Am I really?

It has come to my attention by way of my insecurity that not one of my family members seems to think that I'm worthy of taking care of their children if something should happen to them. I'm pretty much hurt by this. I realize that I have always been against having children but that is only for me. I don't think that others shouldn't do it. I just don't want to be a mom. That being said, there are children out there that I would not only be willing to raise, but would be super happy to see on a daily basis. I have the means. I live in a house that is large enough and in a safe neighborhood. If the schools couldn't provide a good enough education, I can afford tutors or even private school. I'm fun (god I hope I'm not lying to myself here). It was a pretty big blow when my brother and his wife never approached me about being in their will, especially since at the time I was making more money than I knew what to do with. Then my cousin didn't pick me either. Nor did who I thought was my best friend (no, it wasn't the lack of being chosen that changed our friendship, I'm not that pathetic) I get that there was probably a time when I wasn't the best choice, maybe people thought I'd be dumb enough to give the kid a tattoo or piercing at a ridiculously early age but at this point, still not a one has approached me and said, 'would you be willing to parent my kid(s) if something happened to me/us?' It makes me think that perhaps I need to take some stock in my life and figure out what it is that I'm doing so wrong in the eyes of  others. What exactly is it that makes me so unworthy / undesirable?

To 673 Harrison Av. Many Thanks

I'm leaving my home. After 9 years it is time to go.  I don't know if anyone can grasp that walking into this place for the first time, I knew I was home. I felt in my soul that this was it. I was finally here. That place I had been searching for, the safety, security, the womb I had lost 28 years prior. It was here. At 673 Harrison Av. I found love, friendships, parents, time, memories. It was where I could be the person I couldn't help but be. I walked into an endless amount of nothing short of 80's blue carpeting, over sized flower metallic wallpaper, fake pine paneling, clashing blue tile kitchen counters, more clashing blue wallpaper in the master bedroom, and a massive plate full of random keys. One of my first memories was of my mother calling me from my home to let me know that the pool guy had left the water on to fill the pool and she couldn't turn it off and the pool was over flowing and who should she call. Oh christ! I have a pool guy?! I had no idea that pools have a separate nozzle to fill them. I had always seen my folks use a hose in the past. The first of many lessons I learned at 673. I wish I could remember the first time I met Chris and Steve. That first time I met people who showed me what a neighbor is, what a neighborhood means. I'm blessed, blown away, so incredibly grateful. I could never have imagined what I got. I learned to water my lawn in the morning, time spent chatting the morning away isn't a waste, there is always a spot on the couch, how to make the best meatloaf, the giant spider really is that fucking big, a fence is sight proof not soundproof, a good hug is only a few feet away, it is ok to get mad at a friend because that is what makes them your friend, the proper way to stack firewood, I'm not the only one who doesn't want  listen to my mom talk, shred my mail damnit!, there are a lot of ways to see something, love is beautiful, friends don't judge they just save you and hold you, and probably a million other things that will come to me in the next few weeks and over the years as my life flashes through me. There was Wendy and Tommy. I saw the pain, the struggle of making Ava a reality. I saw the wonder of a special little girl grow up and then the sadness of the move. Lost friends. Made me realize change was going to happen but at least I could comfort myself that I was going to be a constant. I had the morning walking ladies to say 'hi' to. I had my route to walk the dogs . Altered it a bit as Kaiya and Echo got older. Still, not a huge change. Then came Drew and Anh. They showed up on a similar wind as Matt. It was all one big gust and here they all were. Drew and Anh came first but it was Matt that brought them to us. Before he came along I think they weren't all that sure about me. Then there were lunches, time with the 'Salmon Killer', time spent making chapstick or salt scrubs, taking care of the cat babies, naming Shaqdaddy, sharing movies and ingredients, crazy Chinese diet pills, the beauty of Sang, the love of Alexander's, curds and jams, a reason to cross the street chicken or not, a tool share, a giant and a tiny friend. Nancy, Doug, Terry. Solid staples of my neighborhood. I love them too. They aren't as close yet I still feel that in a moment of crisis, they would absolutely be there for me. Carol and Carson, opinions and all. The kid who grew up and drives too fast in his loud Dodge. To Lupe who passed away. To Pat who passed away. To James who moved away. To all the ghosts of past and present who I will miss and miss and miss every day. Thank you to all of you for being the best place I have ever lived without a doubt.

