I’ve been home from BlogHer ’10 for three (and a half) days and I’m still processing everything that happened during the two (and a half) days I was there. I didn’t think it was possible for so many life-changing events to occur in such a short time-span, but there it is. I am changed. A conference of this type will do that to a person and I am so very grateful for it.

In order to get through this and not forget anything, I’m going to have to think linearly. I’m going to go through my experience as it happened and when I’m finished, I will likely dedicate some separate posts to individual people, (not to mention my overly-analyzed emotions) so bear with me my lovelies.

My trip to New York was uneventful until I arrived at LaGuardia airport and realized that not only had I forgotten to figure out a way to make my Canadian cell phone work in the United States (and was therefore phone-less the entire weekend), my laptop wouldn’t connect to the free airport wifi. After several minutes of silent internal panic, I did the only thing I could and purchased a phone card with which to use the nasty public pay phone as I also had no American change on my person. I called my cab-share buddy and, upon receiving her business card, realized that my own were sitting on the kitchen counter. At home. 2000 miles away. Fantastic. I sighed in defeat, fished out my camera and began taking pictures in the cab, all the while trying to talk myself down from an epic anxiety attack. Thankfully, I was able to get to the Hilton in one frazzled, slightly sweaty piece.

I checked into my room and opened my laptop, attempting in vain to connect to the complimentary BlogHer wifi. Failing that, I used my phone card (on which I still have tons of minutes, so I may start randomly calling my newfound friends with it!) to call my husband and moan about how I had made the worst mistake ever in coming to New York by myself and why on God’s green earth did I ever think this was a good idea? Calm as ever, Lucky told me that once I’d had a moment to recover from my trip, I’d remember why I’d come and everything would be fine.

I took a few minutes to just breathe, trying to collect myself, and then I took the plunge and called my roommate to alert her to my presence.

“You’re here! I’m coming up!” she exclaimed and a few minutes later, she breezed into the room and enveloped me in a warm hug. Until that moment, I don’t think I had taken a complete breath since I wheeled my little suitcase off the plane an hour or so earlier. There’s just something innately kind about her, my lovely Momo Fali, which calmed me right down. I felt like I had known her all my life and thanks to her wonderfully supportive presence, I decided that I’d wasted enough time spazzing out in my hotel room and it was time to do what I had come here for: meet some fabulous people and have a good time.

Momo Fali and me, on my first official trek out into the world of BlogHer. This photo alone is proof of the changes I’ve been making in my life as the “old” me would never have posted a picture which showcased the chubby face and body in such an obvious way. Still, the gatefulness on my face for having found a friend is an obvious indicator of my mood at the moment, and so I am attempting to look past my imperfections and see what is truly there – me with a wonderful friend who didn’t think twice at taking me under her wing and making my trip a good one.

The rest of Thursday night is something of a blur but I do remember meeting another of my roommates, who instantly charmed me with her sweetness (not to mention her adorable southern accent.) In that moment, I knew that my BlogHer experience would be nothing short of amazing because if I’d managed to score two kind and wonderful women as roommates, how could I not find more of the same within the walls of this hotel? The three of us chatted for awhile before calling it a night. (Our fourth roommate didn’t arrive until after we’d gone to sleep and so I didn’t have a chance to meet her until Friday morning).

I’ll be back soon with Parts two and three!

Filed under: Happy Happy, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me by WWS (Lynn) - 7 Comments →

One of my favourite things about summer so far? No more schoolyard stalker.

Now that I don’t have to spend time near him anymore, I can write about my experience without fear that he’s going to club me over the head with his cane and leave me for dead somewhere.

(What? Stalkers can have canes! I didn’t say he was particularly agile.)

For some reason, I tend to attract the weirdos. I’m not sure what it is about me (and, frankly, I don’t think I want to know), but freaks love me. As a general rule, I am polite to everyone and I try not to label, but sometimes you’ve just got to call a creep a creep.

Uh, hey, creeper. Thanks for bombing my photo, man.

This guy. This smelly, dirty (yet iPhone/BlueTooth wielding), socially inept guy (who, somehow, ended up with the daughter of a friend living with him, and therefore going to kindergarten at Lily’s school) would not leave me alone for the last several months of school. He followed me around mercilessly, no matter how hard I tried to dodge him. At first, I tried to be nice to him whenever he cornered me, making a little small-talk before bolting. Eventually, though, I couldn’t help but listen to my inner voice, which was telling me to stay far, far away from this man. Literally every cell in my body would start cringing whenever he was near as if I were physically trying to repel him.

Aside from his leering expression and unwavering stare, he also had an extremely potent odour, consisting of many layers of stale cigarette smoke, B.O., fresh cigarette smoke and something just plain oily. I could barely breathe when I was near him and spent the final months of the school year attempting to stay out of his path.

