Tuesday, February 23, 2010

Riding the Vomit Comet

Fact.  It doesn't matter who you are.  No matter how rich or poor.  How beautiful or homely.  How successful or powerful.  At some point in your life, you will violently vomit whilst simultaneously exploding diarrhea out your butt. 

Sorry Gisele, it's sad but true. 

This event occurred in my life, correction, my stomach, my nose, my mouth, my eyeballs, my intestines, and my anus, last Tuesday and Wednesday.

And, you know it was BAD, because I wasn't even excited about the prospect of weight loss. 

Tuesday through Wednesday, my body exhibited every possible color of the rainbow.  Red, orange and yellow first--the primary colors of dinner from Zocolo--which consisted of crawfish cakes, red bell pepper humus, and chardonay.  Then it was on to green and blue--the avocados from lunch, and the blue Gatorade I so stupidly thought my body could handle.  Finally, purple--the 'ole stomach bile. 

Wait!  You thought I was done?  Yeah, me too.  But noooooo.  Back to yellow again--apparently the color of my stomach lining.

By the way, I'm now out of trash cans in the entire upstairs of my house.  Because, with each color, came the need for a new trash can (I'd get so grossed out by one, that it would make me even sicker). 

You ask why couldn't I just puke in the toilet?  Because my butt was glued to it.  Tight.  The only time that it left the commode, was to lie next to it on the floor.  Ahhhh, beautiful, cool, tile floor.  It was so nice that I brought my pillow in there.

The only other time my butt left the toilet, was when one particular bathroom was so sufficiently defiled, thus inducing me to vomit again, which, in, turn required me to move on to the next bathroom.  [Those sounds you hear are moans to God begging Him to let me live. Nope, scratch that.  Death.  Please, God, sweet, sweet death.]

My husband vacilated between caring and pure horror at the sight of me.  That is, until the next morning. 

He was giddy when he found out that I needed a supository.  I mean, what is it with men?  He couldn't wait to tell me that I had to stick something up my butt every 4-6 hours as needed for nausea.

Honestly, at that point, I'd stick my car up there if it would make me feel better.  But, honey, I could do without your sheer enjoyment at the prospect of it.

Thankfully, Wednesday came and went, and I'm back to the land of the living.  Whether it was a virus or something I ate, I don't know and don't care.  However, when I die, if I wind up in Hell, I know what it will consist of: one toilet, one trash can, and an eternity of chucking and cha-cha-cha-ing.  At least Jude Law will be in the stall next to me...

Thursday, February 11, 2010

Speaking of things that taste like poo...

Please believe it.  Bacon flavored dental floss.  And you thought that stuff inbetween your teeth smelled bad before...

Dog on Board.


My beautiful, glorious, wonderful nephew is almost five months old.  My sister-in-law is about to have a girl (can I get an Amen?!). And, one of my best friends just had a baby boy.  After having two girls.  Both under the age of three. 


My advice to all: take two Xanax and call me in the morning.  Actually, don't call me unless those kids are at mother's day out.

So, I had kind of, sort of, baby steps (no pun intended) starting talking myself into getting pregola.  My timeline was this spring.  Now that it's mid-February and almost spring, I think I'm going to stick to not getting pregnant.  I am really good at it afterall. 


If my Mimi was still alive, she'd make some comment about how she told me to wait to have kids, but this was an all-time record, how my eggs were getting old, and how you have to hold onto your man like cabbage.  My sister and I could never figure out what the whole cabbage thing meant.  As you have learned, Mimi was buried with a hand-held video poker machine, so I'm not sure what that says about her judgment.  Or ours.   


Not wanting to have a baby really boils down to three things: 1) I work really hard at not getting fat (why would you want to get fat on purpose?); 2) I want to drink wine when I go on vacation (read every night); and 3) My dog Whiskey has decided that she doesn't like babies. 
The first two are selfishly self explanatory.  As for the third, it's not so much that the Whisk doesn't like babies--she is a poo and puke lover afterall--it's the fact that she doesn't like them once they can touch her. 


Over Christmas, she snapped at Bart's cousin's toddler.  Twice.  Zoinks. 


You really can't blame her though.  She's loud, slobbery, clumsy, and snotty.  And, Whiskey really just doesn't care for those traits. 
When I was little, my parents had a dog named Chocolate.  He was a cross between a dachshund and a poodle.  The meanest SOB you've ever seen.  He attacked me every time I tried to get down out of my highchair.  One time, he bit my finger so hard that it turned blue.


The only way my dad could punish him for attacking his kids, was to beat him with a 2x4.  Shoot, dad wasn't about to get close enough to get bitten by that psycho. 


