Here Comes The Sun

Daylight Savings Time has come, and I could not be more happy.

There are an infinity of news articles relating a spike in strokes, heat attacks, car-smashups, and unproductive days on the Monday following DST, but I just don't get it.

When you have insomnia, DST literally means nothing.

"Spring forward", lose an hour of sleep.

"Fall Back", gain one.

Blah, blah, blah.

Living with sporadic insomnia, none of those times mean a damn thing when it comes to sleep patterns, REM sleep, loss/gain of hours.

For about a decade, DST has meant absolutely nothing to me -- coming OR going -- which makes DST just about as life-affecting as my FWBs. 

However, going off of DST in 2018 had a massively profound effect on me.  

Why?

No fucking clue, it just did.

November 2018-December 2018 were 2 of the hardest months of my life, and I have no actual reason why.

All I know is that I was so depressed when the sun set as I was wrapping up my work day, that I didn't even want to leave my desk.

Anyone that reads this blog on the regular -- hellloooo, Russians, according to my 'stats; -- knows that I have gained a shit-ton of weight in the last 12 months.  Some of it was guilt, some of it was gluttony, but most of it was just because I was so depressed at locking my office door in the pitch black, that the concept of cooking food in my house made me want to rip my left arm off and club myself over the head with it.

If you knew how much $$$ I have forked over to DoorDash the last 4 months so that my child doesn't get scurvy from eating food solely out of boxes or cans, you would be sick.

I know I am.

Literally sick.

Every dollar I spend, I equate to how many hours at work it took to earn it.  Granted, I am paid very well (thanks, MT and ARS!!), but I legit could be driving my new Charger to Hawaii with the money I have squandered on delivery food recently. 

It's so bad that my daughter -- who avoids the 'w' word - work - like the plague, suggested I start driving for DoorDash in my 'spare' (HAH!) time to offset the money I am hemorrhaging.

Anyway, in addition to not cooking, I have holed myself up in my bedroom, drinking sparkling water (seriously, it's an addiction), and trying on clothes that will no longer fit over my ever-expanding girth, and them throwing them on the floor.  My closet looks like a graveyard for hangers, and my bedroom looks like Goodwill vomited all over the floor.  

There was some very brave (deranged) woman that posted a pic of her crazy, messy kitchen on Insta and explained that depression was unwashed dishes, food thrown out and not eaten, and un-mopped floors.  

While I would never be crazy (brave) enough to post a picture of my bedroom on any social media site, let it suffice to say that my bedroom is a direct expression of my mental turmoil.

This year, the dark affected me worse than it ever has.

This year, the dark crept into my windows and over my heart.

I, legit, don't know why.

I just know that the early dark made me want to run away and hide from everything I would have normally done -- oil change, laundry, eating right, cooking dinner, reading stories, hanging up clothes, recycling Vos bottles and Lacroix, Bubly, Perrier, and Dasani cans, watching movies, listening to music, etc.

I have spent less time with family and friends the last 4 months than I ever have in my entire life.

I packed an additional 15 pounds of pure lard onto my small, but manly, frame in the past 4 months.

I have not gone out and done anything on the weekends, except when I absolutely had to, in the past 4 months.

I have dissembled, prevaricated, cancelled, and flaked more in the last 4 months than I ever have in my whole life.

I am not entirely sure why that is.  As someone that is far more comfortable with self-deprecation than introspection, I have managed to do a fine job at shoving all of this into the Scarlett O'Hara-approved, "I-won't-think-about-this-today-I-will-think-about-this-tomorrow" box, which may not be the best way to handle things.

Until today.

The kiddos wanted to stay inside and play video games, but I insisted on a trip to the park.

They ran and played in the gloriously sunny, but chilly and windy, day.

I played too.

I jumped on a swing and went so high Lexi cautioned me against breaking it -- but that may have been because she was assessing my girth vs. the 75lb kids the swing was built for, and not because of my aerodynamic excellence.  

Just saying.

I didn't care, though, I just pumped my legs and got so high the chains went slack and snapped on the way down.  When I went up I went so high it felt like I could have done a loop-the-loop over the top bar.

Exhilarating.

Just like third grade.

I went down the twisty slide so fast, it spilled me out onto the bark chips.  

Bliss.

I raced my 12-year-old child and she beat me twice -- beat me, the 100 and 400 yard-dash blue ribbon-winner (clearly a sign I need to get on the treadmill STAT), but I just laughed and ran back to the play structure to go down the slide one more time.

When we went home, I sorted the thrift-shop-explosion on my floor into 'Keep because you are too fat for everything else", "Donate because you haven't worn that in 5 years", and "Keep because you will wear this again when you are not a fucking hippo" piles.