I employed many methods when trying to dodge the creeper. I was usually unsuccessful, but it didn’t stop me from trying. Generally, a morning of dropping Lily at the kindergarten doors went like this:

1. Walk across field with children
2. Say goodbye to Logan and watch him take off for the grade 2 doors
3. Walk toward a group of parents that I recognize
4. Notice creeper staring at me from across the tarmac
5. Silently hyperventilate
6. Deliberately look anywhere but at the creeper, who is now striding with purpose toward me
7. Hyperventilate some more as I attempt to infiltrate group of friendly parents, sliding into a one-person opening
8. Try to act as if I don’t notice the creeper walking around the group of parents to stand behind me and breathe in my hair
9. If creeper talks to me, give polite, to-the-point answers while thinking of reason why I need to leave right that very moment to do something extremely important
10. Kiss Lily goodbye, watch her enter the school and take off like a bat out of hell across the field to my car

On the last day of school, the creeper treated me with a birds-eye view of the vertical rip right down the middle of the right butt-cheek region of his shorts. It seems only appropriate that he’d come up with a show-stopper of a final encounter. I think it pretty much summed up the awkwardness I felt whenever I was near him. *shudder*

In September, my kids are going to the new school opening up in our neighborhood, so my days with the creeper are over. I’m keeping my fingers crossed that he keeps a good distance away from my mom-friends who are remaining there, though. At least until he takes a shower, visits a dentist and has a complete personality overhaul.

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →

So. I got a cat eleven days ago. Those of you who know my husband me understand that this is a huge deal because:

1. I don’t deal well at all with change of any kind
2. My husband is blatantly anti-pet
3. My husband is very good at getting his way (namely, not getting a pet)

 For reasons that I’ll get into on another day, and because Lucky has threatened to divorce me if I get a dog, I decided that I must have a cat. I needed a cat to retain my sanity and happiness. “No” was not an option. I would have a cat. Oh, yes. I would have one. With a little strong-arming and a lot of emotion, I managed to convince Lucky that letting me get a cat would be a good idea. (A happy wife is a happy life and all that). I researched online until I found the perfect cat, a sweet one year old with all of his shots and none of his gonads.

“Hi! My name is Max and I’m the greatest cat who ever lived. Word.”

I packed the kids in the car one Saturday afternoon and drove a kajillion miles over to the far north-east end of the city to go pick up our new kitty. On the way, I gave myself a mental talking-to because I knew from past experience that I was going to morph from a rational cat-wanting human being into an irrational, overreactionary what-the-hell was-I-thinking basket case and completely freak the frack out once the cat was in my possession.

“Okay, Lynn. It’s just a cat. You’ll be just fine. It’ll be good for the kids to have a pet not living behind bars. It’ll be good for you to have a warm, purring little bundle to cuddle. Everything will be just fine. Don’t. Freak. Out.”

(If you think this kind of reaction is completely over-the-top, well, you’re right. However, when I say that I really don’t deal well with change, I am not kidding. If you look up the term “panic attack” in the dictionary, there I am, in all my freakish glory.)

As an aside, here’s a little cartoon to help me illustrate my overreactionary quirks. The scene: I’m frolicking at the beach, trip and fall in the sand… (just click the picture to see each of the three panels)

(Ok, fine, so it’s a crappy cartoon. Better not quit my day job.)

Back to the story!

The kids and I spent a few minutes petting the cat and talking to his previous owner before packing him in a cardboard box and driving him home.

“Your old green couch may be ugly as sin, but it sure is comfortable!”

Max mellowed out in the car all the way home, poking his head out a couple of times to check out the view before settling in to do what he does best: lay around and do nothing.

I, on the other hand, was most definitely not mellowing out. The entire kajillion mile drive home had me alternately freaking the frack out in my head and mentally telling myself that buying a cat was certainly not panic attack-worthy.

We got the cat home, let him out of his box and watched him explore his surroundings. (By exploring, I mean that he wandered around for about six seconds and then laid down in the living room for a nap.)

When Lucky came home from work that night, I was in full-on panic attack mode. I couldn’t take a deep breath. I couldn’t eat. I sat woefully at the kitchen table with my head in my hands and lamented about how I never should have gotten a cat and I can’t believe you actually agreed to this!

Lucky (previously known as the animal-hater) calmly told me, “Lynn, he’s just a cat. He’s not even doing anything. It’s fine.”

“No, it’s not! It’s not! How could I do this? What made me think it would be a good idea to get a cat! I need to find him a new home NOW! I can’t take the stress! Ahh!!”

“Lynn, calm down and give it a few days. You always get like this. Everything is fine.”

