Life and Other Important Things

 6 Responses »
Jul 062012
 
This would be the BEFORE picture

This would be the BEFORE picture

I got high just one time while in college and that was only after I called The Pre-Husband to make sure he wouldn’t hate me in the morning for satisfying my curiosity. He laughed at me and told me I was adorable for asking permission to smoke pot and I was all I’m not asking for permission you chauvinistic asshole. I make my own decisions. I just wanted to make sure you happened to be okay with this one. Totally not the same thing. That’s when The Pre-Husband laughed again because, he said, what I just said was pretty much the very definition of asking for permission and that he thought it was sweet I was so concerned about what he thought of me and my partaking of illegal substances.

You still didn’t answer my question, I said.

Go ahead, he told me. Just don’t drive anywhere.

After he hung up and before I took my first hit, I admit that the thought of calling my mother and running this whole me and this joint thing by her before I fully committed to that evening’s activities. And then maybe my best friend. That’s right about the time I realized that concern over What Other People Think accounts for entirely too much of the time I devote to contemplating life and Other Important Things (like what I was going to wear tomorrow), and I inhaled. Depending on what your definition of is actually is, anyway.

The moral of this story, kids, is that while Drugs Are Bad Bad Bad and I am Not Condoning or Promoting Illegal Behaviors Because That Would Just Be Irresponsible, I am condoning and promoting freeing ourselves from putting too much stock in Other People’s Opinions because that whole thought process just takes too much work.

Take, for instance, a recent instant message from BFF Mel.

Want to get our noses pierced when you come to visit?

HELL YES my instant response. We’ve been going back and forth on the idea of a teeny little stud for about five years now but have never even gone as far as pricing the procedure or looking up where to go to get it done. Excuses have always been easy to come by and with her work schedule and my constant over-thinking about the riot act my aunts would read me for putting another hole in my head, it only made sense to go for it during our trip back to Detroit. She had a day off and I had finally reached the point of not really giving a shit who might get pissy if I decided to have some fun. So the timing was right.

We landed in Detroit last Tuesday and met up with BFF Mel and her husband, Bob on Friday. After BFF Mel scared herself shitless by looking up YouTube videos on nasal piercings, Bob and The Husband took the initiative, started the car, and dropped us of at Eternal Tattoos. We had an appointment with a woman named Sam.

 

Sam is the piercing professional at Eternal Tattoos in EastPointe, Michigan. And when I say professional I mean it because not everyone can answer questions on the phone about piercing penises while immature assholes like me try not to laugh and get all superior because I'm subjecting myself to public scrutiny with a piercing I can't hide in my pants, which obviously makes my nose stud more badass than that extra hole in your nethers.

BFF Mel has to go first or she’s going to back out because she’s an idiot and YouTube is evil. That’s what I said first and then maybe I introduced myself.

Sam nodded. Bff Mel giggled because she does that a lot. And I took pictures while Sam talked BFF Mel out of the clear crystal stud she had come in for and into a light purple that Sam was sure would look fabulous on her. And then it was done and BFF Mel looked fabulous and Sam breathlessly awaited her client’s reaction and BFF Mel scrunched up her nose and looked into the mirror and said I dunno…what do you think? It looks bigger and more noticeable than I had imagined.

 

Seriously...does it look okay?

You look incredible I said. And that purple is perfect I said. And now it’s my turn so move so I can sit down I said.

Sam nodded. BFF Mel giggled because she does that a lot. And then she took pictures while Sam talked me out of the clear crystal stud I had come in for and into a pretty blue that Sam was sure would look fabulous on me. And then it was done and BFF Mel said I looked fabulous and Sam breathlessly awaited my response and I scrunched up my nose and looked into the mirror and said I dunno…what do you think?It looks bigger and more noticeable than I had imagined. But yours looks perfect I told BFF Mel.

Because this nose stud trumps your penis piercing any day of the week, y'all, because I can't hide my nose in my pants if I get shy after the new hardware has been inserted. Also? I did this the day before a Mexican wedding and that, my friends, takes some serious juevos.

I think yours looks perfect, she told me. I’m just not so sure about mine.

So I showed her the photos I had taken and pointed out that what she was looking at now was what other people would see.

That looks good, she said, a smile lighting up her whole face. Here, lo0k at these of you.

So I looked and I saw what other people would see when they saw me and that was enough because I only needed to see myself through Other People’s Eyes for just a moment to realize I look beautiful when I don’t give a shit what other people think.

Yeah, I said smiling. That does look good. And we left with our aftercare sheets, giggling and feeling very badass, indeed.

 

Why Starbucks Can Thank Me Later

 6 Responses »
Jun 222012
 

Just because the five-year-old is hooked on vanilla frappuccinos doesn't mean you can call me a yuppie. At least not to my face.

When the doctor starts off your appointment with phrases like “your results” and “very interesting”, it’s kind of a toss up as to whether or not the next they say has you running for the hills screaming or breathing a sigh of relief because things were way worse in your head. Because they are always worse in your head.

