Monday, December 31, 2007

My Almost Nervous "Whole Foods" Breakdown

I could start to feel the dark stormy cloud coming over me again. It's an easy mathematical equation to know if you are depressed: “Are you asleep more than you are awake?” If the answer is yes, then you might be depressed.

I don't know what it could be.

Yes, you do. You started it by asking all those questions about your past, your mother's past, you couldn't leave well enough alone.

Oh, yeah, that might be it.

One thing that always makes me feel better is if I write. So I decided I'd go out and do a blog entry somewhere where there was internet. (Because we don't have it here, at my parents' house. If you can imagine a place where you have to wash yourself in a bucket and cook gruel in a pot in the fireplace, you pretty much have the technical advances of my parents house down. Oh, also, if you're coming by, bring a coat, you'll need to wear it indoors.)

First I try Panera Bread. No go. Then Border's Books. No go. You need T-Mobile there. “OH, I'M SORRY, DID THE THREE BUCKS I JUST SPENT FOR A CUP OF COFFEE NOT ENTITLE ME TO TEN MINUTES ON THE INTERNET!!!!”

That's what I would have said, had I spent three bucks on a cup of coffee. But I didn't.

So then I try Whole Foods. This is definitely going to work. I have used their internet before. Only it doesn't work. AND I CAN FEEL A RAGE BOILING UP IN ME like you would not believe.

I may be a lot of things. Eccentric, emotional, silly, high-strung, neurotic BUT I'm not usually a rage-a-holic-maniac type girl. OH, BUT RIGHT NOW I AM!

I seriously want to shake somebody. Or worse. I imagine (because I hate guns, so I would never think of shooting anyone with a real gun) that I have gun-like apparatus that instead of shooting bullets, IT SHOOTS FRUIT.

“Oh my God!,” they'll scream, “She's reloading in Produce.” Bam! Bam! Bam! I take down (and by “take down” I just mean “PELT IN THE BUTTOCKS with my fruit gun. It only leaves bruises in the shape of the fruit you were hit with AND AN INABILITY TO EVER EAT FRUIT SALAD AGAIN).

I reload with Grapefruits, that's how mad I am. I'm looking for the Manager who is responsible for my HARDSHIP of getting the on internet. I'm gonna get 'em, get 'em good.

The loud speaker comes on. “Maniac on aisle five.”

“Crap,” I think. “Now I'm gonna be on the news. Those bitches from high school will see me and think, 'She got so fat' and 'Did you even see what she was wearing?' “Please, like I could get past how bad her highlights are!”


I write my blog and I check my Sitemeter to see how many people have been on the past few days. (I do this to see which entries people like best.)

The number of visitors is the hugest NUMBER since I started the sight. Maybe double the best number I've ever got.

That's when I start to cry (See? Emotional.) I just feel this amazing gratitude that people like my work, that they respond to it, that they see themselves in it. And also, I feel like a jerk that I was so close to having AN INSANE FIT over nothing, especially because I have EVERYTHING. (Okay, so maybe not a job... or a boyfriend... or any idea what's going to have to my family but... I'm figuring ALL THAT OUT. So, "EVERYTHING".)

And I also feel like a loser for wanting to shoot the lovely people at Whole Foods with my fruit gun.

Saturday, December 29, 2007

If You Say Something I Don't Like, I Will Never Speak to You Again

My sister E has a way with the truth. In that she speaks it. She's the only one. When you have never heard the truth before and then someone starts saying the TRUTH, it will only sound like lies.

E says things sometimes, things that I think she says just to be shocking. So when she said maybe two and a half years ago, “Mom is Bi-Polar,” I was so furious that if it was a movie, I WOULD HAVE GOTTEN UP AND SLAPPED HER ACROSS THE FACE and then the director would cut back to me and I would be sitting on the couch. (The “slapping of the face” being a fantasy sequence because I never act on my emotions.)

In real life, I probably just walked out of the room and didn't speak to her for a while. Maybe six months. That's usually how long we'll fight before someone gives in. It sounds unreasonable BUT PEOPLE WHO SAY SUCH PREPOSTEROUS THINGS such as, “Mom is Bi-Polar,” THEY MUST BE PUNISHED.

Because then maybe they'll learn to keep such preposterous things to themselves.

I don't want to really talk about the day we took my Mom to the hospital until E will sit down with me. Her memory is unparalleld. I think I chocked down enough stolen Klonopin and Shiraz Yellow Tail (not stolen) during that time, that I might need my memory JUMP STARTED.

But I will tell you this one thing.

When we were sitting in the Emergency Room hospital room this time last year, and when E sat on the floor because she was literally shrinking from the weight of the secrets my mother was spilling to the Psychiatrist at such a fervent pitch it was as if someone was holding fire to my mother's feet unless she CONFESSED EVERYTHING RIGHT HERE AND RIGHT NOW, the Doctor turned to my mother and said:

“How long have you known you have been Bi-Polar?”

My Mother said, “A long time…. My whole life, I guess.”

Is there another expression for, “My jaw dropped?” It doesn't fit WHAT I WAS FEELING at all. And it feels dated. No, it does not capture the moment at all.

You know those old “LATE NIGHT WITH DAVID LETTERMAN shows? The good ones where he would drop things off the roof of his building? I felt like the TV on the sidewalk just seconds after he released a bowling ball into the air. My guts were everywhere, even though they were still inside me.

Just that, in one moment, MY LIFE WAS BROUGHT TOGETHER AND SPLIT APART. Somehow so many things made sense but in a really sad way. Now we could never SWEEP IT UNDER THE RUG. Because a Doctor said it, and E said it and Mom said it, so now it must be true.

I looked at E. She looked so small sitting there on the hospital room floor. We made eye contact. But she did not say, “I told you so.” Which is weird, because she's kind of an “I told you so” kind of girl.

But she knew it was not the day for “I told you so.”

Friday, December 28, 2007

It's A Good Time To Make Lists!

