Babe, could you push over? We don't have enough room over here.

"So he's really leaving?"

"Yup."

"And he's taking her with him?"

"Yup."

"So they're going to live together and work together?"

"Uh huh."

"Hm... Does he realize that when you live with your girlfriend you can't sleep with other people?"

"I'm not sure."

"Wow. That could really throw off his lifestyle."

The Bar Freak

This is what my purse looks like when I get home from the bar:



Um... what the fuck?

My friend Tyson recently got a bartending gig, and in an effort to bring back the great friendship we shared a year ago, a friendship that fell victim to various love triangles and scheduling conflicts, I have started hanging out at his bar. The key to restoring friendship, it seems, is free tequila.

Yeah, like I couldn't have told you that already.

Hanging out at the bar with Tyson pretty much consists of watching him code html on his laptop while I fold paper cranes and we both spout random thoughts at each other regarding work and love and everything.

"You probably look like you're the bartender's girlfriend," my friend Allison decided.

She's right, and Tyson agrees. Which is great because it means creepy people don't approach me.

Tyson thinks it's something else that keeps them away.

"You're like... the bar freak. The crazy girl. The guy that sits in the corner just watching everyone."

Gee, thanks Tyson.

He's right though. You should have seen me last thursday - surrounded by paper cranes and glasses of water, eating a huge turkey and sourkraut sandwich. I was definitely the... "bar freak".

Oh, but wait? What was it that happened that night, Tyson? Was that the night the adoreable archeologist challenged me to a game of pool, and then a game of darts, and then a game of exchanging phone numbers, and then a game of kissing me good and hard by my car?

OH LOOK AT THAT TYSON! THE BAR FREAK WINS AGAIN!

Thanks, Bro.

Happy Thanksgiving, everyone!

This year is my first "grown-up" Thanksgiving, and so far I'm loving it. What I mean is, I only get Thursday off from work, not Friday, so I decided to skip the four hour drive to my aunt's house for the annual dinner and am instead snug in Vermont doing dinner with the Veterans.

I had considered taking the day off and going anyway - combining the family Thanksgiving with a visit to Billy. But then he got wasted and flew out of the back of a pick-up truck that was going 30 miles an hour.

No, seriously.

Last night I baked white chocolate chip craisin cookies, and boiled some local Vermont cranberries into today's cranberry sauce. In a couple hours I'll start the next batch of cooking - sweet corn casserole and everyone's favorite green bean casserole.

And then it's off to Drew's to get fucking bombed.

No, seriously.

We might be thankful for the food, and thankful for our new friendships with each other, and thankful for living where we do as it means we can make our entire thanksgiving meal local and organic (yeah, we're hippies about that. So what?), but mostly we're all very thankful for our ability to self-medicate.

Which we will be doing entirely with growlers of locally brewed beers. SEE?

Really what I'm thankful for is the fact that I'm housesitting for the family that I used to nanny for. HELLO BIG SCREEN TV DOUBLE HEADED SHOWER HUGE KITCHEN AND GARAGE! Right now I'm snuggled up in bed watching the Macy's parade and with the size of this TV, those little Menudo boys are LIFE SIZED!

And does Good Charlotte not have a real drummer or something? Because they totally hid him under the Brooklyn Bridge on their float and all I could think was, "you finally get to be in the Macy's Parade and your whole family is probably gathered around the TV to catch a glimpse of you and you're stuck under the Brooklyn Bridge? Dude. That sucks.

Anyway, best wishes to you all for a happy day full of good food and good company!

And let's all put our bids in now for plenty of leftovers.

Does your poo sink?

Last week I had my first appointment with my new GI Doctor. That is, my fourth GI doctor in two and a half years. By now, I should be used to the routine questioning that comes with any first doctor's appointment, but I gotta say, this one took the cake.

Are you on any medication?

Yes. [Tells her].

Any other medication?

Well, birth control, but it's not pills, it's the nuva ring.

Is that one of those where you only have four periods a year?

Um... no.

Because I always wondered... like everytime you have a period, is it three huge periods combined?

Um... I really don't know.

Do you smoke?

Nope.

Do you smoke EVER?

Looks at her quizically

...No.

Drink?

Yes.

How often?

Whenever possible.

Twice a week.

How many drinks?

Depends on who's buying.

Three beers.

Coke? Heroine?

Nope.

Tattoos?

Tattoos comes after heroine?

Yes.

Where?

Exactly where they can't be seen.

Here. And here.

Are they legal?

