Monday, April 26, 2010

Naivete at forty.

Today I'm 40. And I'm still naive. Apparently, it's who I am. I try to be "street smart", but it seems that the more experience I experience, the less I know.

Take for instance last summer. The hubbs and I were hanging out on our friend's patio having a couple beers. Some were smoking and I noticed one of them pounding their cigarette on the table to get the nicotine down to the top. I'm not a smoker, but I have a weird obsession with smokers. They own a rebellion I've ever experienced. It's this mentality like, "Fuck cancer, I like it. So I do it." I've never been able to think that way.

Anyway, so on our walk home I said, "Wow, they were smoking some stale cigarettes. Those things were clanking on the table when they were tapping them."

My husband said, "Oh sweetie. I love you. Those weren't cigarettes. It was pot." What? I was surrounded by drugs? In my hometown suburb???

Later, we shared this story with our neighbors. They said, "Well, Mary Jane never hurt anyone."

"Who's Mary Jane?"

"You are fucking kidding me."

That's when my husband stepped in to defend my [apparently fragile] reputation. "She's not kidding. It's her charm." God bless him.

The conversation went on for hours about how I'm pretending to be clueless with my husband explaining that I'm for real and it's not an act.

I put this to the test when my sister Kim came over. I needed to know if it was just me or if our entire family was sheltered to the point of isolation from street slang.

I said, "I'm so embarrassed, we were hanging out with friends the other night and I just learned what Mary Jane is."

She said, "Why, is Mary Jane really a man?"

"No. It's slang for marijuana."

"Oh. Well, I just found out what gahnge is."

"What's that?"


My husband couldn't take it anymore and left the kitchen.

And even as I write this, I had to google "gahnge" to learn how to spell it.

And apparently I still have it wrong because the definition of gahnge is, "An Irish term for a complete idiot."

That aptly sums it up.

Friday, April 16, 2010


Yeah, I went there. I totally bombed my entrance into motherhood and wrote a book about it. Today I thought I would take the time to include some excerpts from the book. These are raw and unedited, so they may technically be, "Un-Pretty". The book is written like a journal, since it's based on my actual real journal entries while bumbling through postpartum OCD, depression and psychosis. In short, I lost my mind.

I cannot believe I've kept my daughter alive for four whole days. I don't sleep. Instead, I check her chest to make sure she's breathing. I do this all night long. If she doesn't move, I tickle her or push her shoulder so she'll squirm around and prove to me she's still living. This usually backfires on me because she wakes up and wants to eat. So I race back into the bedroom and pretend I'm sleeping, so Derek will get up and feed her. I don't want to feed her because she spits up so much - I worry she's going to choke and die. She spits up so much that I've resorted to dressing her in bikini because pulling a puked-on onesie over her head requires a bath. I suck at being a mom.

Why does everyone have it better than me? They all have these happy, shiny live and every day is a struggle for me. It's not that I want their actual live, but I want their confidence, peace, and joy. How do I get that? They're totally at ease with everything and I'm not. That would make me at "dis-ease". I have a disease then, so what the fuck is it? "Un-Joy"? Is that what I suffer from? "Un-Perfect"? Is that what I'm supposed to tell a doctor? That I'm feeling "Un-Perfect"? Give me a break.

It's so weird. I don't look broken. The world is trained to look at the physical nature of things like a fractured arm, thinning hair, a broken neck. We're accustomed to find and fix only things we can see and touch. What about a fractured spirit? There is physical measurement of success. With an arm, the doctor can x-ray it and show the patient how well it healed. No one can x-ray my head to prove that all the psycho babble was removed. No one can grab a sickening, terrifying thought and extract it from my thinking.

Going to work while suicidal is really distracting. I stare at the Foshay Building all day wondering how I can jump from it. Then I have people yapping around my desk, gossiping about stupid petty shit. To these people I say, "If I want you to have a front row seat to my life, I will invite you to take a seat. Otherwise, please be quiet. I'm trying not to kill myself today and you're making it almost impossible."

So there you have it. Just a few sips of the book. I'm proud of it. I like that humor is woven into the content because there were some oddly funny bits and pieces along the way of that wicked journey.

This is a shameless plug to promote "Un-Perfect." If you would like to Pre-Order a copy, please click the book cover in the right margin. Each person to pre-order will receive a Good Energy Onesie (you can see these cute little things on under the "Evo Products" tab. Scheduled release date: May 31, 2010.

I can't BELIEVE I'm an author. An official author. Holy shit.

Thursday, April 8, 2010

Portion size.

I went to McDonalds the other day with the kids. I get the Big Mac because the "slop" covers up the fact that I'm eating Grade D meat.

Anyway, I ordered a medium pop to wash down the burger and what I got was a tank of pop. It didn't even fit in the cup holder in my car. The straw looked like a dildo and my arm hurt during the "pass off" between the employee and me.

It barely fit through the window of my car for crissake. If I spilled it, I could've drowned in Coke. I was getting nervous.

Here's my million dollar question:
If that's a Medium, what does the Large look like?
Do they tap a fucking vein and run an IV directly into my bloodstream?
What is happening to portion size?
Can our bodies even handle that much sugar?

Jesus Christ, I felt like I was on speed after drinking half of that keg.

And listen, if I'm going to drink a keg of liquid, it's going to beer. Not Coke.