.

Maybe I shouldn't have quit smoking pot. Seems like that would help right about now.

Here, have a squirrel:

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.

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.

Pathetic Sibling Rivals

I'm totally pissed off at my little sister because she had the nerve to go to the hospital. AGAIN.

That bitch.

I say "again" because she's had several trips to urgent care and the emergency room this year, all relating to secret, non-discussable and only semi-entertaining ailments. It's not that I want my sister to be in pain or anything, it's just that she's TOTALLY STEALING MY THUNDER.

Now that I'm no longer the center of attention for absolutely everyone and the fawning sentiments from friends and family have abated, I had decided to reclaim my rightful place on the Throne of Everything by reenacting my injury. TONIGHT.

I conned all the work girls into another Happy Hour and I planned to accidentally slip and fall down my basement stairs again, effectively re-cracking my skull and, once again, receiving flowers, get-well cards, homemade chicken soup, visits from my long-distance relatives, and (OF FUCKING COURSE) a refill of my oxy.

Tonight was the first Happy Hour since my injury, which was sustained in October during a Happy Hour at my house. Tonight was the chance for me to declare to the entire world that I am the Princess of Clutz! The Sheba of Schlep! The Bandit of Brain Pain!

And now my little sister has gone and fucking ruined it all.

Do you think I can just scratch off my name and re-use a get well card?

*Okay, so obviously I'm super worried about her. Don't judge, just laugh. Also, I'm the D.D. tonight because I STILL. CAN'T. IMBIBE. It's like purgatory, but waaay fucking colder.

Crappy Xmas Post

We are flying to Long Beach tomorrow to spend the week before Christmas with my family. I've really over-done it this week running errands, working half days, organizing bills, taking care of some insurance matters. I"m exhausted and my throat is swollen, hopefully due to being tired and nothing else because otherwise I WILL INFECT YOU IF YOU ARE FLYING FROM MILWAUKEE TO LAX tomorrow.

I am not taking my laptop with me and I will not be posting - it's the least I can do to thank my folks for spending two weeks waiting on me hand and foot last month. I'm sure you'll all be devastated. 

These photos are from January 2010 when Gray and I got engaged out in Malibu. Thought they might tide you over a bit.

Me (left) with Jessica Bern of Bernthis.com last January

I haven't spent a Christmas in California with this side of the family since I was a kid. It's about damn time. It's also surprising because this is the side of the family that is easy going even when I'm not wasted on boxed wine from a plastic cup.

This year, the wine has been hidden and the plastic cup forcibly removed from my grasp.

So this is the perfect time to resume old traditions, no?

Anal Fissures Just Sounds...Geriatric

My intestinal workings have been...muddled since I took a tumble, mostly due to pain killers and odd dietary restrictions. While in the hospital, I ate almost nothing and sloughed off enough weight so that I was below my wedding day number, even though at the time of my wedding I was completely unable to lose another quarter pound despite hardly eating at all.

After the hospital, my family basically force-fed me, which was probably good because I couldn't exactly stand on my stork legs (still had the belly bulge, though - that thing will not DIE), and so I eventually gained all of the weight back (and a hell of a lot more). After about a week of eating five meals a day and laying either in bed or on the couch all of the time, I realized I hadn't yet felt the slightest need to take a shit.

Me? NOT SHIT? That was absurd.

I was already taking colace and Senekot to combat the poop-related effects of the pain killers, but still. Nothing. Not prune juice, not fruit, not laxatives.

Finally, after nearly two weeks, I felt something simmering in the lower furnace and I hustled (be it slowly, and with family chiding, "Where are you going? I can get it for you!" in the background) to the toilet, bore down with all of my might, and popped out several minuscule pellets of shit. Like a rabbit, I was.

That continued until I finally upped the doses of stool softener (every moment expecting to feel the tickle of a human-height turd tickle the back of my throat, hell-bent on escape however necessary) and the shower of pebbles increased until they almost made up the quantity of a normal Cat poop.

Eventually, my bowel movements were the talk of the household. Each time I emerged victorious from the loo, I'd raise my hands in victory and declare, "I WENT!" to the exclamations of my father, step-mom, and husband. And probably dog. It's hard to tell with him.

When the day came that a normal, non-rabbit shaped poop emerged like the sweet, sweet result of a love affair between a banana and a piece of granite, there were tears in my eyes.

No really. It hurt fucking bad, and it cracked open my ass, too. Fissures, if you please.