I recycled the sparkling water containers, and then smudged my room with cedar and lavender.

Am I turning over a new leaf?

Studies would tell you that an old dog (moi) can not learn new tricks.

But I can tell you that I saw this at 7:15 tonight.

LIGHT.

And it was enough.

Enough to get me fired up.

Enough to get me excited about tomorrow and the day after tomorrow and the day after that.

Enough to smile at the darkness, knowing it will be shorter tonight than it has been for months.

That's enough for me.

Shook

Shook.

It's a buzzword for being shaken up…very disturbed.

I have been through too much to get 'shook' easily.

However....

When someone you love has a medical crisis, it has a way of isolating your thoughts and rendering you 'shook'.

My parents had a medical crisis in the Summer of 2017, and I drove 10 hours down to CA as soon as I could, trying to manage it.

My older brother, who is friend, brother, and quasi-father-figure has a health-crisis that has me on Google constantly, trying to find ways to help.

If you read this blog on the regular, you know how Lexi and I lost Jimbo very suddenly in the Summer of 2016.  You probably have inferred that I inherited his nearest and dearest, and that helped Lexi and I navigate the treacherous waters of our loss in the days/weeks/months after it happened.

I have always known that H was Jim's soul brother.  He had a ton of friends, most more like family.  He loved H as a brother, though.

He sent my little sis to H when she was ready to buy her first car, and H took good care of her.

After his passing, H went far toward filling the gap of 'Big Daddy' to our group.

He is always there.  Responsible, full of advice, and always funny.

Now H is having his own health issues.

H dispenses wisdom, gives advice, and throws a blanket over any drunk that happens to crash on the couch after too much booze one New Year's Eve -- or maybe that's just me.

His wife, C, is our Earth Mama.  

She calls us out on our bullshit without being crass or offensive.

She gives out raw, take-no-prisoners truths when we try to hide behind our own bullshit.

I love them both so much.

Now that H is vulnerable and unwell, I have to give thanks for the fact that I even have them in my lives.

I have to give thanks that H is doing well and recovering as well as anyone can expect to be doing after his ordeal.  

I have to give thanks for my friends.

It’s got me ‘shook’ to know that someone that means so much to me is having such a hard time.

Get shook.

Wake up.

We are so fragile…humans, that is.

We take so much for granted in our daily lives – it’s crazy!

Every moment should be precious; Every. One.

One would think, after losing BD so precipitously, that I would be all about ‘seizing the day’, but sadly I get bogged down in the minutiae as often as I used to.

I suggested C and H ‘just breathe’ together post-surgery, but I haven’t taken that advice.

Life is short and precious, and days when you worry about your loved ones are long and difficult.

Breathe.

Just breathe.

And wait for the day you can sit down and eat terrible tacos with your friend so he can play pool on the good tables.

Happy Birthday!  Don't take it personally that your wife is looking like she wants to kiss me!!  ;)

Mutton Dressed As Lamb, Part 2. - I Am Too Old For This Shit

Post sock-rocket-guy, totally shook, we enter Dirty and go to the bar.

Need a calming cocktail, stat.

Watching one dude bust a sock full of rocks against some guy’s side and then get beat down makes one thirsty…but not THIRSTY, you know what I mean?

Ahem.

Like I said - $10 for well liquor.

Gross.

I was a bartender/cocktail mattress for about 11 years collectively, so I am not a cheap drinker but, I MEAN!

$10 for well, I had best be getting some entertainment.

Sadly, no.

In fact, the three of us practically-senior-citizens were getting more than our fair share of attention from the little wigger contingent in the club.

A sea of well-dressed, uncoordinated children, woodenly lurching around to Drake and Migos.

We settled for a table by the dance floor so we could watch the truly awful bump-and-grind from the cracker 22-year olds on the dance floor, while we turnt it up tableside.

Sorely tempted to dance, just because dancing is life, I hesitated, sipping my drink and checking on my kid through the medium of Messenger.

C and T did the same.

You can find me in the club, mommin up while drinkin bub...

Wait, WHAT?

The club filled fairly quickly, and then our tableside dancing became a point of contention to some people that did not appreciate old white ladies with their tatas half-exposed, shakin it like salt-shakers.

Since the DJ was unable to produce some Nicki or Sicko Mode for us, we left.  We Ubered (is that an adjective now??) the three blocks back to the car, since none of us had dressed for 30 degree weather with -2000 wind-chill.

We drove back to Vantucky and stopped by Brickhouse to pick up the most HILARIOUS boys ever.

