Itchy Scratchy Red & Rashy Stress Bunny

I'm an itchy scratchy red and rashy stressed out unemployed, under sexed, pre-holiday stress bunny. It started on my legs and has moved north to belly button region. It's red and bumpy and itchy and rashy. VERY SEXY LADIES! I have ruled out STD unless it has laid dormant for six months.

I know my only solution is to get a cortizone shot but that requires me TAKING MY PANTS OFF and I'm just not there yet. Not even of the doctor is hot and buys me dinner. I have read a lot about a dog's healing saliva but every time I bring it up to Coop, he just puts his tail between his legs and cowers under the coffee table.

What's a bunny to be stressed about?

1) Waiting to hear about a job that I REALLLLLLLLLY want (AND NEED in order to pay for luxuries, like groceries and keeping the lights on)

2) My ass. It's big and now that I've weighed myself and even if I took 20 pounds off for underwear & hair gel, they number is TOO DAMN HIGH.

3) My crazy mother. Recent conversations with her about my trip home for the holidays are leading me to believe we'll probably have a repeat of last Christmas which included, BUT NOT IN THIS ORDER - a nervous breakdown, a trip to the Psych hospital, three dozen donuts to lure her there, my father doing Suduko in the waiting room, paper plates which my mother was writing down her conversations with Sarah McLaughlin. Yes, the Singer. I one day plan to write a festive holiday children's book about it. I'm mulling over a couple of titles, so far the top contender is, "Keep Drinking 'Til It's Funny, A Holiday Tale."

4) Being hit on by a male prostitute the other night has sent my self-esteem into a tail spin. I thought he was flirting with me as in, he was attracted to me and not as in, he was wondering how much he could charge me by the hour. DO I LOOK SO DESPERATE THAT I WOULD PAY FOR SEX? Don't answer that.

I must take to my bed. (Who am I kidding, I'm already lying here.)

Itchy Scratchy Red & Rashy Stress Bunny

Dirty, Dirty Naughty Girl Liar - Part 2

In Catholic school, we learned about the sin of omission. Sins of omission go something like this: The scene, me age 10, my family's kitchen, my Mom holding a cake plate - the contents which look like they have been demolished BY RABID HYPO-GYLCEMIC SQUIRRELS.

Mom: "Did you eat the last of this cake?"
Me: "No."
Me: (Inner Dialogue) "I just licked all the frosting, gnawed the sides off and then put it back on the cake plate."

That my friends, is "sin of omission" defined, and apparently, you go to HELL FOR IT. Or maybe not. What I remember vaguely of Catholic school is, you go to hell for everything and one time I was so afraid to ask to go to the bathroom, I peed in my pants.

Back to why I'm a Dirty, Dirty Naughty Liar. In my post about my EX, "$1 Dollar Drink Specials + Empty Stomach...," I mentioned how I was trying to call my ex because, ripped on four glasses of one dollar chardonnay, it seemed like the sensible thing to do. I reported that I didn't end up calling him and was quite proud of myself for that. THE OMISSION: I EMAILED HIM LADIES!!!!! YEAH, I DID.

Here's the deal. I came home and promptly typed this little diddy:

"Can you call me tonight?" SEND!

And then, BECAUSE I WANTED HIM IN NO WAY TO GET OUT OF IT, I typed again, "Surely, you haven't forgotten my number?" AND THEN I TYPED MY NUMBER. "Surely, you haven't forgotten?????" All of a sudden I'm a silver screen starlet from the 1950's.

As I fought passing out into a CHARDONNAY STATE OF SLUMBER, I looked into the heavy guilt-giving eyelids of my pooch Coop. Coop can lay the guilt on LIKE SISTER MARIE from fourth grade!!! He's like having Jesus and Mary Mother of God, right in the same room.

UGH! I know, I know. I worked so hard to get over this relationship. "Disasterous relationship," Coop corrected me with a unwavering stare. DAMMIT. I got back on the computer. I typed, "Nevermind. I was just having a moment." SEND. "Satisfied?" I said to Coop. "Oui, mon cherie", I imagined he said which is weird because he's a Chihuahua so technically he's Mexican and not French.

The next morning, this email came FROM HIM: (Not Coop, my Ex) - "I didn't check my email until this morning. I can call you today if you'd like." No. I was good. So I typed, "No, I'm good. Thank you." And that was it.

Dirty, Dirty Naughty Girl Liar - Part 2

Dirty, Dirty, Naughty Girl Liar

Ack!!!! I'll post about this tomorrow. Having champagne with the girls and I want to get my share! :)

Dirty, Dirty, Naughty Girl Liar

My JoyFriend is Better Than Your Boyfriend

Okay, so if you've read this blog, you know I like to rock a different vocabulary and make up new words. My favorite new word is JoyFriend. This weekend - I hung out with a couple of JoyFriends and I can say, my weekend was better than your weekend (unless you had good sex and then maybe it's a tie.)

