Smooth Operator.

Why is it so hard to make a connection?

I had a nice time with Shortcake. I think it went well. I was nervous the entire time and as expected every piece of sushi was working against me. I got something stuck in my side molar and tried to keep one half of my mouth closed while relaying a story. I must have looked like a stroke victim. Of course, Shortcake handled her sushi like a Geisha, every movement perfectly choreographed, no rice spilled, no soy sauce dripped, no napkin necessary. I half-expected a fan dance and tea ceremony. Seriously, the woman gracefully ate a hand-roll with chopsticks! I thought the name alone implied a certain level of chicken-lickin’ slobbery. I picked mine up like a barbarian and crammed it in my mouth as if it were my wedding day and I alone was eating the cake. I am sure she was duly impressed.

Yes, my nerves got the better of me. And it turns out Shortcake isn’t one for excessive drinking (she obviously doesn't have children), now it could be a moderation thing or a first date thing. It remains to be seen. But I truly needed a second glass of wine during our 3-hour encounter, if only to rinse the seaweed out of my teeth.

We talked about family, people in the book club, marriage and how we met our husbands. There were no uncomfortable lulls in the conversation. She was intelligent and bright. I liked her. But I was informed that she had been seeing quite a few of the members for intimate one-on-one time. She wanted to make new friends, but needed to see if there was really any chemistry. The news came as a blow to my fragile ego. I thought I was the chosen one, I thought she found me irresistible and couldn’t control her enthusiasm or desire for another humorous encounter. I tried to keep my composure upon hearing the devastating truth. I was being interviewed.

So, I am just one of many, another trial for her study. I was also informed that she would be filtering out some of the people at the close of the query. And all of this confused and frightened me. I thought, “Is she telling me this because I made the cut? I am on the inside track and I get to know her strategy? Or is this a warning?” I had a hard time sleeping because you just can’t tell where a person is coming from when you don’t know them. This is just the type of stressful situation that triggers my anxiety.

I suddenly worried if she had gotten my jokes, and was amused or disgusted by my life stories. I couldn’t possibly know how I did—it was unnerving.

She did say as we departed, “Well, I invited you on this date, so it is your move next time.” Okay. I feel an undo amount of pressure, like I should be booking a hot-air balloon ride or champagne brunch cruise. She seems to be a professional meet-and-greet-gal, I am convinced she could run for office. She’s got a poker face of politeness and poise. I truly can’t get a good read on her.

In a geeky-dork way, I feel like I am back in college and rushing for Shortcake’s sorority. I am not sure I have the goods or the energy for a high-stakes game of friendship. With Gabriel upping the anti every damn day, I will be lucky to have anything left for rent, much less the right shoes or handbags.

Ultimately, it is all a good thing, whether we become friends or not—I am proud of myself for putting it out there. I guess being with a stranger for dinner naturally makes you miss your friends and family. Meeting people and establishing relationships is difficult and time consuming. It certainly makes me appreciate the long and rich histories that I have with my loved ones. I can’t imagine life without them.

I made a promise to myself that I will keep working at it on the drive back home. I am nothing, if not dependable in my commitment to bettering our lives—awkward encounters and all. I will build something original here, I only wish I had the blueprints and knew what the hell I am supposed to be creating with these particular raw materials.

Sushi and Shortcake

I have a date night.

That’s right—a date! With a red-hot, redhead from the “30-something Fun Chicks” book club. She was at the Bunko Babes night, and honestly, the only voice of reason and levity when the conversation turned to whether Madame X was a lesbian and going to start to date women. She, let’s call her Strawberry Shortcake, Shortcake for short, has a sister who is gay and thankfully injected some reality into things. Madame X claims she would NEVER go that route! But if you ask me, she’d do well to have another woman on her team helping set her straight. I don’t think men are patient or understanding enough for that level of emotional disaster. Truth is, neither gender is lining up at her door, but she continues to fantasize.

Anyway, aside from having a gay sister, she is cool because she kept the conversation humorous and relevant and when the mousy-psuedo-intellectual-annoying-never-shuts-up-about-therapy-and-how-both-her-and-fiance-are-finding-themselves girl spoke, she looked at her and said, “How old are you?” I immediately fell into friend infatuation. It was subtle, insinuating, and underhandedly witty…just my kind of insult.

