You Didn't Hear This from Me

Can you keep a secret? I mean really keep a secret? “Oh, I only told my husband. Big deal!” Yeah, you’re right. It is a big deal. Telling your spouse, sibling or mother is not allowed in the rules of trust. I once confronted a friend who had betrayed me, and she said, “I thought telling family was okay.” Um, no, that may be overlooked behavior in nursery school, but once you know right from wrong, I’d say that’s pretty shitty. Think about the key players in your life right now. We know in our guts who shares too much and who locks up information so tightly that an overdose of truth serum couldn’t even make them talk. So, we have no one to blame but ourselves, when in a moment of emotional weakness (perhaps wine-induced), we tell the wrong person the wrong thing. No matter how lovingly that blabbermouth looks at us with the face of a concerned grandma, don’t spill the beans. Don’t do it! 

I loved that both mother and daughter knew I’d wire her money, take her to the gyno or pick her up from a frat house at 3 am if that’s what she needed.

I have to bring my mother into this. (Sorry, Mom). I have three kids and have had four pregnancies (no, one was not in high school or college). How many times do you think I told my own mother I was pregnant before the three-month mark? From my easy setup, I’m sure you were correct in guessing “zero.” She was just too darn excited to be a grandmother, and I knew in my heart she would tell her Siamese-like-sister, mother and close friends. I did feel badly about this, but I couldn’t risk having what was sacred to me shared without my blessing. I did her a favor, though, didn’t I? I mean, when it was safe, she could blab it all over the golf course and canasta table guilt-free. She could brag in all her glory, as she chipped, putted and melded.

I still smile to myself when I think of a young girl telling me this: “You’re my person. My mom told me that if I ever needed anything in the world, I could call you,” she said. I can’t remember exactly what I said back, since this happened years ago, but I know I told her I would of course be her person. I was honored she felt that I was up to the part. Mostly, I was touched to know that this teenager trusted me. Her mother assigned me the role of her daughter’s confidante and life preserver. She did this without ever asking me first. I loved that both mother and daughter knew I’d wire her money, take her to the gyno or pick her up from a frat house at 3 am if that’s what she needed. I have two daughters myself, and I never thought to appoint someone their person. I know both of them would be resourceful enough to find a trusted adult if they thought they needed to reach around their dad or me. I would be grateful to whomever they’d use their one phone call on if they were ever ever handcuffed with mascara smeared down their face and fresh ink on their ankle. (Please don’t let me have just jinxed myself.) 

Long ago, I was on the receiving end of an ask for help from another young person. She was pregnant and couldn’t face her mom, because she knew the disappointment would be too much to bear. She was crying and felt alone and scared. It was clear she was too young to be a mother and didn’t want this mistake to ruin all the good things she had coming her way. So, I did what any one of us pro-choice women would do. I offered to pay for her abortion and took her back to my house to sleep it off afterwards. My kids didn’t know she was ever at our house, and I have never told anyone. Though I’m talking about it here, I will never reveal her identity. Never. I know she thought I “saved” her, and I know I gave her the care and relief she needed. What she didn’t realize, though, is that she made me feel as good as I made her feel by trusting me. Actually, I think she made me feel even better. 

I do think there are certain moments when it’s okay to reveal a closely-held truth. Psychologists are allowed to do it if they think someone is in danger of hurting herself or being hurt. I agree with that sentiment, especially when it comes to teens. Since most people have big mouths, I hear a lot of gossip. I’ve heard that certain teens have an affinity for sucking on the penises of boys at parties. Unfortunately I’ve heard this about teens I know well. I choose not to tell their parents. Being a slut isn’t life threatening; it just ups your chances of finding your name written on a bathroom wall. If I heard they were driving drunk or hitchhiking, then I’d pick up the phone. But, hey, Rizzo was okay in the end.

If you think keeping secrets is easy, then I’d have to say you’re one of those people I wouldn’t trust. It’s tough stuff at times. If it were easy, then there wouldn’t be an overabundance of loose-lipped people in the world. It can be tempting to spill something, especially when you think it can help someone else. On the less respectable side, the “I know something you don’t know” feeling gives people a sense of superiority. The more insecure they are, the more they want to share their news with others to show just how “awesome” they are.