A JoyFriend is a person that is totally positive and upbeat - they're... well, Joyful. JoyFriends are the friend you can call last minute and they will go anywhere and do anything. Their answer to life is not, "Maybe, let me check"/"I don't know, I've never gone there before"/"Is that going to mess up my hair"? No, they say YES to everything, especially LIFE. More importantly, THEY ENCOURAGE YOU TO DO THE SAME.

Lately, my life has been anything but joyful. My Saturday nights consisted of alphabetizing my magazines in piles to be donated while drinking chardonnay out of an old 7-11 Big Gulp cup. Sometimes I toasted some pita chips, like I was having a party, put them on a fancy plate AND SHARED THEM WITH MY DOG. See, no joy. But lately, I have made a concerted effort to only hang out with the most POSITIVE, RAYS OF LIGHT, SUPER SHINY DISCO BALL types of friends. These types of women will drag you out on a Saturday night in your pajamas. THEY THROW CAUTION AND PITA CHIPS TO THE WIND. They do not take any of my bullshit excuses "But I have to work"/"I have nothing to wear and I smell like a Hobo"/"I have to get up early and... donate... my kidney."

AND THAT HAS MADE ALL THE DIFFERENCE.

How do you spot a JoyFriend? Well, they are upbeat, RAH-RAH, "You Can Do It" just short of you wanting to smack them. They have a zest for life - They always want to try new things. AND THEY KICK YOUR ASS. They are not going to let you dwell on some lame guy that wouldn't even pay for valet parking on a date, made you walk five blocks in heels only to make you split potato skins at the bar. THEY KNOW YOU ARE WORTH MORE THAN THAT. And they will root you on until you know it too.

The weird thing about hanging out with self-confident, emotionally healthy, super strong, vivacious ladies is pretty soon, you start to feel that way. 'Cause JoyFriends do not hang out with losers. So I raise my glass to my awesome JoyFriends. Yes, it's chardonnay but it's in a real fancy glassy glass and not a sad 7-11 plastic cup. See, I'm learning.

My JoyFriend is Better Than Your Boyfriend

Yay! I'm Off to The Gym :)

This is very exciting, like Christmas morning if I was four. (God, I wish I was four. Everything is so perfect when you're four.) I'm kinda nervous to go back to the gym. The gym I joined three months ago and then have NEVER SET FOOT IN AGAIN. What if they have a weight limit and won't let me in? What if I can only last thirty-five seconds on the elliptical before I get red faced and huffy and puffy? Should I have my insurance card and information about the closet hospital stuffed in a plastic case and dangling around my neck? What if I put my iPod on and run on the treadmill and then can't hear the wheezing and struggling of that poor machine shaking and quivering underneath my GIA-NORMOUS GIRTH and people are laughing and pointing and the manager is called over and I'm asked to get off and he swears, this is so much more embarassing for him than me, but would I please leave?

Or what if it's just really fantastic and amazing and great?

Yay! I'm Off to The Gym :)

Apparently, Having 3 Gym Memberships is Still Not Enough to Make Me Go

I have three gym memberships. That's three memberships I've paid for. That's three gyms I don't go to. The first gym is my fancy gym. It's so fancy, it's actually called a Tennis Club as in, "I'll see you at the club!" and "Let's have lunch at the club." It also has a bar WHICH MAKES NO SENSE TO ME!!! It was L, my partner in crime, who beat me out of the locker room one day and I found sitting out on the patio (It's a Club, of course it has a patio!) drinking an Amstel Light. At 3:30pm! After a workout! Well, it would have been rude if I didn't, too. It would make her feel bad. And I do not like people feeling bad.

Okay, my second gym membership, aka the skanky gym, is so close, I pass it everyday on my way to the grocery store, dry cleaners, coffee shop and library. (IT'S LIKE IT'S TAUNTING ME!) I say skanky because after you have been spoiled by FANCY GYM with towel service, a steam room, SHAMPOO, CONDITONER & BODY WASH and a cute guy that wipes your sweat off the ellipital and brings you razors (and would probably shave your legs with them if you asked), it's kind of a downgrade to have to haul in your own towel, body washing... materials and wonder what kind of Hepatitis you contracted from being in the ladies locker room.

My third gym I pass, as I'm passing my second gym, on my way to the grocery store, dry cleaners, coffee shop and library. But I can't possibly go to that gym because... it's CURVES. Curves is a fat girls' gym and if I go there it's like saying I'm one of them and then I will be way too defeated to work out. I feel so much better, instead, driving by it, giving Curves the finger as I talk on the phone and wolf down my (second) slice of double peperoni pizza (tomato sauce is so healthy for you!)

UGH!!!! I'M A MESS. I could screw up a free meal as my Dad would say (Joe is always there with words of comfort which I why I think I have such high self-esteem. Insert eye-roll.) Okay, okay. I'm not writing again until I GOT TO ONE OF MY THREE GYMS. (Okay, maybe I will, I might have something excellent to say about Thanksgiving... BUT NOT AFTER THAT!) Today I tried on a top that made me all of a sudden not be so mad that my Mom had once given me a maternity top for Christmas (insert eye roll). 'Cause that's what this one looked like and I DID NOT LIKE IT ONE BIT!

