New Life

I went to bed last night, knowing that there was no reason for me to get up early this morning. So I snuggled in sans alarm, hoping against hope that I'd get some good, refreshing sleep. And I did. Until 6 a.m. Hrmph. So much for sleeping in. Happy sunrise! We finally got my New York pictures off the camera and into the computer. I somehow switched it into some silly mode that the computer wouldn't read. But Gay Boyfriend to the rescue! He grew a beard. He came rushing down with my pictures on a CD last night while I was cooking. Go check it out. I finally made something good with a grain.

There's no footsie picture today. And it's such a shame because I'm wearing what Gay Boyfriend refers to as my skank ho bitch boots because I have to do some grownuppy stuff for work and I actually had to dress up and look professional for once. Hrmph. These boots are awesome. But of course the batteries to the camera are dead. Because I can't seem to plan ahead.

And I would like to state for the record that I'm sick of myself and my emotions and my stupid brain and I would like a transplant please. I don't think that's covered by my health plan. I will leave you with the good doctor's favorite slam.

Him: "You know? You were born before your time."
Whoever he detests: "Really?"
(Feeling like wow! He's finally going to give me a compliment! He NEVER does that!)
Him: "Yes. Brain transplants aren't available yet."

I love him. Yes. I do.

*edited* You people have more of a foot fettish than I thought. Here you go. One pair of skank ho bitch boots for ya.

It's snowing! I fricking LOVE IT! I know, most people don't like the snow. They don't like shoveling or scraping or slip sliding around, but this is one of the reasons I moved back to the midwest. I missed the snow. And I don't ever have to shovel. Because I rent. I will never shovel again. I refuse. It makes the snow happy. So all of you that want to complain about the snow - please comment elsewhere. I love it.

Therapy Tuesday was awful. AWFUL, AWFUL, AWFUL. It was followed by a two hour sobfest out at Tallgrass, trying to get my head around why the hell I still would miss Jason so very much that I go insane three years after he's dead. Croaked. Kicked the bucket. Whatever. Apparently, I'm right on track with the whole grief thing, but let me tell you, it makes me look and feel horrible. The puffy eyes. The headache. The snot. It's a good thing my friends love me so much, because my appearance alone was enough to scare little children.

So now I have an assignment. I have to go to his gravestone and talk to him. Again. Does this melodrama never end? And at this point, I'd just like to say, "Fuck you. You ruined my life. And now I have to pick up the pieces and you're not here to help, you bastard." And apparently, that's a healthy thing to want to say. Who would a thunk it?

So, remember when I said that it was a good thing my sister had the pukies when I was visiting her so she didn't drag me all over creation on 10 mile hikes up the mountain and 5 hour yoga workshops? Yeah. Um, that came back to bite me in the ass. I got it.

The world looks quite different from the floor of a bathroom, you know? I mean, you're reduced to a sweaty pile of nothingness. You can't move without feeling nauseous. Just looking at the toilet makes your gag reflex come to attention. So you just lay there. Sometimes with a pillow and a blanket. Sometimes on the cold, smooth floor, just waiting to die. Throwing up makes me feel completely helpless and out of control.

Can you tell I hate it?

The flu is the great equalizer. There's no way out of it once you have it. It runs it's course whether you want it to or not. It will take you down - big or small. Rich or poor. And you can't do anything about it.

I'm on my way home! In the land of dial up internet, Kate does not LIKE to work on her computer because it shows her innate lack of patience and concurrent violent streak. So she just ignores the computer when she's stuck in a place where backwards people exist on the newspaper at her sister's. So now I'm sitting at Stewart International Airport, which USED to be an air force base and I'd more rather see some hotty air force guys in uniform, but no. I'm sitting next to a very loud woman who is trying to sound and look importanty by talking on her earpiece, which we all know looks like she's talking to herself. Which she could be for all I know. The all importantness is showing too much.