Tony Montana once said that all he has in this world are his balls and his word, and he “don’t break them for no one.” I may not have balls, but I do have my unbreakable word. I take that very seriously. Once that’s gone, it’s like a crashed hard drive. There’s not much you can do to get it back. And, this is why I will never reveal the identities of any of the people mentioned in this blog, so please don’t bother asking me who they are. My ability to keep a secret is one of the traits I’m most proud of about myself. Winning the arm hang competition in third grade was nothing compared to this. 

I dedicate this blog to my fellow vaults. I know who you are, and you know who you are. Enough said. 

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Posted in community, confessions, confidence, day-to-day, friendship, improvement, Judgment, privacy, sentimental, Uncategorized | Tagged | 1 Comment

Amazon, You Rock My World

I’m an Amazon junkie. I wouldn’t be surprised if I walked into a family holiday dinner, and a “long lost aunt” was planted on the couch to head up an intervention for me. My addiction doesn’t make me unique I know, since there are more than 145.2 million people using this app. Amazon offers around 120 million products and sells 4,000 items every minute. Now that’s some badass E-commerce. If I told my kids that Amazon started as a book-selling app—and I mean the old-fashioned hardcopy or paperback types—they’d tell me I was nuts and that my stories about writing out driving directions were made up, too. 

We all know why we turn to Amazon so quickly—because we are inherently lazy, and it makes our lives so much easier. How else can I check seven items off of my TO DO list in the time it takes me to drive to a mall? Plus, I don’t have to get out of my robe. I also don’t have to take the extra step of going to FedEx to ship some special mattress topper to my daughter in California. I can donate to a friend’s kid’s charity fundraiser with the click of a few buttons. And, I don’t have to make any calls to locate a hard-to-find protein bar my other daughter “needs.” Now, if Amazon could just put away my laundry and screw my boyfriend for me, too…

How else can I check seven items off of my TO DO list in the time it takes me to drive to a mall?

I get so much joy from sitting in front of my computer for hours scrolling through different types of napkin holders and garage hooks. I just last night purchased a window decal. I swear I actually needed this, since two people tried to walk through my porch storm door. One ended up with a bloody nose, and the other ended up with a nasty headache and had to lie down on my couch. The strangest thing I ever ordered on Amazon was a goldfish tank that was shaped like an ultramodern condominium. It looked so lovely on my counter until I noticed the fish floating on top one day.

Oh yes, the luxury of Amazon is so fulfilling. It’s like finding the perfect shape of Tupperware to fit your leftovers. But, just like with everything seemingly utopian, there is a dark side here, too. This site brings up some uncomfortable feelings for me. I’ll start with the guilt. I feel very wasteful and un-green because of the massive amounts of cardboard and packing materials they use for even the smallest orders. Why do I need those air-filled pieces of plastic to buffer a pack of printer paper? (Throwing those things away are a nightmare. I have to stab each air-puff with a scissor just to fit it into my garbage pail.) I also feel badly that Amazon is killing both mom-and-pop shops and big businesses. It partnered with Whole Foods and Nike, because these companies figured “if you can’t beat ‘em, join ‘em.” Since Amazon now delivers about a quarter of its own orders, UPS and FedEx must be shaking a bit. Basically, every time I shop their site, I’m contributing to this destruction.  

Another negative is that I’m actually spending more money than I would if I went shopping in a real store. It’s not because their prices are higher; it’s because of these three reasons—my son, and my two daughters. For them, it’s a store where everything is free when they log into my account, which is linked to my credit card and not theirs, right? When I went to check out the other day, I noticed face tattoos and bright wigs hanging out in my cart. Trust me, I didn’t put them in there. Then I’ll get the Amazon alerts letting me know that my fishnet stockings and dodgeball costume are about to arrive. Um, I didn’t order these either. The scary thing is that it wasn’t even Halloween season. I know you’re thinking I should just change my password. I do, and then they wiggle it out of me for some “emergency,” where their friends will all pay them back. “Oh, I’ll Venmo you the money, Mom.” And, then they’ll sell me some water at the river’s edge. 

