Nutcase 101

I’m waiting for my brain to calm the fuck down so that I might be able to gather together some semblance of a post. The topic ideas are pinging around my head and then going through the quality filter (which we all know REALLY doesn’t exist) to make sure it doesn’t get my ass in trouble with family, friends or work. Because I happen to like all three to some extent and I need to be on their good side.

I think I have a good post about food lingering away but I’ve written about food, my relationship with food, how I could live in a vat of food and that food rocks my world. You’ve all taken that ride a multitude of times and are probably looking for the blog exit when you read the first sentence.

There is family and health. But, I can’t go there. I can’t.

There are friends but friends read this blog and I don’t want to take advantage of idiotic events or mentioning that I have friends, like me, who can’t walk without doing great harm to themselves.

And what does this leave us with folks? A blog about nothing really.

Maybe we’ll all get lucky and one bright, blazing idea will rest on a beautiful lily pad leaf in the pond that is my mind and I’ll write something avant garde and brilliant. The piece will be virally sent to millions of blog enthusiasts, finally reaching the people that give out the Pulitzer will make up a whole new category for internet writing. My parents will be proud, even by then they will have read all the shit that I’ve typed about them, and my husband will give me a kiss of congrats after the presentation of my fabulous award.

I’m not going to hold my breath. But, I will put on some pants and move on with the rest of my day. Who knows? Maybe some stranger will drop trous in the middle of the supermarket and I’ll bear witness. Now, that would make an interesting blog post.

From Mom and Dad.

My parents made sure that my siblings and I knew how to be safe in the world when they couldn’t be there to hold our hands. The rules were simple and direct with the consequences explained so that we wouldn’t be afraid but prepared. And as we got older the examples became more real as we watched our friends, and sometimes ourselves, fall into the traps that we were warned against.

Some of the memorable lessons that pop to mind:

- Don’t talk, take candy from, help find a lost dog/bike/bunny for a stranger.
- Look both ways before crossing the street.
- Walk with a buddy after dark.

But, my parents had no clue that there would be a world wide web where everyone would be connected by a few deft keystrokes. And that with a bit of ingenuity and evil intent could take away someone’s life and livelihood.

This weekend a friend of mine, a person whom I’ve only known because of the internet, Kristen, had her blog hijacked by someone in a foreign country. He demanded end of war and large sums of cash. Also, he appeared to have an issue with really stunning photos of food. I guess he didn’t do his research because he would’ve known that bloggers aren’t typically rolling in the dough, pun intended.

Thankfully, people on the internet got together and fought the good fight for Kirsten. When I think of the situation, I think of those Dudley Do-Right cartoons with the villian having a handlebar mustache, the blog (damsel) in distress is tied to the railroad tracks and our heroine is cuffed inside of a burning building listening to the distressed screams of her blog being vandalized by an evil-doer who hates butter.

But this time the town people not only helped in the rescuing of the blog and heroine but they showed that there is a lot more good out in the world than evil. People still do inherently care about others (because who knows, it might be you one day watching your life online be victim to something awful?) and want to help when needed.

And you know what? Helping people when they need your help, that’s a lesson my parents most definitely taught me.

You see them from across the room. They are beautiful to point that your eyes hurt. You need them because they are perfect in every way. Walking up, you’re shy because you’re afraid that you’re not worthy. Then after a gazing adoringly up close, you reach out and caress. They feel like you expect, soft and supple. You wonder, “Is this the one? Will they truly make me happy. I’ve been with so many just like them, only to be disappointed.”

Then you ask the sales person, “Does this shoe come in a size 8?”

You wait. On bated breath. Two things can happen: instant disappointment of your size being sold out or the joy of the box.

The shoe slips on like a glove. There’s the prancing, walking, and maybe a nice glide. The mirror check is done to make sure there isn’t some odd angle where the shoe doesn’t look absolutely fabulous or makes your foot look like a yacht. If this all checks out and the price tag doesn’t break the bank, you get the thrill of making a pair of fabulous footwear your own.