Anyways. The trip was fabulous. Because my sister had the flu. She was PUKING all day on Friday and laid in bed all morning on Saturday and Sunday and got up just in the afternoon. That's what made it fabulous. She didn't make me go to yoga or on a ten gazillion mile hike in the mountains and we just got to hang out. Which is the best kind of vacation for me. Oh, and it snowed on Sunday. Beautiful, beautiful snow. Pictures tomorrow.

Lots more tomorrow about the hippie freaks in Woodstock and the wanna be yuppies at the Rite Aid in New Paltz. I think the thing I hate the most when I travel is that it's a seven or eight hour deal. They hold you CAPTIVE. You can't possibly leave the security area and go outside. NO! You might miss your flight because of the long security lines. They trick you into passivity.

See you tomorrow!

I'm at the airport in Minneapolis right now. And after getting shanked for $4.95 to hook up to some bullshit called Boingo for an hour, I'm here to provide you with all the regular entertainment. I asked the security woman to take pictures while they were frisking me this morning, and even though she had a sense of humor, she declined. See, the rod and bolts in my leg? Yeah. They think I have a gun every time I go through the metal detector. And I'm ready for them. I announce that I know it's going to go off and I tell them right where the metal is located, but I know I still have to go through the necessary pat down. And I think I'm pretty damn good humored about it. I smile and don't take offense. I've had some very unpleasant women do this to me over the years, but today's was just fine. Friendly. And I WANT someone to be friendly if they're going to be touching my girly places. And they always have to because I hoist the girls up with underwire bras.

But I really wanted pictures. Hrmph.

Can you believe I had a middle seat and NO ONE sat on EITHER SIDE of me on my first flight? It was heaven. I sprawled as I watched the sun come up. And let me tell you, the people that were blathering on to each other missed it. They MISSED the beauty of that moment when the sun reaches the horizon and suddenly, there's a burst of orange fire flame that spreads so much quicker than you think it should. I smiled conspiratorily with the man in the seat behind me, because we were both watching and smiling at the same time.

And this traveling with an iPod stuck in my ears? Yeah. I have to check every once in awhile to make sure I'm not singing outloud. I deign to dance however. Anyone watching can entertain themselves and laugh at me, but a girl's gotta dance. And she's going to do it wherever she wants to. In fact, right now, I'm rocking out to Dave Matthew's Mother Father and you can't sit still during that song. You just can't.

Next stop? Detroit. I made a beautiful memory here at the Minneapolis Airport, but that's a story for another day.

I drove home in a frenzy of anxiety last night. I'm leaving for New York on Friday and I have NOTHING DONE! No laundry. No packing. Not even a list. What have I been doing? How did this sneak up on me so quickly? And didn't I realize that I was out of cat food and that I want clean sheets when I get home? I'm thinking, "Pull yourself together, woman!" My hands were shaking, I was so worked up. And then I sat down and surfed the internet all night.

Hrmph.

And I might have talked for a long time with Mr. Internet vs. 8.0 whom we will now refer to as Mr. Minnesota. And only because he lives there.

I'd also like to say that my luggage is not pink. And that does not make me happy. Not one bit. That is all.

I got a new book on Saturday. There was a buy two get one free table at Barnes and Noble and at one point I had six books in my arms, trying to figure out which ones I wanted. I'm such a book whore. And the libraries here are very disappointing. They say you can "order" books to be shipped in - that's crap. I want to BROWSE and I want INSTANT GRATIFICATION when it comes to books. So I have to stay away from book stores for the most part. I'd spend my whole paycheck there if I was unsupervised. What I wouldn't give for a decent library around here.

When Jason died, one of the best things that anyone did for me was bring me a bag of trashy novels. She said, "Kate, when you can't think, just pick up one of these and let it take you away." And I did. And it was the only solace my head had for many months. For a few moments, I could focus on something other than the ache and the pain. It let my head rest. I remember when I moved out of that house, I was sorting through books and I would look at them in confusion, wondering if I'd read them. And I did. But I didn't. I didn't retain any of the stories, but that's okay. It was a gift that I will remember to pass along.