Who knew an app could make me feel so insecure also? I will be shopping for a picture frame and find what I think is the perfect one for me. It even has that AMAZON’S CHOICE stamp on it. I then scroll down and read the reviews. I immediately become completely paralyzed. One person writes, ‘This is the best frame I ever bought. It is exactly how it appears in the pictures and is sturdy and well-made!” The next guy, Frank, writes, “What a complete piece of shit! I’d like to shove this broken and cheap frame up the seller’s ass. I want all my money back now!!” So, I continue reading, become even more confused, and the paralysis sets in further. That frame will now sit in my cart for days, until I eventually just hit PLACE YOUR ORDER and pray Frank was wrong.

I haven’t even gotten into Alexa, and how she’s taken me into a stratosphere of lazy that I didn’t even know existed. “Alexa, what’s the weather?” “Alexa, add tomatoes.” “Alexa, reorder my printer ink.” All this, and I don’t even have to rub a lamp. And, so it goes: I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay. I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay. I sit, I scroll, I click, I pay.

I dedicate this blog to the new 20s. You used to be roaring. This go around, I’ll take times that aren’t full of hate, racism and ignorance. Plus, I don’t want to wear beaded slipcover dresses and headbands wrapped around a bob haircut. I’m pretty sure I would have like the speakeasies, though.

Oh, and let me add a thank you to my friend who once sent me a gift from Amazon. Along with the gift came a leather bound journal. Yup, her kids had left it in her cart.

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Posted in confessions, day-to-day, environment, errands, idiosyncracies, shame, trends | Tagged | 9 Comments

Thank You, Donald Trump

Thank you, Donald Trump. I may not like you or respect you, but you have helped make me more aware of the state of the world. You say stupid things, you pick on people and you lie. And, that makes me—and the rest of the world—look. You are getting exactly what you want. I know this, because when my kids used to kick and scream in their twos, they wanted exactly the same thing—attention, and a lot of it. It’s never the well-meaning student council president in your high school who commands the spotlight; it’s the kid who throws his peanut butter sandwich at the cafeteria wall to see if it sticks. A buffoon like him is much more fun to watch. So, thank you for being the asshole who makes us want to read more, vote more and sometimes even march in the rain. 

By now, you’ve figured out I’m in the liberal camp. I’m not so far left, where I want to ban the manufacturing of Barbie Dolls. I do still use some plastic for convenience, and I didn’t think it was necessary for Kelly Clarkson and John Legend to change the lyrics to “Baby It’s Cold Outside.” I support the Me Too movement, but I don’t get terribly insulted if a man gets flirty with me (kind of like it sometimes). Hey, even feminists think the original song celebrates a woman taking control of her own sexual choices. I believe people can sleep with whomever they want, whether they’re female, male, both, neither, purple, pink or green. Love is love. You can do what you want with a pregnancy, and please don’t hate someone for being different from you or for moving here from another country.  

I believe people can sleep with whomever they want, whether they’re female, male, both, neither, purple, pink or green.

I’ll step down from my soapbox now, so I can explain how Trump has helped me. I’ll start with the isms and how I understand their meanings on a much deeper level due to his use of them. Can you name the ism represented by these quotes? 1. “Why are we having all these people from shithole countries come here?” 2. “It is a very scary time for young men in America, where you can be guilty of something you may not be guilty of…Women are doing great.” 3. Referring to neo-Nazis: “…you had some very bad people in that group, but you also had people that were very fine people, on both sides.” 4. “Nobody knows more about taxes than me, maybe in the history of the world.” 5. “[Ivanka] would’ve been great at the United Nations…” 6. “We had no Democrat support…They weren’t going to give us a single vote, so it’s a very difficult thing to do.” I’m ‘gonna guess you scored an A, but just in case, here’s the answer key: 1. racism 2. sexism 3. supremacism 4. narcissism 5. nepotism 6. partisanism 

I’ve also been able to brush up on words with foreign origins. We’ve got the Steele dossier, a French derivation, which means a bundle of papers with a label on the back. Then there’s quid pro quo, of Latin origin, meaning a favor granted for something in return. Oh, and we can’t forget about the Spanish word hombres, as in “…we have some bad hombres here, and we’re going to get them out.” Too bad it’s not 1985, and I’m taking the SATs. These could’ve helped.