Then the REAL challenge comes. Because for some reason, when you get home your foot has magically grown and your new shoes of joy become something that is straight out of a horror movie.

They look deceptively like the shoes you tried on in the store but after five minutes of walking outside or on ‘real floors’ because the floors in the shoe store/department is made out of clouds where your magical, lovely shoes don’t hurt your feet at all but feel like your walking on the back of angels who are smiling at the ability to hold you up. But anywhere NORMAL, every time you step in your new shoes, you feel like you’re walking on little devils that have their pitchforks freshly sharpened and are actively jabbing them into tootsies.

Maybe the sales guy switched out your good shoes with the evil ones while you were digging around for your credit card? Or whoever designs shoes has an in with the magic floor people in the stores, just to keep you buying new pairs over and over again because they know that most women are complete suckers for fabulous footwear.

But in the end you have a closet full of unwearable footwear and a longing to find that perfect pair of black pumps that go with everything and make you feel like you’re walking on air. And, if you find that pair of shoes share with every woman you know or they will secretly call you bitchy names behind your back.

Every time I walk into the bathroom I’m faced with it. Sitting on the floor, making my brain send messages (depending on my mood), “It’s okay, just step on it. Maybe this time it’ll be kind to you. Or, at least you’ll know the damage you did you to yourself. ” Or “You fat cow, you need to know. You ate everything in site. If you don’t step on it, you’ll keep shoveling it in.”

I’m sure you’ve deduced what ‘it’ is: the scale.

I have a purely hate relationship with the scale because even when it’s given me good news, I still think that I should be doing better. That I should never have weighed the number that’s displayed at me and how dare I let myself get that way. Even a smaller number displayed will most certainly be a gain because I’m going to let it myself gorge on my ability to lose.

And up until the last few months, even as I was constantly gaining, I would still weigh myself four to five times a day. I’ve gotten the number down to one or two but I mental association with the scale is still a very negative one. It can still take me down, way down, emotionally to the point where I don’t want to talk to others or I mentally berate myself for hours.

My mental relationship with the scale is one I don’t know how to balance.

Today, I lost my iPhone for two hours. I was without my iPhone for four hours. And I had to take a xanax.

Then I realized, that is a majorly messed up situation.

It all started with B and I carpooling to work, which is a standard situation, because we both work in the same area of town and parking is outrageously expensive. Our day had already hit a few bumps and we were delayed in our exit of the abode, so we felt rushed, hurried, flustered, in desperate need of caffeine, and hoping that the stop lights were in our favor.

The lights hated us.

Per usual, as B was driving, I checked my email and the web on my phone and placed it back in my purse, then closed my eyes to capture 15 more minutes of sleep.

Then it was time to get kicked out of the vehicle and go to work. This requires me grabbing my laptop bag and a tote, along with my gargantuan purse. Because we were running late, I was trying to get everything out of the car as fast as possible which means I was a complete mess of bags, handles, feet the wrong way and dropping things on my foot.

At my desk, I thought the start of the day would be winding down and I could start work. But part of my ritual is to pull out my phone and place it near the keyboard so I can access my music easily. Guess what was not in my purse?! (Oh, wait, I gave that surprise away in the first sentence.)

So, yes, panic ensued. First thing that ran through my brain, B will kill me. (Not really, he’s pretty awesome about that – especially after I killed the KitchenAid mixer.) Second, FUCK this will be expensive to replace if it’s lost/broken/picked up and already on the black market. Third, is it still in B’s car or did I drop it between drop off and my office.

Of course, I quickly searched my path back to the drop off point but there was nothing on the ground and security said that no phones had been turned in. And since only a few hundred people cross over my route every few minutes in the morning, my stomach dropped. Once I realized that it wasn’t going to be found outside, as soon as I got to my desk, I called B.