And you know what? He was right. I calmed down and things were fine. For awhile.

Being that Max wasn’t declawed, I thought it would be best to purchase him some sort of scratching post to lie apathetically next to use so that he’d leave my furniture alone. It quickly became obvious that Max viewed his claws as merely a decoration and not as something actually worth using. (Yay!) In addition, I bought him a couple of toys to play with.

Lily adopted him as her very own baby, hand-feeding him his cat food (pellets, not the jellied stuff from a can!), petting him lovingly, and carrying him all around.

“Oh, man. Here she goes again.”

“Why does this small one always have to carry me around? I can walk!”

“The things I put up with around here…”

And Presenting… MAX! from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

Whenever things got quiet around the house, Max would emerge from his current napping spot and curl up on my lap for some love.

(Ever been gently head-butted in the jaw by a cat? It’s surprisingly pleasant!)

After a few minutes, he would very gently and deliberately reach his forepaw out and place it on my arm before loudly purring and settling in for yet another nap.

Things were going great and I was mentally congratulating myself for not letting my unstable mental condition beat me until Logan started complaining that his eyes were itchy. He sneezed whenever he got too close to Max and he was beginning to have trouble falling asleep at night due to the uncontrollable urge to claw his own eyes out.

Logan had always been fine whenever he was around cats at his friends houses but I suppose there’s a difference between being around a cat for a couple of hours at a time and having one actually live with you all the time.

By the time Max left with his new owners (a lovely couple who had both lived harmoniously and un-allergenically with cats in the past), Logan had rubbed his eyes so much that he had bruises under them. Max has been gone for just over three days now and Logan is only just beginning to feel normal again.

I, on the other hand, am sad. It was hard to give up the cat, being that he was perfect and all. But, perfect as he was, my son and his health is my top priority.

In the six short days that we had Max the cat, I learned several things.

1. It is wholly possible to fall in love with an animal in only six days time. Especially when that animal is the best, most awesome and amazing cat who ever lived.
2. My husband, despite being known for his decisiveness and unbending nature, was willing to put my needs above his own and let me proceed with my crazy cat-owning scheme even though he really didn’t want to
3. The aforementioned husband is remarkably calm and unflappable when faced with his wife’s neurotic tendencies and, despite not wanting a cat in the first place, actually recommended keeping the cat around even when the basket-case wife was ready to usher said cat out the door and run screaming in the opposite direction.
4. Even though he protested mightily to getting a cat in the first place, and even though I know he’ll deny it until his dying breath, the truth is that Lucky actually liked the cat. I even caught him watching TV with Max tucked right in on his lap.
5. I have panic attacks entirely too often and for the most inane reasons. I think I may need to pay a visit to my doctor and have my meds adjusted.
6. I grew up not liking cats even a little bit and now I’m pretty sure that, given the right circumstances, I would make the awesomest crazy cat lady in the world.

Enjoy your new home, Max! We hardly knew ye and yet we loved ye all the same. I hope you get all the cuddles you could ever want.

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Offspring, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

I’m mortally wounded, you guys. I think the end is near. I just wanted to tell you that I love you and explain a little bit about the fateful moment that has brought me to this point…

Lucky, the kids and I had just come in from an afternoon of playing outside and bike riding. Everything was great until I casually closed the bi-fold closet door off the garage and it reached out, unprovoked, and brutally attacked my finger.

Bi-fold closet doors = the devil

Me: Aaaaaaaaaah!

Lucky, from upstairs: What’s wrong?

Me: Aaaaaah. Ow. Ow.

Logan, also upstairs: Mom, what happened?

Me: Aaah! Can’t talk. Pain. Aaah. Aaah!

I clutched at my pinched finger, which was screaming in agony, and ran to the fridge for some ice. Wrapping a tea towel around the ice, I retreated to my bedroom to read a book and avoid my rambunctious children wait for the nausea to subside.

Do you see the angry red line on the pad of my finger? Look closer. It helps if you squint… Oh, yeah. It’s EVERY bit as bad as it looks.

(Incidentally, I’m not flipping you off. I’m flipping off those possessed bi-fold doors).

It wasn’t until I went to pick up an open deck of cards a couple of hours later that I realized just how terrible and life-threatening my injury really was. It felt like there was a hole in the deck, as if I were holding a puzzle piece by the edges.

Me: Holy crap, Lucky! The end of my finger is numb! I TOLD you it hurt when the door pinched it!

Lucky: Huh. I figured you were just overreacting.