Then there’s the impeachment. I was taught in junior high about Andrew Johnson, the first US president to be impeached in 1868. I lived through the second one, where Clinton, a blue dress and an intern were front page news in 1998. Now Trump is about to be put on trial for impeachment. A lot of Americans think that impeachment is the end of the line, but we know from Clinton that you can stay in office. Obviously, it’s a big stain on your legacy, though. It’s like a grand jury handing down an indictment in a criminal procedure, but the difference is that impeachment is a political proceeding and not a legal one. So, how did Nixon escaped being impeached despite the three articles of impeachment filed against him? He resigned before anything else happened. Thanks for this refresher course, Trump. 

The Trump circus has definitely made me a more thorough reader, an avid watcher of MSNBC and a stronger supporter of human rights. Plus, I never ever wrote about politics. Now, when I see those viral videos of a racist, ignorant person yelling at a Mexican to go back to where she came from, I often wish I was in that store or parking lot, too. I would love to step in and let my anger take over as I verbally take down that piece of scum. See, look how a moron like Trump has changed my fantasies. I used to think it’d be nice to have the voice of a Broadway star or to hang out with Madonna or Beyonce. Gee, how I’ve grown. 

I dedicate this blog to all good people everywhere. (I’m really tired tonight.)

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Posted in community, confessions, day-to-day, disgust, environment, improvement, Judgment, political, Uncategorized | 2 Comments

Touch Me, Don't Touch Me

Here’s the thing about massages—they feel so good, yet they’re a complete and total mindfuck for me. A spa is like one, big aphrodisiac. It’s as if they’re sliding a tray of oysters down your throat the moment you walk in the door. You hear the new age music with the sitar solos humming softly in the background. The smell of sandalwood and eucalyptus oils wafts right up into your nostrils. The woman behind the desk speaks your name so softly that you almost need to read her lips as she confirms your full-body, deep-tissue something or other. Instinctively you answer in that indoor voice you always told your kids to use at a restaurant to sidestep telling them to “Shut the fuck up.” You’re directed down a hallway with dim lighting and a minefield of closed doors. You put on a warm, clean-smelling robe and the kind of white, terry slippers that you untuck from each other. You start to hear birds chirping softly over the sound of a harp. I’m already limp from the most tender sensory overload I’ll ever experience. I am 100 percent being seduced by Thai women in silk robes and the sound of babbling brooks, and let me tell you, I am fully surrendering to it. 

“Shit, that’s it? I wanted her to do my feet longer.”

During the first ten minutes of this complete stranger touching parts of me I don’t even let Ray go near, I am on a vacation, away from all things that bother me in my suburban life. During the next ten, I’m falling in and out of a light sleep. But, then she needs me to do a position change, and that’s when the shit goes down. The thoughts start…”Please don’t let this be the last time she’s ‘gonna touch my left shoulder!” “Shit, that’s it? I wanted her to do my feet longer.” “Why didn’t she use the same amount of pressure on my right calf as she did on my left?” I then start to focus on how my tits are mashed underneath me when I’m on my stomach. I wish it was like the beach, where I could dig boob holes in the sand. I begin to cringe when she grabs my danger zones—the love handles, the back fat, the inner thighs. I swear I can hear an alarm sound when she takes hold of these double-black-diamond areas. I know she’s touched people who are much fatter, much hairier and have really gross things growing from their bodies. That’s not comforting to me, though. I don’t care about other people; I’m much too selfish when I’m on that table. 