Anyway. I started reading my new book on Monday night and it took my breath away. It's a book about a woman whose husband dies and then she moves away to an island, gets saved by a dog, blah blah blah. That kind. I thought it would be interesting. Instead it dragged my head back to that dark place where I miss Jason all over again. The writer must have lost a spouse because she was dead on with the pain and the confusion and the craziness; the lack of connected thoughts, the blankness that takes over your head and body. The color stripped out of your life in one instant.

So I did what I always do when I feel that way anymore. I went to a meeting and sought out the man that saved my life and he said he was giving hugs "two for one." So I took three. And we talked and he reminded me that it would pass and that I have to feel it and that it's okay to still miss him and pretty damn normal to let something I read take my mind away for awhile. And even though I don't like it, it's not that desperate missing anymore, just a little tear in my heart where there used to be a gaping hole.

And then I finished the book and she fell in love in less than a year. What a hussy.

Gay Boyfriend has been trying to kill me all along. I just know it.

I took the day off yesterday because it was President's Day and I didn't want to work. So there. I went to my friend's house and read magazines all morning, got a pedicure in the afternoon, went to a meeting and then read my new book all night. It was heavenly. However.... When I got home from the pedicure, the gas people were crawling all over the house. Yeah. There was a gas leak. In the basement. Where I live. Slowly killing me. It's all fixed now.

Then this morning, I get up and all I can smell is burning plastic. You know that horrible smell? Yeah. Gay Boyfriend was already at work, so I woke up Boyfriend of the Month and told him to take care of it - that I had to go to work and couldn't figure out what was wrong. Yeah. The gas people had checked the water heater and turned it ALL THE WAY UP and it was melting the plastic gasket inside.

I asked him how much my policy was for.

I don't have much to report. Except that I spent the day yesterday watching TMZ. I never watch tv. Never. But I was at a friend's and the sun was streaming in and we were huddled under blankets on the couch and chatting and "The Worst Celebrity Divorces" came on. How is it that I can get sucked into that crap? I was sprinting to the bathroom during a commercial so I wouldn't miss a second of it. I totally don't agree that Brad Pitt and Jennifer Aniston's was the worst. They said it "Changed America forever." What? Seriously? Then Sober House came on.

For those of you that don't know - that is NOTHING like the treatment center I went through. It wasn't, "Oh, you went out and drank last night. That's okay honey. We still love you." It was all, "Pull yourself together woman, this isn't a fucking spa!" So I spent an hour mezmerized yet horrified. And I don't think I'll watch tv again for about a year.

Did I tell you Gay Boyfriend got me flowers on Valentine's Day? He did.

Happy Valentine's Day! Kisses to my sweets!

You get sideways feet today. Because that's how I feel. M took me to see a little house on the prairie last night that she's thinking of buying. It's a total fixer-upper, but that's perfect because most of our friends do construction for a living. She "kidnapped" me and didn't tell me where we were going, but when we pulled in the yard and I saw the sign, I totally knew. My first response was, "This is SO inconvenient for Saturday morning coffee..." And then we laughed. We got out and walked around. I can see it. I can totally see it. Knocking out a few walls, gutting the kitchen, we haven't been sitting around all winter watching extreme home makeover for nothing.

The acre and a half is perfect for vegetable and flower gardens, the deck overlooks the sunset. The hot tub (yes, in a crappy old farm house, there is a HUGE hot tub) seats eight.

Who knows what the summer will bring. Dirty hands and power tools, but then quiet nights in the country. And as I was driving home, I got extremely jealous, because I don't know WHEN the time will come that I will get to do such a thing as buy a home. Probably never. And until then, I tell the green eyed monster to go away because I love my friends and if this makes her happy, I want to be happy for her.

To add insult (throwing up) to injury (another use of the toilet that involves sitting, shitting? sitting for long periods of time) I am officially not feeling well.

Talk amongst yourselves.

I've always had trouble getting to sleep at night. When I was a little girl, my mom would shout up the stairs for me to stop praying and go to sleep. (What parent tells their kid to stop praying? Ha!) I'd lay there and worry and worry and worry. Please don't let me get kidnapped. Please don't let there be a tornado. Please don't let daddy get in a car accident. Please don't let our house get struck by lightening (WTF? This one was very common.) Please don't let my dog die. Please don't, please don't, please dont. Yeah. Neurotic.