Eventually, things got back to normal (in the poop department)((mostly)) and I'm happy to report that I have ceased to bleed from every orifice of my body. (Did I mention I no longer ovulate? Yeah, apparently that's thanks to trauma. I'm hoping that comes back, too, so that we can. YOU KNOW. Have a family.)

Until the other night.

I was driving home when the sudden, unexpected urge to POOP! overcame me, and try as I might, I knew I could not resist the call of nature long enough to make it all the way home, so I detoured to a gas station, where I delivered what felt like a watermelon through my ass and into the toilet bowl, leaving more blood behind, and although I flushed, the turd remained.

It remained because it was positioned like the world's most horrifying bridge over the opening in the toilet and it wouldn't move despite repeated swearing and flushing maneuvers.

Terrified of leaving a Barbie-sized shit bridge for someone else to take care of (actually, I was worried I'd open the door and someone would be waiting to use the restroom, thereby KNOWING it was me who'd left the chocolate melon in my wake), I decided to take action.

I reached in and re-positioned my own shit. With my hand.

Now if that isn't taking charge of my life...then thank fucking god because I never want to do that again so long as I live.

Or so long as I'm sober.

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.

Ouch

You guys.....
                ......I'm here.....

Well, kind of.

This morning at my weekly appointment, my speech pathologist gave me the go-ahead to use email and Facebook again, so I've interpreted that liberally to include Blogger as well.

What to say? What to say? Well here's something: a big, scary injury that requires hospitalization is an awesome source for blog material. If you survive.

I haven't been on the FB yet, but I did call my bank and I emailed my family, and now I'm too exhausted to actually write a post for ya'll, so here. Have these:

This is one of my head bruises after it was nearly gone. WTF, head?

Chopping off the hair because it pulled on my skull and a pony tail was even worse. BE GONE! (I look so awful in the photo 1) because I'm swollen like a giant, pale chipmunk and B) this is the part when I almost threw up passed out on my kitchen floor. Sitting up, chit-chating and.......sitting up at the same time was too much for my brains to handle, apparently.

 Okay, so this is decidedly not the best look, but it's really fun to stick up straight in the air. Especially before Gray wheels me around the block in the wheel chair. The neighbors love it. The chair isn't really necessary (I can walk) but the docs and everyone else believes that walking TOO far will result in the world exploding. Or me passing out or seizing up or falling (again) or something. Plus, you know, snow and stuff.

Awww isn't he cute? My nurse.

Don't worry, kids. I'll be back for you soon.

Change of Address

Well, I've finally crawled out from beneath the pile of cardboard, packing tape, foam peanuts, pizza delivery boxes, cobwebs and DUST! Holy fuck, enough already with the DUST! I haven't stopped sneezing for two weeks and it's really starting to harsh my mellow, ya'll.

Moving is dirty. And also? It sucks.

Did you know that your shin bones are natural Hard Surface Testers? Especially in the dark of night, in an unfamiliar house, after you've slipped down four stairs in your socks and stood up full-tilt into the ceiling beam above the handrail and you can't tell if those stars circling your head are actually there or if you're just stoned again. That is the exact time your shin bones will encounter something of the most extravagant hardness, and also stationary-ness, that your brain will actually explode and for a second you won't even care that the dog is eating your eyeball off the floor.

Of course I also bang my shins any time a metal bed frame is involved. And I do mean ANY time.

We bought a second hand (eew, I know) bed from a woman on Craig's List because my grandmother is coming to stay later this month and I decided not to make her sleep on the floor after all. When we arrived, we realized that the bed was not dismantled and waiting for us in her garage, but instead was fully assembled on the second floor of her townhouse.

Since I know my history of shin-to-bed frame interaction, I promised the bed woman that although it was certain that I would injure myself while taking apart the bed frame, I promised not to get blood on anything. After I'd successfully whapped my poor right shin with the metal cross bar of the bed frame, I hurried downstairs to show bed woman the bleeding cut on my palm and to brag that I hadn't smeared it on the walls or anything.

I could tell she was very impressed.

Fast forward to a scene of Gray and I struggling to force a decidedly too big, non-bendy, queen-sized box spring up our very tiny, also non-bendy, Barbie-sized staircase, and witness my brilliant decision to place my already-lacerated palm between the corner of the box spring and the wall just as Gray decided to heave his entire body weight and all the righteousness of the heavens into his end of the box spring, and hear the resulting crunch, POP!

That was the sound of my thumb crumpling. And also, the staples from the corner of the frame entering the juicy meat of my hand.