As i know it

I've said it before. I've been pretty open about it. I've sounded like I knew what I was doing. I thought I had a handle on it. It found a way to sneak up on me though. I have a good life. Things are mostly ok here. And yet, Depression located my hiding place. It hunted me down. I truly thought that after all these years that I was safe. I must have let my guard down. Stupid, stupid me. I know how this has affected me before. I know how devastated I have been. How hard hit. How much pain has found me despite my cries of 'unfair!'. How many times I have curled up like a child at the back of a dark corner of the house begging Depression to leave me alone? The people in my life say that they are here for me, that I can call anytime and they truly mean it. What they don't get is that I can't make that kind of rational decision when Depression has wrapped around me. Imagine a bat, but a massive one, one that sucks the life out of you but not figuratively, literally. Each part of it that touches you leeks a portion of you away. I can see it, feel it but not do a damned thing about it. I am dead inside, so I ask myself why not be dead outside? Problem being, I don't want to be the one to do it. I don't actually want to die. I just wish I wasn't here. Wasn't born. This is Depression. Not me. Not my 'self'. Not in any way the person any one knows. Just this thing that carries the name of Depression. So I became what is called a 'cutter'. I take a deep breath here. It carries such a stigma. It is shitty to admit. I don't want to field the questions but at the same time, if there is one person who is helped or one person who gets me in a better way, then my shame is worth it. I'm scared and scarred. I would have changed who I am years ago if it was possible. That should be obvious but often isn't. I can't 'snap out of it'. I can't 'just get over it'. I can't 'move on'. I couldn't 'just grow up'. I just discovered at 37, it never goes away. I can never be complacent. It will find me. It will always try to ruin me and who I have fought to become. It makes sure I never grow up. It will be forever there to stop me from snapping out of anything. Even if I could, Depression is there to make sure I doubt what I am doing. 

Wow, I'm honored

I have had a few people recently who told me that they actually read my blog and enjoy it. (You guys deserve mention because it did impact me, my cousin Naseim and my awesome friend Bobby) What a moment of suprise for me, self satisfaction. I like to think I'm fucking cool but mostly I doubt it and wonder how much of a burden I truly am on those around me. Especially when my ego takes over and I forget to think of the feelings that other people might have. Hearing that people who don't feel obligated still read what I have to say inspires me. I grew up watching my dad dismiss my mother and her opinions, feelings, thoughts, to the point that I hated being a girl (woman as time went on). I've always thought that if I don't say it loud, it won't be heard. I became opinionated even when I didn't believe in myself just to have something to say. Now I'm saying all those things that I held back out of fear and shame and there are actually people listening. How is that possible? When I am around my friends, or family, or even acquaintances, I want to open up, I want to share, but I find myself halfway through a ramble wondering if they are even listening at all. Especially because I suck at listening. Actually, no, I do listen, I just can't retain most of the time and that is because I am too absorbed in relating. I am mainly trying to find common ground but to such an extent that I don't focus and that seems mean.So I'm sorry to anyone out there that has spoken to me, shared, discussed and then realized that I am in a different part of our conversation. I don't do it on purpose and I do appreciate your being.

Honesty but a continuation of OCD

Months have passed by since I wrote that last section and I am choosing not to read it. I just have a few more thoughts and I want to post this before I mess with it or rethink it or lose it entirely. I had the luxury of spending my weekend with my wonderful female cousins and some friends I didn't know I had. We shared a house, laughs, tears, hugs, worries, terrifying secrets, stupid moments, good food, and copious amounts of alcohol. At some point my openness about my OCD came into play and one of my cousins poignantly asked what it was I feared would happen if I didn't do my rituals. She wondered, and logically so, of I thought I would die by letting the drain touch my foot.(letting it, that's a whole other topic I hope I remember to come back to) I'm sick now. Not like I just realized I was sick but sick as in I want to throw up. The skin that I'm not even sure is mine begins to crawl. I can't contemplate the question. There is no answer. There is no beginning. It just can't be. I have since been listening to the things my mind has to say. Mostly it is repetitive. Mostly drivel. But since it belongs to me, I don't have a choice. I'm listening hoping that somewhere in the madness, there would be an answer. A sound, solid answer I can hang my hat on.
The aggravation of compulsion:
You can't answer it. You can't look at logic and expect it to hand you an explanation. It doesn't want to look at you because it doesn't find you familiar. So here you are, desperate, and those who are the ones that usually see through your hide are still looking at what you want them to see. I just noticed that I changed from a personal point of view to third person. You want them to know that you are clinging to logic as if it might actually be the very very last straw but there is no good way to convey the message. Even the ones that know, all of us that know, we want to not be there. We are so terrified to end up there again ourselves that no matter how much we recognize it, we are reluctant to respond.
The final result is that we/I/You see this, emote, perhaps tentatively reach out, but still fill up the flotation device and flood the moat because we are so adamantly opposed to going back there. This leads me to my next post, maybe. Depression.

