I was on the phone with my Dad* last night, telling him about my dog’s pending surgery. He and my mom were giving me a lot of sympathy- which I really thrive on. This time though, I didn’t really need it. I feel so bad for poor little Ramona Quimby, the stoic sufferer of a torn doggie ACL. It’s unfortunate and intimidating to know that I’ll soon be facing a dog who can’t play and at least a two thousand dollar vet bill. The thought of Ramona dying of a freak operating table accident makes me break out into the sweats.

But the truth is, this is a small price to pay for an easy life.

My Dad expressed surprise when I told him that last night- I think I complain so much my parents don’t think of me appreciating my easy life. Despite petty complaints and massive tragedies, I know I’ve got it so good.

A few thousand dollars to keep my animal companion healthy and happy is just a fraction of what it costs to live in our post-modern world. I don’t have to hunt and kill my own food. I don’t have to fish or farm or bake bread or darn my socks or have my teeth knocked out by a barber when they rot because there’s no toothpaste or toothbrushes. I don’t have to needlepoint or know my place or only speak when spoken to. I don’t have to worry about being attacked by a bear or a snake or get malaria or poo in a hole I dug in the ground.

All I have to do is show up at my office and do my job, take care of my husband and my dog, keep in touch with my friends and family, exercise, keep my brain stimulated, and try and sleep 8 hours a day. Sometimes items from this short list require extra effort or monies, but that’s nothing compared to brewing beer because there’s no potable water.

So my poor pet probably needs an operation. But I’m grateful that an operation is an option, because I don’t think I could take her out to the field and shoot her ala Of Mice And Men.

* My Dad has expressed an interest in being included more often in my musings. He wants his life to be more of an “open book” according to my interpretation of a recent conversation.

Dear Poor Lucky Me,

Some of us are wondering if you think you’ll ever go back to giving advice. While I appreciate the intimacy and rawness of your personal posts…I need your wisdom! I have a lot of questions that need answering- like why are there so many shows about cakes on television? I thought we were all eating cupcakes now, but there seem to be about 20 different cake-making shows that would challenge the cupcake’s take over.

Would you consider accepting some questions in addition to writing about your heart break and recovery? Because that would really help a lot of your readers out.

With Sincerity,
One Of Your Many Fans

Dear One Of,

Love,
Poor Lucky Me

This unseasonal balminess makes me feel unsettled. My moods spin recklessly about every 90 minutes. Walking home yesterday I couldn’t stop scowling and wondering if I got hit by a car and died would Tom or my parents read my old diaries? Because that would be embarrassing…so I obsessed about it.

At home Ramona moaned and sobbed when I walked through the door. She pretended that she had been locked in a prisoner of war camp since I had left that morning- without food or water or a king sized bed to sleep on. Our walked brightened my mood a little, my brain slowed down enough for me to complete a thought.

I do feel better, closer to a normal person now. This emotional pain feel just like physical pain. I’ve had a few whoppers- appendectomy, all four impacted wisdom teeth pulled and subsequent dry sockets- the only difference is the emotional pain lingers longer and you can recall it faster. I can only recall the concept that my appendicitis hurt, I can’t actually access a physical memory. But my broken heart…it pulses and spurts pain. Sometimes I think it’s weird that I’m not covered with the guts and gore of my broken heart.

Everyone kept telling me that I’d find a new normal, and I think this is it. Cycles of crushing pain and hopelessness followed by contentment, happiness, access to hope and joy. It’s manageable now that I know what I’m dealing with.

We’re going to get pregnant soon. Weight Watchers gave me the final push of courage. I get sad anticipating how different this one will be, but it will be joyful in ways I don’t understand yet. I think I’m going to tell people right away when it happens- I know it’ll sooth a lot of my loved ones to know I’m still in the game.

Ok son, please pick out your sibling and get him or her ready to come down here.

By now we all know that I love Weight Watchers and I only regret not having done this sooner. Like a decade ago. But then we would have missed out on all those charming years when I was jacked up on Ephedrine and candy*. The thing that I did not read on the Weight Watcher’s website (although it could be there it’s a very comprehensive and easy to navigate website) is that a side effect of hunger could be psychotic depression.

I’ve tried to notice patterns in my hunger and my emotional state to see if I can catch patterns. The more you’re aware of yourself, the easier it is to thwart unwanted behavior. I would eat a little breakfast, a light lunch, and revel in the very few points I had consumed. And then I noticed that in the early evenings I would feel out of control and fantasizing about cutting or binge drinking or moving to Idaho. Half a protein shake later and I’m cracking jokes and laughing and telling people I love them and giving bums a dollar. Just when you think you’re on to your brain, it conspires with your body and takes you for a ride. Ten almonds can turn a sobbing session in my car in the Dominick’s parking lot into an impassioned sing along to whatever Pink Floyd song is playing on the radio.

