One thing I really like about Facebook is that it allows me to participate in society while simultaneously cultivating my agoraphobia. The last time I went under the radar was in 2003. I lived in a second floor apartment in Lake View and my fellow restaurant workers liked to stop by at all hours of the night. My dignity would politely excuse itself while I crouched on the floor below the windows, hoping that my friends, who were trying to hang out with me because they like me, don’t see the light change under the door and suspect I was home. I had to take a lot of heat from my friends and family members who disapproved of my interior life style.

 

Then came social networking. Facebook could make any shut-in look like they’re living it up! I can spend 6 hours a day thinking of one hilarious Facebook post, and feedback from my on-line friends is extremely satisfying. In real life face-to-face conversation I have to think of dozens of clever things to say, and tailor my follow up jokes to the persons reaction. It’s very intimidating. The amount of invitations that fill my Facebook in-box make me think that at any moment, if I wanted to leave my apartment, there are dozens of exciting events at which I would be a desired guest.

 

Winter is a very special time in the lives of the socially anxious. We have a legitimate excuse not to leave the warmth and comfort of our homes. We work longer hours in the winter because we’re afraid to put our coats and hats and scarves back on. But on Facebook, at least one person I know is on a tropical vacation. I can stare at their photos and vow that I’ll go some where next year for sure! Then I’ll lift my spirits by researching topical vacation locales.

 

Saturday I looked out the window and watched St. Patrick’s Day revelers walk back and forth in front of my apartment. “Wooo Hooo” they said and waved green feather boas. I pressed my forehead against the glass and felt my dog lean against me. There was a very short time in my life when I thought it was fun to press into the crowds of drinking-holiday enthusiasts. Now I scour the cable menu for documentary style shows about misfits, or hoarders, or drug addicts, or people who keep wild animals as pets. When I can’t watch anymore TV I fantasize about driving across the country with Tom G and Ramona and no schedule.

 

I guess the bad thing about Facebook is that it is a constant reminder of how grounded I am. Still here in Chicago! Still an angst ridden chubster with more neuroses then motivation! That’s is boring. At least the grief was stunningly dramatic, a constant force to be reckoned with. I feel like a retired stuntman now.

 

There’s a saying about how in order to be bored you have to be a boring person. I think that’s very true. In fact most of my agoraphobia comes from a reluctance to socialize with myself. I’m always there, cracking lame jokes or acting awkward or eating too many appetizers. I’m so sick of my stories. I’m sick of saying things that show I can see the bright side. I really do want to tell every single person I meet what happened, if for no other reason then to help prevent them from saying something stupid and making me wish I hadn’t left my house. But that makes people uncomfortable, especially when I pull out my strange smile.

 

It will be spring soon, and I’ll make myself get out and enjoy the city. I’ll walk Ramona and take pictures and be glad I live in Chicago. But every once and a while I’ll let myself really believe in a writers’ community out West that needs a self-conscious comedy writer, a good natured lawyer, and an orange mutt.

Ramona Quimby, the six year old orange mutt who lives in our house, underwent surgery Monday for a torn ACL. She had to spend the night at the clinic in Woodstock, Illinois. I laid awake most of the night worrying that she was unhappy, or in pain, or asphyxiating. The nurse warned us that Ramona would be partially shaved for the operation, but you really can’t prepare yourself for the glaring, fishbelly white of a dog’s bare skin. We received an itemized bill of the procedure and some graphic photos of the actual surgery. I’ve been a wreck since we found out the dog would need to an operation.

 

I finally admitted to myself that this experience was picking at memories that had just scabbed over. We are caring for another soul who can’t tell us of the pain, and relinquishing that care to strangers on a faith that is born of a lack of options.

 

When Tom called me to say she was waking up from the anesthetic, I wiped away the tears that sprang from my eyes. I don’t trust that she’d be ok until she is ok. But waking up from the surgery was a huge step one on the path of relief. Having her at home comforts me, but seeing her in pain and frustration keeps me in a constant state of angst and heartache. Even seeing her skin makes me think of Tommy Jr; raw and pink and uncomfortable.

 

I know Ramona will make a full recovery. She’s in good hands with Dr. Barb Royal, who is doing everything she can to get Ro back up and running like a healthy dog. I’m trying to stay in control of my fears and anxiety because I learned ten months ago that worry and anger and self-pity don’t help the patient. I could only help my son by being a mother to him while I had him. I was upbeat in his presence, I was joyful. But I felt his pain in my heart and soul. And that’s all I can do for my dog. And really, that’s all we can do for anyone we love.

 

The bandage came off yesterday and Ramona’s leg is mottled with bruises. We ice her knee to keep the swelling down and feeding her elk jerky to keep her tail wagging. By the time spring rolls around I expect she’ll be back on four legs. And we’ll all have survived another family crisis together. The Guillens are getting better at this than we’d ever imagined we’d need to be. And we’re all grateful for that.

Why am I required to fill out so many forms at the doctor’s office? The rest of my life takes place in the current year, 2011- where a website is utilized for almost every task or event in life. I barely know how to use a pen and paper anymore. Then I arrive at the doctor’s office and it’s like 1997 and I’m writing my god damn address on three different forms.

 

Last year I had to go to three different doctors, all within the same hospital system and at each office I had to write my date of birth over and over and over again. It worries me that a doctor’s office can’t streamline their operation down to one birthday request. Meanwhile I’ve got two Starbucks in my neighborhood where I never even have to say my order. What does the Starbucks know that my doctor’s office doesn’t?

