Hi!

I’ve been trying to write this post for about three weeks, but whispers of “restraint of pen and tongue” keep reigning me in. I’m not miserable and angry all the time – it’s just lately these bitter feelings have been sharply pointed at specific people and I am disappointed in myself for that. I am heart-sick and furious. But my sweets Nay-Nay and Heaven have been saying that these feelings are not who I am, that they are what I am feeling, and I have reason and rights to feel my feelings. I have been yelling quite a bit – the hot-blooded Italian in me emerges! But it is better to yell than to bottle this bitterness.. in the bottom.. of so many bottles.

So much has been going on! Beyond my derailment by the hystie and hormones and sadness, I am also experiencing something that I have heard other COOL KIDS talk about but have not experienced myself: sensory memory! I am in the midst of Anniversary Season. My birthday (41 years!) was a couple of weeks ago February 18^th, Slushkitty Lives!’s anniversary (1 year!) is March 20^th, and my sober anniversary (2 years… in CK anyway with a couple unfortunate drinking episodes!) is April 13^th. When I think about how different things are now than they were two years ago and how different things were one year ago, I want to drink. Just kidding! Bad joke for this audience. Every single thing is different and I am so grateful for even having feelings, but some things simply hurt so much more. I don’t know where a sensible place to start is, so I’ll dive into the Winter of 2010-2011 when I lost my very last marble and found God. Kidding again! Well, kind of. I found Love.

Tragedy and horror aside, my last days of drinking were a knee-slapping, side-splitting laugh riot. After 20 years of shamefully and violently belly-flopping my way through life as an addict and alcoholic – friendships, boyfriends, roommates, restraining orders, therapists, medications, cities coast-to-coast, naps on busy sidewalks and on strangers’ lawns, jobs, psychiatric wards, etc… – it took only a few relatively minor events within the matter of only a couple of weeks, and a huge mean-spirited shove from my EX-boyfriend “The Prince of Hell”, that made me finally sell out and surrender my glamorous life in exchange for the boredom and gloom of COOL KIDS. I kid. That is what I thought of COOL KIDS then. Now I know it’s the best place on Earth. Kiss kiss and xoxoxo.

The Prince of Hell has starring roles in a couple of these events, so I need to set the stage. I want, and will attempt, to be a graceful, sober-hearted, and sympathetic member of COOL KIDS and try very hard to contain the blinding rage I still have for him. I’m going to stick to the facts. I’ll try to be fair – even monumental assholes deserve a fair shake. (Oh, lighten up).

I mentioned in earlier posts that after my cancer scare a few years ago, I started on-line dating (my face now red) and having no standards, I went out with every chump who believed the sugar-coated life I whipped up for my profile (ha ha! Kind of like the employer chumps who believed the sugar-coated “contract work” I whipped up to fill in the chunks of time on my resume when I was in reality unemployable). TPoH was the last chump that I went out with. So, a couple of glaring clues from Date One with TPoH that could have perhaps spared me some of his emotional brutality down the road completely escaped me. Clue #1: his profile picture was of him and his most recent girlfriend “Saint Kind and Compassionate” with half her face cropped out, presumably the good half. Hissss. He looked so very (and uncharacteristically) happy in that picture. He never looked happy with me and I was Hell-bent on changing that. Clue #2: he was texting St. KAC during our entire date and showing me pictures of her new hair cut, of her cat, of her feeding the hungry and healing the sick in Guatemala, etc…. Later, he would tell me that back in the mid-90s when I had my lips wrapped around a crack-pipe, she was washing the feet of Jesus Christ Himself. I’m exaggerating but only a little – he did compare us all the time and he wasn’t entirely wrong about the speed-freak v. saint comparison. Anyway, I told him he was being sort of rude texting her in front of me, to which he replied, “Jealousy is ugly”. I was ashamed of myself. I agreed – jealousy indeed is ugly. How could I criticize this forthright and honest man, this good man! Slushkitty is catty. He will help me change that. He will save me.

As if Date One wasn’t bad enough, how’s this: I had to skip Date Two we had planned for the following weekend because I was in a psychiatric ward. I couldn’t even call him to cancel because my phone was dead and the psych warden wouldn’t give me a phone charger because I might’ve hanged myself with the cord. I guess there’s a first for everything. I don’t remember why I told him the wicked embarrassing truth about why I couldn’t make the date. It may have been because I wanted to be honest with this forthright, honest, kind man – wanted to open up and surrender that last speck of self-esteem I had left to him. It may have just been because I couldn’t come up with a clever excuse. It may have been because it was a totally normal event in my life – I was due for an involuntary vacation anyway. It may have been because I thought if he could accept me for who I was — former speed freak, current mental patient, do not call me an alcoholic — then maybe this could have been the beginning of a beautiful and healthy relationship. He will save me.