Maybe if I were one of those massage people (MPs), it’d be different. I have friends who I consider massage sluts. “Just touch me anywhere. I love it,” the biggest massage whore has told me. She doesn’t care if she’s full-on naked, spread-eagle on that table. Yet, in real life, she slanders herself for being fat and gross. I just don’t get it. Then there are the MPs who have standing in-home appointments. Their masseuses lug in a table every week and know to set it up in the back corner of the living room. They also know exactly how hard to press and which areas are the G spots. If I were an MP, then I probably wouldn’t have these racing thoughts. I know I’d have another go at it week after week and wouldn’t be so worried about it ending. I know she’d be used to my saggy and Rubenesque areas. But, I’m not an MP at all, not even close; I’m more of a triennial, getting occasional massages only on vacations or girls’ weekends.

I haven’t yet mentioned the prep, which is just like it is for the gyno. It’s exhausting to make sure I’m as clean and hairless as humanly possible. It’s like I’m playing Twister in the shower. Then after the massage, I have to play another round, since I have to scrub the oils and creams left behind in every crevice. Wtf is in those products? Crisco? And, my last beef is not getting enough time to sleep it off when it’s over. Can’t I just rent the table for a couple more hours? There’s nothing harder than sitting upright and putting your feet on the floor afterwards. At least bring me a damn cigarette. No, I don’t smoke, but maybe I would after the shitshow that just went on in my brain. At the end, I say thank you and tell the masseuse how amazing it was, still using my indoor voice of course. She smiles and closes the door behind her, never knowing how badly I need to go back into therapy. 

I dedicate this blog to my Aunt Gwenn. Her unveiling is this Sunday. There are so many times I think of her and want to call her. I know what would make her laugh, what would make her happy and what would really piss her off! I hope she knows what’s going on with me and all of the family she loved so much. If Theresa Caputo is for real, then Gwenn does still know. I can still hear her voice and her laugh. I’ll be sure to bring her a Reese’s on Sunday. 

**Tap on the FOLLOW button at the bottom of your phone or computer. (Move your finger or mouse around, and FOLLOW will appear if it’s hidden.) You have to open the email the site sends you to complete the FOLLOW process. Thank you from this woman and her popped cork.

Posted in confessions, day-to-day, disgust, idiosyncracies, nudity, pet peeves, robes | 1 Comment

She’s Still Standing, Yeah, Yeah, Yeah

It was 1998 when she was destroyed. I was 29, and she was just 24. We share the same birthday, five years apart. I’m making it sound like I know her, but I don’t. I know her the same way we all do—the girl with the love-stained, blue dress, who got down with the 42nd president right in the Oval Office. Back then, we couldn’t stop looking. We sopped up every single word that was written or spoken about her. “Viral” wasn’t in our vernacular yet, but, wow, did this spread like creamy peanut butter. This story had sex, lies and audiotapes with the most powerful man in the world as the leading male and his unsexy wife and overweight staffer in supporting roles. We were hypnotized for 13 long months, but she lived it for much longer. Slut. Fat bitch. Home-wrecker. She read those words and wanted to die. We had to imagine feeling scared shitless and all alone, but she didn’t. 

How did Monica eventually get out from under her covers? I’ll tell you how she explained it when I went to hear her speak. First, let me confess something. I was there to listen, but I wanted to really look at her. Was she still chubby? Did she look a lot older? Did she have her shit together now? Was she going to wear a dress? I couldn’t be alone in my voyeuristic curiosity but maybe just in my admission. Here are the quick answers: no, she’s slimmed down; no, she looks young and vibrant; yes, her shit seems together; yes she wore a dress (wasn’t blue). Let me top it off by saying that she is very pretty. Her skin is smooth and clear, and I couldn’t see any traces of Botox (was right next to her at times). Sitting in the row behind her before she went up to speak, I noticed a tiny hole in the back of her dress. My mind went right to the connection between this and her other marred dress. See, this is the kind of stuff she just won’t be able to shake. I’m sorry, Monica. 

She was a constant punchline for the late-night hosts, and she says she is mentioned in over 140 rap songs.