I'm not dieting. Dieting is female torture. But if I was really REAL WITH MYSELF, I would remember that I FREAKIN' LOVED WORKING OUT. I loved how strong and kick ass I felt. I loved how powerful I felt. I loved that I fit into all my clothes and looked cute. That felt more like the me than the girl who writes off a gym just 'cause it's a big gals gym... 'cause HELLO, I think I'll fit right in.

Apparently, Having 3 Gym Memberships is Still Not Enough to Make Me Go

I Like It Free (My Life as a Professional Party Crasher)

I just picked up my mail and among a ton of bills that I don't know when I'll pay or with what money came a letter from my past life. It was from the Four Seasons and it was offering me one free night if I booked a two night stay. (Which is funny because the biggest luxury in my life right now is pre-cut salad.) Now, let's be clear, I'm more of a Best Western gal than a Four Seasons girl but I had this... I don't know, dream, goal, wish, that I would like to stay there once in my life so when my sister and I went to Hawaii three years ago we stayed there for one night.

The view was beautiful, the lounging area and the pool, incredible. They even greeted us with beautiful leis which felt very "Fantasy Island" & "Love Boat" all at the same time. Because E & I couldn't afford to STAY & EAT at the Four Seasons, we walked down to a neighboring hotel for dinner. E was mad that I made her where her lei (probably because it covered up her enormous cleavage... she likes it "out" like that.) But I insisted and because I was paying, she had to obey (though she probably did just to shut me up.)

So we're walking to the neighboring hotel, in our leis, with my sister's giant cleavage somewhat covered up and WE SEE THAT IN ORDER TO GET INTO A PARTY AT THE NEXT HOTEL you have to be wearing THE SAME LEIS THAT THE FOUR SEASONS GAVE US. In the distance I can see an open bar, a buffet table for miles and a feast of desserts. And I think, "Why buy dinner when we can use our leis for FREE?" This is gonna be AWESOME.

BECAUSE I LIKE IT FREE.

We gorged ourselves on FREE That night and tried to look like we were engaged in intense conversation so no one at this party/conference/whatever would ask us who we knew/who we worked for/why we were there.

THE NEXT NIGHT WAS EVEN BETTER.

By now we had moved to the Fairmount (and got a FREE UPGRADE ON OUR HOTEL, my sister's boobs sure do come in handy). This time there was a huge Radio conference at the hotel WITH A BUFFET STYLE PARTY. ROCK ON! Our adrenelin was pumping. Crashing a buffet entails huge risks because you are waiting in a super slow line with PEOPLE WHO ACTUALLY BELONG THERE. We got through it. E ate six desserts by herself (I know, I hate her, she is such a skinny B).

My point is, when the Four Seasons offer came in, I didn't feel sad. I don't miss the life of being able to stay in a super lux hotel, I miss the life of the DARING, MISCHIEVIOUS, VIVACIOUS, RISK-TAKER GIRL. The girl who cut in front of someone at the Radio party (Someone who belonged there!) to get the last egg roll. Okay, maybe I can't always crash parties. But I won't sit around and mope at my financial situation either. Just yesterday I typed in key words "half-price" and "happy hour" - IT'S ALL OUT THERE WAITING FOR US, LADIES. Some of the nicest restaurants in Beverly Hills had nights with half off dinners, other had specials on drinks or appetizers. The point is "OUT" IS WHERE THE PEOPLE ARE.

No matter what your financial situation, you need to be out where the people are so you don't get bummed about the fact that you can barely stretch your check to next week. And when you can spend less and still have fun, you'll feel good. Okay, I gotta go check what hotels are hosting parties this weekend so I know where I'm going and how to dress :)

I Like It Free (My Life as a Professional Party Crasher)

$1 Dollar Drink Specials + Empty Stomach x Missing ex-BF = Disaster

It's Thursday night and what's a girl who has been striking all day in her Converse slides to do? Go out and get some refreshment, that's what! I didn't need to know much about the bar that was serving $1 dollar glasses of WINE or BEER (imported and domestic!) except that they were serving $1 dollar beer and wine (imported and domestic!). My Union, the WGA, has been on strike for 2 weeks now with no end in sight. When you can't work 'cause you're striking and when words like "there's no end in sight" send my bowel into a shaking-quaking mess - you start to feel like there's nothing to look forward to.

Well, I found it, it's this bar, THE GRIFFIN, that serves dollar drink specials to WGA writers, which means on top of making it cheaper for me to drink at their fine establishment than at home, I also don't have to withstand the HUMILIATION OF MY DOG looking at me with his judging eyes as I take "the edge off" my day with a half bottle of two buck Chuck.

The Griffin is everything you want to be: low lit, giant banquettes to sit in, two fireplaces, a superb selection of music and I think I have mentioned, the UNBELIEVABLE DRINKS which are the low, low, price of one dollar. The problem with a deal like this is... it's like that little black dress you see in the store marked down from 300 bucks to 30 and YOU JUST HAVE TO HAVE!!! IT'S SUCH A GOOD DEAL!!! You'd be a fool not to buy it! Yeah, it might exactly fit right... or zip up... but it's so cheap. YOU DESERVE IT! Go ahead... it's not like anything bad can happen.