Suddenly I'm hungry for pork tenderloin.

Anyway, so I'm still alive, although my shins would like to argue the contrary, and we are starting to get settled into the new house (which means A) that I can find my underwear now and B) that Gray has thoroughly tested the toilet's abilities) so hopefully I'll be here much more frequently henceforth.


That's the dining room back there. Can't you tell by the ceiling-high stack of mis-matched chairs?



Moving is hard work.

And also, I need some kind of self-exclusion form for Craig's List so that if I try to log onto the website, armed guards will show up and escort me (gently but with authority) back to Google where I belong.

A ninety-five-year-old house can only accommodate so many couches, you know?

This is (kind of) a PSA

I put on too much bronzer this morning and now it looks like a fairy came all over my face. Which is funny because that's how I thought my dermatologist was going to remove my moles. Not by coming on my face, but with fairy dust. You know, magically. I thought perhaps she would dissolve them or pull them out by the roots or pop them like gigantic zits. Like this, minus the scalpel. Who needs cream cheese?!

As it turns out, my dermatologist DID use a scalpel and she didn't even give me a beer first. I know, what a bitch, right? Then she used a soldering iron and MELTED THE WOUNDS. That's right...melted. The whole room smelled like that time I accidentally shot that kid at my school and had an unexpected bonfire. So I've learned that humans are not edible. They don't smell delicious like basically every other mammal on earth. And even though my mole removal was voluntary, the doctor still stuck the corpses in these little plastic jars like the ones in Saw III, and then she shipped them off to the lab for testing.

First of all, can I just say I am so relieved I don't examine bloody, mutilated (sometimes hairy) growths for a living. HOLY FUCK. That has got to be worse than a horse inseminater. Secondly, despite never having concerns that my moles might be "abnormal" and despite the fact my dermatologist has checked them out and given them her blessing in the past, now I'm totally positive I'm going to die of melanoma. Because that's what happens when they remove moles.

If that's true and my days are numbered, I should be whooping it up while I still can, which for me means switching from speed to crack, porn to hookers, and burritos with no sour cream to burritos with sour cream. Instead, I've put Gray on a strict 2,000 calorie, pre-wedding diet and I joined him because I am physically incapable of cooking for just one person. Even when I cook for both of us I'm still really cooking for six because there are always so many leftovers that by day four of Leftover Chicken we're ready to puke.

It wasn't even my idea. Gray looks like he's eight months pregnant. I'm pretty sure his hips have spread. He wants to get in the "best shape of his life" in time for our wedding. IN EIGHTY DAYS. I'm to fucking busy right now to do the whole make-special-meals-every-damn-day-and-be-sure-he-has-a-healthy-lunch bullshit. It's seriously way too much work, and I'm already relatively bogged down.

Did I mention we're buying a house? And don't forget about my semester finals. Oh yeah, and there's the small detail of THE WEDDING. You know, the three day extravaganza which involves organizing a twenty-three person bridal party and two hundred of our closest friends and family and making sure they are all comfortable and entertained and eat fucking well, and then I have to be sure I'm more gorgeous than on any other single day of my twenty-seven years on this planet and I have to beware that I don't have a surprise break-out and I need to ensure that the backne scars on my neck, back and chest magically disappear. DID I MENTION THE HOUSE?

So yeah, no fucking way am I cooking for a big man on a diet.

We're ordering meals from a healthy-eating place in the area - breakfast, lunch and dinner - and it's awesome because I don't have to cook a damn thing and I don't have to put the leftovers into lunch-sized Tupperware and I don't have to wash dishes and I don't have to grocery shop and I don't have to think. I'm on the 1,200 calorie plan and I've already lost a pound.

Everyone freaks out when I tell them I'm on this diet. They're all like, "WHAA? You're already little!" and I'm like, "Dude. This is my WEDDING. I am a BRIDE. SUCK MY WILLIE." The truth is that I'm fucking starving to death at the moment. Apparently I was used to eating about 5,000 calories per day because I look at these portions and think, "Oh my god. I must have robbed a gnome." This diet is a short-term solution. Don't worry about me. I don't have an eating disorder.

TRUST ME. I've tried before.

In junior high I'd go as long as I possibly could without eating, which was usually lunch to dinner, but eventually I'd break down and shove a bunch of olives and crackers down my gullet, which inevitably made me feel ishy and fail-y, so I'd hustle into the bathroom and attempt to puke. It turns out that I'm physically incapable of vomiting on command because I don't have a gag reflex, a blessing for Gray. I simply cannot make myself throw up. I could shove a fireplace poker down my throat and all it would make me do is swallow a fireplace poker. Even when I'm hammered and it would be in my best interest to throw up, I can't. That's how much my body hates puking. It would rather DIE.