Overreacting? What a loving, caring husband I have. It’s a good thing he now realizes just how grave this injury truly is. I mean, without feeling in the tip of my finger, I could accidentally dismember it without realizing and then, when I’m walking down the street, unaware of the fact that I’m profusely bleeding, people will start screaming and running away. And, because I can’t feel that my finger is missing, I’ll think that they’re screaming and running away because they think I’m ugly or fat or something and my self-esteem will take a huge hit. And while I’m busy stressing out about how horribly grotesque I look, I won’t notice that I’m slowly bleeding to death and I’ll figure that I’m just starting to feel weak because the truth hurts. I’ll become weaker and weaker, assuming that the knowledge of how horrifying I am is crushing my will to live and I’ll end up dying a sad, lonely death, wondering how I managed to make it as long as I did without a paper bag to put over my head.

Seriously, how on Earth is that overreacting? The closet door has killed me. I don’t see how it’s even possible to overreact in a situation like this. It’s positively DIRE. I’m going to need to figure out a survival plan now. I can’t let those bi-fold doors beat me. My future looks bleak.

On a related note, does anyone know how long it takes nerve endings to regenerate?

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 1 Comment →

It seems as though lately, a lot of websites are stepping away from quality writing in favour of posting the “quick fix” of a joke, a picture or a tweet. I know I’m guilty of clicking through to the joke sites when I only have a few minutes to read and end up missing out on a lot of quality writing. Mrs Flinger has come up with a challenge for those of us who want to get back into the basics of writing just for the love of it. She has challenged us to ignore our stats, put aside thoughts of writing for other people and just write, not worrying about whether or not our initial draft is perfect. This is something I can really sink my teeth into.

Believe it or not, this one really was a challenge for me. I spend a lot of my time focusing on how not to embarrass myself, so while I can find lots of little things to fixate on, nothing really huge comes to mind. And so, I have plagiarized myself and re-posted a story I wrote about an embarrassing incident in a bar a few years ago:

Dear Run-Down, Piece of Crap Sports Bar:

Hi. Remember me? The chick who fell down on your run-down, piece of crap mini-golf course? Yeah. I’m pissed. And horribly embarassed. And a little bit injured, as a matter of fact. Do yourselves a favour and renovate before someone less nice than me gets hurt. I’ll say it slowly, just in case you didn’t get it the first time. Ren-0-vate. That means fix your damn carpet. Oh, and you guys can all suck it.

Sincerely,

Stone cold sober and still unable to stay on her feet.

That’s right, everyone. I fell down in a public place. Don’t everyone point and laugh at once. I’ll have to lay the smack down on each and every one of you. Here’s the story:

Last weekend, we got a sitter for the kids and headed off to a sports bar for my brother-in-law’s birthday. Said sports bar has a mini-golf course running through it for the drunken sports idiots to play in between periods (rounds, whatever!). This golf course looks to have been there since the dawn of time. The felt is wrinkled and ripped. A few of us decided to play anyway, for something to do. Well, on about the fifth or sixth hole, I tripped over a rip in the felt and began falling forward. I tried to step forward with the other foot to stop my fall but was rudely stopped by one of those obnoxious little mini-golf course speed bumps. I fell down like somebody had just cut me off at the ankles. Question: if a woman falls in the middle of a bar, does she get embarrassed?

I fell. On my face. Right in the middle of a sports bar on a Saturday night. Honestly, if something like that were to have to happen to anyone, of course it would be me. And I will maintain until my dying breath that I was not hammered. I blame the management for not maintaining their stupid little golf course. Because it feels better that way. I’d rather not take any responsibility for falling down in a public place, thank you.

I don’t think that a lot of people I know saw it. I do know that my brother-in-law did because his laughter echoed throughout the bar. Boys are mean like that. At least most girls will ask if you’re ok, help you up, etc.

I jumped back up as quickly as I could and awkwardly pretended like nothing had happened, ignoring everyone around me. It must have looked like a Saturday Night Live pratfall. I should have told everyone that I was rehearsing for a play. Or, worse yet, “I meant to do that.” I’m sure everyone in the place forgot about the whole thing within minutes, but I am the type of person who internalizes everything and I will most certainly play this over in my mind a million times between now and then time when I am eventually struck with some sort of old-age dementia. Can a person sue for emotional distress a week after the event?

Here is how I felt immediately following what will now be referred to as “the incident.”

And here is how I currently feel toward the run-down piece of crap bar and all patrons within who find humour in other people’s pain:

The by-product of “the incident” (aside from profound mental anguish) is this (among other bruises):

Who but me could fall down and end up with a wicked wrist burn? Loser.

____________

Want to read about more embarrassing moments? Check out the links below! And, if you’ve got an embarrassing moment of your own to share, go ahead and link to your specific post below. I’d love to read it and laugh at with you. (Misery loves company).