On Date Two, he picked me up at an out-patient program that I had to go to as a condition of the psych hospital releasing me AMA (that’s “Against Medical Advice” to those of you not in-the-know). There are so many things wrong with that.

Date Three lasted about eight dreadful months and ended with me half-dead whimpering in a church basement on April 13^th.

Now, here’s where the “restraint of pen and tongue” law confuses me. The point of describing this relationship is not to disparage TPoH (no! really!), but to illustrate what a sick cookie I was, to illustrate how different things are now, to illustrate that the program works. But I am seeing very little improvement in this area so I am contradicting myself!!! I have dipped my toe in the pool of love twice in sobriety and both times pool sharks chewed my foot off. You know the pool sharks, right? They’re like dented cans. The funniest thing I ever heard at a COOL KIDS meeting was advice someone was given on dating other COOL KIDS. The advice was “don’t shop in the dented can aisle”. That slays me! But despite myself, I fall in love with dented cans allllll the time still. Read “Imaginary Boyfriends” – not much has changed. You can read about the first relationship at the very beginning of Slushkitty – my dear CM. The other relationship was with “BB24” but I am being reigned in by the “restraint of pen and tongue” law again, so I’ll stop before I start. But actually, now that I think about it, there’s a lot of improvement. Neither lasted anywhere near eight months.

So, the relationship part of Anniversary Season has me in a bad mood. I started making a whole-hearted effort on my 4^th Step several months ago – I dragged my heels and then I unexpectedly got swept away by my gut-wrenching (literally and emotionally) adventures in Hysterectomyland and put it aside. With the relationship season memories, I am reminded of being heart-burned by guys who were at “best” abusive to me, and at least not available to me in the way I need(ed). I am not sad anymore that things didn’t work out, but I am being relentless in beating the shit out of myself for, in sobriety, still not being able to see what was happening in front of me, settling for so much less than I deserve/want/need/blah/blah/blah. With the 4^th Step stuff, I dragged up some recent and ancient and always agonizing relationship memories and heartaches, and I find myself sponsor-less and naked from the ankles down (gasp! So racy!) and the pool sharks are circling.

But alas! If I start getting down about my (lack of) romantical love and my (not) doing 4^th Step work, I need to remember that I certainly do not have a lack of Love in my life. I know this may sound trite, but even though I feel like I am re-living all these rotten relationships, I am NOT. I’m right here and am right where I am supposed to be (I both hate and love when the clichés are appropriate). I can think of at least seven people that not only did not back away from me slowly when I was yelling but circled around me closer. I’ve been full of frustration and hatred for weeks and finally detonated. I know my mostest and closest know how scared I am, but maybe they don’t know how scared I was thinking that if they knew the level of bitterness I harbor, they wouldn’t like me anymore. When I was drinking, I would harbor resentments, for sure. But when I was drinking and would detonate (especially towards the end of my drinking career – this time of year two years ago), I certainly most assuredly would lose “friends”. Now my Friends with a capital F invite me over to watch “Fashion Police” and call and text and IM and cheer me up… because they like me!!! Imagine that! And I like them! I’d go so far as to say we love each-other and we want to see all of us happy! I didn’t have anything like this this time of year two years ago. It’s anniversary time! Happy Anniversary indeed!

xoxox

Hi!

I found a funny (transcribed) conversation I had with a customer last summer. It goes a little something like this….

him: do you sell cable modems?

me: yes.

him: can you tell me information?

me: sure. what information would you like?

him: information about the cable modem.

me: product information? or are you looking to purchase one?

him: yes.

me: what would you like to know?

him: what cable modems do you have?

me: what do you mean?

him: what is the price?

me: we don’t sell them direct. We sell them through retailers and online.

him: what is the price?

me: I can’t give you an exact price since we don’t sell them to end-users. Are you at a computer? All the prices are listed.

him: I want you to tell me.

me: I can’t give you an exact price. I can give you a range.

him: what is the price?

me: the range is about $120-$150.

him: what is 120?

me: what do you mean?

him: you said 120. What is this?

me: it’s a price.

him: is it the speed?

me: it’s a price.

him: tell me about dial-up modems. what do you have?

me: what are you looking for?

him: tell me about them.

etc…

Hi!