A few posts ago, in "Of Purpose, Picket Signs and Big Girl Jeans," I blogged about picketing our lives. Here's a lil' excerpt in case your memory (or hangover) is as bad as mine:

"If any of you are feeling dissatisfied with your life, I have some advice: YOU NEED TO PICKET LIFE... What are you dissatisfied with? What are you MAD AS HELL about and NOT GOING TO TAKE ANYMORE?

I'm taking this mentality of picketing and protesting 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."

So I'm starting my list, right now. Today. Things I'm going to go after with all the gusto in the world. If I think about what my life was two years ago, I only one goal: GET OUT OF BED. Now that I have, I want to ENJOY LIFE. Every day, I come a little closer to circling BACK TO THE ME I ALWAYS WANTED TO BE.

Here's a start to the list (though it will be updated along with what I'm doing to make it all come true):

1) I want PINK hair. Not a huge goal. But I want it. There.

2) I want to go to Italy. I loved it there when I went. I've always wanted to go back. I might need to hold a fundraiser, but hell, I'm going.

3) I'm going to write a book.

4) I'm going to lose forty pounds. I MUST! I don't like this weight, it stinks. Forty won't even get me to thin, it will get me to healthy.

5) I've always wanted to run a road race. Even a five K, I don't care. Spring is coming, there will be lots of them.

6) I want to redecorate my apartment. I want it to reflect the NEW ME I AM TRYING TO BECOME. That means color, brightness and beautiful. Out with clutter, in with organization and necessities.

7) I want to make something. I've narrowed it down to: POTTERY, SOME KIND OF JEWELRY MAKING OR I've always wanted to learn how to upholster furniture (all though me with a high powered staple gun could BE VERY DANGEROUS.) Maybe paint.

8) I want to volunteer. I've already made the contact on this one. I'm going to teach writing to sick kids.

9) HAVE MORE FUN! Every day carve out time for FUN.

10) Investigate my life, figure out who I am and stop repeating patterns that are learned and that have hurt me.


And that my friends is just the beginning, to a new and beautiful life.

Thursday, December 27, 2007

Adventure Grrl, Private Eye: Getting Down to Why & How Everything Went So Horribly Wrong

It's weird being back home. But I did come with the goal to be a private investigator in my own life.

What I really need to find out: Who knew that my Mom was CRAZY and when. The first time this question piqued my curiosity was when my sisters E & K and I were in a car in Ireland four years ago and E & K were casually having a conversation about how after E was born (I was five), my mother RAN AWAY FROM HOME, leaving the three of us with my dad, without having having ANY IDEA WHERE SHE WAS. (The police showed up to confront my oblivious Dad 12 hours later who hadn't even noticed she was gone. ENOUGH SAID.)

Soon, we were split up. K & E went to live with one aunt and uncle and I went to live with another. ONLY I HAD ABSOLUTELY NO MEMORY OF THIS (except of constant dreams of velvet paintings with Giant Heads and disproportionally large eyes - later I learned my aunt and uncle had these of their two children and family dog.) K knew all along, she was a year older than me. She has told E, BUT NO ONE HAD TOLD ME. I asked K, who I shared a childhood bedroom my whole life, "HOW COULD YOU NOT TELL ME?" "Oh," she said, "I thought you knew."

Which is just how things work in my family. We assume we know all about the painful parts and we assume WE SHOULD NEVER SPEAK OF THEM.


1) What did my Dad know and when?

2) What did my Mom's younger Brother and Sister know and when?

3) What did my second Aunt who was my Mom's closet confidant, and also took care of K & E all those years ago, what did she know?

4) Why did no one do anything past the first nervous breakdown when I was five?

5) Why was this such CLOSELY GUARDED SECRET?

6) E (who is sitting here with me know) says her question would be: "If she was a mother and wanted kids so badly, why did she seemingly hate us all?

Great. I never even thought of that. But E always cuts through the bullshit and gets right to it. Sadly, it's a valid question.

Friday, December 21, 2007

Is It Bad To Pray To God to Lose Weight?

That's what I did last night. Just a little.

Dear God,

I know you're busy with other things like wars, genocide, floods, hurricanes, people starving, earthquakes, the earth melting, illnesses, plagues, homelessness, extinction of certain kinds of eagles, but on the off chance you could SHINE A LITTLE LIGHT THIS WAY, could you please have the scale at WW read 2 pounds less. That's all I'm asking. I'll even take 1.8 since you seem especially busy.

Love, Me

P.S. I waited until 22 to lose my virginity and I feel like that should count for something.

Stay tuned to see if it worked!!!

Thursday, December 20, 2007

Why We Do What We Do

One thing that's good about being YOUNG is we don't have to have jobs that we don't love if we don't want to. Our parents did, but we don't. It's a pretty awesome thing to love your job. Some WGA writers who are on strike are writing these essays, "Why We Write" so I thought I'd take a stab at one.

I was shocked by how emotional I got when I wrote it. I guess that's what happens when love is involved.


"When I was a kid, my Dad was sick… I'm talking really, really sick. The kind of sick where priests come over to give lasts rites, wills are made behind closed doors and you find yourself running to a neighbor's house to get someone, anyone to take your father to the hospital because the ambulance is taking too long.

For two years before my father received his heart transplant, he laid in bed. A TV was brought up to his room and that's where we watched Letterman, Saturday Night “Don't Tell Your Mother I'm Letting You Watch This” Live, “Cheers” and “The Simpsons.” I was young, sometimes I didn't get the jokes, sometimes I didn't get the double entendres but I did understand that TV MADE BAD THINGS GO AWAY.

TV was the escape from nurses who poked and prodded, Doctors who gave bad news, the anticipation that my sisters and I were being split up to live in different homes so my father could have surgery 3,000 miles away. It was the escape from begging outside Church and grocery stores for money to supplement my father's surgery and the countless relatives that stopped by the house with their “sad eyes” and their avalanche of casseroles.