OCD

When I try to think back to when it all started, I come up with the answer that I have pretty much always had OCD. I can remember hating public bathrooms from the start of my memories. Back in the late 70's they started using this really awful smelling bubble gum scented air freshner and I couldn't even walk in the door if I smelled it. I learned to hold my pee for hours and hours. That still holds true for me today. I have to be pretty desperate to use a public bathroom. And when I do, I have this entire ritual for covering the toilet seat before I hover and I try not to actually touch anything with my hands. I have to pull out a small amount of towel before washing my hands and then once I have dried my hands I have to fold the towel in a certain way so that the part that has touched the faucets (turn them off after washing because too many others don't  use soap) will touch my hands and then I use the towel to open the door. My skin will actually crawl if I see someone else touch the door with their bare hands. I also can't deal with touching anything like a hand rail or bannister in public. I know that there is not a person on staff anywhere whose job it is to clean these things. Ever. Generations of germs and sticky fingers and muck has built up on these things and apparently I'm the only one who can sense it. Some days I can't settle down and watch TV or hang out until I have sanitized all our door knobs and light switches.
     I know I have touched on this subject once before but this topic needs expansion. The tub/shower drain. It truly terrifies me. If I spend too much time thinking about it I can start to twitch. It makes me want to cry even. Just a little, but still. Think about it. All the dirty water and hair and dead skin cells end up there. A really good reason for me to keep my hair short. More likely it will just go down the drain and not collect there where I can see it. I can't even get near the drain. I had my shower custom built when I remodeled with the drain at the regular end but the shower head all the way at the other end so I could finally enjoy standing directly under the shower head. Until that time, I had to get into some pretty strange poses to rinse myself and my hair because I just can't get within 3 feet of the damned drain. I can't even handle seeing Matt touch the drain when he is showering. It really makes me want to pass out just to get away from the sight. Poor Matt, we don't even share a bathroom because I need everything in there to be just so. I could never use my shower again if I thought he touched the drain and then walked on the rest of the shower floor. I also use shower shoes (flip flops) when I don't have access to my own shower. It doesn't matter whose house I'm in or how nice of a hotel. Even our second bathroom. It just isn't right. Then there are shower curtains. Who the hell thought they were a good idea?! No matter what, they always find a way to touch you while you are trying to be clean. No breeze, no air flow and yet they seem to blow into the shower area. They cling like a wet polyester suit. Forget taking a bath. Why would I want to sit in a pool of my own dirty water with the drain constantly spewing forth bits of filth? It's like human dirt soup. (I do admit that I try occaisonally to take one but it requires a really large tub and lot and lots of colored bubble bath so I don't actually see anything) This issue crosses over to public pools. I simply can't handle getting in one. I don't want my feet to touch the bottom. My mind begins racing over every possible thing that has been in the pool water. Random hair is probably the worst because at least urine is sterile (or so they say). Don't even ask me about hot tubs.
     The other part of the bathroom that is essential is my toilet. I accidentally got a lowered one when I was remodeling and it has turned out to be the best thing ever. I now can't poop unless my feet touch the ground. My last blog talked about cruise ship toilet seats and how they are weirdly shaped and seem to be at least 2 feet higher than even regular toilets are. My toes didn't even skim the floor. This led to a really funny moment on our last cruise. I was complaining about the toilet and how hard it was to get a good bowel movement when Matt mentioned that he had to use the second bathroom in our stateroom because I was napping. Apparently it was much smaller than the one in our bathroom and Matt mentioned that he had to sit sideways in order to fit on it as there wasn't any room for his knees. I began laughing and crying at the same time just imagining having to do that. It was horrifying to me. Just the thought that not only would my feet not be able to touch the ground but I would also not even be perfectly straight and balanced on the seat. I've never actually had that emotion before (I have laughed til I cried and I have started laughing after a good cry but never overwhelmed to the point that it all came out at once). I hope I never encounter that moment in my life and I also hope I never have to use one of those toilets that are set into the floor. Without a courtesy rope to hold I would end up making a mess and and and oh god, I just can't go there!
     Another issue I have is children with snotty noses. I am thankful that my family doesn't get offended and loves me just the same when I hand them back one of their children with a look of disgust on my face. I can't even handle wiping it. I just need to get as far from the snot as I can. I feel really bad about this one and I would change it if  I could.
     Words. They get stuck in my head. I feel this pull from inside my belly to repeat them over and over and over again in my head. I try not to say them out loud mostly. They don't often come out. Once in a while though I find myself inventing reasons to say them or to make Matt say them. Recently, and I hate to resurrect this one since I know I will wake up repeating it to myself at least five times tonight, I had to keep repeating the name of a boat from TV..The Addy Gil (Whale Wars I think) and most especially the name of the captain, Pete Buthune. Actually just his last name, the first name doesn't stick. Annoyingly I also have a repetative DJ in my head. I have had an issue for about a year with a Wyclef song. I couldn't tell you the name..I know I liked it at one point...all I know is that I wake up 3 or 4 times a night signing just one line from it. Yes, just one and I will have woken up because I will realize that I have already sung it over and over for about 10 minutes in my sleep and I'm annoyed. I get up, I walk around, I pee, I get water, I let a dog or two out, I get back in bed, I sing a new song over and over and over while conscious to try and chase it away..then I wake up a few hours later singing the same damned Wyclef song. Just the one line. If I ever get totally in touch with myself, I'm going to beat up this cheap ass DJ. Oh, and words. There are so many. They like to hang out in my brain and bounce around. I've always been partial to quats, either lo- or kum-. Big words of most kinds. I like the amount of space they take up when you say them. Spacious,
     I do not want my food to touch. It just shouldn't. It's just wrong. I find separated food to be like a microcosm. It needs its own space to devlop. To grow. One flavor does not necessisarily need to match another, they just need to be kept to their own area. Savored in their own way. Appreciated. It just isn't right to force them on one another.