 

I called my EX doctor today and only had to wait on hold for thirty minutes before being told that they could only print my medical records on THURSDAY and that it would cost TWENTY DOLLARS. Either they’ve got the technological savvy of a troop of chimps, or they’re trying to nickel and dime me over six pages of paper. So I asked the woman on the phone if they were working off an Apple IIe.

 

“What” she quipped.

 

I explained: “I just mean what the hell kind of equipment are you running on that only works once a week and requires $20 to print off a few pages? Because I happen to know you could get a brand new computer that works every day of the week for like $90.”

 

“So do you want to mail the check or drop it off when you pick up the records?” said my clever opponent.
“I’ll drop it off Friday” I said, defeated. It’s not enough that this particular doctor’s office seemed to take every opportunity to humiliate me, ignore me, and treat me like a hysterical yuppie. They have to further enrage me by making it difficult to obtain my own medical records. And as usual, I have no recourse.

 

Except quarters. I’m bringing those a-holes a bag full of quarters. I’m going to say “Enjoy your twenty dollars, suckers.”

After some careful research and note taking, I have reached the disturbing conclusion that my post-tragedy menstrual cycle is 45 days long. As far as I can tell that’s the same length of the Blue Whale’s menstrual cycle. Maybe my body is trying to mimic the body of a giant mammal in order to ensure a longer gestational period. Maybe my next baby will be in there for 18 months, like I assume a Blue Whale makes a baby.

 

But it’s disappointing news, because I can’t get pregnant IMMEDIATELY, which is now what I want. I mean now as in this moment that I’m writing this. Later today I might feel hugely relieved that I’ve only got a shot at getting pregnant every six weeks. My moodiness knows no boundaries.

 

And so we wait. I feel like we’ve been waiting forever. Or that all we do it wait. Sometimes I’ll be lying on the couch, feeling like I’m waiting, but really I’m just watching TV.

 

The changes that I thought were temporary are becoming permanent. I’m just not the same person anymore. Some one pointed out to me today that I never dance anymore. I’m not thoughtful- I never remember anyone’s birthday. I’m not funny or hopeful. I’m jealous of other girls, of other families. That jealousy makes me hate myself- it’s like a terrible ugly mole right in the middle of my face that cannot be removed even by the best doctors. Nothing is pure anymore, everything is tainted with sadness or at least wistfulness. That’s an awful legacy for my son, but I don’t know how to change it.

 

My mom said that you can’t take the risk out of living. But how to you get back to the place where the risk didn’t paralyze you with fear?

Almost of of the clothes in my current rotation double as pajamas. This was not intentional, but it is convenient. Actually it’s inconvenient when I notice that I can see my bra and belly button through the threadbare tee-shirt that I bought at Whole Foods, but other than that it’s fine. Well not fine, I mean I realize it’s sort of anti-social behavior to wear your pajamas to work or your work clothes to bed. I also occasionally wear these clothes to the gym. So really my clothes triple as business attire (pair your sleazy misshapen shirt with a blazer!) pajamas (go straight from the office to bed!) and work-out clothes (roll out of bed, step into a sports bra, grab a five hour energy drink and off you go!). In way I am a leader both as an environmentalist and a human rights activist. Obviously because I’m buying less clothes, I’m saving spandex/cotton blend trees all over the planet, and I require the use of less sweat shops by employing my clothes creatively.

 

I don’t mean to brag, but not a lot of people would have the guts to take the fashion risks I take. I’d like to see Lady Gaga roll on stage wearing her husband’s 18 year old Bruce Springsteen concert tee under a tweed blazer. Or a stained and heavily pilled sweater over a tank top she bought in the pajama section at the Gap. It’s not a lifestyle for the faint of heart.

 

On a related subject- I am now so thin I think my dog barked at me the other day because she didn’t recognize me. Although she may have been barking because she wanted me to play fetch with her, or give her the rest of my sandwich, or let her stand on the balcony, or walk her, or give her water, or pet her. She’s hard to read sometimes.

 

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,

 

The reason there are so many cake shows on TV is multi-faceted. Although I have only a limited viewing of this type of show, it appears common that the people who order the elaborate cakes are complete assh*les. Since most people who watch TV like to see people spending a lot of money while acting like assh*les- this is a reliable aspect to incorporate into almost any program. Also there are many fat people in America, and fat people like to look at good food as well as eat it. That’s why we watch the Food Network. Food porn is really like any fetish porn: it’s the knowledge that you’ll never get to do that makes it so alluring. It’s pretty rare that most people would ever order and eat a cake in the shape of the whale with Jonah in his stomach, and watching it on television produces an unique emotion that combines furious envy and a socially acceptable voyeuristic fix. This emotion can also be produced by My Super Sweet !6, The Biggest Loser, and American Idol.

 

I guess what I’m trying to say is that I do want to try and go back to giving advice, maybe I could just start with one question a week and build up my confidence. I’m currently obsessed with trying to design my website through iWeb and somehow import all the content, then separate the advice column from the blog. I think this will be a nice feature for people (like myself) who can barely take another sad blog post. If anyone knows how I can do this, please email me- I’m willing to pay!

 

 

Thank you to all my readers. You’ve helped me so much, I appreciate you being along for the ride. I want to be there for you again, and I’m going to try.

 

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.