We might go out for sushi, which pretty much means nirvana in date form. I can only hope that I don’t end up with seaweed stuck in my snaggle-tooth or a sneezing fit from excessive wasabi. How embarrassing that would be. I have been thinking about what to wear all week, not too nightclub or too mommy-mundane. I know, I am a big geek, but a girlfriend here would be such a blessing. I am on the phone and email with my girlfriends constantly, but you miss those faces, expressions and silences that say more than words sometimes.

The trouble is that finding just the right partner in crime is not easy and crucial to a fulfilling relationship. So, there might be a lot of dating in my future, if Shortcake doesn’t work out. The good news is that this matchmaking won’t hinge on sex—that can really throw a wrench into things. At least it will be purely plutonic everything will be based on assets above the shoulders.

Wish me luck, I hope I don’t get too nervous and tell too many dumb jokes or talk about my kids too much or just generally portray myself as a total moron. Other than those fears, I am really looking forward to my date. And hopefully, Shortcake and I will become fast friends or even better, good ones.

Gambling with his life.

Gabriel has taken to whining. The level of drama induced by offering the wrong colored plastic utensil has reached Sally Fields proportions of tearful overacting.

My friend, Noelle told me that she remembered being told, “Stop whining!” as a child, and she was taken by surprise. She didn’t even realize she was whining. Initially, I took comfort in knowing my children aren’t aware of what an incredible pains in my ass they can be. I thought, “At least, he isn’t intentionally trying to make me cut off my ears.” By the way, did Van Gogh have a naughty preschooler living with him? But the more he whines and the more I think about it…the fact that he is wholly unaware of his actions is a sickening and sobering piece of news. I just got notified that this particular corner of hell has no fire exit (at least not until college).

His lack of awareness truly sucks. Because it means that he is officially working off of a base, evil, gut-wrenching, instinct to scream, grunt, and yelp at decibels that should only be registered by dogs. He is just naturally being himself. I have a preschooler, who is deaf to his own voice, or more accurately, immune to voice of the mutant demon, who has stolen his soul.

How do you stop the insanity? It is like dealing with those sleepwalkers who eat in the middle of the night. How do you get those people to stop? They are asleep for heaven’s sake. How do you modify that kind of subconscious behavior? How do you get through to them? Do you dope them? Ambien had to be created with someone in mind.

Would I ever drug him? If only I could…honestly he would screech like a howler monkey if he saw me coming at him with a medicine dropper. I would have to mix it with ice cream or pudding like they do for the elderly and mentally challenged. No, drugging a three-year-old, while possibly wildly entertaining and perversely enticing, does seem a little…extreme? No, not really—I guess, just unethical.

Since he can’t be hopped up on meds, I’ve decided that I should be, at least until he has outgrown this phase. He is moody, unreasonable, and unpredictable—he is the tri-fecta of disgruntled. He is the king of the malcontents. He is the poster child for future postal workers. Just dealing with two of his afflictions should qualify me for a year-supply of Valium.

Oddly, his behavior is limited to a single, frazzled audience of one. Yes, you guessed it—me! For others he is an angel, he is sweet and humorous and delightful. People tell me how lucky I am. Never has a better hand been dealt to a woman with so much on the line. I know this gamble will pay off, as long as I can keep playing with a full deck.

So, until the incessant whining ends, I will call him Black Jack. And every time I say the name, I will accompany it with a little prayer that we both come out winners (read: alive) in the end.

I walked uphill to school—both ways!

WARNING: This post contains a few unsolicited words of advice.

Allow me to start with this…people don’t really care about your poor, pathetic, re-mixed, myopic, self-centered, egotistical, sad stories of your past, unless it pertains to them in some immediately relevant and useful way. Otherwise, it is just an excruciating sob story that someone has to politely endure without being able to ask for a refund.

Beyond boring folks to tears with these miserably, unmoving tales of yesteryear, the author of these tales tends to alienate themselves, which can be very uncomfortable for the audience (not so much for the storyteller, since they have actually projected themselves back in time and can’t hear the crickets chirping or the giant hook being prepped to pull them off the stage in the present). So, I suggest just keeping the psycho-melodrama of your questionable history zipped up tight.

