crazy little thing called life

In case you ever wondered why I am the way I am:

THE BAD NEWS:

After a battery of tests that was both mortifying and painful, my doctor opted to do a comprehensive food allergy test. This involved a simple blood test, and cost $169, as opposed to having a fireman's hose ... up my ... to the tune of $1,268, after insurance. The results just came in. I'm allergic to all dairy and baker's yeast, which basically means the entire cornerstone of my diet just crumble into dust. Immediately, thoughts of a breadless, cheeseless, butterless life spent searching for palatable faux-foods began swirling through my mind, and before I knew it, I was drafting something that resembled a rough suicide note. You see, I don't even cook, and have absolutely no imagination when it comes to food preparation, so my predicament was looking rather bleak. I totally failed to share in B's excited description of faux cream cheese, which she swears "...is so delicious you'll lick the spoon!" Yeah. We'll see. For now, I feel it is my moral obligation to polish off the sourdough bread, bagels, and actual cream cheese, so as not to be wasteful. And there is no way I will ever sully my coffee with some soy bullshit.

THE GOOD NEWS:

The uber-talented Gabrielle finished my birthday collage and I am so in love with it we might have a civil ceremony. Also, it has brought tears to me eyes more than once. Knowing my love of rainbows, she thoughtfully constructed this masterpiece, and I don't mind telling you, I'm verklempt. (Pic makes it look warped, but I assure you, it's perfectly straight.)



THE BAD NEWS:

My million dollar phone is equipped for everything, except phone calls. Seriously, it can change a flat tire, nurse your baby, and is even a neurosurgeon, but the motherfucker is so unreliable for phone calls that my people are starting to hate me because they can never hear me. I am world-renowned multi-tasker, this is well-known, so when I'm on the phone, I'm also washing my car, doing dishes, etc., but not with the EnV (sp?). Not only is it four inches too short to be useful, but its reception is so poor, it cannot be fathomed. When I try to talk to B, I occasionally ease onto the floor so as to fold a piece or two of laundry, and the instant I rest the phone on my shoulder, she starts yelling that I've swallowed the phone, she can't hear me, and she has to go. It was sold to me because my tech guy knows I text over 2,500 times per month, and it is a great texting device. But it's not a phone. In any event, Wednesday night it totally went tits-up. I could neither send nor receive a text, the command button broke, my inbox was full and I couldn't erase messages, and I was missing the fucking debates! Knowing I was still under warranty, I flew to the Verizon store, in a cami sans bra, some zip up hoodie relic from my closet, flip flops, and the worst two-bit hooker hair I have ever had. So my credibility, walking in the door, was in the negative numbers. True to my life, the punk-ass, mole-looking kid with really sparse hair and a French tickler, opened my phone and it worked. Perfectly. The button, which had gotten jammed all the way into the socket, had somehow popped back up as I sped down Market Street at 55mph, running several red lights. So ultimately, he sneered authoritatively (he was wearing a bad-ass lanyard, I must say), and said tough shit. I was livid. I am livid. So if you accidentally sever your carotid artery and mine is the only phone number accessible on your phone, you know, text me.

THE GOOD NEWS:

While I was screaming, crying, and blaspheming to the high heavens about my phone, I asked the kids to turn on CNN so I could listen to the debates. Amidst my fury, I glanced over and saw that both Quinn and Reilly were sitting, rapt, in front of the TV, watching our man Obama annihilate McCain, who my kids call The Chipmunk. Nothing warms a mother's heart like knowing her kids are good Democrats, lol. As an added bonus, Reilly told me that she got an email from Defenders of Wildlife, detailing how Sarah Palin shoots wolves from helicopters, and how she has taken them off the endangered list so people can continue to shoot them. Furthermore, folks are handsomely rewarded for turning in the legs and feet of these wolves. So, on top of being Democrats, my kids know why they are Democrats. Few things are as pleasing to me.

THE BAD NEWS:

Is there anyone left on earth that doesn't know that I take like fifty different medications just to maintain the modicum of sanity I do have? Right, I didn't think so. Even with insurance, these pills are expensive yo, and I am very careful with them, putting them in a seven-day sorter every week. Somehow, a day before the phone-fucking-tastrophe, I discovered all the pills had gotten wet or melted or something, inside the little compartments, which click shut. If you worked it out mathematically, it was about $100 loss, but worse, it wiped out my Xanax, and you can't just get that shit refilled whenever. So within a day and a half I was in full withdrawal, with bugs in my skin, ringing in my ears, shaking violently, and my mouth felt like it was a) having carpet installed, and b) being electrocuted. I do not recommend experiencing Xanax withdrawl, and in fact, people die from it. B's dad was put on .25 mgs a day last year, but stopped because he was too sleepy, and BAM! He had a heart attack and almost died. In contrast, I take 3 mgs a day, so I should totally be six feet under. It's the worst feeling ever, like your skin is being grated off, but your tongue is of no use to you, so you can't tell anyone. I got the prescription refilled yesterday so I ought to resume my role as the marginally insane loudmouthed bitch you all know and tolerate because you like B.

THE GOOD NEWS:

The remodeling in the back bathroom is finished, and there is no trace of sawdust or wood chips.

THE BAD NEWS:

The super nice guy who remodeled said bathroom charged Todd $1,700 more than his bid. Apparently he raised his rates between the time he emailed Todd his quote, and the time he finished our bathroom. Poor Todd, no sooner does he earn a fucking dollar, then it gets sucked away immediately, usually by some surgery of mine. I like to have one each year, so I can spend my convalescence at B and Adam's house, getting addicted to TV series on DVD. In any event, now Todd has to find someone else to remodel the front bathroom, which is way ghetto, and I have to chew my carpeted tongue off trying not to complain and burden him with my haste.

THE GOOD NEWS:

Gail bought a house and is moving in today!

THE BAD NEWS:

Why can't I buy a house and be moving today? Haven't I served my sentence here? Oh yeah, I think maybe God had to put earplugs in during the phone meltdown.

THE GOOD NEWS:

At last check, Obama was eight points ahead of the chipmunk, and at the risk of seeming overly confident, I've got my eye on the prize.

THE BAD NEWS:

Fuck. He's going to get assassinated. Best case scenario, the Republicans will rig the election again, but I worry a lot that Obama will actually be taken out. Like Paul Wellstone. It still happens people.

THE GOOD NEWS:

Certain friends aren't pregnant.

THE BAD NEWS:

I've been manic for two weeks.

THE GOOD NEWS:

I'VE BEEN MANIC FOR TWO WEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEKS!! (Do you know how much I can get done during a manic episode? Though, I do talk like an auctioneer on meth, according to B.)

THE BAD NEWS:

It seems I no longer stop for yellow lights, nor lights that are inarguably red. You probably ought to know that if you're getting in my car.

THE GOOD NEWS:

When all else fails, this song will get you through virtually anything. The lyrics are heinous, and once you start playing it, you cannot stop, and sometimes that means Maia gives herself a dyke haircut, and sometimes it means you are accidentally dancing, screaming the f-word, when the dryer repairman comes. Whatever.

Good times.