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me by WWS (Lynn) - 3 Comments →

So, I just got back from a wonderful, relaxing two week vacation to, uh, Uruguay. That’s why I haven’t updated in so long.

No?

Well, then, I was just, uh, rescued from the, uh, mine shaft that I slipped and fell down two weeks ago. It was dark and scary, but I made it out okay and that’s why I haven’t updated in so long.

Not buying it?

Lucky and I decided to take a back-to-nature approach to living and shut off the electricity for two weeks. We figured that if the Amish can do it, so can we. So you can see why I haven’t updated in so long.

Wow, tough crowd.

Okay, fine. Here’s the thing. Whenever I go too long without updating, I end up with multiple stories in my head and instead of just writing them down one at a time, I can’t decide which is most important, or whether or not I should smush them all together into one giant post, and then I procrastinate and read other people’s blogs or watch TV or goof off on Facebook and then, before I know it, it’s bedtime again and I’m too tired to write anything but I swear I’ll do it tomorrow and then I end up repeating the whole cycle all over again the next day. It’s like when you go too long without folding the laundry and it just keeps piling up on the living room floor and slowly morphs into a giant mountain of clothes that you’re too afraid to actually dig your hands into just in case a family of rabbits has decided to nest in there so you poke it tentatively with a stick to see if it’s moving but instead of just biting the bullet and folding everything, you just click “save draft” and all of a sudden you have, like, ten partially-written posts but after you look them over for the second or third time, you’re wondering what you were even thinking when you started to write them because CLEARLY they’re not blog quality posts so then you get totally overwhelmed by your own mediocrity and end up watching the last ten minutes of Life With Derek before giving up and going to bed.

Wow, hold on. I need to catch my breath. I’m just going to put my head between my legs for a second.

Okay, I’m back.

So, in the time I’ve been gone, my daughter has turned five, my mother has turned, uh, older than five, and I’ve become somewhat obsessed with my daughter’s dollhouse (pictures to follow once I actually upload them onto the computer.)

Oh, and I had the most superfunawesome Saturday night EVER. And, instead of getting all neurotic about whether or not I should separate that out into its own post, I’m just going to go ahead and tell the riveting tale right here, RIGHT NOW.

So, without further ado:

How I Spent My Saturday Night
by Lynn

I spent the week or so preceding Lily’s birthday putting together and painting dollhouse furniture. It wasn’t something that could be completed in one shot, so I stashed my work-in-progress in the unfinished-except-for-the-shower bathroom in the basement each night. Up until Saturday, each evening was the same: open bathroom door, grab supplies, turn on TV to something too horrifying to actually watch and listen to at the same time *cough* Love Court *cough* as background noise, get to work. I went downstairs on Saturday night expecting more of the same, but Saturday night had other things in store for me.

Saturday night, as it turns out, isn’t quite as gracious as the other nights of the week. Saturday night is actually kind of a trifling hobag. Stupid Saturday night.

As I opened the bathroom door to retrieve the furniture kits (on the aforementioned hobaggy Saturday night), I was greeted by an unexpected and completely revolting aroma. I scanned the bathroom looking for the cause of the stench and saw that the base of the shower was filled to the brim with brownish-yellow water. Oh, shit. Literally.

I raced up the stairs to inform Lucky of the situation and, since we had been using the shower as a storage-space of sorts, started to double-bag some garbage bags together. Lucky called his dad for some advice on what to do when one’s shower is filled with backed-up sewage as I hopped from one foot to the other, thinking, “Duh, we need to call a plumber.”

“We need to call a plumber,” I stage-whispered to Lucky as his phone conversation droned on and on. (When one’s shower is filled to the brim with detritus, one should really focus on fixing the problem and not on chatting it up on the phone.)

“Clean that out,” Lucky snapped at me, phone in hand.

Wanting the stinky nightmare to be over as quickly as possible and also knowing that it was the stress of the situation talking and not Lucky, I let the comment slide, rolled up my pant legs, donned some plastic gloves and tied Safeway bags over my feet. Then, full-body cringing all the while, I lowered my hand into the cold, murky water and retrieved a throw pillow, saturated and dripping.

By this time, Lucky was off the phone and in my face. I asked him to get me some more bags and when he asked me what kind, I (in no mood to be patient) lost it all over him.

“What kind of bags? Are you kidding? GARBAGE bags!”

“No. YOU CALM DOWN. Get me the fucking bags!”