Did you know it was possible to have no game on Bumble?

If you call a lady...well, a lady..you have NO GAME!

Also, you get in trouble for drifting in a neighborhood with an HOA.

Things old ladies don't know...

We ended up at Cascade Tavern, eating grease, playing pool, and commiserating with people around the fire pit about the inequities of Portland's nightclubs.

Note - apparently, if you wear a reindeer onesie to go bar hopping, you are a VIP.

Also, when squeezing through a crowd, if you accidentally brush up against a breasticle.... prepare to get knocked the fuck out.

Good to know...

I was ready to go home, but apparently everyone else needed to go do karaoke until the cows came home.

Being a cow myself, and quite ready to go home – I bounced.

Deuces, toddlers!!

I collected my child from the sitter, drank a bottle of sparkling Dasani (lime, as if you care), put on some fluffy PJs, brushed my teeth, and went to bed.

10 years ago, I would have been drinking, karaoking, and …well….un entertaining until dawn.

When dawn hit on Sunday, I had a pour-over Verona with cream and cinnamon in one hand, and a book in the other.

#Winning

Mutton Dressed As Lamb Part 1.

I went out on Saturday.

Like, OUT, out.

Not meeting up for after work drinks or Taco Tuesday, but full-on, dress-up, try-and-fail-to-apply-fake-lashes out.

C is turning 40 on Tuesday, and we decided to go to DXV.  Unfortunately, DXV was booked, so we settled for CCS and got to sort-of watch drag queens for a bit. (sort of, because the dance floor is the stage, so we could barely see from the back of the room)  We did, however, enjoy thong-and-roller skate guy, golden hot-pants guy, and swipe-your-card-guy (see below) who kept the waistband of his pants a good three inches below the top of his….um…intergluteal crevice (I just used that phrase 2 days ago, I hope it doesn’t become a habit!).

After CCS, we decided to go to Ds.  Line was too long and downtown PDX was like a freezer but with festive arctic wind effect, so we gravitated to the bar across the street with the tented entrance and propane heater sending off a welcoming glow. 

As we were waiting to get in, having our cover generously covered by some gentleman, we noticed this fella giving the cashier an utterly psychotic stare.  He stood a foot away, eyes locked on her, completely ignoring the 6’6’ 300+ bouncer politely asking him to move along.  Another bouncer came out, grabbed Starey by the elbow and encouraged him to leave, asking him what he wanted as he was met with resistance.

What do I want??  What do I want??”, he asked as he slid his hand inside his jacket and started pulling something out….

No lie, I dropped straight down to the ground, heart racing.

After about three seconds, I peer over and see that he has a sock filled with some very heavy objects, and as more bouncers approach him, he begins swinging it around until –THWACK – I don’t know where he hit that bouncer – arm, shoulder, side - -but it wasn’t enough.  Within seconds that dude was being picked up and slammed down on the pavement, each bouncer taking turns, until it was clear there was no fight left in him. 

I am fairly certain that I yelled, “Hey!” really loud when he first started swinging, because merely one block away were about 7 of Portland’s finest, removing barricades from the street.  No dice.  They certainly didn’t hear me yell, and they definitely did not notice the 6 on 1 taking place in the middle of the street just south of them. 

We all kind of stood there stunned, and then C walked up and said, “Okay, I think I want to go back to Vancouver.”

Instead, we decided we may as well go in and check it out, certainly we needed a drink after that display.

Said drink costs $10.  Vodka/soda/lemon in a red solo cup = $10….ummmmm.  Maybe we should have gone back to Vancouver.  

Three 40-ish women in a hip-hop club full of 20ish white kids who didn’t know how to dance?

What could be more fun?

I soooooo wanted to put things down the back of that kid's pants, but not anything I would need back!!

Growing a Meat Beard - Or The Thing I Have In Common With Vince Vaughn

I am obsessed with double chins.

I catch myself looking at people’s neck area everywhere I go.

Every time I see someone with a double chin, I feel a brief thrill of solidarity – my people!!

I generally tend to avoid mirrors but find myself checking my reflection numerous times a day, scoping out my new meat beard.

I have always been a bit jowly; kind of like Minnie Driver, although nowhere near as attractive.  There has always been a tiny…bubble?..I don’t know the term. 

Not a turkey wattle – although I feel like that is in the queue-- more like an uninflated vocal sack? 

Anyway, there was always a bit of softness there. ‘But the actual second chin is a new phenomenon.

I have gained 40 pounds in the last twelve months.

Not there yet, but it feels like it!