Months have passed by since I wrote that last section and I am choosing not to read it. I just have a few more thoughts and I want to post this before I mess with it or rethink it or lose it entirely. I had the luxury of spending my weekend with my wonderful female cousins and some friends I didn't know I had. We shared a house, laughs, tears, hugs, worries, terrifying secrects, stupid moments, good food, and copious amounts of alcohol. At some point my openess about my OCD came into play and one of my cousins poignantly asked what it was I feared would happen if I didn't do my rituals. I'm sick now. The skin that I'm not even sure is mine begins to crawl. There is no answer. There is no begining. It just can't be.

I just realized that this post could go on and on but it has led to other thoughts and instead of holding on to this one I need to start others.
  

Happy things

I'm sorry that I have neglected my blog. I was out of town, then home but still dealing with sadness, then dealing with sick dog who feels the need to have explosive diarrhea on the carpet inches from the tile floor where it would be easy to clean, then packing for another trip and all in all, my brain just wasn't stewing on a new blog. But, the other day something wonderful happened. I slid across the floor in my socks. Something I do almost every day. It was worth a giggle and then my next blog topic hit me! Time to move away from the negative and talk about the things that I love. Things that make me smile. So here goes (and I might leave some out but I promise, it is only by accident and I'll add to this in the future if I come up with more) and in  no particular order.
Asparagus pee. I just love it. Makes me giggle every time. Don't know why really, just love it. Sliding on the floor in my socks but I'm thinking we already covered that. When my dogs sniff / lick my ears. It makes my eyes cross. Silently farting in the Mini when Matt is a passenger and waiting for him to freak out. Always good for a loud laugh. While we are on the topic of smells, Jasmine. I never get enough of it. It makes my world slightly blurry like I'm leaving the present but I don't know what time period I'm headed to. Talking to my tomato plants. I'm pretty sure they like it too. Making up songs. I don't have a good voice but I love to sing out loud. Sucks for every one else but still fun for me. My favorite songs are usually at the grocery store and I sing about whatever it is I'm buying. Scaring Monkey. I love to hide in the closet or behind a door when he is looking for me and I jump out at him. Cracks me up. I don't think he appreciates the humor though. Again, while on topic, the smell of my dogs' feet. I call it 'fresh baked dog' smell. It is slightly sweet and very dog like at the same time. Watching my friend Omar's dog Lucas go nuts in the pool. He does these flying crazy leaps into the pool and if I have my mask on I can watch him from the bottom and it is the coolest thing ever. Coming home to my bathroom after a vacation. I really love my toilet. And my toilet seat. It isn't special, just a regular toilet seat but after trying to poop on a cruise ship where the toilet seats are weirdly shaped and way too far off the floor, I truly appreciate my toilet seat. I find that I can't poop properly if my feet don't touch the floor and with my short legs, that happens often. Also, my shower. The drain is a scary place for me and I had my shower built with the drain at the regular end but the shower head all the way at the other end and it is wonderful to be able to stand directly under the water. Watching the 'Greedy Birds' outside my office window. Finches can be gluttons apparently. I have to fill the damned feeder every two days. Stopping to smell the roses. Store bought roses just don't smell as good as the ones I see while walking the dogs. Booger pudding! (some call it Tapioca but really, it looks like boogers but so yummy!) Fat puppy bellies and even better, puppy breath. Sitting in the front yard with Sylvie, drinking wine and having really random conversations. The most recent was about farts. We have decided that when girls fart it is cute but when men fart it is gross. Not sure why the gender discrimination here but some things just are the way they are. Being held up in the air a la Dirty Dancing by Omar. It's like flying and floating and being completely carefree all at once. Diving into the pool the first time each year. It's simple. Fun. And full of promises. Snorkeling. I love to be under water with nothing but my thoughts looking at beautiful fish and coral. AAIIEE club meetings. This is where all my cousins get together with my dad and we make silly videos and just hang out together. Watching the Lakers threepeat! Go Lakers!! Hamachi shots at Alexander's. I'm pretty sure I could eat them everyday and not get sick of them. Roller skating. If I am ever really really rich, I want to built my own roller rink so I have somewhere smooth to skate whenever I want. Beating Matt at cribbage. Or beating Matt at crazy eights. Or actually just winning in general. I'm totally a sore loser.
Ok, I'm going to stop at this for now. I'm thankful that so many things make me smile or giggle or feel good. I consider myself blessed but some might just find me to be simple. Whichever.