Lastly, when you get the urge to unleash your most personal secrets and regrets of times long ago, absolutely DO NOT crash those waves of remorse on some unsuspecting person, who is currently living through the experience that you feel the need to vomit up. Ironically, and infuriatingly, the person who least deserves all of these pseudo-factual stories is usually the one who evokes the memories, which torture us all.

Let me give you an example, it would be truly and utterly unforgivable, if I decided to inundate my sister Anita with all my woeful tales of college. Oh, how I worked two jobs, slept in the art studio, stole food to stay alive, failed Swahili, etc. Blah, blah, blah. I feel the bile of narcissism choking me even as I write this.

Firstly—WHATEVER! Secondly, if my story is so compelling and undeniably original or noteworthy, I should write a book. And anyone interested can find it readily at the nearest B&N (prominently displayed on the summer-$1 sale rack next to Gurley-Brown’s latest bestseller). Thirdly, the last soul on earth who should have to hear anything remotely negative and heart wrenching about a college experience is a bloody college student. Lastly, I had a total blast in college and would go back again tomorrow, but that is irrelevant to my point here.

After I have had my time, it is my job to be a statesman. It is no longer my story to tell, it is no longer about me. I had my moment, I did my thing, and if I have regrets—than those are mine as well.

Now, I wouldn’t want to be without the guidance of women who have walked the roads that I walk down today. Their experience is invaluable. They know things that I don’t know; they have perspective that I can’t begin to imagine. They have made good choices and bad, and felt the complex emotions, which accompany both. I want to know about their struggles, as they pertain to my situation. I want to have the support of the wise and graceful mothers, who know my story without even hearing it. To suggest that someone’s past should be ignored would be like throwing the baby out with the bathwater. To lose all of that knowledge would be the real tragedy.

But offering wisdom is a far cry from being the sounding board for a less-than-life once lived. Anita does not need to listen to me (Unless I am being truly hilarious, then she has no choice.). She is not required to feign sorrow for the injustices and transgressions from the Stone Age when I went to school. She does not need to pat me on the back for the T-Rex, which got away. That would be absurd.

Precisely the opposite, it is my duty to be there for her as she starts her journey. To be available if she has questions or more importantly, just give her a hug and to tell her not to worry when things get rough. My role is simply that roly-poly cheerleader on the sidelines, trying not to let my panties ride up, while I scream, “Gimme an A!”

It would be unforgivably selfish to make her time about me. She cannot change my past, frankly, neither can I. And a bucket-full of tears isn’t going to wash it away. But we can all change our futures.

So, here is my totally unwanted word of wisdom:
If you can’t control the desire to be selfish, indulgent and insanely narcissistic when faced with someone else’s life—instead of giving into your mind-numbingly-dull misery, try sharing in their success.



Disclaimer: This post has NOTHING to do with Anita. I would also like to note that all likenesses to real and actual people or events are merely coincidental and should be considered a freak accident.

Hang Ten, Baby!

My apologies for not writing in a bit, I am still reeling from the downward spiral of my prednisone withdrawal. It was so beautiful and ultimately, so wrong. Kind of like your first pathetic teenage love. You think you found the one, but you know he’s a bastard through and through. The breakup is rough and in your limited experience, earth-shattering. You are certain you won’t survive, let alone recover. I know that you’re all familiar with the pain, and eventually it makes for a hilarious story to tell the bunko babes. But for now, I look longingly, almost lovingly, into the medicine cabinet and wonder if I will ever feel that way again.

(cue the-lifetime-movie-of-the-week music)

In other news, I had my 10-year wedding anniversary. And it is a bit of miracle we pulled it off, because that man of mine was just bound and determined to make me sign the papers on him before the big day. I swear to you that he was testing me, and my well-worn resolve, to make damn sure that I was in it to win it. I told him he must have some deep-seeded fear of success, because rather than finding a gift, I was about to find a lawyer should he decide to keep it up. Nothing seriously big, but you know the insane types of behavior that partners do which should be delivered in boxes with radioactive stickers on them. No human life should have to be exposed to those fools, when they just can’t stop themselves. I realize that I too have the crazy-making gene, but you’ve got to know when to put it on the shelf, especially when someone is about to pop the champagne. You never know where that cork may end up!