Um... yeah, maybe not with the dress but bad things can happen when you consume four $1 dollar glasses of chardonnay on an empty stomach. Bargains are not always something to rave about. Sometimes bargains can have a downside. Like grabbing your friend's cell phone and trying to call your ex-boyfriend BECAUSE YOU REALLY HAVE TO TELL HIM SOMETHING RIGHT NOW!!! Four glasses of chardonnay has never given you so much clarity in your life. WHAT'S HIS NUMBER??? WHAT'S HIS NUMBER???? (My ex-b has a new one, so while I was fairly confident I knew most of the numbers... I wasn't sure what their combination would be or what three of them were.) Yes, I'm a delight.

So there I am out on the corner of the street after having wrestled my friend L's phone away from her, (CHARDONNAY GIVES ME EXTRA SUPER HUMAN STRENGTH), dialing about four hundred and fifty combinations of what his phone number could be and screaming at two directory assistant woman: "I know this is the street he lives on... okay, maybe it's not that one. Can you try Tremont?"

I woke up the next morning, my head banging from a hangover, my arm hurting from wrestling L to the ground for her phone (she knew what I wanted that phone for and she did not approve!) and the overwhelming feeling of relief that I did not talk to ex-BF. And while I love a deal, WHAT UNEMPLOYED GIRL doesn't, there's no deal that makes up for how stupid and idiotic I would have felt the next day had I gotten in touch with him. (Oh, because there would have been slurring, crying and possible vomiting). NOT CUTE. I won't give up The Griffin, but I will be running some tackle drills with my friend L so she can easily take me down the next time I try and grab her cell phone.

$1 Dollar Drink Specials + Empty Stomach x Missing ex-BF = Disaster

I Love Your Lady-Man Mustache & Letters I Never Sent

Dear Mom,
I just wanted to let you know I've gained about 10 pounds since I last saw you and I would really appreciate if you wouldn't bring it up. Yes, I know how delicious "I Can Believe It's Not Butter" spray is but no, I don't want sprayed on my tongue instead of a Christmas cookie. That's disgusting. If you could, say, also refrain from buying me a maternity top from Target this Christmas because "Oh, I just thought that was your size, I swear I didn't know." No ones buying it. Not even Dad. I'll lose the weight, I've done it before. And if you decide to ask me how or when I plan to do it, I will say, "When you stop going crazy and relatives stop dying. Then I would love to sit down with you and hear all about how good "I Can Believe It's Not Butter" spray really tastes like the real thing."

Love, Me


Dear R,
You are one of my best friends, yet I can't seem to tell you to your face that you have a serious case of MAN MUSTACHE. I thought it would be less awkward if I just wrote it here. It's not like it's a BIG BIG DEAL, it's just then whenever we're together, I can't really concentrate on anything else but... IT... staring at me. Personally, I like waxing but there's also bleaching or tweezing, too!

Love, Me


Dear Cooper (my dog),
I'm sorry I accidently kicked you last night in bed. But you ate three of my library books today so I think we're even.

Love, Me

I Love Your Lady-Man Mustache & Letters I Never Sent

Donuts are NOT a Food Group (and Other Shocking Discoveries!)

Donuts are not a food group. That's too bad. Because donuts are delicious. I learned that yesterday as I was rushing off to a meeting and I stopped at the healthiest place on earth for breakfast - 7-11. I know! That's crazy! I grabbed a donut and a bananna (a bananna cancels out the calories of a donut much like a Diet Coke cancels out the calories of a Big Mac & Fries.) Anyway, off to my meeting where I'm an hour early and my coffee (delcious, BUT zero nutritional value except for the calories I might have burned off from shaking by being over-caffeinated and powered-sugared).

Well, I can't go into my meeting like this. I'll be a rambling, shaking mess and then slump over in my chair and pass out once my sugar high crashes. I better eat something. Something healthy. Ooo, there's McDonalds. I'll just have a Happy Meal. Four piece chicken nuggets, a small fry and a toy from "Bee Movie" later, I feel full but kinda sick too.

You don't even want to know what I ate the rest of the day. YOU'LL NEVER GET IT OUT OF ME. Okay, fine... it was pasta... in some kind of rich cream sauce. THERE MIGHT HAVE BEEN A BREAD BASKET TOO! I'm so ashamed... LOOK AWAY!

What's crazy is then I blogged about "Super Sexy Good Mood Food" as if I was some kind of DIETARY KNOW-IT-ALL ANGEL when in fact, I'M A BAD, BAD DONUT EATING, FRY LOVING, PASTA GORGING, REFILL MY BREAD BASKET PLEASE diet devil.

But last night when I was starving at 3:00am, I made the most delcious turkey on whole wheat pita with yummy avacado sandwich. SCURMPTIOUS. So one good thing did come from writing the blog. I realized after, I have no groceries in the house. I have no way to eat like an angel if I grocery shop like a devil (infrequently to never). So I went to the store and loaded up on my fruits and nuts and eggs, and leafy greens. And that's a check for salmon, whole wheat pita and healthy cereals.