Gaps

My last post went on and on in such a selfish way about just my own very self. Ended in a trivial thing about filling the gap that my lost tooth left behind. Today I just feel ridiculous. It has been little more than 24 hours since I found out that my friend Melissa died and I'm diving into waters full of tears, anger, frustration and guilt. It just isn't fair. Not damned fair that she doesn't get to fall in love, be married, buy a wedding dress, fight with the love of her life. I feel guilty that I have laughed countless times in the past day. I have been allowed to hug. I have held my friends' child, I have fed him. I have chosen not to walk the dogs. I have been cold. I have eaten cake. I have felt good about wearing a size 4 for the first time in more than a decade. I have wondered which shoes to wear. I have shared slippers. I have eaten cake. I have been fortunate enough to eat at all. I have drunk copious amounts of wine. I have chosen to smoke cigarettes. I have talked about how Mel removed Echo's stitches. I have talked about her as if I had a right to remember her. I have showered. I have felt warm in that shower. I have sobbed in that shower. I have picked music on Itunes that I hope she likes. I have wallowed in my own self pity. I have met and enjoyed new people. I have discussed trivial things like meatloaf and the first time I had it. I have had unkind thoughts. Thoughts that she would not have had. I have looked at pictures of her. I have giggled at mustaches worn when they ought not to have. I had tea. I ate a really good omelet for breakfast. I thought about masturbating. I wasted the day playing stupid games on the computer. I told one of my best friends that I love and value him. I have cried when I thought about all my most favorite people.
None of it brought her back. None of it made any one of her friends or family feel any better. It still isn't fair. I'm still fucking pissed. I'm still crying. I still don't understand. And I will get up tomorrow and do this again and again and again until one day I don't. I hope on that day she smiles at me and finds a way to tell me she understands.
I thank you for the time we did have Mel. Your soul is one I hope I am worthy of running into again. Perhaps we can eat sushi and sing show tunes or maybe I will finally buy pointe shoes in my size and you can watch me do the routines I have put off for no good reason. Thank you for being you.