Of course, he apologized and apologized and once again, apologized. When asked how many times he should apologize, I suggested however many it takes to reverse the spinning of our planet and turn back time and behave like a man who just won the wonderful wife lottery. He needs to jump up and down like Howie Mandel just handed him a 1-million-dollar-case marked 10 (Deal or No Deal matrimony-style).

Honestly, it’s the greatest thing. We’ve been together a decade, how about that for cool? There is much to celebrate. And I was particularly thrilled that we made it over the finish line without any bodily harm coming to anyone.

Now, I face the visit of my mother-in-law. I am preparing myself, and the house, and making a schedule of events and sightseeing. There is a lot to be done in the next couple of days. I hope it will go well. My mom is signed on to help with the entertaining and handling. I am psyched about that, she is nothing short of a saint. A true saint, because she is both willing and excited.

There are going to be a lot of Moms in the mix—mine, Dave’s and me (the frazzled mother-in-training). The combination of that many mothers is stress inducing. Anyone who would not be stressed with that much mom-ness is either lying, dead, or orphaned at a young age. Then there is the distant goal of pleasing folks and meeting some very-low level of expectations of fun. I remain optimistic that loads of wine and a stealth pouring while head’s are turned will result in some merriment, or at minimum amnesia.

Don't judge a book by its cover.

Now, I thought I would NEVER go to the “30-something fun chicks book club” again. But, never say NEVER (especially in all-caps…that’s just tacky).

So, how on earth did I end up there on a Friday night?

It starts with a little lady named Seema. She wrote to me after I missed two other “30-something-scary” events. She asked if I ever planned to show up again, to which I replied, no. Then she asked me for coffee. This was the most touching gesture imaginable for me. Touching and sweet, I would equate it to someone voting for you for prom queen. One single, beautiful vote, and only one vote, because even you didn’t waste your miniscule power on a hopeless pipe-dream. I felt appreciated and very honored that she cared to see me with or without the group.

I let her know that I was a taken aback by all the “salty talk” being the fragile, sensitive flower I am. (Yes, this is where you laugh and the milk comes out your nose.). And this book club just might not be right for me. After many assurances that it was the only time she ever witnessed such mayhem, I agreed to make an appearance at Bunko. (Oh, yeah…and let’s not forget that I love games, especially games for money, almost as much as I love puns—so I was aching to play.)

I showed up late, very late, and lost, very lost. So immediately, I let the crowd know I was a problem child. But my problems paled in comparison to Madame X, who had just signed her divorce papers that day. Wait, put a cork back in that champagne, there was sob stories and dating confusion and money issues to share with the “party”.

I say “party” because it didn’t take long to deduce that we were a cheap alternative to marriage counseling or group therapy. Only the general vibe I got from the group was that they were equally disinterested in her self-inflicted saga. And even in therapy, more than one person gets the f—k’n floor, now and again.

We listened and attempted to empathize.

She talked about men looking at her in grocery stores. And she talked about dating being the last thing on her mind.
She talked about walking out on her family and taking/having nothing. And she talked about signing for 50/50 and taking the television, sofa set, and bed.
She talked about not making the rent or having any more Coach purses. And she talked about buying new shoes to turn on men.

It was a nauseating display of “woe is me” and “won’t you do me” in a stinky, overdone stew. Yes, it is clearly a mid-life crisis. All I ask is for a bit of truthiness to the whole ugly catastrophy. Misery and poor decision-making are a rich part of my past, and likely my future, but please be semi-honest about your intentions and your short-comings. We all have ‘em. And if you are leaving your husband to bang the bagboy at Von’s—then spill it, because I don’t see a room lined up at the convent for you and your freshly procured knockers.

All in all, it was a lot of bullshit and drama. And every time she opened her mouth and took the floor, the crowd was silenced and depressed. It was like watching a car accident, the first time you slow down, even though you know better. But for christ’s sake, you don’t take the next exit and turn around and want to look again. You are done and satisfied with a single gruesome peek, no more details are required. Anyone with half an imagination can fill in the blanks.

Plus, you get the sneaking suspicion that every least detail will be graphically depicted in the upcoming weeks. So, we prefer to be in suspense. Thanks, Madame X—we get it!


…Alright, bunko anyone?


The pot was a delicious $130 bucks, oh the joy! Did I win? Hell no! I was being much too nasty in my thoughts to be rewarded with cash. I was handsomely paid in laughs and comradery. Because, what I was blessed to witness, was an almost universal disgust with our host and founder. She was being sidelined by anyone with a stitch of sense.