Standing at the podium, Monica had us. She just did. She meant every word she was saying and didn’t want our sympathy, but she got mine anyway. She was just telling her story, and we listened hard—Jewish upbringing, one brother, divorced parents, college, jobs, then off to DC. She could have been my childhood friend, my cousin, my college roommate. At one point, she asked everyone who had ever made a mistake to raise her hand. One hand from everyone in that room shot up quickly. Then she told us to keep our hands up if everyone in the world knew about the mistake we made. You can guess that hers was the only hand still remaining. My friend and I couldn’t help leaning in to exchange a “Wow.” Monica explained that in an instant, she went from being a private person to being well, the Monica Lewinsky everyone knows. She was a constant punchline for the late-night hosts, and she says she is mentioned in over 140 rap songs. When I asked my 16-year-old daughter if she knew who she was, she said, “Yeah, we listen to ‘Monica Lewinsky’ every morning on the ride to school.” She then put on the song by G-Eazy. Let’s just say it won’t be making its way into any of my playlists. 

When Monica actually spoke the name “Bill Clinton,” whoomp, there it was. She was letting us into this very personal place, where no news story could ever take us. Yeah, Clinton was the prez, but to her, Clinton was the man she was in love with. They were in a relationship; it wasn’t a fantasy or some fling in her head, as much as DC spun it that way to keep Bill out of trouble. Remember, her feelings were not unrequited—he bought her gifts and set up private meetings, even if they were of a sexual nature. She was crushed when he, like everyone else, abandoned her. This was her boyfriend, and he completely ditched her. It was during these moments that she went from a headline to a very real person. The world knew that he was out to save himself and his role in history. No one cared that Monica was trying to save herself, too. The paparazzi were like bad gas trailing her everywhere, and she was deeply depressed. I know, I know, she screwed a married man. Yes, she did, but she was only in her early 20s and was lured by Clinton’s power and charisma.

So, how did she survive all this? It’s not hard to guess it was her family, mainly her mom and dad. They had their own overdose of pain watching their daughter diminish day after day. (They, and her aunt, were threatened with legal action, too. Ken Starr was a mean mofo and was ‘gonna do anything he could to take down Clinton.) Monica told of how her mom sat at her bedside every single night and how her dad didn’t allow her to shower with the door closed. Did anyone ever speak of this looming fear, how maybe she would try to hurt herself, or was it just understood? I wondered if she cried a lot or was too numb. There were endless hours of counseling from the regular kind of therapists and spiritual ones, too. Her mother eventually told her to go help other people, who were suffering like she had. Yup, this is the oldest self-help advice, but I think this is when “the change” happened. This is how Monica refers to the most pivotal part of her life, which was when she started living again. She specifically credits the Diana Award, a UK charity helping young people, with making her feel wanted when it opened its door without any judgment. She thought maybe it was because over in England, she wasn’t as demonized. She’s a “do-gooder” and social activist now, helping people avoid being on either end of slut-shaming, fat-shaming and bullying—her old, personal Satans. 

I have to mention that she did say up front that she is sorry for what she did, and she knows it was wrong. We all know women who have screwed married men, and you may have even screwed one yourself. If Clinton came on to me, I probably would have gotten naked with him, too and would have granted entry to more than just a Cohiba. Besides being handsome, he could have gotten me really good seats and backstage passes at concerts. The 24-year-old Monica made a bad decision, yes, but that scandal has caused permanent damage. When she takes her last breath, she won’t be remembered for the good work she’s doing now; she will be remembered for the affair and the circus with all its trappings—Bill, Hillary, Ken Starr, Linda Tripp (two-faced bitch), the dress, the cigar and the Oval Office. If I’m still alive, I hope I instead remember this night, one that allowed me see a Monica who was not the floozy behind the gossip. She was engaging and bright. She was funny and sincere. She’s no more flawed than the rest of us. She just had some seriously shitty consequences. 

I dedicate this blog to Monica, even though it was inherent in my writing. I want her days to be sunny and her clouds to be few. I wanted to hug her after she spoke. I happened to walk part of the way out with her, and I said, “You were awesome!” She gave me a warm thank you. Then I thought, “This will be the only time I ever speak to her, and ‘awesome’ was the only thing I could come up with? Wtf is wrong with me?” Anyway, I hope inner peace is within her reach, and maybe a man, too, if that’s what she wants. She didn’t talk about that part of her life. It makes me wonder if the whole thing rewired her capacity for intimacy and trust. I hope not. 