I guess I write this because we all have IMPERFECT DAYS. We're ladies on the go-go afterall. But we have to take care of ourselves. Last night when I made that super duper good mood sandwich, the feeling of taking care of myself felt better than any donut & fries ever make me feel. So, I'll get there, I know I will. I do have to drive by that damn donut emporium 7-11 everyday, BUT I'LL GET THERE!!!!

Donuts are NOT a Food Group (and Other Shocking Discoveries!)

Super Sexy Good Mood Food

I'm coming at you LIVE from my bed and as promised, I am going to give you guys some info on "Good Mood Food." I'm kind of shocked how big a role food plays in being bummed out. I know a lot of us want to be empowered and feel like WE CAN DO SOMETHING when we feel depressed.

AND AWAY WE GO:

•Eat a serving of high-quality protein three times a day. Higher quality protein is better absorbed and more efficiently utilized, so you will need to eat less of it. Adequate protein promotes good moods. Good examples of high-quality protein foods are seafood, poultry, lean red meat, soy, lowfat yogurt, rice with beans, rice with lentils.

•Eat cold-water fish three times a week. This is one of the best sources of omega-3, an essential fatty acid crucial to optimal brain function. Omega-3s are found in salmon, tuna, mackerel, sardines and cod. (I use a fish oil supplement when I don't think I will have three serving a week).

•Eat two eggs a week, or sprinkle lecithin granules on your cereal, salads or vegetables. These are the best sources of phospholipids, which help you metabolize fat and enhance your mood and mental performance. (Okay, I admit, I don't know what Lecithin is - but I love eggs. Hardboiled sliced on whole wheat pita toast, egg whites with spinach and a lil' Laughing Cow Cheese is to die for.)

•(COMPLEX) CARBS JUST WANT TO BE LOVED - Eat one serving of low Glycemic Index (low-GI) complex carbohydrates at every meal. Complex carbohydrates are long chains of sugar molecules strung together that are digested slowly and help prevent fluctuations in blood sugar levels that can cause depression as well as cravings for sugar and alcohol. Complex carbohydrates also help raise serotonin levels, which calm you down and lift your mood. Good examples of low-GI foods are whole grains, bran, beans, apples, cherries, dried apricots, plums and pears.

•Eat one or two servings of antioxidant fruits and vegetables with every meal. These replenish the body and brain with oxygen, giving you energy and combating illness. Antioxidant-rich foods include prunes, berries, kale, spinach, broccoli, and alfalfa sprouts. (You guys, I can't tell you how in love I am with this awesome morning shake - frozen berries, spinach (you will not even taste it), yogurt, flaxseed & whatever protein & vitamin base powder you like from your health food store - you'll be full for hours.)

•Have a heaping tablespoon of ground seeds a day. These provide you with the needed energy and essential fat to keep your body and brain churning out maximum energy. In a blender or coffee grinder, grind half flaxseeds and half sesame, sunflower, hemp and pumpkin seeds. Keep in a sealed glass jar in refrigerator, and add to your salads, sprinkle over vegetables or cereal, or have in a shake. (I love flaxseeds, so easy to sprinkle on cereal, in steel cut oatmeal or even salads.)

•VITAMIN B IS YOUR FRIEND - "The first clinical effects of insufficient vitamin B complex are mood changes, insomnia, changes in appetite, sugar craving and impaired drug metabolism. As a group, the B vitamins plays an important role both in alleviating depression and in relieving the anxiety and restlessness which often accompanies it." So make sure you have lots of Vitamin Bs in your multi-vitamin.

Alright, in a few days I'll throw in some info about why SUGAR derails our mood and other exciting stuff.

Super Sexy Good Mood Food

Fear & Loathing & Yoga Girls

If I could be anything in the world right now, I would be a yoga girl. I would sashay into a yoga studio (or maybe hurry, I think yoga girls hurry because they are a little late because their boyfriends dropped them off outside and they were busy "making out" good-bye.) Anyway, these girls are lithe and thin or maybe both those words mean the same thing, but at any rate, I want to be one of them and not me.

You know how I said I was going to do anything and everything to get out of my down-in-the-dumpers? Well, I'm starting to get to the task at hand. What are the things that make me feel good that I need to do in order to feel like the old way I felt when I felt really, really good?

I did yoga.

But yoga is for lithe and thin girls who either sashay or hurry into class. They can hold poses forever and a day, do downward dogs, hold their butts up with no big butt shame shame and NOT have the general expression of someone who looks like they are going to have a heart attack in the first ten minutes of class as I'm sure I would.

I scanned the class schedule. Flow Yoga. Ashanti Yoga. Where was the Chunky Legs & Thighs Yoga? Where was the My Ass Has Spread Faster Than a California Wildfire Yoga? Mmmm, this looks interesting. Pre-natal Yoga. That's where the pregnant ladies go. Probably not a lot of big expectations about what they can do. Probably not a lot of big butt & belly shame in there.

What if I took that class? How would anybody know? I pondered this, I wondered: Could I be that desperate and that well, ashamed of my body and ashamed of the things I think it can only do now after over 100 days in bed and I'm sure partial rigormortous has set in, that I would fake a pregnancy just so I could go to an easier pregnancy class?