I am back at work, so you know what that means…. I can get back to blogging! Being on disability for the last nine weeks kept me terribly busy, terribly terribly busy – mostly watching “Judging Amy” and spending crazy amounts of money on things to help make me feel girly again (i.e. eyelash extensions, massages, a bra fitting and the subsequent fortune spent on new ones, etc…). And I was recovering (and still am and will be for a while) from my hystie, got the flu – like the flu flu – not a cold, there was a death in the family, and my house caught on fire. Terribly busy I was. Yoda I am. Details as follows:

* eyelash extensions – lasted two days, not ten as advertized. But they were a fun two days… even though no one noticed… sheesh!

* massage – so-so.

* new bras – I flashed Celery and her mom this weekend. They asked for it. Really! They did!

* hystie update – physically I am fine, emotionally and mentally a wreck. Menopause, jumbled/absent hormones, psych meds, a constant sadness over the emotional devastation of it all – they collectively suck the big one. I feel like I am going insane – I really do mean that literally. I’ve been agonizing over whether it’s necessary to dissect each feeling and categorize them accordingly, so I can have an understanding of why I, oh, I don’t know, mourn my cats’ deaths from that fire (more on that below) while they’re actually sitting on my head and purring on my lap all safe and sound; get consumed and nearly crippled by a social awkwardness and anxiety that I thought was much further behind me and then destroy myself for realizing it’s right on the surface like it’s always been; am so emotionally vulnerable that I feel like the world is out to get me when in fact the world is embracing me … except for “Baffley” – who you’ll meet in my next post – who challenges and picks apart my every exposed emotional nerve, for better or for worse or for not at all because I’m making it all up and I am in no position/condition to argue or even address it, and this is the world’s longest run-on sentence. More thoughts on the understanding of the chaos in my head, heart, and soul later, when you meet Baffley. It’s a cliff-hanger!

* the flu – my boss is out with the flu today! Booyah! Maybe he’ll be a zombie for the next two weeks like I was. OK – it was more like a week, week and a half.

* death in the family – My great-uncle, my grandmother’s brother “Don”. He was 96. His name was actually John but the Guido Mafioso priest at the burial kept calling him “Don”. I didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. Auntie was yelling from the back, “He’ll never get into Heaven this way!” = laugh. A Navy sailor performed “Taps” while two other sailors ceremoniously folded the American Flag and handed it to his son = cry.

* house on fire – it was the house attached to mine, I live in a row house. I was watching TV in my pajamas on my shiny new couch with my shiny old cats when out of nowhere my apartment was stormed by and swarmed with firefighters! The cats did the “Tom and Jerry” running in place thing then flew under the bed. The firefighters told me to grab my coat and shoes and leave and I freaked the fuck out about my cats. They told me to lock them in the bedroom so they wouldn’t get out of the house. Yeah, right. I stood outside in the rain weeping while the entire population of South Boston, a news crew, and countless firemen scrambled for updates and hoses, respectively. I posted pictures on Facebook. My nerves were shot for days, but everyone was fine.

I am fine, too, when you think about it, but don’t think about it too hard.

Loveyoumeanitbbiab.. xox

Hi!
I’ve written a Christmas Story for you. It’s about Mary, Mother of God, as told by Mary, Mother of God. 

Hello! My name is Mary and I am a virgin (fingers crossed). This is my true story. What is entirely omitted in the Bible about me is that I was a kid at one point, just like everyone else, and I did have some fun; I was not always a saint. I’ll take it from the top…

I had a regular, uneventful childhood, nice parents, lots of Love and prayer, I had a little lamb. I was sent to a prep school called The Future Saints of the New Testament. We were also known as the Girls Awaiting Halos. One day there was all this chatter and excitement that God has started window shopping for a young girl (creepy?) to carry his child – the Messiah, the Father of Heaven and Earth. It was the All-Time-Most-Holiest-of-Holy coveted position in all of God’s green Earth now and forever AMEN! Being the biggest (and cutest) prude in all of Nazareth, the rumor was that that girl was to be ME! (Not sure how I feel about that reputation, whatevs). But Mother of God!! I could be the mother of God??? And so indeed it was decided that I was to be The Mother of God. Yay! Holy news travels fast and in no time all the land knew of my Divine fate. The fellas, they wept for I’d never marry and soon I’d be the stay-at-home mom of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