But most importantly, TV made my father laugh. A man with maybe six months to live without this surgery, who was wasting away at 140 pounds on his six foot frame, you just had to hear him roaring at NBC's Thursday Night line-up and when you did, you could actually dream the possibility that EVERYTHING WAS GOING TO BE OKAY.

That's why I write.

Because TV gave so much to me, a hopeless and helpless kid, who, had she lost her father (and Thank God she didn't) would at least have those amazing memories, of watching TV, the family gathered 'round, not looking forward to anything else but THIS MOMENT, laughing together and escaping life, thirty minutes at a time.

I always thought, if I could do that for someone, life would be pretty awesome. And it is."

I'm going to dedicate this post to the most fantastic and dynamic boss I ever had. I knew her reputation before I ever met her - she was smart, funny and really cares about the people she employs. She did something for me, that she will never understand, which is pluck me from a miserable job and give me the chance at my dream job - to become a writer.

And then she mentored me and taught me everything I know, all while (and I mean this with great jealousy) looking fabulous doing it. (Seriously, she never had a "bad outfit" day).

If I could, I would work for her and only her... I've probably felt that more now, that we aren't working together, the feeling that the work environment she created, I might never experience again.

Wednesday, December 19, 2007

A Holiday Miracle!

In an amazing turn of events that boggles the mind in the same way that Mary Mother of God could give BIRTH AND BE A VIRGIN AT THE SAME TIME, I have news just as astonishing and unbelievable.

My jeans fit. I can zip them. It's a holiday miracle.

These are the jeans that I blogged about in "Of Purpose, Picket Signs and Fat Girl Jeans," the ones that I could not quite close entirely and therefore had to rely on a knotted bandanna through the belt loops that made me most closely resemble an unwed PREGNANT GIRL whose belly button had popped. (If I put the knot to the side, I just looked like a expectant mother with some sort of side stomach tumor.)

BUT TODAY, they fit. I can sit in them, I can eat in them. They do not cut off the circulation between my upper and lower body, WHICH I THINK IS A GOOD THING.

Part of this is hard work, the other part is the fact that a horrifc cold has hijacked my taste buds and left me comatose for most hours in the day when I might be eating. But mostly hard work. With a pinch of fear of facing the Weight Watchers Lady with the petulant puss who I know is expecting ME TO FAIL, BUT I WILL NOT FAIL. I will be VICTORIOUS.

This week, she will give me more than just a surprised look on her face when I step on that scale. SHE WILL GIVE ME BRAVO STAR STICKERS. They will probably ask me to lead the meeting, be their national spokesperson and be on the cover of their magazine (bizarrely called "Diane") which I will rename "Former Fattie" and be featured in a ten page spread. Or maybe I'll just get my Bravo stickers.

I must sign off. My dog Cooper is violently humping a toy horse I gave him and if this goes on much longer, I might not be able to sleep in my bed tonight.

To All The Awesome Readers of This Blog

There seems to be a lil' confusion about my last post, I wanted to clear some things up. When I post with the title: "How It All Began" I am going back two years ago to when my cousin died and that's when I feel all my depression began. (At some point, I'll put that on the front page, I can see how it would be confusing.)

As for the Prozac stuff, thank you for all your concern. The best book I ever read about anti-depressants was called "Prozac Backlash." It's from a Harvard doctor who in essence says anti-depressants are good, but only for short amounts of time and ONLY COMBINED with therapy, which I firmly believe. (Why just dull the pain but never get in out of your system?)

Which brings me to my next point, yeah, I broke up with my therapist but I still want to be in therapy. I'M A COMPLICATED GIRL, Y'ALL. I've been through some stuff. Why I broke up with her is I felt the lack of being challenged anymore and she would never PUSH ME to talk about my cousin's death even though week after week, I CAME IN THERE LOOKING LIKE A BIG SAD, FATTIE who obviously was deeply sad and troubled.

So I decided to challenge myself. What if I wrote about that time? What if I exorcised those demons on my own? What if I stopped keeping everything on the inside? What if I stopped pretending it didn't happen? What if I pushed myself to do new things out of my comfort zone? What if I SAID YES TO EVERYTHING instead of NO? What if I got out of BED?

It seems to be working, though when my insurance benefits kick back in, on January 1, I hope I will find someone new to help me with the journey.

Other things you might want to know, sometimes I feel bad if I blog about sad stuff so I will then blog about something ridiculous. Sometimes I am blogging without pants. Sometimes I blog from the library and there is a man on the next computer wearing no pants.

Tuesday, December 18, 2007

How It All Began Part 3
"How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs"

At this point, I know I am in the deepest depression I have ever experienced. When I was fourteen and my cousin Michael died in a skiing accident, I was not so much depressed right away as in an incredible amount of shock.

With David's death, there was shock and yet, I felt pulled into that deep dark place with it's vacuum like power, just taking me down. "I will not survive this." "I can't get on that plane." "I can't come back here... I can't go back to a job where we tell jokes and LAUGH all day. IT'S NOT FUNNY! NOTHING IS FUNNY ANYMORE. Nothing makes sense anymore."

I better get some drugs. If there ever was a time to get some prescribed drugs, NOW IS THE TIME.

I had already called the doctor and made the appointment. I KNEW ONE THING FOR CERTAIN. I wanted anti-depressants and I wanted sleeping pills. MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF SLEEPING PILLS. They need to be strong enough to overtake the crying, sobbing, howling, heaving, quiet screaming.

The anti-depressants, I had already done research on. Not for me, but for a guy I once dated. (That should HAVE TOLD ME SOOOOO MUCH. Hello red flag. Not because he was depressed but they have to want to get help on their own, ya know?) I knew what I wanted. PROZAC. They're pretty, white and blue and they don't make you gain weight.

EVEN IN MY GRIEF, vanity rules.

The other thing I knew is, if you are going to a reputable doctor, as I was, you cannot look like A HOT MESS, such as I did. They do not give you MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF DRUGS when you look and smell homeless. They have, like, standards, people. If I was going to get what I wanted, I needed to look and dress the part.