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Posted in celebrities, confessions, improvement, Judgment, love, political, shame, social media | 6 Comments

Lbs, Lbs Go Away

Dieting fucking sucks. I hate it with every bit of the fat layers that insulate my thighs, gut and neck region. I hate it like I hate people who lie. And, I hate it like I hate my banana bread sticking to the pan. Why can’t I just like myself the way I am? I’m not that fat. I’m in the healthy weight range for my height and age. Yes, I’m at the upper end of that range, but I’m still within those walls. I just need a lethal stomach virus or one solid day at an amusement park to feel sexy again.

“You look beautiful just the way you are.” I can’t attribute that quote to anyone but Billy Joel, and he didn’t even say it quite like that. Yes, I know Ray believes it based on the fact that he is always trying to fuck me. But, I suspect my vagina—and not the areas surrounding it—is the real draw. I wish my inner voice would say loving sentences like that to me, but I’ve told you about her before: She’s an evil bitch, who hurls insults and haunts me. “You’ll never lose weight.” “You’re too weak to stick to this.” She means well, but, come on, she had a difficult childhood. 

My mouth is like a magnet…Oreos come flying at me from behind pantry doors.

I am intrigued by people who seem to have no trouble avoiding carbs, trans fats, lactic acid and sugars. My mouth is like a magnet for this crap, and the pull force is very strong. Oreos come flying at me from behind pantry doors. Ray can eat one mini chocolate after dinner to curb his sweet craving and then walk on over to the couch. Why doesn’t his brain send a signal to rip that whole fucking bag open and funnel it directly down his throat? Do he and these other controlled people have a superior genetic makeup? Actually, I’ve heard of a mutated gene that results in a disorder known as FSS. I’m currently being tested for it. Spelled out, it’s Fat Shit Syndrome.  

“Just drink tons of water,” people say. I’ve tried that. All I do is piss all day. Years ago, I had to pull off a highway and squat behind a random dumpster with my baby daughter strapped into a carseat. I’m scarred from that. “Don’t eat carbs.” If you think I’m never going to eat another bagel, then go put your money on the Jets winning the Super Bowl. “Fill up on veggies.” I didn’t eat a tomato until I was in my thirties. “Work out.” I do. “Cut out alcohol.” Fuck you.  

“You’ll do it when you’re really ready.” Yeah, yeah, I’ve heard that a lot. I’M READY! I’VE BEEN READY FOR YEARS! I don’t want to hear any psychobabble. I just want to be like those people I see in the before/after selfies in their underwear and bras. Do they have fatties on both sides of their family tree like I do? Did their nanas have a famous, homemade chocolate cake waiting for them when visiting? Were their holidays based around gluttonous amounts of brisket and side dishes followed by enough desserts to fill a bakery? I’m sure they have their own obstacles, even in the midst of them smiling behind their granny panties and unsupportive bras. Who knows, maybe their inner voices sound like Fraulein Maria, and they hear a cheery nun singing to them from the Swiss Alps. Do I sound bitter and jealous? Yup, and that’s because no one is yodeling in my ear. 

I thought that ridding my pantry of my kids’ Pop Tarts, Goldfish and sugar wafers would help me a lot, but I learned that a person can find bad things to eat even when those things aren’t staring back at you from a shelf. The truth is that my hurdles come from the fantastic lifestyle that I’m blessed to have. I travel a lot, go to lots of parties, eat at excellent restaurants and entertain a lot. Oh, boo hoo, poor me, right? I wish I could be that person who says, “I’ll just have some steamed spinach.” That throws me into a whole other conundrum of choosing between being boring or being fun, though. I think I just implied I’d rather be fat than boring. And, there you have it.

I dedicate this blog to two of my family’s most revered foodies. They aren’t here to defend themselves, but I know they’d both admit to their love of eating. My dad was known for his willingness to drive anywhere for a good meal or ice cream cone. My nana, as she handed her plate to the man slicing pastrami, famously said, “Don’t be shy now.” I suspect they’re eating Chinese food together right now. It is a Sunday night, after all. 