Is this post too wordy? Probably. I’m hungry, so I have only a general idea of what I’m doing right now. Soon I will eat dinner and read this over and probably want to delete it. But I mustn’t! I have to tell the truth and unite with other women who have considered harming themselves or others: You just might need a snack.

The hunger doesn’t always make me want to throw things at passing traffic though. Sometimes it inspires an overwhelming urge to exercise or write or nap. It’s very unpredictable. Remember when you were a teenager on a diet and you could go like 36 hours before you drank a Tab and at a bag of carrots? I didn’t like Tab, but you get the point. My Hungerage must be age related, which is fitting because just the other day I got so mesmerized staring at my forehead wrinkle in the mirror Tom G had to come in and flash the lights on and off for ten minutes before I knew where I was.

Obviously I couldn’t participate in a hunger strike, and if I were being tortured I think I’d talk if I missed tea-time. I’m not sure I would consider myself a safe hungry driver. I’m a pretty bad driver though, I don’t think it’s be safe to drive thirsty either.

Ok, it’s food time. See you when I’m fully operational.

* And those were the tame years…

I’ve written a lot of words. I’ve read more than I’ve written, but I think I’ve written more than more people. At least more than people who rarely or occasionally write. Sometimes I write very seriously in journals, other times I write words and sentences on envelopes or receipts. There is a never ending stream of words trying to escape my brain through my fingers and my mouth. I’m a writer in spite of my fear and insecurities and level of talent (or conviction that I had none). I’m a writer because there are words in me, as I expect artists are full of pictures. Tom G is full of numbers that manifest themselves in any number of ways that are unexpected to me and obvious to him.

I’m afraid to let some of the words come out, because I know how they’ll be interpreted. Or worse, I don’t have any idea how they’ll be interpreted, and then I’ll have to answer a lot of questions. I feel like I’m on the verge of something- or have I been saying that for years now? Well this time I feel like I just have to let the words come out. People will think I’m writing about them, or me, or us. People will be hurt or offended or feel validated. But that’s not my intention. My only desire, the only thing that drives me, is to get the words out. I’ve learned through experience that keeping them in leads to scary and unpredictable results.

Three weeks ago I started Weight Watchers. It gave me back a feeling of control and accomplishment. Now I’m ready purge the words. It doesn’t matter where it leads or who it leads me to.

I think first I’ll write about drugs. Or revenge. First I’ll write about being lonely. No first I’ll write about being nothing like me. I’ll write like Tom Robbins or Kurt Vonnegut or David Sedaris. No, first I’ll write something I wrote a few moths ago:

The book is about a girl who had it all. The book is about a girl who lived a charmed life. The book is about me, but not exactly me- a better version of me. Funnier, a little thinner, a little more thoughtful. Cooler, a bigger party animal, a more casual risk taker. The book is about the me I want to be and hate being. And even in this version my baby dies. I can’t escape the new life that I have. I mean I can’t exaggerate until it changes, I can’t make it funny so that it didn’t happen. There’s nothing I can do, even in this novel that I’m writing. Whatever version of me it’s the same version of my son.

There. I started. It’s not about me or you. It’s just about an unchecked tsunami of brain excrement that’s pouring out of me.

Last week I told my shrink I was ready to take a break- at least until I get pregnant again. I’ve had a couple of breakthroughs and thought I was ready to fly the nest. Or the coop. Or whatever.

Well it all would have been fine and good, except I forgot that my main pastime is complaining about stuff that I won’t change. This is a hobby that requires either a captive audience (shrink, dog, deaf person) or the world’s most empathetic sweetheart (my husband). I fired my shrink, my dog has learned to roll her eyes at me, and I don’t currently know anyone who’s deaf. Plus, deaf people can usually read lips. I have two or three friends who don’t try and run screaming or punch me in the face when I start my high pitched whining, but I am afraid they won’t be able to take it much longer. I’m pretty sure one met me for lunch the other day with cotton stuffed in her ears.

In an effort to spare Tom G from wanting to get a separate apartment from me to escape the complaining, I’m going to try and stop. I mean my god, if I can stop eating Super Pretzels and Nacho Cheese surely I can cut back a little on the constant complaining.

My plan is to come up with a really great plan, then implement the plan. Then, I will follow through with the implemented plan for several weeks and months until it is a fully ingrained habit. People will say “Wow, I’m so impressed by how you never complain about anything.” I’ll smile and nod and be very humble, but if they ask how I do it I’ll tell them about my incredible system. Maybe I’ll write a book about it and go on a book tour and then the book with be made into a movie and Zooey Deschanel will play me.