Lucky, being the stubborn man that he is, refused to let it go. He insisted that I was being entirely too rude and was bent on “talking it out” while I held dripping wet poop cushions in my grossed out, waste-covered hands. I’m sure you can guess how well that went over. I kid you not, I was *thisclose* to rubbing my filthy rubber gloved hands all over his obnoxious face, just to let him know, once and for all, that I AM NOT KIDDING HERE. I’M SERIOUSLY GOING TO LOSE MY MIND IF YOU DON’T GET ME SOME FREAKING GARBAGE BAGS SO I CAN CLEAN OUT THIS GOD-FORSAKEN SHOWER AND GO BURN MY CLOTHES. Now is NOT the time for this!

It was right about the time that I started waving one dripping hand in his face that Lucky’s self-preservation instinct kicked in and he went off in search of more bags. Once I had cleared out the shower of all the junk, Lucky used the Shop Vac that his parents bought him for Christmas one year to suck the nastiness out of the shower and then marched his plastic-bag clad feet down the driveway and over to the storm drain to dump it out. Twice. It’s actually pretty amazing how much water the base of a shower will hold…

“Do you think anybody saw me dumping pee water into the sewer?”

“It could happen.”

(Clearly, Lucky and I are the very model of grace and rationality under pressure. It’s a gift.)

In the end, it turns out that only one of the two main pipes running through our house was blocked and so we were able to shower and change into clean clothes that night. Lucky’s dad came over the next morning and the two manly men rented a manly power snake to clear out the blockage in the pipes. (They even managed to do it without threatening to fling poo at each other, so kudos to them.) Now that it’s done, I can say that I am so immensely grateful for that shower. I don’t even want to think about the mess we would have been faced with if we’d had a backed-up grate on the floor…

The End.

** I know what you’re thinking. After two weeks away gathering life experiences all I could give you was a story about poop. Bet you wish I had waited a couple more weeks before posting again, hey? **

Filed under: Confessions, Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party, Random by WWS (Lynn) - 1 Comment →

Ugh. Owww. Blah.

I’m falling apart over here, guys. I’m pretty sure I’m an 85 year old trapped in a 30-something body. The heartburn! No good deed goes unpunished – I had a green salad (with grilled chicken) for supper and I’ve been in agony ever since. I’ve been popping Tums like it’s candy. Two more and then I’m heading to bed.

I initially wanted to come on here to do a book review (only one more ever, I promise! Plus, this one was really funny – honest!) but I caaaaan’t. Someone took a blowtorch to my sternum and then had an elephant sit on it in a vain attempt to extinguish the flames. Plus, my ovaries are throwing knives at each other because since I don’t actually ever ovulate or anything, it’s getting awfully crowded in there. It’s that freaking mob mentality. Once they start rioting, it’s dang near impossible to get them to stop. They’re raping, pillaging and looting with a furious vengeance right now. I’d kind of like to reach up there and yank the whole works out, frankly. I have a feeling that it would be quite cathartic to stomp all over my stupid, traiterous reproductive system.

Between the heartburn, the rioting ovaries, the extra weight around the middle and the ever-aching lower back, I’d kind of just like to chop off my torso altogether. With all the advances in science these days, there must be a way to just glue my arms and legs right to my head. They’re the only parts worth keeping anyway.

Although, come to think of it, I don’t know if my arms are worth keeping either… Last weekend, I managed to singe my shoulders to within an inch of their lives. Then, once they were good and sore, I went for an hour long power walk with my friend and by the time we were finished, the salt from my post-walk womanly glowing sheen made me so itchy that I was twitching uncontrollably and was about thisclose to ripping my arms off and throwing them far, far away. The itching pain is gone now but my shoulders are peeling like there’s no tomorrow. Lily actually stroked my shoulders at bedtime tonight, saying, “I want to make the skin that’s falling off your body feel better.” Take some time to fix that image in your head. It’s okay. I’ll wait.

So, officially the only body parts I’m willing to keep at this point are my head and legs. I’m sure I’ll be able to learn to type with my toes…

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 1 Comment →

After my diagnosis of PCOS in April (and in hopes of beating the sucktastic odds of turning into a rounder, flabbier version of myself), I have made some pretty positive lifestyle changes. First off, I made the commitment to go walking with a good friend 5 nights a week. Generally, we go walking through our neighborhood Sunday-Thursday evenings for an hour. We keep a quick, steady pace. Not speed-walker fast, because even the promise of being svelte and toned isn’t enough to make me want to go out in public looking like this guy:

It’s quick enough to keep us breathing heavily, though.

(Hey, I just thought of a way to make extra cash. I’ll just bring a phone along and let horny, lonely losers listen to me gasping away into the receiver for an hour. Throw in a few, “Oh, my God’s” and I’ll be rich!)

Ahem.

On top of the walking, I’ve tried to be more active in general, spending time outside with the kids going for bike rides, playing catch and kicking the soccer ball around.