He didn’t answer so I left my frantic message asking him to search the car. And then I called my phone, prepared to offer a nice reward if someone answered for the safe return of my precious technology.

The worse part in this whole mess: I was lost without my phone.

Yes, it’s a part of my routine and makes my day go smoother. Itunes drowns out the noise (or provides it when it’s too quiet), gives me back a part of personal life and lets me connect with the outside world.

But, a few years ago, my cellular technology consisted of a phone that made phone calls and held my contacts. That was enough. I didn’t need bells and whistles. And, I wouldn’t have a panic attack about losing something so valuable, it would be easily replaced.

Thankfully, B called me back, let me know that he had my phone and we could meet up at lunch for the exchange. I had to pay for delivery *wink*.

Relief hit me fast and then I was upset with myself for my reaction. I like my life with technology but I’m not sure how I feel about my addiction to it.

“I hate…” is a term that use to escape my lips all too frequently, especially when I viewed a piece of myself in the mirror that I found severely lacking in visual acceptance.

It didn’t take long for that pile of “I hate…” to become the focus of my thoughts, which lead to my OCD waking up and proposing marriage to my love of self-destructive eating. After the wedding, OCD and self-destructive spawned more and more little “I hate…”, so that soon, my life had no room for anything else but a true loathing of me (and Costco size boxes of Hostess cupcakes and twinkies).

Then I got clobbered on the head with a simple thought. (It’s amazing how simplicity is typically all we need for revelation.) What if I didn’t have what I hated in my life? That one day the thing that I despised about myself was taken away and there was no chance to ever get it back.

The “I hate my legs.” became I have no legs, no ability to walk or carry myself a few inches let alone miles. “I hate my spine.”, would lead to never knowing what my husbands fingers entwined in mine. “I hate my vision.”, left me never seeing someone’s eyes light up with joy during those precious moments of pure happiness.

The hammer hit the nail on the head with me taking for granted pieces of my life that others may have never experienced. Bottom line: I was a selfish, ungrateful bitch that was whining and moaning when there are so many people out there that would give up everything for what I have.

Sure, my legs are never going to make the Rockette’s kick line or look fabulous in a bikini, landing me on the cover of Sports Illustrated but they carry this fat ass around. My vision sucks but it’s correctable with contact lenses or surgery and the color of my eyes is a phenomenal shade of blue. Now, I stop myself when I feel the combo of “I hate…” slip from my lips because, as trite as it might read, I never know when I could lose that it at any moment.

And that’s bad karma/juju/taking God’s name in vain stuff that I don’t want following me around. And, if I don’t like something, the only one who can do something about it is me.

(Which kind of sucks because I’d so pay people to fix some of my “I hate…”s.)

I don’t even know how to write this post but I must get the words out of my head. They ping, bounce, crash into each other triggering more words, that comprise thoughts, leading to a myriad of emotions.

There was a contradiction of emotions running through my body today as I celebrated with a friend the impending arrival of her first child. Being reminded of the betrayal of a friend who decided that selfishness was more important than being a parent. Sending out positive thoughts to one of my favorite people as she was taking an exam that she’s worked three years to face, while raising two children, carrying her third and being a supportive spouse. And then to be caught unawares that one of my best friends is dealing with something that can literally destroy her. Finally, someone said good-bye to her mother two weeks after she said hello to her son.

All of these situations I’m a mere bystander, not able to control what is going on to those around me. Especially where I am prostrate to others making the decisions of their well-being.

These words don’t stop, driving my stomach to queasiness and my body to shake with small spots of joy, sparse in breaking through. I’ve reached my limit in vocabulary, so I think I’ll reach for the xanax because it’s how I make the words stop.

I have a surly case of pink eye.

Yeah, that viral infection that you’re only supposed to get when you’re under four feet tall and you don’t mind poking someone in the eyeball.