It was a humorous evening, and I was amused to watch a witty group of women careful try to control the volatile member. She had numerous outbursts. Each one was met with a caring indifference and/or a measured response. I grew to like these gals and hate our leader, who created us for her selfish purposes.

After the party, I received three wonderful emails with invitations to go for a drink. One of the solicitors was Madame X. I declined. The other two are on the calendar in ink.

I owe a debt of gratitude to Seema.

She thrust me back into a group of women, who are better than their leader. They are not on par. They are like a strong and tiny troop of Patriots, taking on the fight for the good of the whole. This mini-militia made me proud to be an American or book lover, as is the case. An American gal, who can tolerate insanity for a good cause and the short haul, as long as serious actions are being taken to usurp the maniac at the helm. I will stand by them, at least until I win some cash or find another country.

It all feels so familiar…

The prednisone party is over.

My doctor is weaning me off.

I cut a grilled cheese last night for Gabriel and thought I might have broken my wrist. Every joint has announced their renewed commitment to making my life a living heck.

As I crawl back into this aching pain suit affectionately known as my body, I have to wonder if it is better to have lived and lost, than ever to have lived at all. Of course, the answer is Yes. How else would we have rearranged the family room and hung fresh drapes? Entertained company? Taken the kids to the zoo or made my way to Bunko on Friday? (That crazy post is pending.) How else would I have realized that I wasn’t just a big, fat, old, lazy, crank?

I woke every morning with zeal and appreciation while I was doped up. I appreciated how glorious it was to feel healthy and I appreciated what a struggle it was to feel like a 90-year-old. It was a good experience, however short-lived.

I see the Rheumatologist, on October 10, which seems like a mini-millennium when measured in fruit slices and shampoo squeezes. We have taken Phoebe off formula and she is drinking real milk now—one month early, but we think she’ll survive. If I never have to shake another Tupperware container full of formula, we’ll all be the better for it.

Now that my super-human strength is fading, I can only hope that my mind stays relatively sharp. Lord knows, I am not getting out of a jam with this bag of bones in my corner. I will have to depend on my wits or frankly, carry a lot more cash.

One day you are IN, the next day… “Auf!”

What is it about Project Runway that makes me think I can sew a dress? I can barely sew on a button.

That show fills me with a completely grandiose sense of my inner-seamstress. I am critical of every cut and line, each fabric and pattern, right down to the buttons and pin-tucks on a sleeve. This, from a woman who has trouble getting a straight hem on drapes. I need to check my couture-diva-never-made-garment-bitch at the workroom door.

Dave and I got trapped in a marathon of PR last night. Dave loves the characters, I love the challenges, between the two of us, we can talk for hours about how cruel, rude, hot, and tacky every element/cast member can be.

Who is merely a pattern maker and who has true vision? Doesn’t that question sound an eerie echo into every facet of our lives?

And around the fifth hour, I began to wonder—What is my fashion point of view? What would I create out of garbage? How would I dress a dog? I think these are the pressing questions that are really facing our country. And here are my answers:

Fashion POV:
Let’s bring back the corset. Definitely. Since it seems that precisely the same dimensions must be applied to all women for these designers to create anything. So, break out the medieval torture devices because that is what is it going to take to get any natural beauty even quasi-modelesque.
.
I could not get over the fact that in the challenge for “real women” the designers totally panicked. Totally lost their all their big-bad-designer-mojo. They were more inspired my dogs! Yes, actually canines! Those hairy, albeit adorable, furry monsters caused more synapses to fire than “real women”.

So, what the hell is so tricky about clothing the full-figured woman?

Fatty-fatty-two-by-four still has to get dressed for work. She doesn’t want to wear a potato-sack. She is still a diva in her own right, even if she did break the scale yesterday. And just how do those pompous little designers think they got here? Not by stork (which ironically have the same dimensions as most models). No! They arrived by sheer force through the hips of those poor women, and if they think that kind of trauma doesn’t ruin a gal, they are as diluted as they are unimaginative!

What would I create out of garbage?