I shuffled past the pile of laundry for the fifth time that day. Bleary eyed, nap-crumpled, I yawned noisily and kicked at the spreading pile on my way to the bathroom.

“You loser.”

I spun around and stared at the pile incredulously.

“What did you say?” I asked. The pile was silent. I slammed open the washing machine door and started shoving clothes in. I didn’t bother sorting colors or temperatures, just crammed the washer as full of the pile as possible. I added soap, pressed buttons, and felt satisfied to hear the water fill the tub.

A couple of days went by and I had forgotten all about the laundry. Then I heard a noise from the washing machine. It sounded like a voice- like a muffled, mocking voice. I gathered my courage and peeked under the washing machine lid. The old pile of laundry was crusty now and pressed against the sides of the tub. “Goddamnit,” I thought “I forgot to dry this stuff”.

“Pshhh. Idiot” I heard the pile say.

“What did you call me?” I yelled into the washing machine. No reply. My dog came out of the bedroom to investigate the commotion. She gave me an irritated look for disrupting another nap. If you nap all the time, you can’t really get mad at people for interrupting you, but she’s very demanding. She lay back down near my feet with a pointed sigh. I put a little more soap in the machine and pressed START again. An hour later I rushed over and stuffed the clothes into the dryer with great satisfaction.
“No pile of laundry is going to call ME an idiot” I told the laundry. I fell asleep to the rhythmic hum of the dryer.

When I woke up I had to rush around and get ready for a party. There was no time to consider judgmental laundry or confrontational dust-bunnies or my coffee table besieged by crumbs and half-empty glasses. I had to leave my apartment, and that takes a lot of effort. It wasn’t until I needed matching socks that I was forced to consider the dryer. “F*ck it” I decided. I wore tights.

Then next day I woke up and went straight to the dryer. I pulled the now-cold-but-clean pile out and dumped it on my couch. The light of the television winked merrily as I carefully folded sheets, towels, jeans, mismatched socks, tangled underwear and bras and jeans. The normally segregated clothes had fraternized in the washing and drying, and were left a little pinker and a little dingier because of it. I stacked the clothes in neat piles and sorted the piles according to drawer placement, then sat down to appraise my work.

The laundry, no longer a pile but a proud stack, said nothing.

I intended to put the clothes away that day, but you know how it goes. The minutes melt into hours which slog into days and the next thing you know it’s Wednesday and You’ve been getting dressed in your living room because that’s where the clean laundry is. A couple more days went by and the stacks dwindled until only clean sheets were left. I hauled them into the bedroom and after displacing the dog again and whining to my husband for help, I changed the sheets. The old sheets topped the pile of dirty clothes swarming around the laundry machine. The scene looked eerily familiar, and I began to fear the pile again.

More days went by. The laundry pile became a laundry hill, then a laundry mountain. There was an avalanche and the dog took to napping on the remnants of the pile. I ignored it and listened to NPR in the bathtub and lied on the living room floor with the dust bunnies and read books. Then I heard it again, clearer this time, “You loser.” The voice was coming from the pile. I looked over my book and stared at the mass of dirty clothes. “What would your mother think?” It sneered “What would your mother-in-law think? You’re pathetic.” The dog got off the laundry, looked around suspiciously, and joined me in the living room. I got up, kicked all the dirty laundry into the closet and pulled the door closed. “I think both my mothers would still be proud of me, asshole” I said to the laundry as I squeezed the door shut in it’s face.

Now that I’m not bone-crushingly depressed anymore, I’m finding my creative reserve very very depleted. It was easy to write about being sad, especially because I try to act normal when I’m out and about so it’s an important outlet. But I’m determined to stop rolling around in my grief-sty so I’m writing about having nothing to write. Here is a list on uninteresting observations I have made today:

My dog likes all kinds of pettings, including but not limited to: pats, skin scratches, tradition pets, and massages.

February is a short month. Soon it will be March.

Tom said he thinks our doorlady lives in the building. When pressed for more information, he had none. I cannot determine if he was making a joke or just had a hunch. I’ll have to remember to ask him.

I am neither a late person nor an early person. I am just annoyingly inconsistent.

Wow. That’s all I’ve got today. This is going to be rough. I’d better buy a book about writing, or take a writing class. Wait, yes! Yes that’s it! I’m going to take a writing class people. Holy crap that is another big relief. Look at me! DOING THINGS. Apparently this is the first time in my life that I’m realizing how you do stuff: 1) isolate the problem 2) try to solve it. Amazing! I’m not kidding! I think I’m having another good mood swing.