Only I couldn't. I couldn't even get out of bed. I forced myself, at the very least, just to get some Ambien so I could sleep. But I did not brush my hair nor my teeth. I did not even put on clothes, I just wore what I had climbed into bed in the day before. Sweats and some kind of top that made it (in my mind) easy to get away with not wearing a bra.

Okay, I thought as I drove over, you look half crazy. This is all going to be about ATTITUDE. DO NOT CRY. IF YOU CRY, YOU WILL NOT GET MASSIVE AMOUNTS OF DRUGS, which I am telling you, YOU NEED, or you will not be able to function. You will not be able to go to the funeral and you will not be able to come back from it.


But this doctor was not buying it and this doctor was not having it. He immediately hit me with some Prozac but he was not about to let a DEPRESSED MESS like myself who's cousin was just murdered, near any kind of sleeping pills. "PUH-LEEEEEEEEEEEEESE," I begged. "No," he said. That kind of authorotative "NO" that let me know I was already skating on thin ice. And if I wanted my Prozac prescription, I better just shut up. So I did. He gave it to me and I ran.

Because I had another plan to get what I wanted.


Monday, December 17, 2007

The Healing Power Of Cheese Bagels & How to Know When It's Been A While Since You Got "Some"

I am sick. I would say "sick as a dog" but I don't know what that means. My symptoms are sneezing as if I were allergic to everything, coughing as if I had a two pack a day habit, a lack of energy (which, strangely, isn't so different than any other day) and an overall "BLAH" feeling.

One symptom I don't seem to have is a lack of appetite. So since soup isn't really a breakfast food and I would certainly feel foolish eating a food for breakfast that WAS NOT a breakfast food and since I'm quite sure there is a saying, "FEED A COLD, STARVE THE NEIGHBOR WHO LET'S HIS DOG POOP ON YOUR LAWN AND DOESN'T PICK IT UP," the only remedy I could see for BIG COLD, BIGGER APPETITE WAS:

Eat a cheese bagel.

It was delicious. I'm already feeling better in fact. I've stopped sweating and my hair is shinier, so I'm thinking I should call the American Medical Journal and report on the healing powers of cheese bagels.


We are all clear on what "SOME" means, right? If you don't know, PLEASE CALL A FRIEND, one that won't laugh at you. Anywhoo, I'm at a place where there is a sign demonstrating what to do if someone should need CPR (strangely, there was NOT a picture of someone running away, as I have done the last two times someone started choking in front of me.)

What catches my eye on the poster, is A MAN prying a WOMAN'S MOUTH open with his fingers in a manly and authoritative way, and I become BOTH JEALOUS AND AROUSED. (But mostly, jealous... and aroused.)

And that my friend, is how you know it's been a while since you got some.

Saturday, December 15, 2007


Even though I woke up with a massive head cold and even though I woke up spooning with the bum of my 9 pound Chihuahua, I just know THIS IS GOING TO BE THE BEST YEAR EVER.

Thanks for sharing it with me! I'm going to blog later, for sure. Right now, I must partake in being worshiped by one of my BEST-IES while eating a BIRTHDAY CHOCOLATE CHIP PANCAKE. (The lady behind the Weight Watchers counter with the perpetual puss would SO be frowning on me right now :)

Friday, December 14, 2007

The Biggest Loser

If I could have any wish in the world (and that wish could not be for world peace, to end the genocide in Darfur, to end all wars, stop the world from melting, get a job, bring my cousin back, make my Mom sane again, clone and freeze the DNA of my dog), I would wish to weigh what a girl weighs and not a man weighs.

Right now, I most certainly WEIGH WHAT A MAN WEIGHS. (And Ladies, he's not a thin man, either.)

Today, I took a step to end that. Last week, me and my friends L & S went and joined Weight Watchers. I always imagined the kind of woman that joins Weight Watchers was gigantic, wears loud sweaters a la Cliff Huxtable and has 8 or more cats. What's weird is, it's the total opposite. It's a bunch of hip girls with their cool clothes, rockin' handbags who speak in a foreign language of "points," "flex or core" and "activity points."

Every time I've been on a diet it has involved shame, embarrassment and pre-eating before I go out to dinner as not to attack a bowl of Fettucine Alfredo at a restaurant. Now there's gabbing about sensible snacks, morning smoothies and success stories!

This morning I got on the scale at Weight Watchers. I had a whole speech prepared to the lady running the machine, "Listen, I'm not trying to lose any weight before the holidays, okay? Just maintain, so when you see the scale has not budged since last week you can save me the SAD EYES and the PEP TALK, okay?"

But before I could say that, she said, "You lost 2 pounds." Then she stamped my card with three, COUNT 'EM, THREE "Bravo" STAR STICKERS.

I almost cried. And had we not been separated by a 2 foot counter, I might have lept over it an HUGGED HER, I WAS SO FRICKIN' HAPPY. (Which is probably precisely why that counter is there.)

Somethings I know for sure, today. I'm always going to bet on myself - I might just lose which means I win. When I do lose all this weight - it will be for the last time. I don't care who dies, who goes crazy or who dumps me. When I am at my goal weight, like I was just 2 years ago, I will not THINK ABOUT "MAYBE IF I JUST LOSE 10 MORE." I will not think about "MORE," I will think about how lucky I am that I am at A HEALTHY AND GOOD AND SKIRT WEARING WEIGHT and that I don't want to waste anymore time NOT appreciating where I am at THIS MOMENT RIGHT NOW.

Like this moment right now. Two pounds lighter. To someone else, it might not seem like much. To me, it's a miracle.

Thursday, December 13, 2007

Thinking About Death is Fun!