And. And! The biggie: I am on day 12 of no chocolate. That’s right. No chocolate. I decided to cut it completely out of my diet for one month because it’s my single biggest temptation. My diet is otherwise very good, so I figured I’d start noticing some big changes right away.

And, boy, let me tell you. I have noticed some changes. When I stepped on the scale yesterday to see how I’ve progressed, I was rewarded with a magnificent five pound weight GAIN. Because my body obviously hates me.

I forgot that I’m dealing with the fat disease. And let me tell you, this thing has jumped in and fucked with my hormones in a huge way. (Pun intended.) Also, extra weight in the midsection is really hard on a back that’s weak to begin with. I’m hobbling around like a 90 year old man. It’s not pretty, folks.

(If you want to read about my feminine woes, start here and continue on here, here, here, here, here, and here. (Or, you can click the fancy PCOS category title on the left sidebar. ) (I’m all about providing options here.)

I can barely look at myself in the mirror. I hate what I see. After I got off the scale yesterday, I was torn between screaming and throwing things and melting down into a flabby puddle of goo on the floor and crying. Because really, body, what the fuck?! I might as well lay on the couch eating cake for all the good my healthy lifestyle has been doing me.

You know it’s bad when you’ve considered bulimia as a possible weight-loss solution…

I’ve had a look at several PCOS websites and the general consensus seems to be, “have fun being fat from now on, chubby!”  I don’t want to accept that. I can’t. My self-esteem is taking a massive beat down. I have clothes in my closet that should still fit me, based on how I live, yet they don’t. At all. I have until October until my next appointment with the endocrinologist. I plan on talking to her about a different solution, since I highly doubt that my once-every-three-months dose of progesterone is going to do me any good. There are still two options (that I know of) left: birth control pills and Metformin. I think I’m going to ask to skip straight to the diabetic medication so I can force my body to bend to my will and obey me. (I have to keep the hope alive somehow!)

In the meantime, I am really struggling not to just give up on all of my efforts. I kind of just want to lay down and take one long, continuous nap. I’m just so very tired.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 6 Comments →

A couple of weeks ago, I had the much-anticipated, long-awaited appointment with my endocrinologist. Based on my blood work, she determined that the evil root of all of my problems was Polycystic Ovarian Syndrome, or PCOS. Considering that my good pal Google and I had already pre-diagnosed me with that very syndrome months before, I wasn’t surprised. And, in the grand scheme of things, PCOS is not a big deal. Mostly it’s just a pain in the ever-expanding ass. Things could definitely be worse.

My doctor informed me that in order to keep my indoor plumbing healthy and cancer-free, it was a good idea to invite that nasty old bitch, otherwise known as Aunt Flo, over for a visit every three months or so. In order to do this, I need a bit of hormone therapy in the form of progesterone. The plan is to use the progesterone every three months in the hopes that it nudges my body in the right direction and all the things that have gone so very wrong in the past couple of years (like the size of my butt) will start to right themselves. I’m to go back in six months to see how things are coming along, and if needed, I can be put on different hormones or a medication called Metformin, which was actually made initially for diabetics. At this point, though, I’m crossing each bridge as I come to it.

On May first, I faithfully started my first round of progesterone. At first, I didn’t feel any difference. By day three, I could swear that I had more energy. On day five, I felt more alert and awake. By day eight, my idiot husband told me that I was acting just a touch argumentative. On day 10, I came thisclose to ripping my husband’s obnoxious face off. As of right now, day 11, my stupid, haggy old aunt has taken over my body, kicking me repeatedly in the ovaries and causing me to plot ways to off my husband, who for some odd reason, has become almost unbearably irritating. But maybe it’s just me.

Considering that I haven’t had to roll out the welcome mat to dear old crazy Flo in fourteen months, and before that only had to endure sporadic visits, I didn’t think to adequately prepare myself for such a guest. It’s probably been over two years since I’ve had to peruse the feminine hygiene aisle and I’m hoping that I can still navigate my way through. And, since I pretty much never have to stop and take stock of the supplies I have on hand, I didn’t even think about it when I was at the grocery store this morning. This means that not only do I have to go buy tampons for the first time this century, I have to make a specific trip just for that.

I’m thinking it will be a bit awkward, like the guy who really just wants to buy a box of condoms but ends up with a carton of milk, a TV Guide, some coffee filters and a pack of cigarettes, just to make it seem less obvious. I don’t think I can go to the store and just buy a box of feminine hygiene products.

(And yes, I’m well aware of the fact that I’m 32 years old and should really be able to buy condoms, lube and a lone banana, should I so desire, without turning a single shade of pink.)

(If you count my age strictly by the number of periods I’ve had, though, I’d have to say that I top out at about 19 which is clearly still an awkward age to be out buying tampons and nothing else).