Except for when they say things like allergic to and beef and apples and carrots and shrimp and crab and then your mind goes blank so you don’t even hear the rest of the list because you’re all THERE’S NOTHING LEFT TO LIVE FOR! Times like that make you realize you don’t overreact nearly as much as The Husband likes to pretend you do, mainly because The Husband can sometimes be an asshole.

And last week, this was all me (the overreacting thing. The Husband is still the asshole.)  So when my doctor suggested a very intensive follow up to the first food allergy test just to be sure with things like cocoa beans and coffee and DEAR GOD DON’T TAKE AWAY MY COFFEE…I said yes right away and then made sure to arrive to the next appointment with a trenta (read: only the addicts order their shit this big) iced black Starbuck’s coffee in hand. Ya know, just in case. Turns out that this time though, things actually were way worse in my head because somehow I didn’t test positive to as many food allergens as I did previously. The doctor isn’t sure what the hell happened, and neither am I, but I really don’t care because the bottom line is that I can still self-medicate the crazy with a steady stream of coffee and that I’m no longer the freak with the beef and apple allergy.

Instead? I’m the freak with the cabbage and broccoli allergy.

Also on my list of Things that May Make Pauline Explode:

*Cranberries

*Pears

*Plums

*Bananas

*Lemons

*Pineapples

*all Dairy

*all Eggs

*Bakers Yeast

* Wheat

*Gluten

*Peanuts

*Pecans

*Rye

*Spelt

*Whole Wheat

So I’ve been given the green light to go crazy with the beef jerky again, but things like oats, soy, and corn are staying off of my list of allowable paleo-friendly foods. I’ve been telling doctors for years that I couldn’t explain why but I just felt better when I didn’t eat grains and now I know why seeing as the grains I was eating were all trying to kill me.

What I don’t know is where this leaves me regarding the possible crazy rare autoimmune Me Being Allergic to my Own Hormone thing because when I cut out the food allergens, the symptoms that could result in a hysterectomy seemed to resolve so quickly that now everyone is wondering how I made it this long without spontaneously combusting just on principal. Now the OB is sending me back to the allergist who is sending me back to the nurse practitioner who is sending me back to the naturopath who is telling me that I may be slightly less fucked up than we all assumed.

Also? This is my 600th blog post. Instead of doing that thing that popular bloggers do with the giving away of Really Awesome Shit, I decided to do something a bit differently in that I instead went with the Unpopular Writer Mama with the Blog and No Prizes theme because I am secure in my unpopularity-ness-ish and right about now would be a REALLY GOOD TIME for Starbuck’s to take this post for the free advertising that it is and offer up some gift cards before y’all get all judgy and STARBUCK’S IS SO UNGRATEFUL which we know they aren’t seeing as the girl who poured all three of my trenta coffees today was super nice and never once asked me if I had a problem. Because that, my friends, is the kind of customer service that I think we all can appreciate.

Five: In Pictures

 4 Responses »
Jun 112012
 

Because I knew this was the only photo I was probably going to be in for the rest of the day.

Friends who drive from Phoenix for a birthday party and drag their own kids along for the fun? These are the friends that can only be made via tweets and Facebook updates.

Friends without kids who brave five-year-old birthday parties are shining examples of selflessness and love. Especially when they sport "you fucking owe me " expressions when you randomly yell out "cheese!"

 

Honesty is appreciated at any age. Especially after a two hour drive with Mama and the pizza & cupcake have been consumed & this sweet face announces he wants to just. go. home. Don't worry, Nugget. I wanted to go home right about then, too.

Six. Five. And eight. Also? Inseparable.

 

Aunt Heather, Buttercup, and the giant white tiger that stole the show.

Because being a super hero princess is hard work. And turning five takes a lot of energy.

 

And when time for bed came, Wonder Woman looked at her mother, the Queen, and bravely told her that teenagers (like her) don’t sleep with their mamas but that I (the Queen) was welcome to come into her room to read her a book and sit on the floor holding her hand until she (my Wonder Woman) fell asleep. And I did and she did and just like that, my baby blossomed into a girl.

 

Search Term Funnies

 8 Responses »
May 282012
 

Google sent you to my blog but showed me this bad boy when I asked it the same thing you did. And yes, this caption is the official response to EVERY QUESTION THAT FOLLOWS. You're Welcome.

 

Dear People of the Internet,

It seems that many of you end up on my blog when Google is recovering from a late night bender and directs you to a post I wrote that had nothing to do with getting a divorce when you search for enlightenment while pondering if you should, in fact, stay a Mrs. or make a move on the hottie cleaning your pool. I guess that makes me an expert of sorts and you are very probably now telling all of your friends that your ex-husband was the only schmo who never learned that Does This Dress Make Me Look Fat is a hypothetical question that should never be answered truthfully and that Google is now to be thanked for your new found love affair with the pool boy and my blog.

I know. I’m glad I can be here for you, too.

–Signed–

Pauline

 

Do Cats Blink?