UPDATE: Getting Truth-y
I wrote this entry because I had one too many glasses of red wine. Okay, that's a lie. I had one glass of red wine. Which is even worse, because I wasn't even drunk enough to justify why I would write a post like this. EXCEPT: It was a great, fun way to avoid Part 3 of "How It All Began" which I swear, I will get too shortly, unless I can think of some other embarassing INNER WORKINGS OF MY MIND

I don't know why I always think about death this time of year. It's two days before the celebration of me shooting out of my mother's loins (my birthday. What? I was trying to be colorful.)

Anyway, a few weeks ago I said to my friend L, "If I die, I want to have my spec sitcom scripts paper mached around my feet like boots and then I would like to be SHOT OUT OF A CANON. Make that happen." (Which, if she comes up against my mother, she WILL NEVER MAKE THAT HAPPEN.)

Then I was looking through old emails of exactly this time last year and found one to L, again, requesting what I would like to happen to me if I died. (WARNING: MUCH WINE WAS CONSUMED IN THE MAKING OF THIS EMAIL, as I had by now, spent over one month, unexpectedly in my childhood twin bed after my mother's glorious, tragic and somewhat entertaining nervous breakdown.)


"If i die, i would like to lie in state in a cascde of broken ice chips (not cubes, cubes will not be right for the occasion.)  In the ice there will be stations for fresh rolls, then roast beef, turkey, ham, assorted salads and dressings. Should there be a hot station, too? If so, that's where the rolls should be. Also, a rotissere chicken or a tri-tip might be nice. Let's talk soup, too. Something in a bisque, a crab or tomato. The last stop, would be my feet, is where people will help themselves to one or several imported beers. So in essence, if we can steal one of those huge salad bar stations Whole Foods, I'm good."

I know, I'm bizarre. If you haven't figured that out yet, really, what can I do?

Can You Die Of Humiliation???

So last night I'm at my weekly "Project Runway" Party where we all gather for dinner and wine and gossip and overall fashion cattiness. It has become the highlight of my week and as my friend R put it, "The weekend officially starts on Wednesdays." (Which for me, being unemployed, it could offcially start at 10:45am on a Monday... not that I'm bragging.)

Anyway, one of the beauties brought this gorgeous box of Christmas chocolates and it was passed around until it came to me in which the hostess swooped in and said, "NO CANDY FOR YOU, I'VE READ YOUR BLOG." At which point, I was really humiliated because for 1, don't really want my blog used againist me and 2, I know the blog IS OUT THERE FOR THE WORLD TO SEE, but some people there were strangers and I really don't want them knowing that I AM OBSESSED WITH MY FAT ASS.

The Hostess then metaphorically wagged her finger in front of me, letting me know, I, MYSELF, THE POSSESER OF SAID FAT ASS, had blogged about wishing my friends had said something to me while I was in my deepest depression and couldn't see for myself that my OWN ASS WAS GROWNING IT'S OWN ASS. To which I say, GO REREAD the entry, "OH, MY GOD, YOU'RE SO FAT, CONGRATULATIONS!"

Because I'm pretty sure for all it said, IT DID NOT SAY, YANK A BOX OF CHOCOLATES AWAY FROM ME and embarass me in front of strangers.

That said, those fancy chocolates weren't that good so I stole a Santa Hershey bar from one of Hostesses' kids and ate it on the way home.

Wednesday, December 12, 2007

How It All Began Part 2 aka "Gimme Some Damn Drugs!"

The day I found out that David died, I immediately left work and went home. I laid or lay on my bed (which ever is grammatically correct) and stared at my ceiling fan. I FELT THE MOST ALONE I EVER HAD IN MY LIFE. Alone. I can't tell anyone what really happened. Alone. I can't let anyone see me cry (my secret fear). Alone. How do I go back to a job AS A SITCOM WRITER where I get paid TO BE FUNNY after this?

I will get fired.

They will see me when I come back to work and they will see right through me. They will see the sadness and the grief and they WILL GO BEHIND CLOSED DOORS and say "she will never be the same," "she cannot pull her own weight," "we should just cut our loses."

And then they will fire me.

Which in a weird way brought me relief... because I was in a deep black cold dark ocean with waves coming at me in both directions and everything they would say would be right and true. BUT THEN, the fact that if I DID NOT have that job and I had to lie or lay here in bed, all alone, staring that that ceiling fan with nothing but envisioning my cousin's murder, OVER AND OVER AND OVER again in my head, that's what might be THE END OF ME.

SO I PICKED UP THE TELEPHONE. Where I called a doctor after formulating a plan. That he would give me drugs. Happy pills, anti-depressants, not get fired from your job pills, horrible inexplicable situation pills, SOMETHING TO CUSHION THE BLOW pills.

Good idea.

I called and made the appointment. Now I just had to stare at the ceiling for eighteen more hours.

(To Be Continued - Right Now I'm Thing the Title Will Be "How To Act and Dress When You Are Asking A Reputable Doctor For MASSIVE AMOUNTS of Drugs."

Tuesday, December 11, 2007

Why Bloomingdales Must Immediately Install Treadmills In Their Dressing Rooms

If you are having trouble starting your diet, going to the gym or putting the figgy pudding down, HERE'S MY ADVICE TO YOU: Get thee to the nearest mall and try on, oh, say, a festive holiday blouse, sweater, shrug, top or cardigan. It can be silk, cotton, acrylic (though I hope it's not), wool, spandex or rayon.

In preparation for the biggest holiday of the year, MY BIRTHDAY, (this Saturday, mark your "Hello Kitty" calendars) I went to the mall to buy a new top. WHAT I FOUND OUT ONCE in my most VUNERABLE STATE OF UNDRESS in the dressing room is almost too HORRIFYING TO ADMIT.

NOTHING FIT. (Not even the Spandex). Not even with sucking in, hardly breathing or imagining certain parts of the body BEING TAPED DOWN WITH DUCT TAPE. NOTHING.