I think that based on the awesome splooge-inundating power of my children, disposable sportswear would be sheer genius. Why bother with Oxy-clean, Oxy-magic, Oxy-miraculous-spot-removing-goop? Just rip the shirt off and toss it in with the diapers. Hell, I wouldn’t mind a bra made of plastic cups, it can’t be any more uncomfortable than the minimizer that I wear now. And for creating that all-important corset, I think a well-engineered plastic wrap with the same cinches found on reams of paper would accomplish both slimming and sweating. It will be nasty after a long day, so just chuck it with the dinner that you made which the kids never ate.

Of course, it is important to accessorize, so I would not skimp on the details, cardboard hats, candy wrapper bangles, orange rind necklaces, they all sound charming. If anyone questions you or your odor, blame the children. It is a small price to pay for a new outfit every morning.

How would I dress a dog?

Well, first off…how about diapers? Monkeys wear them and it just seems civilized. Aside from that, I would recommend warning signs, like—I bite. I am a yappy annoyance. Or I am sweet, but I drool incessantly. Maybe, I beg, but isn’t it sexy? In fact, we could all use warning signs, but I figure dogs are less likely to protest to being pigeon-holed. They are what they are, and we could all learn from that.

If I ever have the time, I am actually going to make myself a dress. I put it on my list of things to do in my lifetime. I will give myself a budget and keep muttering, “Make it work!” And I promise that I will wear the dress out in public, even if it looks like a middle-school-home-ecomonics-pass/fail-disaster.

Because, it is important to walk a mile in the designer shoes of the people who entertain you the most.


ps. Tonya, this one's for you.

The Silence of my Gravitational Pull

If you are wondering about my weight loss, then much like myself, you have too much time on your hands. I have nothing new to report, because I broke the scale. That’s right—ha, ha…laugh it up. If that doesn’t put a chink in your slimming-down armor, I don’t know what does. So, I stepped on the damn scale, it wrenched, it creaked and then with a shattering crackle- pop, the bloody thing crashed flat onto the tiles. The display immediately read: ERR. So, I guess that is my new weight, ERR. I can live with that (at least for a few days). It is likely a sign from the universe that I have been too preoccupied with the numbers. My current mass is neither accessible nor measurable. Super.

Honestly, I like the idea of ERR, it is a subtle, almost humorous commentary. Not really chaos or mania or irreversible damage, just a simple unit of incompleteness. Much like me. I think, I will see what happens when I enter it into my online weight tracker.


An additional cautionary tale:
Lauren, my sister, got scratched in the eye by her cat! Ouch!?! Are you kidding me? How utterly miserable. And I thought I had it bad with a little scrape on my eyeball. I can’t even imagine. She had to go to the hospital and get shots, the whole nasty bit.

Please consider this a warning: Wear safety goggles for all handling of felines and females, both big and small. No matter how dorky you look. It is better than wearing a pirate patch.

Prednisone Prima Donna

Okay, so I feel like I ought to report on the incredible affects this drug has had on my life in the last week. First of all, I have been blessed with what feels to be superhuman strength. For example, when I squeezed my Dove Cucumber & Green Tea bath soap on my scrubby-thing approximately half of the bottle oozed out onto the pad. I was astonished, and a little sad that I lost so much of the stuff. I really like it. Then, I was lifting a gallon (my most dreaded unit of fluid, and annoyingly, always the cheapest) of juice from the fridge and it bounced off the top of the icebox due to excessive force. What next, I wonder? Perhaps I will peel a carrot without my wrist brace…the possibilities seem endless!

It is weird to realize the finely measured responses a body has to everyday activities. An exacting degree of effort is expended in order to accomplish a job—nothing more, nothing less. Just when I thought my body was a disinterested participant, I realize it is a calculated genius. It will have to adjust to this new Uber-power. Do I feel another Superman sequel in the making?

Now this sounds great, and it is, in a lot of ways. But it has its downside. While I feel like a modern-day Popeye in ponytails, I am not sure that all of the similarities are kind. For example, I also feel a bit like all disagreements can be settled with a can of spinach, precisely launched at the offender’s head. I also think I am growing a moustache like Brutus and my affection for Olive Oil, the liquid gold, not the gal, is growing at the expense of my belly. Okay, I am not yet shaving and Sumo wrestling, but rumor has it that it is not far off.