Um, unless they’re dead, I would assume so. Then again, I could be wrong. Obviously, I am not an expert.

 

 

Broken Legs or Sprain Ankles of Famous Persons

I’m honored. You might not think I’m famous but Google gets a cookie. Also? I’m slightly disturbed. Judging from the way you phrased this, either you are searching for information on how to break legs because you want to break the legs and/or ankles of famous persons (which means I’m off the hook because I am not because Google totally lied) or you just…never mind. That’s the only explanation I can come up with. Just remember that I am not famous.

And?

Google lies.

 

 

Naked Fitness Chicks which was closely followed by Frowning Fat Chick

Yes, these came from different IP addresses in different countries, so it was just fate that led the pervert and the asshole to my blog AT THE EXACT SAME TIME. And Google? I can’t decide if I want to kiss you or kill you.

 

 

Multiple Women Naked Bodies

Yeah…I’m gonna go out on a limb here and say that this isn’t exactly what you were looking for. Also? Google likes it if you keep things simple. Next time? Just say PORN.

 

How much for a baby finger monkey/pictures of finger monkeys/Platforms for Monkeys?

And many, many, MANY more variations of search terms in which the words “finger monkey” are included. Write one post about how I need a little monkey named Platform so I can tell publishers that I already have one (with a straight face) when they tell me I need one and the whole world goes insane. There was one point in time that I thought I had turned some invisible corner in my mission to become an Unfamous Writer because crazy amounts of hits and visitors were spiking my numbers higher than I had ever seen them. And I felt pretty special until I realized someone pinned the Platform the Secret Agent Monkey post and everyone clicking over was probably all You Mean This ISN’T a Blog Devoted to Tiny Primates that Cost More to Buy than My First Three Cars Combined? Well then, THAT’S Disappointing. And because I can empathize with the shock to the system that must come when words are where only monkeys were expected, I apologize.

Truly.

 

I’ll Sleep When I’m Dead

This one’s only funny because it’s a term I actually use. A lot. And I picked it up from my father who worked two full time jobs for nearly 20 years to support my mother and the five daughters they brought into the world trying to conceive a son. Eventually my mother told my father she was going out for a gallon of milk and returned with her tubes tied and a neutered rescue poodle. He got his boy and my sisters and I got to stop fighting over who got to sleep with the one who still peed the bed because five girls plus two available bedrooms equals very bad math.

Also? He died four years ago and I’m betting this is the longest consecutive number of hours he has ever gone without being shaken from an attempt to sleep. Had he been able to plan ahead, I’m sure the wake would have featured door prizes like T-shirts, fishing caps, and beer koozies boasting the phrase Try Waking Me Up NOW, Fuckers! and even possibly a pillow shaped pinata stuffed with interesting treats like sleeping pills of various strengths. I was at the wake. Trust me…this would have been way more fun.

Also? When I say “I’ll sleep when I’m dead,” I’m actually doing it to honor my dad’s memory.

And to remind myself to make that mental note about placing that bulk order for the T-Shirts…

 

Zombies and Dead Dads

 4 Responses »
May 162012
 

 

It’s strange how the timing on this one worked out. But the timing could not have been more perfect for me to finally have what has got to be the most bad-ass blog post title ever. Then again, I received pretty high praise from readers on the Love, Assholes, and My Grandpa one, so I guess it’s kind of a toss up.

Either way, I’ve got a zombie to tell you about and a dead father to remember.

There’s this poem I wrote years ago. If I remember correctly, it was for a creative writing course in college and the class was silent for just a moment longer than a heartbeat after I finished reading. Zombie is not meant to be a comfortable read or to create images of beauty; rather, it’s a very real and very gritty moment that many who have ever suffered from bulimia can (sadly) relate to.

Until very recently, Zombie was in a binder with old papers until I decided to do something more with it. So I transcribed it into a Word Document, hit save, and sent my words off to the editor at Voxx Poetica. My poem appeared on Voxx almost two months ago and I just now realized it had actually been published. Thank you to Voxx for a moment to connect with others who understand and the opportunity to explain the inner-workings of the head of an eating disordered teenager to those who don’t.

Because I tend to schedule my blog posts based on the incredibly scientific When I Remember to Do it method, my plan to share my Voxx publication news with you today just now happens to coincide with dead dads, the daughters of all ages who are grieving them, and the woman who is building working to build a community of solace for those who find themselves wondering where to turn. I first met my friend Mary of Mama Mary Show a few years ago at the Phoenix Bloggy Bootcamp conference and got to see her again at Blogher 10 just a few months later. I don’t remember how we started talking about it, but we connected when we shared with each other the pain of losing our fathers decades before we had expected to deal with this kind of grief.

Mary’s goal was to publish a book and start a new web site on which contributing writers could connect, share, and heal. And I’m honored to be featured as part of the official launch of the Dead Dad’s Club.

Every time someone else thinks my words worthy of their space is a day to celebrate. Every day I am brave enough to share again is a day to smile. I survived me. And I’ll never delete my my father’s phone number from my contact list.

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