That's when I came up with this BRILLIANT IDEA. (I needed to have brilliant idea or I was going to have a screaming, crying, why did I eat a crossiant nearly everyday for two years hissy fit.) My idea is, Bloomindales or (Insert name of Favorite Department Store here) needs to IMMEDIATELY INSTALL TREADMILLS IN THE DRESSING ROOMS.

I swear, I would have paid $25 bucks to work out right then and there. MAYBE MORE! The stores would make a killing. The treadmills could be coin operated like washers and dryers! And after a workout, I would spend, spend, spend, knowing my 30 minutes on a fifty dollar rent-a-treadmill had given me hope that maybe some of my purchases might fit in 3 - 5 weeks. (Results may vary)

Perhaps, too, like a ride at DisneyLand, they could also take a photo of me ON THE TREADMILL, in the dressing room, wearing the shirt I picked out BUT DOESN'T FIT but I have still insisted on cramming over my head and shoulders and I am probably going to have to be cut out of it in order to give it back. MAYBE IF I SAW MYSELF like that, my stomach peeking out of too tight jeans with a top that looks like a half-shirt because I can't get it over my round-y stomach, I would keep running and running and running and fit into this top in 3- 5 weeks (Results are not typical.)

Okay, I gotta get cooking on this idea. Treadmills! Coming to a mall near you!

Monday, December 10, 2007

I Am Both Things

Sometimes, I close my eyes and I imagine someone trying to EXPLAIN THIS BLOG to a friend and I imagine them say, "It's this girl and she talks about her big butt and how she wishes she could excercise more, lose weight and be attractive to every man she meets, especially THE CUTE ONES who still have THEIR OWN HAIR. Especially if it could be in front of her Old Bad Boyfriend who she swears she doesn't want to get back together with but if he could be so INSANELY JEALOUS of her new SMALL BUTT being cupped by a new attractive guy who most likely resembles David Beckham IN BOY SHORTS, that he (OBB) would spurt beer out of his nose in a fit of JEALOUS RAGE, I think she'd be okay with that, too.

Oh, and then she sometimes talks about her dead cousin and how her mother went crazy." This someone's voice would trail off as if they were trying to figure how how the two parts of my life go together. "Yeah... it's weird."

It is weird. But, I am both things.

I am the girl who likes pink and glittery eyeshadow especially with gloss (only if you are doing a subtle cheek). I like fake furs on a cold day with a Vogue and a Vanity Fair tucked in close on my way to a pedicure. I like gossiping about co-workers, dreaming about boys, praying that my ass will be smaller when I wake up in the morning and taping pictures of skinny girls in bikinis on my bath room mirror (in a non-lesbian way) as motivation to eat all the vegetables on my plate.

I am also my cousin's murder and my mother's nervous breakdown. I am the girl who can't sleep. I am the girl with nightmares and unexpected crying jags, who hurts and is afraid to get hurt, who wants to love but sees no point in it, who, at one time, (but not anymore) mixed prescription medication with lots of wine in order to only have to lay in bed for .5 seconds before sleep would come because THERE IS NO WAY I CAN BE AWAKE WITH ALL THESE THOUGHTS IN MY HEAD ALONE IN THE DARK.

I am both things. If I could save you from it, I would. I would type BAD THINGS in black and GOOD THINGS in pink. But I can't save myself from it, I can just... well, I don't know, I'm still figuring out that last part. So bear with me, I'll get there. I will get there... to a day it's all in pink.

Look What I Can Do !!!!

So I finally figured out how to work it so if you guys want, you can email a post to a friend. Just click on that little envelope at the end of a post.

You should do this if you want to: Make someone else laugh, MAKE SOMEONE FEEL BETTER ABOUT not going to the gym, eating those dozen Christmas cookies, not having a sex prospect (yet) for '08, hating their boss, having back fat& a muffin top, having a crazy family, missing their Bad Old Boyfriend or getting drunk and doing something embarrassing. BECAUSE I HAVE/DO ALL THAT AND MORE!

Sunday, December 9, 2007

How It All Began

There's a reason I dread when the phone rings late at night and there's a reason I freak when my Dad leaves me voice mails that don't end with, "And everything is okay," even after we made a pact that he must always end voicemails with, "And everything is okay."

We made this pact because my Dad NEVER calls me unless it's really, really bad news. Although, lately, he's caught me off guard, sometimes just calling to say "hello." This really throws me... as he has an incredible aversion to even using a telephone to the point that if it is ringing in the house he will walk over to it and pick it up and hang up on whomever is calling.

I can only guess it's because my family has learned that in a day YOUR WORLD CAN BE TURNED UPSIDE DOWN, it might be last time you speak to someone you love, that you can look away for a moment and then the unspeakable can happen.

On the day that I learned David had died, everything was okay. I was sitting in my office on the TV show I was working on and looking over my notes on a script and would it be funnier if she said this or would it be funnier if she said that, when I decided to call home and I knew because my father has an aversion to even picking up the telephone that the fact that he had indeed picked up the telephone that something was very, very wrong.

"What's wrong?" And he told me. And I started not so much immediately crying as howling and wailing and tears were not just streaming but spouting. I know I kept screaming, "What? What?" even though, I knew very much what was what. David had been murdered. The police had found his ID in his pocket and called our home, thinking my Dad was his Dad, thus making it my father's responsibility to call my uncle and tell him that his son had been killed. "Whatttttt?"

I have never had this feeling before. Not through all my father's surgerys, donating my kidney to my dad, my cousin Michael's death when I was fourteen, not even when my younger cousin had cancer when I was sixteen.

The room came up on it's side. The wheelie office chair I was in smashed into my desk. I stood up but the floor beneath me was giving way, tipping more and more on it's side. I was shaking so hard I couldn't keep my balance. There were attempts at calls to bosses and co-workers and assistants and "I have to leave NOWs!" I ran out of the building not even quite sure where I would go.

And the howling wouldn't stop.

I walked by co-workers, writers, production people, costumer designers wheeling their costumes, electricians pushing their cable carts, caterers laying out their morning spreads and I did not care and I did not stop howling. All the way to my car and all the way home.