Nothing has changed, people. Nothing. Only I worry about different things now. So I've got this bedtime routine. I've stated before that my routines are pretty sacred. Don't mess with it or I will take you OUT. So last night, I pour my drink - cranberry juice cocktail with four ice cubes, turn on the stereo, put my feet up and fire up the laptop. The cats have been fed, the dishes have been washed and my bed is pulled down. I'm wearing yoga pants and a long sleeved tshirt with my wool slippers. It's the same every night. Then I surf the internet for awhile. I make any necessary phone calls before 9 and then by 10, I've brushed my teeth, washed my face and I'm crawling into bed with my book. It's a process for me to wind down.

A process that apparently no one understands. Because they CALL ME after 10 and EXPECT me to be coherent and pleasant. I'm NEVER coherent and pleasant after 10. And these are repeat offenders, people. Do they really think I'm going to be different this time? No.

So, for those of you night owls? I'm going to call you incessantly at 5 a.m. Until I wake you up. Because you're so stupid.

So there.

Look at these fabulous earrings that I got from Vanessa. They're made out of spent Starbucks cards. I love the internet. And I love saying the word "spent." Please ignore my large nose in this picture. What the heck is up with that?

I went on a retreat this weekend with a bunch of friends.
Gay Boyfriend brought his brand new Wizard of Oz Life game. There's no way a group of kids could play this. It's WAY too complicated. I guess they figure the only people that are going to play it are gay men who love the Wizard of Oz. Gay Boyfriend was ecstatic. I hope he never makes me play it again.

We played tons of volleyball. (That's me serving, by the way.) Now, I am NOT the most talented sportswoman. I only play with people who will laugh with me when I fall down. My favorite phrase was originally said quite innocently when asked why I don't like sports: "I don't like balls coming at my face." But guess what? I didn't suck quite as much as usual. I actually jumped and spiked and developed a killer serve that could not be returned. Seriously. I fell alot, but that's okay. I fall when I'm walking down the street. I'm used to it.

Then on the way home, I started thinking. I hate my sedentary life. I could do this thing. I could play volleyball on a league. I'm not THAT bad. So I said it outloud and someone gave me a gal's phone number that I actually considered calling. Then the thoughts started again. If I want to play volleyball next summer, I should get in shape. And if I'm going to start exercising, I need music. I need a new mp3 player. So I told Gay Boyfriend I thought we should go to Target (the source of all that is good and right with the world) and look at them and he frowned at me and said, "Are you nuts? You need an IPod." So we looked and I got one and even though I have yet to figure out how to use it, I have joined the 21st century.

All because I had fun playing volleyball.

I just realized this morning that sometimes I dress like my mom.

Good God.

Oh, and the choices for lunch today are tomato soup, popcorn chicken and egg rolls. How does ANY of that go together?

I went to the grocery store on Tuesday night. Now, normally this is not a noteworthy thing. But as I was walking through the store, I realized that I've turned into THAT woman. The one that zips through the store with purpose and intent. The one that glares at you when you're browsing. The one that taps her foot while you're picking out different flavors of jelly. Because you're in her way. And I almost cried just a little bit, but I didn't because I was in too much of a hurry. Let me take you on a virtual tour.

I start in the produce section because my list is in order of how I walk through the store. Seriously. It is. Bananas, apples, carrot chips and hummus. Slivered almonds and minced garlic. Done! Up the next isle. Black beans and chickpeas. Down the next isle. Whole grain tortillas, taco seasoning and salsa. Then to the meat counter. Ground turkey and chicken breasts. Zip into the baking isle for flax seed. Then the dairy section. Milk, velveeta, parmesan and cream cheese. Frozen fruit and I'M DONE. Race to the checkout through the chip isle for tortilla chips and $75 later, I have the makings for turkey chickpea burgers, almond parmesan chicken fingers, snacks for the retreat this weekend, stuff for my protein shakes and the best part? Shit dip - you know the kind. Ground meat with taco seasoning, velveeta, cream cheese and salsa that you slather on tortilla chips trying to justify eating it with a spoon.