Yes, I would. But then I would feel like I wasn't doing what I set out to do. Which was anything and everything and challenging myself and all that stuff I wrote in the "Hello World" entry after two glasses of sparkling Zinfandel and figuring out even a computer moron like me can open a Blogger account.

So I went. To Lithe & Thin & Unbelieveably Model Perfect Body Girl Yoga. Okay, the class wasn't really called that, I just imagined it was. That's the thing, I always imagine things so much worse than they are going to be. I am Queen B of the "psych-out." "You're going to be so embarassed at that yoga class, just stay home. In bed. Napping is your friend." But I fought back on the "psych-out" and I went and I won. Sure my face turned beet red ten minutes in. And yeah, I couldn't hold every pose the whole time. And I might have sweated like I was about to have a massive coronary. But I tuned out what I thought everyone would be thinking about me and my broke down body and I just did what I could which was what was good for me.

And I got through it. And I was freaking proud of myself which I might have not had if I went to a prenatal class and pretended my belly had a baby in it instead of the truth which it was won by a year of grief and sadness and not really moving and not doing anything and everything or challenging myself in anyway. So now when I think I can't do something and my psych-out voice comes on, I'm going to think of me, sweaty and yoga-y, in my last pose, joyfully shakin' my butt in the air, like I just don't care.

Fear & Loathing & Yoga Girls

Of Purpose, Picket Signs and Big Girl Jeans

First of all, I want to say that my pursuit of big girl jeans went shockingly well. I had a flash as I was entering the mall that I would be found unconscious in a dressing room with LARGE LADY JEANS wrapped around my ankles after I HAD PASSED OUT from the shock of what my new size was. I didn't. They are beautiful. They are fantastic. They cost $19.99. THEY MAY NEED A BANDANA to keep them closed as they don't fit totally perfectly (yeah, that's right, I can't completely zip them up). But it was the last size I could stand getting before I would fall into shock, faint and then be on the news, transported out of the mall by ambulance with big girl jeans around my ankles.

Finding PURPOSE:

Two years ago, I was sitting in the Writer's Room of the televison show I was working on and I had a profound revelation: I am not happy. Even with a dream job, even with a rockin' big salary, even after buying a kicking house in the hills, even with a boyfriend who is smart and funny and looks great with his shirt off, even with awesome friends and a healthy family. I am not happy. I KNOW, YOU PROBABLY WANT TO SLAP ME. I had it all and I still had something to complain about.

Things started to gnaw at me right after my cousin passed away. Maybe because I spent a lot of time in bed, staring at the ceiling fan go round and round. IT STARTED TO COME AT ME... I have NO PURPOSE IN LIFE. I cap it 'cause it hit me like a ton of bricks how lost and sad I was. How you can have everything on the outside look so good, and yet on the inside, feel like you have nothing at all.

I write this, I cap letters because I know a lot of you feel the same way. We project happiness, yet there A BIG OL' CLOUD O' TURMOIL a' brewwin' on the inside. I want people to know that you can have "BIG TIME" bummed-outted-ness and still get over it. I've had big ones, small ones, long ones short ones. I've had bummed-outted-ness that was over boys, over fights with friends, ones that were over the devastation of an enormous credit card bill.

But THIS WAS THE BIGGEST ONE OF ALL. My family was falling apart and I had no purpose in life. But now I feel like I do. I've spent over 100 days in bed and then decided... I don't want to anymore. I have not even fractionally figured out my life but I do know that blogging, connecting with you guys over being depressed and trying to FIGHT MY WAY OUT OF IT, even if in my case it sometimes makes me sound like a crazy fool... that is my purpose. Yay! Seriously, this is big for me. Bigger than finding big girl jeans and avoiding being on the news with large lady jeans wrapped around my ankle.


OF PICKET SIGNS:

If any of you are feeling dissatisfied with your life, I have some advice: YOU NEED TO PICKET LIFE. It sounds crazy but by new obsession is picketing. I am doing it because I am a member of the Writer's Guild of America and we are picketing all the Studios because we think the terms of our contract is unfair. WE WANT MORE - JUST LIKE LIFE. We need to do things now that will protect us later - JUST LIKE LIFE. We drew up a list of things that we need to have in order to take care of ourselves. I think you should, too. You don't even have to be picketing a big studio and be handed out pizza by Eva Longoria or donuts by Jay Leno or burritos by Jimmy Kimmel (although, wouldn't it be awesome if you were!) Write up you list. What are you dissatisfied with? What are you MAD AS HELL about and NOT GOING TO TAKE ANYMORE? You write your list, I'm gonna write mine.

This past Monday when I went out on the picket lines and me and "McDreamy", YES PATRICK DEMPSEY, on his motorcycle, leaving Prospect Studios, made eye contact in a way that I felt said, "Keep Rocking those Sweats and that Picket Sign, Girl" - I have never felt so exilarated. Okay, maybe I have. But it's been a while. But I was out there, with a picket sign, I believed in what I was protesting, I HAD PURPOSE. I chanted, I swung my sign, I "whoo-hooed" at honking cars and I shouted on a bull horn. I have never felt so much adreneline in my life. Okay, maybe I have. But it's been a while.