I don't really remember where I was going with this whole alcohol poisoning story, but what I DO know is that I'm hungry (and also in the mood for BBQ), so I'm going to round up the three raisins and fork-full of eggs that they gave me for breakfast, and afterwards, I will fill up on butterscotch candies when nobody's looking.

The moral of this story is that moles can kill you. You're very welcome.

Happy Mummiversary & Other Tuesday Bullshit

I use Keeley for my own selfish ends and then I discard her without a second glance. You're welcome.

But also, I'm sorry, because I am so totally off my writing game that I cannot even pretend I've *got it* right now. WHAT THE FUCK, ME? This wedding is sucking on my creativity like a whore on overtime, what with all the decisions about linen colors and WHAT SIZE THE CHEESE SLICES SHOULD BE. I am not even kidding. That is an actual question my caterer asked me. CHEESE SIZE. What the hell options do I have? Round cracker sized? Square cracker sized? Toothpick sized? ARE THERE VITAL CHEESE SIZES I AM UNAWARE OF?

Imagine how many brain cells I must have popped just thinking about thinking about something so mundane. And don't even get me started on the poker tables (the green felt does not match the apple green of our "accent table" linens, thus creating a major dilemma for my design guy at the linen rental shop, who ironically seemed totally unconcerned by the color of my face when he gave me the quote for his services).

Also, I am hooked on Etsy.com and I cannot stop buying handmade wedding crafts. CANNOT. The good news is that I single-handedly funded an in-ground pool for the backyard of some lady in Belfast who is hand-stitching my silk and organza flowers. By hand. With her hands. Oh, and if anyone tries to get you to pay an exorbitant amount of money for shipping overseas, you tell them that if Belfast can do it for $6 then so can motherfucking they.

I wrote this post over one year ago on February 11th, and to this day it remains the most-visited page of all time. In fact, my post is #10 when you google "I want 18." Now, if you're wondering why anyone would google "I want 18," just think about it for a second. Roll your mind right off your shoulders and into the filthy gutter. Think.........YES! PORN! Ok, so I get dozens of hits on this post every month and that makes me ever so proud because it means that I completely disappoint every single one of those googlers who are searching for barely-legal porn, probably to the point when they give up masturbating entirely and just have a sandwich instead. I am curing the world of perverts. And also boosting the deli meats industry. Christ, I'm a hero.

(WAIT! I just checked my google analytics and found that my Onion Breath post about Kate Gosselin's custody battle with her hair has exceeded the "I want 18" post by more than 40 hits since AUGUST, which means that the Gosselins are even more powerful than PORNOGRAPHY, people. I am not sure that's the kind of world I want to live in.)

((I just googled "kate gosselin's hair" and got over 6.7 MILLION results. *slits throat*))

Well, today is my very first Mummiversary. Many of you may be scratching your heads and wondering what the hell I'm talking about. I just want to tell you that it makes you look like apes when you do that. I confess that I would have totally forgotten about the anniversary of the de-tombing of Mummy Hand had a co-worker not reminded me, and by "reminded me," I mean that she walked into work and the first thing out of her mouth was, "I thought of you this weekend with all the melting snow and figured it was about a year ago that you broke your arm. Dumb ass." I may have inserted the dumb ass, but I know she was thinking it. Would you like to know how many people have cracked a bike-riding joke at my expense this year? I stopped counting, that's how many.

In addition to the ribbing, I also get many earnest reminders to be careful when riding my bike and to always wear a helmet and to never go out when it's icy. To those people, I say thanks. And suck it. But mostly thanks. And now I must confess that I have NEVER gotten back on the bike since my accident. Not once, not for a second. I promised my dad that I wouldn't ride without a helmet, so that has been my excuse for not riding the bike when really I'm not riding the bike because of the negative fucking association, if you don't mind. But in one way I'm grateful for the experience, and that is because it allowed me to make a bunch of useless shit like this video:

...and it's videos like these that prove useful when I have nothing substantive to write here on this blog and I resort to words like "substantive" simply because they are long and take up more space on the page, which can also be said of some of my other favorite words which are "exsanguinate" and "crustacean" and "compunction" and "conflagrate" and "antidisestablishmentarianism." And "motherfucker."