Dear myself

Dear Mitra,
     I'm writing this to you from the ripe old age of 36. Remember a few short years ago when you were convinced you were going to die at 30? I just want to let you know that you will be happy you didn't. I know it doesn't seem that way right now though. I know things for you right now are mostly pain. You spend a majority of your time alone, scared that this is how it will always be, crying silently late at night when no one else is up. Sometimes you find yourself so incredibly happy and full of energy that you can't contain it and you are afraid you will explode but all you get are strange looks and admonitions to calm down. Notes sent home saying that you would be a better student if you could stop talking. Full of frustration at the fact that they don't realize you simply can't stop talking. It isn't within your powers to control this thing. It's a part of you but it isn't you. I wish I could hold you and tell you that one day, some one will finally realize that you are manic depressive and that after a lot of trial and error, you will get on the right medication and you will feel better. I wish there was a way to let you know that you are pretty awesome the way you are and that you don't need to try to change to please everyone around you. I'm not sure that knowing these things will make it any better though. You don't have patience and it does take a lot of work and many years. I promise, a day comes that you don't need medications at all anymore and you manage to see the grey areas of life finally. You do however, still tend to live black and white but you understand that the grey exists and that other people live in it. I wish that knowing all this would help ease the scary years. I wish you would learn sooner that the emotional pain will go away and that you don't need to hurt yourself physically to get through the immediate.
     Here are some of the things you will go through that perhaps you might want to try to avoid but then again, maybe you had to go through them to come out the other side as me. And honestly, being me is pretty rad!
     So, I would suggest you skip getting married at 21. It doesn't work out and you end up feeling pretty foolish for a lot of years about the big wedding and all the trouble everyone went to for you. You do get to spend some time overseas and see some pretty cool stuff but you are also in the thickest part of your depression and it is really hard to be without support. Actually, you should skip most of the relationships you have over the next decade and a half. Most of them aren't worth your time and you end up making these guys your entire life and losing out on a lot of time with friends and family which in the end, do turn out to be there for you. (they actually always were but you don't get that for a while) Except your mom, don't waste so much time trying to get her to like you, it won't happen. You will never be the daughter she hoped for and it will cause you a lot of stress trying to figure that out. Just try to go with the flow as far as she is concerned. It really isn't her fault. She had a ridiculous family life and after three miscarriages, really really wanted you. That explains the whole smothering thing that both your parents do most of your life. I know it is very confusing for you to think that you aren't liked but still forced to be around all the time. Honestly, I've only just started to figure that part out.
     Don't move to Alaska. It doesn't end well and you spend all your savings in the process. You do learn a valuable life lesson about changing the scenery not changing what is inside but in the end, you would really rather have the money.
     The dogs. Kaiya is an amazing idea. She is kind and sweet and wonderful and keeps you warm. Echo is pretty special after the first two years. He does manage to destroy the interior of two cars, a digital camera, and a screen door so perhaps you should consider keeping those things out of reach somehow. You could try a little more forceful training with him and I bet he would be pretty close to perfect though. Monkey...I'm not sure what to tell you about him. A lot of me thinks that you should not even bother to get the third dog. I think things would have been much easier that way. I know that I personally won't ever have three again and mainly because of Monkey. I'm sitting here trying to decide if the good outweighs the bad with him. He does make you laugh, a lot. But the majority of the time he makes you crazy and in the end he goes kind of nuts and you wage a huge battle with yourself over whether or not to put him to sleep. He also ends up costing you a lot of money between jumping through the window, being allergic to everything on earth, and digging up the yard. And yet, I still don't know if I wouldn't do it all over again.
     When it comes to love, you do finally find it. You two end up with a relationship that reflects the way your whole life has been, black or white, but you do love each other very much no matter what. That is the important part. Try not to get too flustered during the explosive fights you have, in a few days things will cool down and you will get a big stupid grin on your face every time you think of him.
     Now I come to the part that started this whole letter. The tattoos and piercings. Shockingly, the tattoos are not something you come to regret. At least not at this point. The piercings are what get you into trouble. As with most things in your life, you go all out when you have decided to do it. You end up getting two piercings in all your spots instead of just one. And no, don't worry, you never get weird enough to go below the waist. I'm just hoping that if you take nothing away from all this advice, you at least listen to me when I tell you NOT TO GET YOUR TONGUE PIERCED! You end up with two and you have them for just about long enough to wreck your two front teeth. A few years after you take them out, you end up with an infection (that you ignore for a while) and then you end up having one of your bottom front teeth removed. Stolen. Looted. Pinched. You feel a keen sense of loss. You walk around with a gap that cannot be filled no matter how hard your tongue and lower lip fight to do so. You end up spending way too much money to have an implant and the damned thing fucking hurts all the time. Eventually you will have to lose the other front tooth as well and get another implant. Please, I'm begging you, don't get the stupid piercing. You are plenty sexy and weird without it.

Grandma

     Grandmothers are generally associated with food and comfort. Or comfort foods even. Wonderful smells, things baking, breads, cinnamon, cookies, nutmeg, pancakes. All things that as adults we are cautioned to avoid as they will make us fat. Things that we don't often find at the contemporary restaurants that so many of us enjoy eating at. I have a personal love of Alexander's (an amazing steakhouse) but never think to myself 'I miss Grandma, I think I shall eat steak'. These days restaurants are bordering on minimalist while Grandma's kitchen was full of complexity. Whether the complexity came from the ingredients or from the layers of family interaction, rich it was. So many people can find a visual in the word Grandma. And the visuals vary so greatly but for most, it is a warm fuzzy feeling. Some Grandmas had grey hair and wore polyester, others were giant and warm while still others were tiny and made exotic foods that one couldn't always pronounce but still loved to eat. It is rare that the term 'Grandma' (or whatever one calls her) brings on an unpleasant feeling and for those who experience that portion of childhood, I'm sorry. I would have gladly shared mine and she would have gladly shared herself.
     As we come near the 2nd anniversary of my Grandmother's death, I decided I'd like to share some of my favorite Grandma meals and moments. This would be my mother's mother, the white side. (yes, I consider my American side to be white while my Persian side is...not) A tiny bit of less long winded history of her is that she grew up in Ohio in a Mason family. For me that sums it all up, please contact me for further explanation if necessary.
     I have this deep, almost instinctual, desire to eat what is called 'German' pancakes. I have had moments where I have contemplated giving up vanity and health to eat this thing with abandon. I remember an amalgam of childhood breakfasts at a place called Ken's House of Pancakes on El Camino in Mountain View where everyone had to order this amazing volcano of a pancake. I have had them since at The Original Pancake House but, as always happens with memories, not the same. Giant craters full of butter, lemon juice and powdered sugar. This is something my grandparents took us to but Grandma got the recipe for and made at home. Long before she passed, she gave me her pans and several recipes and I have yet to make one that comes even close to hers.
     Pies. She made amazing pies. Pumpkin. Pecan. Berry. All were super yummy. One would think, how is it possible for a pie not to be but as she got older, it became clear that is was possible. There is a fine line between pie that is sweet and pie that tastes like the bottom of the bowl of Grape-Nuts. (I clarify this by pointing out that Grape-Nuts are amazing but in serious need of sugar and dental insurance) Pie should not be crunchy unless nuts are involved and then I have to ask...what and why??
     As time went on, her food got weirder. As grand children and (I know this from experience) children, we all started to wonder what was coming next. Her yams were more marshmallow than starchy substance. Cookies began to look like horror movies with beheading. And then the day arrived...the day made me question chicken and eggs but also gave me an opportunity for revenge.
     My Aunt Paget and I had made a lunch appointment to see Grandma. It was planned. In Advance. No getting out of this. We figured there was strength in numbers. Keep one another entertained and the day will end soon enough. On the 40 minute drive there (at 11:00 am) we contemplated whether or not to stop and eat, knowing Grandam was making lunch. We even laughed while we tried to conjure up what would be on the menu. What simple fools we became. Nothing we could have imagined compared to what confronted us when we arrived. Hugs were given. Love was expressed. Then Grandma announced that she had made Hot Chicken Salad. For some of you, I don't know who and why, this may be something you have heard of but for us, No. Even my Aunt, her daughter, wasn't sure what was in store for us. The horror that ended up on our plates cannot be described except by my taste buds. They, to this day, with they could exit my tongue and move on. I know what this 'dish' was but I choose to let my taste buds give you the recipe as they see it.
Enjoy.