I'm taking this mentality and I'm APPLYING IT TO LIFE. Let's write our lists, let's make our signs, let's draw our line in the sand. Let's claim what we want, when we want it and how we're gonna get it! Get your bullhorns out, get your signs made, get marching FOR WHAT YOU WANT IN LIFE. When you look back in ten years or twenty, you'll be so glad you did.

Of Purpose, Picket Signs and Big Girl Jeans

I'm Watching You Watching Me :)

Really, it's not as creepy as it sounds! But my lil' "Sitemeter" tells me almost 1,000 of you have logged on in less than two weeks! Awesome. Don't worry, I don't know who you are, where you are, I can just tell how many hits I get and what pages you like the best. But why not tell me what you like instead?! Anything you want to know? Want me to blog about? Anything you and your friends are going through that I can write about? Well, I'm off to type my little heart out. Should have a post up in a hour or so. Thanks for ROCKIN' MY WORLD with your cool feedback and comments. xo ;)

I'm Watching You Watching Me :)

"You Need To Jump Out of An Airplane" & Other Wack-A-Do Advice from my Younger Sister

The thing in my family is we never tell the truth about anything. We smile... at trips to the hospital, to people's funerals, at awkward moments at the dinner table when certain members of the family are obviously having a nervous breakdown. Pass the cheesecake please!

But my sister and I have this New Pact to tell each other the truth. It started when my cousin died and then when my Mom had her, "bad time" as she likes to call it. (Um... my idea of having a "bad time" involves cramps from my period and not being rushed to an emergency room.) I will one day tell the story of how Me & E (my awesome, fastastically cool younger sister) came up with the idea of the New Pact. But I feel like I'm getting off the topic of MY SECRET FEAR OF FAT GIRL JEANS.

So, in honoring the New Pact where we tell the truth, one day I told E, "I'm depressed, I'm not myself, I'm in some kind of funk." E was quiet for a second, I knew she was coming up with a plan which I knew would be better than my plan of laying in bed WITH OLD "US" MAGAZINES I had stolen from my dentist ("Tori & Dean: Inn Love." Rivetting!) E said, "Here's what you need to do: YOU NEED TO JUMP OUT OF AN AIRPLANE." Now it was my time to be silent as a "You are a moron" bell went off in my head.) She must be talking methaphorically, I thought, that I need more adventure in my life, that I need to face my fears, that I need to do something wild and spontaneous and unpredictable. The airplane must symbolize all that stuff because she can't really be expecting me to jump out of a plane. On a Saturday. When I am laying in bed and have all this important "US" magaqzine reading to do.

"E," I said, "Do you mean... metaphorically jump out of a plane? E signed, clearly frustrated. "No, I meant REALLY JUMP OUT OF A PLANE."

See, this is where we differ, where we don't see eye to eye. I AM NOT JUMPING OUT OF A frickin' PLANE. That was months ago. Just to torture me, my sister sent me photos of her JUMPING OUT OF A PLANE, signed, "Wish you were here."

One day, I will jump out of a plane. It's on my life list. It's a goal. But here's the thing: I can't go from a place where it's too overwhelming for me to shampoo AND condition my hair to a place where I am jumping out of things and possibly PLUMMENTING TO MY DEATH. That is too scary to me. But I can do something else that scares me TODAY and I'm doing it. I'm naming my fear, I'm staring it down AND I'M WRITING IT HERE SO THAT I CAN'T GET OUT OF IT. It's SOMETHING THAT SCARES ME somewhere between the level of seeing an ex-boyfriend at a party with his new hot girlfriend and jumping out of an airplane.

Here it is: I am going shopping for fat girl jeans. That's it. The delusion is over. I'm chunky. You guys know I gave up sweat pants but the truth is, like any TRUE JUNKY, I've been using again. First, it was just cotton pants with a zipper, then it WAS THE HARD STUFF, straight up sweats. With holes... disguised with long t-shirts. I'm so ashamed.

So now, I face the truth. It's not going to be pretty there at the mall. In the big girl section. But I have to do it OR I'll never get truly clean. I'll let you know how it goes. Thank you for letting me share.

"You Need To Jump Out of An Airplane" & Other Wack-A-Do Advice from my Younger Sister

Breaking Up (With Your Therapist) Is Hard To Do

Here's the thing. I have been in therapy for a very long time. Okay, relatively long. Like three years. I can't even remember why I would have even started going back then since I had my dream job, a sexy boyfriend, had just dropped forty pounds and fit into my skinny jeans and had a Louis Vuitton bag that even though it was fake, looked very real. But I digress, two years ago, things GOT HAIRY as many of you know. All things mentioned above (except for the Louis Vuitton bag which could be yours for the low, low price of $50 dollars) went away. So I plucked down on the therapist's flowery couch and went to work. For two years. Sometimes one a week, sometimes twice. I talked and I talked and I talked and I talked. And now, I am done talking.