Gone are the midnight raids on Hy-Vee. We always went at midnight on Wednesday nights. Filling the cart with beer and frozen pizzas, boones farm wine and white bread. Lingering in the chip and dip department, trying to figure out if we want Doritos or Cheetos or both and if the Queso sauce is too hot. Picking up zucchinis and making obscene gestures. Using a banana as a microphone and singing along to the muzak. Gone are the nights when the checker saw us come in and turned up the music because he knew we would dance down the isles, laughing and joking. When did I turn into the bitch that impatiently glares at you if you even stop for a moment to wonder if you want Skippy or Jif. Don't you KNOW by now? When did I turn into her? I was sad. So very sad. Then I went home and ate leftover brussel sprouts. My God.

I passed my annual physical with flying colors yesterday. Apparently I'm healthy as a horse. "For my age." Okay people. No one. No one has EVER uttered that phrase to me before. The nurse said it. Then when the doctor came in, HE said it. Several times. Then the nurse that helps with the pelvic exam said it. Apparently once you're over 35, this magic phrase comes out and makes excuses for your weight and your metabolism and your cholesterol. And your uterus.

When the nurse was doing the pre-interview she mentioned a baseline mammogram. "Most insurance companies pay for a baseline mammogram AT YOUR AGE." What the heck? I have to get my boobs squished NOW?

Then the doctor comes in and asks me if I have any health concerns and I brought up my weight. He looked back and said that my weight hasn't gone up or down for two years and AT MY AGE that is a good, good thing. That most people will slowly gain five to ten pounds a year. I argued a little so he looked back three years and said, "Well, you weighed quite a bit less that year. But isn't that when you weren't eating and pretty much drinking all the time? We'd much rather you be a little overweight than go back to THAT." Hrmph. Bastard.

So, we get on with the exam, and no, I didn't steal the speculum Ken. The doctor's feeling around and says, "Your uterus is quite high." And I said, "Well duh, I've never USED IT." And the nurse says, "Now, now. There's still time. AT YOUR AGE." How many people laugh during their pelvic exams? Seriously. I've got to be his most entertaining patient.

And then he has to ask all the standard physical questions:
Do you wear a seatbelt all the time? Yes.
How much ibuprophen do you take? A lot.
Are there problems with domestic abuse in the home? And I laughed and laughed and laughed. I said, "Um. No. I live with a gay man that I adore. The only abuse is way too much Bette Midler and Dolly Parton." And then I laughed some more.

This is the doctor that announced before he ever saw me four years ago that he doesn't prescribe birth control - it's against his beliefs. Which I didn't and still don't care about. Never needed it. (Now, don't get all hateful about that. This is the most conservative state I've ever lived in. And I love the man.) So - pulling the gay card was even more hilarious.

Then I went straight back to work and sent Gay Boyfriend an email asking him why he never hits me.

I have nothing. Absolutely nothing.

Except that I cooked brussel sprouts on Sunday.

And I liked them.

And I might get to graduate to twice a month therapy.

Maybe.

So, instead of watching the Superbowl, we played 21 out in the garage for hours. Instead of saying "Hit me!" I said, "I want one! Yippee!" I'm horrid. Really. That's why no one wants to play cards with me.

However, I DID make one of my friends laugh so hard, they had to use their inhaler. Tears were flowing out of peoples' eyes and my stomach muscles still hurt from laughing so much! I don't even remember how it started, but something about vibrators and suddenly I said, "You haven't checked my glove compartment. You know, those long trips."

Officer, I wasn't talking on my phone. Really! I missed the stop sign? Sorry, I was in a hurry to get somewhere. Why did it take me so long to get here? Oh, I had to stop for batteries every twenty minutes. And I entered from the back door. That's why I'm not wearing my seat belt. The best? Your phone rings. What do you say? "I'm coming! I'll be there in a minute!"

I doesn't sound funny at all now. Hrmph. It was hilarious. Something about - you didn't check my TRUNK.