Take 1 whole sort of large chicken with bones and skin and all and put it into a large pot. Add enough mayonnaise to submerge the chicken. Boil the shit out of it.
Take the chicken out of the mayonnaise and remove the bones and skin but keep the mayo (god forbid that should be lost)
Put the chicken and mayo gook in a casserole dish and add several boiled eggs. Cover with a crust of crushed Ruffles potato chips.
Bake until totally gross.
Serve with sliced (untoasted) Wonder bread.
Puke and repeat.

The revenge was that both my Aunt and I said we had a large breakfast and to save the leftovers for my mom!! Take that!! I win!

  

Freaked out by Janice

I have a secret TV addiction. I actually have several including Teen Mom (first season not the new ones) and the one with LLCool J (don't need to know the name, Tivo takes care of that for me and really, it's not the plot I'm checking out). I generally have to hide in the bedroom to watch these shows, mostly because of the noises I make everytime LL comes onscreen. It makes Matt a bit uncomfortable and I do understand, I'm a loving wife if nothing else. (a sarcastic one too) Among my list of sad realityesque shows is Celebrity Rehab. I got stuck on it when I had surgery and couldn't get out of bed for a few weeks. There was a marathon one night and next thing I know, I find myself actually caring about what happens to Jeff Conaway. The drama just sucked me right in. Well done producers of crap TV! You have absolutely succeeded in lowering the iq of yet another viewer.
This most recent season brought the likes of Leif Garrett, some chick who is famous for losing a fiancee in 9/11 (not sure why she is considered a celebrity), an abnoxious spoiled rich boy, the crack whore mother of some chick I have never heard of, and at least one other random person. The most notable one of all was Janice Dickinson. I didn't even care about her drama, the show was mezmerizing due to her face. I've never seen anyone with so much bad plastic surgery. Even Michael Jackson looked normal compared to this crazy bitch! I'm not sure which was worse, the fact that she couldn't move any portion of her face when she cried or that she only had surgery on her face so her neck looked at least 50 years older than her cheeks. It was like one of those women that wears too much make up on her face but stops at the chin line and the colors of the skin are so far apart you could park a semi truck in the space between. I have to know, just who do you think you are fooling? Do you honestly believe that you look good that way? I can't imagine you have any real friends because real friends are supposed to tell you when you have begun to look abnormal. Janice has crossed the border into actually being terrifying at this point. Watching her was the TV equivilant to the accident on the freeway. I just couldn't stop myself but I also spent the entire time cringing and mumbling at the TV. I would fall asleep only to have dreams of giant lips flapping incessantly in my general direction. I'm not sure if she ever even actually spoke English, such was my focus on her face. I don't know how Dr. Drew or anyone in the facility could concentrate. I could never have been in there with her..I would have wanted to poke her face all the time. (with gloved hands of course, wouldn't want to catch that) I kept hoping that at some point her head would pop off and we would all see that she was only Animatronics gone awry.
     Not long after the season finale, I was watching TV (with Matt this time) and saw Olympia Dukakis in something and all I could think was, wow..she looks amazing! She didn't look all creepy and fake and I think she may not have had any work done. If she did, she knew that less is more and she had a hell of a doctor.
     Ladies, (and some gentlemen) I guess the moral of this story is please don't start messing with your bodies too much. You never know when the universe will say 'screw you for your vanity' and make you look like Janice Dickinson.
     (All that being said, I did have a nose job but in all fairness, I had broken it 4 times and couldn't breathe anymore. Also, it did come out worse than before)

Is there an etiquette?