(Otherwise, though, being 19 pretty much rules. From now on, I’m only going to refer to myself in menstrual age. I knew there had to be a silver lining to this whole PCOS thing!)

Okay, so what was I saying again?

So, yeah. It’s obvious that I can’t possibly go shopping for a single box of tampons. Because, knowing my luck, I’ll end up with some young guy at the checkout, looking at me with barely disguised horror as he realizes the reason why I’m standing before him. Because, obviously, when a woman needs only that one thing, she must be a menstrual Mount Vesuvius, ready to blow at any moment. Lord help you if you’re in my path of destruction, checkout boy. Hand over the tampons and duck, if you know what’s good for you.

So I’m thinking that, along with my lovely female item, it may be a good time to purchase that family-sized Caramilk bar I’ve had my eye on. And the latest copy of Star magazine. Maybe a gun, too, just to keep the husband in line. If I were a cat person, I’d totally throw a can or two of Fancy Feast into the pile, just for kicks.

All I can say is, I’d better start losing significant amounts of weight, like, yesterday, because this whole being a woman thing is far too much work otherwise.

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS by WWS (Lynn) - 4 Comments →

Last week as I was dropping Logan off at school, it began to snow. Great, fluffy “it feels like we’re in a snow globe” type flakes. They were so intricate that I knew I needed to try and take some pictures of them. I drove to one of my favourite spots in my neighborhood, parked the car on the side of the road and stepped out to take some snaps by the lake. (I keep a point-and-shoot camera in my purse for those “just gotta take a picture” moments.) I rounded the front of the car, stepped on the grassy boulevard between the road and the sidewalk and took one sure-footed step onto the sidewalk itself, camera in hand. The next thing I knew, I was staring at the sky, having taken a pratfall-quality slip on the icy sidewalk and landed flat on my back.

My first, fleeting thought was, “Holy crap! I fell down!” Immediately following the initial shock came another thought. “Wow, I really don’t want to get up.” And, if it hadn’t been for

1. My daughter waiting in her carseat, and
2. The fact that I was laying on a public sidewalk in the middle of my neighborhood where other people could see

I may very likely have stayed there for awhile.

In that moment, I knew that I would be perfectly capable of closing my eyes against the snow and the cold and falling asleep on that dirty, icy sidewalk. And that very truth is what got me up off the ground, faster even than the thought of my daughter waiting for me or of my neighbors seeing the crazy, sleeping lady on the sidewalk.

I got to my feet, brushed the snow off my clothes, checked my camera to make sure I hadn’t broken it in the fall (I hadn’t), snapped a couple of useless, hasty pictures and rushed the two or three steps back to my car door.

The whole thing took less than a minute but in those few seconds I realized just how bad things had truly gotten.

It’s not normal to be so fatigued that the idea of falling asleep on a sidewalk is more appealing than expending the energy to stand back up again. 

I’ve never been in such a hurry to see the doctor before. I’m counting down the days until my appointment with the endocrinologist (23). I need to start feeling better. I need to lose weight. I need to regain my energy, to stop feeling like I’m living in a bubble and remember what it’s like to feel alert and alive. I need to be able to wash my hair and have it actually feel clean for more than a couple of hours before morphing into an oil slick. I just want to be myself again. The self who would never, in a million years, consider laying on a sidewalk in the middle of a snowstorm instead of merely standing up and continuing on.

________________________

I’ve actually wanted to publish this post for awhile. I had it in my head that it would be funny to joke about my oily hair, so I took pictures and video documenting the transformation from squeaky clean to oily. And, while I now fail to see the humour in my current situation, I can’t possibly let my hard work go to waste, and so I’ve decided to go ahead and include my prepwork for the post that I have no intention of actually writing:

This video was going to be prefaced by words to the effect of “you know your hair is clean when it squeaks like Tupperware.”

Squeaky Clean from Walking With Scissors on Vimeo.

This is my “immediately following a shower” hair. It’s nice and clean and this is, of course, when I feel my very best.

This is my less-than-twenty-four-hours-later hair. Trust me, you don’t want to see it when I’ve reached the 48 hour point. Which is why I rarely ever do.

________________________

And, just in case you’re wondering what in the hell I’m blathering on about, and what in the hell could possibly be wrong with me, the entire backstory can be found here, here, here and here.  I’m considering giving it its own category entitled “my stupid, fucking hormones.” What do you think?

Hopefully after April 23rd, I’ll have some answers. And, honestly, if the answer is something as simple as a $5 pack of birth control pills, I’m all for it. Bring on the solutions and let me fix this thing!

Filed under: Just My Luck, Keepin' it Real, Me, PCOS, Pity Party by WWS (Lynn) - 5 Comments →