Did my mom get rid of the dog?  Nope.  Never.  That a-hole lived to be a ripe 'ole 17.  Even after eating two chocolate Easter bunnies and two Omaha steaks (including the Styrofoam packaging that they came in). 


Yep, that's 119 loooong dog years of freaking out cute little kids.  Plus, he got me in trouble once.  When I was 5, I told my Grandmother that she and Chocolate looked alike.  It was the hair.  Grey-ish, brown-ish, blah-ish, frizzy-ish, poofy-ish and bad perm-ish.  Grandmother didn't take it as a compliment. 


Fortunately, around age 16 (112), Chocolate finally got too old to put up a fight and would just growl at me while I petted him. 


If you're thinking that my mom was a bad mom, that's fine.  Call me one too, because if Whiskey bit my kid, I wouldn't give her away--instead of giving my child away, I would advise her to leave the sweet dog alone.  It works with bees, right...don't bother the bee and it won't bother you...


I'm someone that honestly doesn't think that I will love a child more than my dog.  I mean, a lot of the time, I love Whiskey more than my husband.  It's ok, they both know it's true.  The only time that I don't love Whiskey is when I see her take a poo in the backyard, then immediately turn around and stark snacking on it.  I guess dogs don't get the whole, "it tastes like shit" thing. 


For a long time, I honestly wanted to give birth to puppies.  I've since grown up, and have come to realize that multiples really aren't my deal.


Today I vow to you that whenever I do decide to have a child, I will tell you whether I love it as much as Whiskey.  And if I don't, I will lie.  Right through my teeth.

Thursday, February 4, 2010

Things Your Mom Never Told You (and your insurance didn't cover).

FREEDOM...FREEDOM...FREEDOM...[If you haven't already, insert Aretha Franklin's "Think" immediately into your soul.]

Monday officially marked my freedom from billable hours.  And time sheets.  And major assholes. 

I do want to emphasize that I was fortunate enough not to work with any major (or minor) assholes in my law firm.  Thankfully, all of those a-holes were always on the opposite side.  Remind me to tell you sometime about the Jabba the Hut look-a-like with turrets that thought it was appropriate to psychoanalyze what kind of a "girl" I was.  Yep, you guessed it, it wasn't very flattering.  It's ok, he'll probably choke on the next double cheeseburger he eats.  Here's to hoping anyway.

Bitter, party of one?  Really, I'm not.  Some people just deserve a shit sandwich.  Just sayin'. 

If your parents were anything like mine, they always pushed you to be the best.  All you had to do was put your mind to it.

If you're mom didn't tell you that you could be the best _____ ever, and I've already lost you to the nearest psychiatrist, or the nearest bridge, I apologize.  Actually, I only apologize if you're currently jumping off of a bridge.  If you're calling your psychiatrist, I applaud you.

For the past 32 years of my life, I've been trying to be the "best."

The best what?

Well, you know, just THE BEST.

Your parents never told you what the best was?  Mine didn't either.  The Webster's Dictionary of my mind really effed up that definition.  Especially when it came to being the best lawyer.  I'll spare you the details, your time, and my embarrassment.  Actually, I'll probably write about it down the road.

Well, thousands of my own dollars later, (insurance doesn't cover counseling for us whack jobs), coupled with a prescription for Lexapro, I have come to realize that I have spent the past 32 years being the lamest "best" the world (ok, the Shreveport/Bossier area, ok, my mind) has ever seen.

Everyone (over 30) always talks about how great your 30's are, and how you will just get it.  And by getting it, I think they meant that for the first time in your life, you get more wrinkles than cellulite (wait is it the other way around?), more sense than not, and the drive to finally do something logical about those wrinkles (see dermatologist bi-annually), cellulite (see personal trainer weekly) and sense (see psychiatrist monthly ). 


On Monday, I hung up my suits and my scales of justice and traded them in for spandex and Nikes.  I am now a fitness director instead of a lawyer.  Maybe I'll even fulfill my life-long dream by trying out to be a Dallas Cowboy cheerleader. Eeek, sorry.  A Saintsation!

Yep, I make a lot less money.  And I mean it when I say A LOT.  But, my husband has promised me that if I sleep with him once a day and iron his clothes, he will give me a modest allowance to buy groceries.  I keed.  Honestly, who really needs a pair of Louboutin's when your husband surprises you with a pair of Jessica Simpson's that are a copy of those Louboutins you dog eared in the Neimans' catalogue?  P.S. Thanks, Kristi for your assistance!

Yes, I'm lucky that I have a great degree.  Yes, I'm lucky that my husband supports my decision.  And, yes, I'm really lucky that it's 2010, and I can decide to take a job that pays less. 

*Note to self--get life insurance on Bart. 

But, you know what the BEST is?  That this is the right decision for me.