I started moving furniture late last night, much to my husband’s dismay. I single-handedly moved a loveseat up a couple of stairs before he yelled “What the hell are you doing!?!” And honestly, I didn’t know. I only know that I am restless, and I can’t stop moving and doing and doing and moving. Even if it means the house has to be rearranged a few dozen times in an evening.

It is exciting to feel so energized. But I am not able to shut it off. I have had terrible insomnia since beginning the drug. I can’t shut my mind off. I am even a little paranoid and dreaming up some truly ridiculous scenarios. This overactive imagination was problem before steroids and a serious issue currently.

We are adjusting to the hyper-drive that I am experiencing. I love that I have been more active with the kids—we went to the zoo, we swam in the pool, and we painted silly Halloween projects. It makes me feel good to DO something.

True to my deepest passion, I baked again. For anyone who knows me, that is a welcomed development of sincere inspiration. I bake as a celebration of life, it is an affirming declaration that I am here. I feel like a minor goddess when I manhandle sugar, flour and butter in a way that is delicious and ultimately magic. It makes people happy. When I am sad or confused, it helps bring me clarity and peace. When I bake, I stake my claim in this crazy world. And I invite you to EAT UP! So, looking at that beautiful banana bread steaming hot out of the oven is like witnessing my own existence. It is glorious.

I digress.

Well, I am pleased with the results—I am also concerned. I need to sleep and I need relief. For now, I am going to bake my cake and eat it too!

I will invest in a waxing kit and punching bag tomorrow.

In Hot Water?

Okay, there are just times when it seems the world is against you.

I had a suspicion that powers greater than myself weren’t supportive of my new exercise regime when Phoebe poked me in the eye. But Dave assured me that Thursday, I would have such a great time splashing around in the pool, I would forget the whole incident.

Welcome Thursday, I am in my bathing suit and brand new pink terry sweats (they were on sale at Old Navy, hence the pink part), towel, personal sundries, the works are all packed into my bag by the time Dave gets home from work. I have been drinking gallons of water…and off I go!

For some strange reason, as I take the Encinitas exit, I think, “With my luck, the pool will be closed.” I park, gather my belongings and walk to the Y. POOL CLOSED AUG.31-SEPT. 2. Yes, closed, shut down, out of commission. No explanation. No reason. Only the reality that I must have seriously pissed off someone upstairs (or Phoebe has more connections in this city than the mafia. I am afraid, very afraid.)

What now? I thought of calling Dave, but he has the kids in the bath and I hate to bother him. Multitasking with the babes is not his strong suit. Plus, I would just be a raging little shut-out bitch, and that is not exactly the call that someone needs while wrestling slippery squirmy munchkins into pjs.

No, I just have to deal with it. And figure out how what I need to do to find redemption.

The beginning of my deliverance might be coming in the form of a pill. I started taking Prednisone for my rheumatoid arthritis. It is a pretty nasty drug, lots of freakish side effects. But, for RA folks, like myself, it can provide immediate relief even eurphoria. Yes, he said euphoria! Those words actually caused me to cry in the doctor’s office during my visit. That was a bit embarrassing. Oh, I should mention, my doctor’s name—Dr. Payne. Ha! Isn’t that humorous? He is a sweet guy, nothing like some of the other asses I have met in the medical profession.

Anyway, it is actually working! I am feeling somewhat better and the pain has been minimized to a appreciable degree. And this is day two! So, while I am worried that I might look a bit like Hans and Franz in the long run, for the time being, I am thrilled.

The only way I can really illustrate how difficult RA can be, would be to recount my struggle with small, daily tasks. For example, making formula, undoubtedly one of my most dreaded chores. Once a day, I would enter what I consider to be a mini-manual Olympics. I know that there are exactly 14 steps to creating the daily pitcher of formula. I can acutely feel every step of the process. From opening the container to scooping the 7 tiny scoopfuls into the pitcher, closing the top, holding it tightly (RA patients are notorious for dropping things, no grip control), and shaking it rigorously while my elbows protested. It is in these daily activities that normally would not be remarkable, that I face my greatest challenges.

So, to be able to wrestle with that bloody Tupperware container and be victorious…or better yet, indifferent—how absolutely brilliant! I know that this is only a short-term solution, but after years of this challenge, I am ready for a break. I am excited to work on bigger projects than fastening my bra, squeezing the shampoo bottle and snapping together Onsies.

If I start raging like a maniac in my blog, I expect to be notified.