*All names have been changed. 

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Posted in confessions, day-to-day, dieting, health, improvement, pet peeves, shame, trends | 3 Comments

Gowns and Assholes

So, turning fifty offers lots of perks. I went on a few amazing girls’ trips; my period is debuting less and less; I was thrown a surprise party, where a stripper had me straddle his face in front of the guests; and, just last week, I had my first ever colonoscopy. At least I can say, that was something that was actually supposed to go up my ass. The prep for that procedure is like sitting in a center seat at a really bad Broadway show. It’s like torture, and there’s just no way out of it. I remember drinking that super sweet glucose during all three of my pregnancies. While it wasn’t fun, it was like a vacation compared to the amount of shit I had to drink for this. 

I now needed my own diaper bag with medicated wipes and adult A+D ointment.

I had to stop eating solid food after a “light” breakfast and have only clear liquids after that. Chicken bullion was like my filet mignon. At 6:00 pm, the real party started when I began drinking a large pitcher of fake Kool-Aid with a ten-minute break in between each full glass. This was the beginning of the process to dust bust the shit out of my colon (pun intended). “Stay close to a bathroom,” the instructions said. What they didn’t say, though, was how much you’d be using your gluteus maximus and sphincter muscles to create a steel blockade while walking briskly—with the straightest posture your body will allow—to the toilet. It was almost like I was a contestant in one of those egg-and-spoon races. And, this went on ALL. NIGHT. LONG. Thank you, Lionel Richie.

The next morning, I had to drink another bottle of some syrupy concoction and then force lots of glasses of water into what used to be my body. I was like a blow-up raft at this point. And, of course more toilet trips followed. I now needed my own diaper bag with medicated wipes and adult A+D ointment. The worst part was that I didn’t have an appointment first thing in the morning like most sane people do. I had a 1:00 pm appointment. I was now living the three S’s: starving, shitting and sleepy. I called an Uber to drive me to the medical building, and the driver had to have been a three-pack-a-dayer. Now I was up to five S’s with the addition of stale smoke. How blessed I was. 

I’ll fast forward to me in the gown with the opening in the back. “Is there a possibility you could be pregnant?” asked my nurse. “Yeah, I guess,” I said, “but I’m 50.” “Well, do you want a pregnancy test?” she asked. “No, I don’t, because I wouldn’t keep it anyway,” said the Democrat in me. (Fuck you, Alabama, Georgia, Indiana and you other back-ass states.) The light-hearted banter between my nurse and me ended right then and there, as she was now quiet. She walked me over to my pre-op bed and put in my IV, and I waited and listened to a post-op woman fart very loudly from behind her curtain. The staff acted like they couldn’t hear anything. If I hadn’t offended my nurse, I would have joked about whoopee cushions or tubas. I thought, “Please don’t let that be me afterwards.”

Once in the O.R, I was told to lie on my side and felt the drugs rush into my vein. What seemed like ten seconds later, I heard my name called and was back in the same surgery partition. My prayers were answered, as my body was as quiet as I had rendered my nurse. They gave me apple juice, but where were the post-surgery Lorna Doones? Wtf, I was looking forward to those. I got dressed and met Ray in the waiting room. I’d like to say I ate lightly once I got home, but, nope, I ordered a big turkey sandwich. I’d also like to say that I didn’t have to go to the bathroom anymore. Sorry, that didn’t stop until well after midnight. Ouch. I did receive a phone call from my doctor the next day, and she told my that I was polyp-free and had a healthy colon. That meant I didn’t have to do this again for another ten years. After my relief, my only thought was, “I’ll be sixty then. Holy shit.” (Pun intended again.) 

I defecate (I mean dedicate) this blog to all of the organizations working to fight for reproductive justice. There are too many to name. I will be increasing my donations to support them. And, to continue the anal theme, I don’t hesitate when I say that these people working to take away women’s rights are complete assholes. 

*All names have been changed. 

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Posted in aging, confessions, day-to-day, health, medical, political | Leave a comment