No, they're fucking prison tattoos. And they're right next to my track marks.

Yes.

And have you been having regular bowel movements?

...

And do they sink to the bottom?

?!?!?


Welcome to the world of a girl with both Colitis, and constantly changing health insurance. Love the questioning. LOVE IT.

And oh, BY THE WAY, the last question? Where did that come from?

No, seriously. I remember my parents going over the basics of... healthy pooing... like when we were really little... and sinking was never discussed. Like, "wipe front, then back" was covered, and "tell us immediately if it's ever red" was covered, and "snakes are not going to come out of the toilet and bit your bum while you're pooing, Bride" was even covered, but never once was I prepared for a doctor to one day question me on whether or not my poo sinks.

I'm still somewhat baffled.

Crunkity-drunk-drunk

You know when you're a little bit drunk because they had free beer at the Worker's Center party? And you decide (in your partially drunk state) that it's really important that you go buy more paper for the peace crane project you have started in honor of the Veterans? And then you get really excited about all the different designs of paper and suddenly you've dropped forty dollars on paper (PAPER!?) and you think, it's ok, because it's helping to end the war?

And then you realize it's really NOT helping to end the war?

And that it's really just a way to keep your hands busy because wrapping your mind around the awfulness that is the state of the world is really just too much to handle? And pretending that folding a bunch of paper will somehow help all your new friends with 80% plus disability ratings is easier than digesting the weight of an 80% disability rating?

And so you go home and pour yourself a glass of wine because if folding paper isn't going to cheer you up, you may as well get a little more drunk?

Yeah.

I hate when that happens.

Cheerio-THIS!

I just saw that commercial where the little girl makes the Cheerio-heart card for her grandfather and I got all weepy-eyed about what an amazing grandfather my dad will make to my unborn children.

Is that sweet?

Or is that just retarded?

VetSpace

So this past weekend was Veterans Day.

I was sort of amazed at how many people were completely unaware. But I guess not everyone spends their days COMPLETELY SURROUNDED by Veterans like I do.

I called Billy, like I do every year, to wish him a happy day.

And I bought a card for Matt because I frankly couldn't resist when I saw the display down at Rite-Aid. After reviewing each of their super-macho-ultra-patriotic-republican-twinged choices, I finally settled on the one with three children waving American flags. The card read, "Hurray for Veterans!" and I signed it, "to my favorite one".

"I thought Nate was your favorite one," Matt laughed when he read it.

"You're ALL my favorite one!" I shot back.

"Favorite one" is my standard phrase for any and all Veterans, but especially the super cute, charming (protesting) ones that seem to have overtaken the Northeast. Like some sort of collector's item that can be bought and traded like baseball cards.

Of course in reality my favorite one is Billy. And unless Matt, or Nate, or any of the other cute/charming/protesting Vets can go back in time, pick me up in a snowstorm after my car breaks down, deliver me to my parents' abandoned beach house, and then make sweet sweet love to me (for the very first time) in my childhood bed, then BILLY STILL WINS.

Which brings me to my recent separation anxiety with myspace.

Wait.

What?

No, really. I recently decided to delete my myspace. My personal myspace that is. And despite my strong convictions that there is really no need to keep each and every person I've ever met up to date on EVERY DETAIL OF MY LIFE, there's been this nagging thing holding me back.

And I finally realized... it's Billy.

Fucking shit, Billy!

Because Billy was the reason I joined myspace in the first place. Back when he was still stationed in South Carolina and we would stay up all hours chatting online and we wanted to see pictures of what we were each up to in our own little corners of the world.

"Right, when you were stalking me," Billy reminisced.

"Uh, NO!" I fought back. "YOU WANTED TO SEE MY PICTURE TOO!"

"Ok, FINE," Billy conceded. "When we were stalking each other."

Yeah, that's more like it.

And as horribly pathetic as it sounds, I'm sad to give up my place in Billy's top 8.

OH MY GOD LOOK AT ME WHINING ABOUT TOP EIGHTS!

Sigh.

Oh well.

I guess we'll always have Veteran's Day.

Glasses Asses

Yesterday I finally went for an eye appointment and now I am hot again.

Wait.

What?

Back in college my mother paid for my contacts, bought me two new pair of glasses, and then said, "ok, you're on your own." As in, from that point on, vision was my own financial responsibility. As in... fuck.

So I did what any poor early-twenties girl would do and I made those contacts and glasses LAST. The one year supply of contacts lasted me about a year and a half, and the glasses lasted me almost three years. Before they broke. Both pairs. Because that's what happens when you're a nanny. Who drinks a lot.