I'm kind of like the guy that lost interest months ago but has just been hanging around because I don't know how to get out. My last few sessions, I just acted like I had nothing to talk about and hoped that SHE WOULD INITIATE THE BREAK-UP. But nooooo. She's not having it. She is just that into me. Now I'm trying another classic GUY MOVE. I'm going to act really busy. It's just too impossible to get together. Hopefully she will become frustrated, disappointed by my lack of commitment and I can just fade away. Guys are so smart.

Why can't I be honest? I don't know. I would explore that in Thursday's session but unfortunately, I'm canceling tonight on voice mail when I know she won't be around to answer her phone.

Breaking Up (With Your Therapist) Is Hard To Do

For David, Who I (Double) Love & Miss

I can still remeber when my Aunt brought Baby David home. That's what we called him. Because he was a baby and his name was David. He was my cousin and the first Grandson in our generation... and we are Italian so that is very important. When people ask me what I remember about David, I lie. I lie because I don't want to say, "I remember that he loved bees and was fearless and would catch them by their wings... And I remember that I wrote a check for his funeral." Of all the things I thought when we were kids playing together (that he was bugging me, that if he stuck a bee in my face one more time there would be hell to pay, that I loved even though he wasn't much younger than me he would sit on my lap), I never thought, "I'm going to be writing a check for your funeral." I can still remember when the conversation was had, when the idea was floated. I jumped at the chance. It would make me feel better for the fact that my life was perfect, my sisters were alive and now there could be nice sandwiches and an open bar after the funeral. After the funeral you have for your baby cousin who is fearless who plays with bees and sits on your lap.

The idea of writing a check - who cares - it was not about the money but it was a pinnacle moment of: I AM A GROWN-UP. People die on me. And then I help pay for their funerals. "Don't tell anyone," I was told. It will make people feel bad, less than, fill-in-the-blank. When I was writing that check all I could think of was, "What else will I help pay for? Who else's eyes will I look into and have no idea they might be gone one day and all I will have left of them is a canceled check and a debit on my Bank of America card?

David's two year anniversary was yesterday. All I could think of was, exactly two years ago today, before the accident, before the police called my father thinking he was David's father to tell him the news, before my father had to call my uncle and tell him David was dead, before I called my father and had to hear the news, before I had to take out my red sparkly monkey check book holder that is not very grown-up, but obviously now was being used for grown-up things... my life was perfect.

Once it got turned on it's side and shook up and down and was never the same because of the things that happened and the things I know and the check I wrote. But I'm still standing. Sometimes barely. Sometimes I am laying down. For really long periods of time. Sometimes I am crying in bed and I am howling so loud that my dog howls with me... which makes me laugh and I stop and I comfort him and he comforts me. I am looking for the hope and the silver lining and the wrap-up sentence that UPLIFTS us all and INSPIRES us to move FORWARD. But today, I know none. Tomorrow, I hope tomorrow will be different.

For David, Who I (Double) Love & Miss

Quote O' The Day

This comes from awesomely vivacious reader Megan: ""Most people don't know there are angels whose only job is to make sure you don't get too comfortable & fall asleep & miss your life."

Quote O' The Day

Oh, My God! You're So Fat! Congratulations!

I wish someone said that to me. I mean, of course, I would go running into the next room and probably burst into tears and then need to eat three candy bars and a Xanax to feel better. But I wish someone said that to me. Four or five years ago, I lost a lot of weight, maybe sixty pounds. People would see me and exclaim, "Oh, my God, you got so skinny." "Look, at you, you're like half a person." (Really?) My point is, when someone loses weight, everyone has something to say about it. But when we gain it, we just get the "quick up and down" glance and a tight smile.

Two years ago, my cousin passed away... then I lost my job... oh, and my boyfriend and I broke up, then my Mom got sick. I didn't so much start eating everything in sight as I took to my bed and I just stopped moving. Except FOR MY ASS, that was moving, GETTING BIGGER EVERY DAY. But no one said anything. I guess it's not really polite to say, "What's that noise? Oh, it's your thighs rubbing together!" But I wish it was... I mean, I'm a sensitive gal and I would never want to hurt a friend's feelings but if I see one of my friend's ass spread like mine did, or if I start to notice she only has one outfit and it's sweatpants (AND REMEMBER, SWEAT PANTS ARE NOT YOUR FRIEND), I'm going to say something. I'm going ask if they are okay.

I'm going to have my pockets stuffed with Hershey kisses and Xanax and approach that tough conversation, "I couldn't help but notice, that you have a double chin and a muffin top is dangerously peeking over your pants, wanna talk?" Because sometimes fat is a sign of something bigger... of someone who can't express they need a helping hand. So be that hand, all you can do is get yelled at. But I would rather be yelled at than thinking one of my friends was suffering and I didn't even approach them with Xanax and candy and a ear to listen.

Oh, My God! You're So Fat! Congratulations!

Quote O' The Day

One of our beautiful readers left this in the comments section but it's SO PROFOUND, it's stepping right to the front.

"The upside of falling into depression or dealing with any disappointment is that there is nowhere to go but up. A return to the 'simple things'."

Amazing! Thank you :)

Quote O' The Day