I got in my bed and thought, "This nightmare is just beginning."

Saturday, December 8, 2007

Making Out With A Stranger Is Good For Your Soul

I will say that my life is RADICALLY CHANGING in the last several months in, that, many months ago, I wouldn't even be out anywhere that a man would be, in fact, the closet I would come to one would be trudging down to 7-11 in hole-y sweatpants and a crazy ponytail for some "Combos" (They figured out a way to put cheese in pretzels! It's brilliant! It's like a fancy cocktail party in a 2 oz. bag!) and a bottle of cheap chardonnay.

I would see Rajewel look at me from behind the counter, shaking his head at my bed head and bed body as he rang up my purchase, "So sad, you are, little girl. That will be $8.95."

But now I go out and MAKE OUT with strangers in bars. I guess that's what happens when we finally get out of bed, realize there's more out there then there is in here, figure out that the only way out is through and that somethings don't have to mean everything and if I could measure my life in unexpected kisses rather than days in bed, I'd certainly take the first.

Unless I could take them both together.

My Butt is My Own Weapon of Mass Destruction

My butt. I don't like it. It's big. It does not look cute in jeans. As a matter of fact, it has taken on a shape that barely resembles a butt... it's almost oddly square shaped as if the fat doesn't quite know where to go. I HAVE REACHED MY BREAKING POINT.

Apparently, so have many of my girlfriends, which is why we have started a kind of sorta of diet club. It's where we can get together, BE GIRL CLICHES, and obessively compulsively talk about diet and exercise until we (hopefully) give each other eating disorders. Whatever it takes, size 8 (6) here I come.

These last two years have been hell on the body and I feel sad for my little (big) self. Instead of treating my body like a temple, I've treated it like a crack den, if by crack, I meant lots of beer and cheese popcorn.

One of the reasons I broke up with my therapist is she kept insisting that what I weighed did not matter. Which is why I had to fire her because to me, IT REALLY, REALLY, REALLY DOES MATTER. I couldn't help but think after she said that, that after 2 years and 6 months of visits and paying her what amounted to what half a car costs - SHE DOES NOT GET ME AT ALL.

She wanted me to say, "I am not my weight."
ME: "But I am"
HER: "No you're not."
ME: "Yes, I am."
HER: "No you're not."
ME: "Yes, I am and you're fired, Lady!"

Then I flipped over her coffee table and her "Psychology Today" magazines and Co-Dependent No More pamphlets went splaying everywhere and I prompted STROMED OFF.

Okay, that last part might be a LIL' exaggerated. The point is, I AM MY BODY. And this body, with it's round belly and big butt, were hard won by grief, sadness, devastating break-up, unemployment, unexpected parent illness (read: mother going crazy), etc. So if I don't acknowledge that I AM MY BODY it's like ignoring all it took to get me here. And P.S., IGNORING what got me here is precisely what it took to get me here - to SQUARE ASS VILLE.

And when I exchange NEW CHUNKY SAD BODY for OLD SELF BODY WITH A ROUND BUTT, I will still be my body, because my body will reflect that along with shedding some LBS., I have also left behind all the sad things that it took to get me there.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

Why I Think It Might Be "That Time of the Month"

I think it might be that time of the month. All I want to do is unscrew OREOS, pour salt all over the yummy white frosted parts and then devour them. That would be after having a sensible lunch of MEAT BALL PIZZA and CHEETOS.

Wednesday, December 5, 2007

Totally Reasonable Explanation of Why I Did Not Go to The Gym Today

Operation Emaciation is in effect and I could not be taking this diet more seriously. Only five or so posts ago I said I would never diet, calling diets FEMALE TORTURE and shaming anyone who would even think to crack a hard copy of "South Beach Diet" or "Skinny Bitch" in front of me.

And then the wedding invitation came. The one, in which if I attend, I will see Bad Old Boyfriend. Since, currently, I have the waistline of A MAILBOX and I certainly can't have Bad Old Boyfriend see me like this or how will he want to DEEP TONGUE KISS MW "HELLO" behind an ice sculpture? (Of course, if he even tries to touch me, I will throw hot soup in his face... if soup is available... do they even serve soup at weddings?)

Anyway, this morning I woke up starving. Good. It's good to feel hungry when you wake up. That means your metabolism is fired up. NOW IT'S TIME TO GO TO THE GYM. Except I can't go to the gym unless I eat something. Hmmmm... it seems once I'm at the gym, I'll probably be running (walking) for hours (minutes) so I should have something substantial. Plus, I should have something that's a treat. Something that says, "Congratulations! You're going to the gym! You go girl!"

Mmmmmm... a homemade bagel from the corner bakery, the one with cheddar cheese (calcium, very good) and jalapeno (a vegetable) would be so great right now.

So I got one... and I ate it. Well, now I have to digest the bagel, that should take like what? An hour? Cool, that'll work.

Three hours later, I wake up with a "Vanity Fair" (Okay, "US") magazine stuck to my face. Apparently, eating a salad bowl's worth of bread and cheese makes one NAPPISH and I had just frittered away my GYM-TASTIC MORNING.

I'll just have to go now. Except now it's practically lunch. If I go at Lunch time, the gym will be very crowded and I will NOT GET THE MOST EFFCIENT WORKOUT I CAN GET. I must get the most efficient workout I can get or really, I'm just wasting my time. I better go at 2:00pm. I'll just watch TV for a bit.

Wow. There was just a preview on for Oprah. She's having Elizabeth Gilbert, the author of "Eat Pray, Love" on. And even though I haven't read the book, I have been incredibly touched by what I've heard from others who have read the book. It just seems like, SURE, I COULD GO TO THE GYM at 3:00pm or I could hear all these incredible women talk about how this amazing book changed their lives and set them on a SPIRITUAL JOURNEY. Life changing experience or ab crunches & leg presses?

I REALLY HAVE NO CHOICE. I must stay home and watch Oprah.