Recently I was at some friend's parents' house and I started to experience what I can 'burblegutts'. It actually came on just after lunch and continued until I arrived at the house (actually carried on for much longer but that is totally my fault). 'Burblegutts' is that moment when you feel your belly gurgle in preparation for the expelling of all that extra shit in the bowels. Clearly you have eaten something that your body does not want to store or use in any way. It starts with small bubbles in your stomach and moves down the bowel line letting you explore from the outside every inch of the miles of intestines you have. Often, there is some cramping, sometimes it is even severe. In this particular case, the one that inspired this moment of my life that you are reading about, I was sure I could hold it in until I made it home some hours later. I even mentioned to my husband that the urge was there (he is by now, totally familiar with my randomness) and his solution was that I should just 'go to the bathroom'. Ok, familiar is neat and all but realistic about me he is not. I can't just 'go to the bathroom'. It isn't that easy. With my level of OCD and my acceptance thereof, I have rituals. Or some need of comfort at the very least. I want some peace and quiet, none of which I can get in a strange home. Which bathroom is the best? Where am I least likely to be noticed? Is there reading material? Is there one of those weird grandparent style cushioned seats? Does it smell right? What if there is some restriction on the amount of toilet paper that can be flushed? What if someone tries to come in and then stands outside noticing how long I take? What if there isn't any toilet paper at all? What if I get locked in and have to call for help? It eventually got to a point that I couldn't wait any longer, much less make it home in time. I went back to my husband in a slightly panicky mood and basically whined at him like he could teleport me home with his desire to see me happy. (more likely his desire to see me gone) He told me to find a bathroom that wasn't in the main part of the house. This involves skulking about a strange home and not in a Sarah Winchester kind of way but in a 'I might find something out about these people I don't want to know' kind of way. What if they had a midget stored in a closet? What if the way to the secret dungeon was cloaked in what looked like a bathroom? What if they found me??!!! I finally caved in because my bowels insisted I do so. I walked up the stairs that seemed to elongate as I climbed, all the while completely aware that every friend in the room I left was watching and had begun counting the minutes. I made it to the top and was about to open the door to what I hoped was the bathroom (as all doors on the landing were closed) when I was beaten to the punch. The door opened, the right room, there the throne was, my salvation, and blocked by the owner of the home! God! I can't backtrack now. I must continue with my quest. I have already told my bowels that relief is imminent. There is no prariedogging this time. I had to go in as he exited. I was dripping in embarrassment and praying that nothing telling happened while I was 'working'. I finally sat on the hemorrhoid relieving seat and allowed the world to 'carry on'. I won't describe the deed as we have all been there at some point and really, it is just gross. But Oh!, the relief! I wish I could say it was epic or even extraordinary but sadly, I felt so rushed to simply push it all out that I'm not sure I was even done. I think had I been at home and willing to sit still for another 20 minutes, so much more could have been accomplished but sadly, I was in a strange home and had to close this deal as quickly as possible. By the time I got to the point where I could survive the evening, I knew that all the people I had been talking to prior were well aware of how long I had been gone and now I wished I could stay upstairs for the rest of the night.
So I ask you, my dear friends who tolerate my ramblings, what would you have done? Do you think that perhaps good host etiquette is to provide the 'shit' bathroom? Or maybe graciously ignore the 'shitter'? Or as a 'shitter' are your supposed to hold it? Go to the gas station maybe? Maybe there is some way to avoid this all together before you go to the party? Please, for the love of my sanity and sanitation, tell me!

Padma

So long, farewell, adieu,...it's time for you to go Padma. I used to think you were hot. I used to envy your style, your poise, your voice even. I would have slight pangs of jealousy when watching Top Chef with my husband knowing he probably wished I were just a bit more like you. You managed to make a huge scar look sexy. Heck, I even wanted you a bit. But something changed. I don't know if it was the baby or if there was some other monumental shift in the universe but I have to say, I'm over you and you need to go away. I realize now that your poise and style are actually manifestations of your shockingly huge ego. You've been stuffing yourself into these increasingly tight dresses as if to say 'hey, check out my new rack courtesy of baby', your voice is getting damned smarmy, and trust me, people are starting to notice the icy stares you give Gail. Where did you even come from? Have you ever even worked in a restaurant? What talent do you actually have that makes it ok for you to judge a cooking competition? I'm sure that being married to Salman Rushdie was not on the job application for Top Chef. If you insist on staying, could you at least do us the favor of shutting up? You did just fine before you started chiming in on everything as if you were the creator of all things food. Craftsteak might suck but at least Tom is an actual chef and he isn't all bitchy when he judges, realizing that there is a ton of pressure put on these constestants to cook under ridiculous situations that will never occur in 'real' life. I say we have a new show called Padma has to do every damned quick fire challenge ever created (and even some that haven't been thought of yet). If you can manage to complete even one, I might think about starting to like you again.