Since then I've been wearing a pair of glasses with a prescription I was given in high school. Or to translate, since then I haven't been seeing very well.

Plus, when I decided to go without anything on my eyes for Halloween (glasses just didn't really go with my JEM outfit), I got the usual comments.

"Wow, you look really different without glasses," the Veterans told me.

"Oh yeah? Do I look hotter?" I joked.

"Yes," they said, without missing a beat.

"Gee, thanks," I scowled at them.

"Well I mean, I'd fuck you either way," Jon assured.

Yeah. Thanks.

So I finally decided it was time for an eye appointment. But when your healthcare does not include vision, and your wallet does not include money, that is easier said than done.

Luckily I discovered that Wal-Mart has eye appointments for only eighty-four dollars. Eighty-four dollars! And since I had put $100 in my health savings account the week prior, I was more than covered. Hell, that left sixteen dollars for medicinal tequila!

In the end, I spent one hour and $100 at Wal-Mart that day, and walked out with a new prescription, new contacts in my eyes, venetian blinds, a box of kleenex, coffee, and a strawberry frosted donut with sprinkles.

I might not be a huge fan of Wal-Mart, but I'm a pretty huge fan of that.

Let's raise a glass to Sleep[Aids]

I'd like to take this opportunity to apologize for going ahead and creating a new blog and then never posting in it. Ever.

The thing is, I've been pretty booked. Re-learning how to sleep. At night. Like a normal person.

And then this past weekend things got pretty crazy when my upstairs neighbor got wasted and threw a pumpkin through my dining room window.

But that's another story.

It's been about a year since I slept normally. Coincidentally, it's also been about a year since the murder. A year since I started leaving more lights on. A year since I lined up all my seasons of Friends next to my TV and started playing them all night long, waking every few hours to the "dun-da-da-da da-da-da da-da" of the menu screen. A year since my pre-disposition to inherited anxiety suddenly awoke in full force. A year since I lost the ability to CALM THE FUCK DOWN.

I mean, don't get me wrong. It's not like I haven't had a single night's sleep in a whole year. But if it happens infrequently enough that I wake up in wonder and awe and say to myself, "oh my god I think I actually SLEPT last night!", then SOMETHING IS WRONG.

Getting to the root of what that something is has been the bigger issue.

For the first six months of sleepless nights, I hardly even took notice. Sure, I was tired all the time, but I was also staying out late and getting up early. It never even crossed my mind to question why my few hours of sleep were never really sleep, but instead just restless tossing. I just waited until I arrived at my job as a nanny, and then snuggled up with the bay-bay, his hot little breath calming my own breathing and knocking me into deep unconciousness.

But when I got the job at the Weekly and suddenly had to face not being able to sleep on the job, my body was thrown for a loop. And I became very aware of the fact that my sleep at night was anything but.

And so I started going to bed earlier.

HaHA! Look at me! The innocent insomniac who did not realize that not being able to sleep has NOTHING TO DO with what time you go to bed!

So there I lay in bed. Wide fucking awake.

And you know what's really good for anxiety-ridden insomnia? More anxiety.

Oh my god I'm still not asleep. If I don't fall asleep right now, I won't get the full amount I need to feel rested in the morning. Oh my god I'm going to be late to work again. And shit, I have that meeting tomorrow and I'm going to yawn all the way through it. And fuck, guess what, I'm still not asleep.

It was around May that I said fuck it and started taking Tylenol PM.

GOOD GOD ABOVE! Who invented Tylenol PM? I fucking love Tylenol PM. It is my new drug of choice. By far.

But let's face it, it's not a solution. It's basically the same as drinking a half bottle of red wine each night before bed. Not that I'm judging anyone who does that. [Cheers to you!] But let's be honest, it's not like it's real sleep. It's drugged out, feeling a tiny bit stoned in the morning, sleep.

Which can be nice. I'm not totally opposed to feeling stoned in the morning...

But this week I decided that NO. NO MORE DRUGGED OUT STONED AM SLEEP! Just real sleep!

And do you even know how much effort that takes? Monitering your water intake and exercising the apropriate amount each and every evening and setting alarms to make sure you eat all your meals at normal hours and stopping all activity precisely one half hour before your ideal sleep time?

I don't work that way.

But for the past week and a half, I've been trying it. And while my results are thus far inconclusive, I can tell you what I do know and that is this: Re-learning how to sleep allows no time for blogging.

And so...

Goodnight?