I’m 5′6″ and there was no poking. I would’ve enjoyed some good eyeball poking.

So here:

I’m keeping the picture due to small because I’m wearing no makeup, there are zits showing and children could be scared.

So, I got kicked out of work from the EYE on Thursday and the meds, well, they have an interesting side effect. It makes my vision blurry even with my glasses on. It’s not myopic blurriness but more like a Barbara Walters Special. You know what I’m talking about. that fabulous dream sequence effect that Barbara has to have on her shows so that know will know that she’s shoveling her grave right behind Walter Cronkite.

(Yes, I know Walt passed on. I love him but he was old and time for him to go. He will be missed.)

And because of this fabulous EYE I can’t wear contacts until next Thursday. That means showering practically blind, because people, without corrective lenses I am legally blind. Thankfully, shampoo is orange bottle and conditioner is white. But so is the body wash. And my face wash. So my face will be well conditioned and my hair will be moisturized. It also explains why my forehead has zits.

Final bad news, I’m home bound until Sunday. I can’t go anywhere or scare small children. Just my husband and my cats are traumatized.

Now, I’m off to re-Lysol the apartment. Again. And wash the sheets and towels. Again.

(Jocelyn and anyone with fashion taste, I recommend you leave now. Or feel free to mock me in the comments.)

Here in Texas there is this big ball in the sky that appears in the morning and goes away at night. It’s bright and you can’t look right at it or you’ll cause your eyeballs to revolt out of your head.

You may have heard about it, it’s called THE SUN!

I know, after thirty years on this planet, I’ve just discovered this great big ball of gas. And it’s all the sun’s fault that I did what I had to do. See, that sun thing causes heat. A FUCKING AMOUNT OF HEAT. And I am delicate. A precious flower of modern livingness and I can’t get hot because I start to sweat and get icky without my permission. Now, if I sweat due to working out, that’s fine. It’s sweat with a purpose.

Sweating against my will due it simply being daytime and FUCKING HOT (that’s the only true way to describe the heat here), me no likey. Yes, I’m a big whiny baby.

Anyway.

So, I’m driven to being indoors where I can layer up the clothes if the air conditioning is too cold. Only there is a problem. At one of my work locations, our home, the A/C regulates everything beautifully. Except for one spot.

My desk.

Unfortunately, the AC vent, which refuses to relocate itself, blows directly on me. Now because I can’t move my PC and all the plugs, wires and the leasing office won’t let me knock down a wall, there isn’t another place I can move my electronic mecca. Now, when the air is not running, I’m great. Fine. Hunky Dory.

But, when it blows…oh baby, you’d think that Old Man Winter moved in and decided that I needed to be the Queen of his icicle world. So, I bought it.

I’ve tried throws, that get thrown off but my upper body remains behind to suffer. I’ve even put my robe on backwards but the arm holes aren’t the right way. It’s the irony people. I get away from the heat for the cold and then the A/C freeze out occurs. I can’t win.

Now, if you need me. I’ll be the person looking like I’m about to join a cult and drink some kool aid. But I’ll be warm (but not FUCKING HOT!).

I know that you have some issues: torn disc, unpronounceable genetic condition, pressing on nerves, full blown arthritis in the hips. Yeah, it sucks. But guess what you attention whore pain addict, you’re not the only pretty, pretty princess demanding of my time. So, shut the fuck on your whining. Yes, I’m working you out harder but in a safe way to make you stronger so that you’re pain will hopefully diminish.

But, until that whole exercise thing starts working, you need to stop being a bitch and hanging out with insomnia. Insomnia is a bad dude that’s only using you to get to me. He doesn’t want you lower back, he wants to make me miserable by telling you look pretty and that you should act out like a 13 year-old girl tying to impress the hot Senior on campus. Stop it. You’re much more than that.

Now, I love you but get back in line and stand straight and pain free spine. And, hips, you’re next so you better be reading this as well.

Regards,

The owner of the body.