Now it's 4:00pm. I'm spiritually nourished but nutritionally famished. Better eat something. Mmmm, good. Ooops, now I'm too full to go to the gym. Damn you, Lean Cuisine!

Okay, I'll go in one hour.

One hour later. It just seems like now EVERYONE IS GETTING OUT OF WORK and the gym is going to be so crowded and DON'T I DESERVE MORE THAN A CROWDED GYM? If I go to a crowded gym and the experience is bad then I will forever associate going to the gym as a bad experience.

DO I REALLY WANT TO PUT A ROAD BLOCK LIKE THAT IN MY WAY? No, I most certainly do not. It's really best if I just stay put. I mean, there's always tomorrow.

Tuesday, December 4, 2007

Things I Hate About Myself

1) That if I say something scares me I have to immediately make a joke of it so I will not make people uncomfortable

2) Making people uncomfortable

3) Constantly apologizing for making people uncomfortable

4) That I don't want to go home for Christmas. That I don't want to see my Mom. That I'm scared that if we are all home for Christmas in that same house that she will have another nervous breakdown and there will be hospital trips and consulting with doctors and night time pacing and tears and Dad saying he feels lost and rescheduled flights and lies to friends because who could EVER BELIEVE this was really happening and I kind of like the lies because they are an escape from the reality, and me feeling like I want someone to PLEASE BE A GROWN-UP and take charge and having to pretend in front of people everything is okay while we have Mom hidden in the other room because if someone, anyone saw her, they would know things are FAR FROM OKAY. Yeah, I don't want to do last Christmas again.

I'm sorry, did I make you uncomfortable?

The Mental Boogie of My Over Active Brain

I am very stressed out and my BRAIN is flying a thousand miles an hour. I think it's the coffee and the leftover Prozac I had for breakfast. I found an extra pill when I was cleaning out my medicine cabinet (DO NOT TRY THIS AT HOME). Now, a GIRL ON A DIET who needs to look her most absolutely FABULOUS & as close to Kate MOSS 1997 emaciated as possible in four months or less MUST NOT BE STRESSED.

I once heard if you list stresses, they become LESS POWERFUL. At least that's what I think it said in the Self-Help book I got from the library that has collected dust somewhere by my bed and is now easily three years over due.


1) That my library books are so overdue that the police will come to my house and take me away. They will see that my place is a disorganized disaster, call a camera crew and I will featured "The Montel Williams Show" (Dr. Phil passed). When Old Bad Boyfriend sees me at wedding, it will not matter how thin and beautiful I look. All he will see is a girl who lives among thousands of old "IN STYLE MAGAZINES" and piles of shoes I can't give away BECAUSE WHITE BOOTS WITH FRINGE ON THE BACK might make a come back.

2) That I will not get this JOB that I really want

3) That I will get this JOB that I really want and not have eight hours a day to be on the elliptical. (Eight hours is minimum of what it's going to take to REVERSE what two years of INACTIVITY, donuts for lunch and wine for dinner has done to my body.) Is there a treadmill you can be strapped to in your sleep? That moves your legs while you're in a PASSED OUT STATE OF SLUMBER?


5) That I will not invent Treadmill that you can be strapped to while you sleep and when Old Bad Boyfriend sees me, not only will I most resemble what looks like a Morbidly Obese Manatee with a Chub Rub flipper but I will not be a successful inventor of said Treadmill.

6) That actually naming all my STRESSES has in fact made me EIGHT THOUSAND MORE TIMES STRESSED and 10:30am seems completely an inappropriate time for a GLASS OF CALM-DOWN WINE.

Oh, wait, there's mimosas. They have vitamin C and make you feel better.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

The Letter Part 2

It was not so much a letter as a fancy envelope with calligraphy on
the front. Nothing good can ever come from calligraphy on the front.
(At least, not when your unemployed. Calligraphy equals someone
wanting expensive gifts from Crate & Barrel.)

I opened it.

It was a wedding invitation. My heart started racing as I scanned it... I didn't even have to see all the names and places and wheres and whens - I JUST KNEW. Old Boyfriend would be there. If you continue to read here, you will learn there is Good Old Boyfriend and Bad Old Boyfriend. With Bad Old Boyfriend things ended badly, but with no one else juicy-delicious to think about, I can't stop thinking
that now that I AM OVER Bad Old Boyfriend (I swear) why can't I toy with the possibility with meet-up-at-the-wedding MAKE-OUT (or more) in four months? How else can I CRUSH HIM WITH REGRET?

Good Old Boyfriend is another story for another time. (Why are WE ONLY TEMPTED BY THE BAD ONES?)

Of course my mind immediately races to the important things: HOW MUCH WEIGHT CAN I LOOSE IN FOUR MONTHS and WHAT AM I GOING TO WEAR? But the second thing doesn't matter as much as the first thing because without the accomplishment of the first thing, there can be no second thing. A SEQUINED MUMU FROM LANE BRYANT does not say let's grab that half bottle of champagne and meet in the bushes. Well... not the
bushes... not if I'm thin and wearing something expensive from Bloomingdale's WITH THE TAGS TUCKED IN THE BACK so I can return it the following day.

So much to think about. With so much to think about, I don't even have time to think about, how do I really feel? Which is good. I don't really want to think about that right now.

All I want to think about is... Is forty pounds even in the REALM of possibilty of losing if I only eat hard boiled eggs and carrots for four months?

Saturday, December 1, 2007

You Will NOT BELIEVE The Letter I Got Today

I think my mail man likes to torture me.

I saw the little smirk on his face when he dropped this BOMB SHELL of a letter IN MY MAIL BOX. It's just too much to take. Even IT coming with an "US Magazine" with Jessica Simpson on the cover being "tortured by regret" doesn't cushion the blow. I'm taking a Benedryl for my rash and 1/2 a Klonopin for my MAJOR ANXIETY and unless that's a LETHAL COMBINATION, I will blog about this later.