The last 10 pounds I have packed on seemed to have come with a free fanny-pack for my throat and it is on my mind constantly.

The Monday after the Oscars, I went scrolling through all of the photos from the event and afterparties, looking for celeb double chins.  The double chins I found were not met with the same sense of solidarity as, say, when I find one on your Aunt Janet at Target.  How could they be when there were 23,000 worth of Winston diamonds reflecting rainbows of light across the sagging chin of a millionaire?  Definitely not ‘my people’!

I have Googled ‘why do I have a double chin’, ‘how to get rid of a double chin’, and a variety of diets – Keto! Whole30! Mediterranean! – designed to reduce body fat, and thus send my throatee back to the netherworld from whence it emerged.

(Side note: I also remembered one of my mother’s more flamboyant friends, standing in our living room, advising someone – surely not my 8-year-old self, definitely not my 90-lb mother, and hopefully not my teenaged sister – that giving blow jobs was the best way to prevent or get rid of a double chin.  Lest anyone was in doubt of her meaning, she very graphically mimed the, er, activity. Not sure how I feel about that right now in regards to my double chin, but the thought is out there - yikes.)

So, this is my reality right now.  It’s not my favorite thing, and I have definitely been working on it the last few days, but it is definitely making my life uncomfortable.  Every picture I take at every event, I try to position my head just so, and I furiously delete my photos if I am not happy with the fat scarf showing up. 

I am working on it, though.

I know that diet and exercise are the key to losing weight, and hopefully losing my face extension, so I emptied my fridge and cupboards of anything that could contribute to me gaining or maintaining this weight.

I ‘exercised’ last night – more on that tomorrow – and I have been doing weird exercises to tighten the flab there.

About the BJ’s?

I’ll keep you posted.

Haven't exactly started shopping here, but I haven't ruled it out!

F*ck Your Foot Fetish, Feet Are Awful

This is what alllllll feet are in my head.  NO.

Guys...

I hate feet.  Seriously.

Feet are sooooo gross.

I very much appreciate the appendages at the ends of my ankles.

I appreciate how they bear me up.

I appreciate how they bear up when I force them into flat-footed Converse for several hours. (I have super high arches, so wearing my beloved Converse is agony.)

I appreciate how they deal with me wearing 4, 5, 6,-inch heels, because being 5'3" is a curse.

But feet are gross:

Toe jam.

Athlete's foot.

Nail fungus.

Also, feet stink 

LITERALLY STINK.

Have you ever had someone take their shoes off in front of you and wanted to puke??

I have.

There are all kinds of products to make feet better:

Foot scrub.
Heel cream.
Pedicures.
Gel insoles.
Odor Eaters.

I don't think I had a problem with feet until the third grade when I started competing in track meets.

I got home at night, proudly displaying my red and blue 'first and second place' ribbons and noticed that my feet smelled like dirt and burned eggs.

Yuck.

When I dated the soccer player, I noticed his feet smelled like boiled eggs and manure.

Didn't stop me from having his baby, but MAN!!!  24 years later and my eyeballs still hurt.


I never thought about my feet, besides keeping them scrupulously clean, until a friend invited me to get a pedi.


Foot-soak in warm salt water, foot massage, toenail painting.  Someone voluntarily kneading and rubbing and touching my feet.

EW!

Blurgh!

Soooo gross.

DO NOT TOUCH MY FEET!

 I literally cannot imagine touching feet for a living.

Like, AT ALL.

I would, legit, rather give Robert Kraft a handy than touch his (or your) feet.


I read a book where the protagonist hated her feet being touched and I was, like, DUH!!

*PREACH, SISTER!*

FEET ARE GROSS!



Feet are like....well...gosh, I hate saying this....

Feet are like, um....well, the intergluteal cleft.

Useful, but also gross.

The only time I like feet is when I am at the beach.  That is the only time I will go barefoot (I wear socks in bed, whether I am solo or not), besides the shower, obvs.


The only time I appreciate having feet is at the ocean.  Other than that, they are something to be  managed -- exfoliating, clipping, lotioning (because 'moist'urizing is a barfy word!).


Clearly I would prefer to have  feet - the alternative is unthinkable - but why are feet so weird and gross?

Toenails??

Toenails are so icky.

And woe betide any man who clips his toenails in front of me (or outside the bathroom).

I have been told repeatedly that I have body dysmorphia, so I can't help but wonder if my foot aversion is part of this...

After all, I am sure there are may people who never even think about their feet.

Just like there are people who think about feet allllllll the time.

How do people with foot fetishes DO THIS??

Like, you put a toe in your mouth??

Ummm, no.