One day, I’m chilling at home trying to figure out my Hello Kitty Chastity Belt, and some holy and high priest waltzes in and was like, “I care not of this hullabuloo. Chop chop, kid. You’re getting married – we’re short on girls”. My parents freaked out at this no-notice change of plans for the rest of my life – they gave a vow that I’d bear God’s kid, an immaculate conception for God’s sake! Plus they already had everything monogrammed – S.o.G. (Son of God) bibs and blankets, M.o.G. (Mother of God) linens and towels! So, my mom and dad and this priest argued for days then finally agreed to let a bird decide. Yeah – a bird. Not me. A bird. An oracle instructed that every man of the house of David should bring a rod to my Temple. If one of the rods flowers, then its owner will be engaged to me. Now, I might be 12 and I certainly have never seen a “flowering rod” but it sounds shady. a little Sodom and Gomorrah-ish, sounds a little gay – a bunch of guys taking their rods out while everyone looks at them and waits for a flower? Anyway, reluctantly, this really sweet but really really old dude named Joseph takes out his rod. It flowers, a dove comes to rest on it, and so he is chosen as my fiance. Great. The bird couldn’t have landed on a younger rod? I mean, not a smaller rod, but a younger rod. Joe is crazy old! He’s 90! 90!!! He’s a widower, was married for 49 years, has six kids, poor guy is so old he can’t remember how many grandkids and great-grandkids he has. So, he was born in like 90 BC, and when the kid gets here the year will be, what, zero BC? Zero AD? Whatever – AD, BC, all I know is that all that would be happening in the bedroom of Joe and yours truly is ED, if you know what I mean. He couldn’t deflower this virgin if he even wanted. Indeed if would have to be an immaculate conception! Those guys are sneaky.

I got depressed and told the Girls Awaiting Halos the dealio and they were like, “Whaaaa? Aren’t you supposed to be a virgin forever?”, and I was like, “I know, right?!”, and they were like, “Whatevs – BACHELORETTE PARTY!!! Woooohoooo!!!” They were so excited, and planned this wicked fun girls’ get-away weekend to The Dead Sea. It was fabulous! They dressed up the camels in wedding veils and Bedazzled the saddles, and painted the camels’ toenails hot pink, and our cheery caravan set off for a spa retreat. It was fun! We slept late, floated on the sea all morning, had brunch of olives and figs, milk and honey. We had our hair braided with shells and rosary beads. One night, one wonderfully enchanted night, the Girls and I went to a club to see this pop band called “The Wise Men”. And there he was – the Little Drummer Boy – pa rum pum pum pum indeed… and a hubba hubba, too. (Don’t freak out – we’re totally the same age). I looked at him. And then he smiled at me pa rum pum pum.. and it was all over – I was lovesick. We spent the entire night talking talking talking and laughing, holding hands and making sand angels… and we French-kissed! Sadly, the weekend had to end and I had to go home to Pops (Joe). Little Drummer Boy told me he was on tour with the band, and was scheduled – barring rapture, frogs, locusts, etc… – to be in Nazareth at the end of December. He said this would give me enough time to sort out the marriage/Mother of God/virgin mess so we could be together forever… and forever I would wait for my drumming dream boat.

Back in Nazareth a few months later, I was doodling “Mary n’ Drummer Boy 4-eva” and “Mrs. Mary Drummer Boy”, and the archangel Gabriel barrels through the window and scares the shit out of me – I scream, he laughs. Total jerk. Then he announces to me that I am to be the mother of the promised Messiah and I’ll be conceiving Him through the Holy Spirit. I threw my hands up in holy frustration and asked, “Is this your final answer? You have another lifeline you can use. Do you want to call God and get final confirmation on this because you’re being wicked wishy-washy and I am getting really annoyed!!!” Gabe was like, “The final answer is.. all three! The Father, Son, and The Holy Spirit! You win!” I just walked out of the room – I have to accept the fact that I will never get a straight answer out of these angels and priests. And then a number of months after my conversation with Gabe, Joe also got confirmation of my conception in a dream by yet another angel. Joe was confused (remember he’s 90 and none of this makes any sense anyway) but the angel told him to be unafraid and take me as his wife, which he did, thereby formally completing the wedding rites. Joe was like, “Phew! I dodged a stoning with that one!”.

The wedding reception was supposed to be a small gathering of family and a few close friends, but the paparazzi caught wind of my immaculate conception / marriage to a 90-year-old scandal and it was a mess – there were pterodactyl flying overhead with cameras – it was just awful. We were able to move the party inside and it ended up being a lovely day… except everyone kept pinching my cheeks and telling me I look fat, chubby as a cherub. Someone actually said I look “jolly”! I’m like, “Jolly?! Jolly like Santa Claus!?” They were like, “who?” and I was like, “nevermind”.

But then later that night it occurred to me – I put my hands on my belly – OMG – I have a Baby Jesus Bump! But who’s the Father?!!! I was warned about this in school. Mother Superior told us that if we French-kissed a boy, we’d get pregnant.. and here I am – pregnant!!! But all these angels are fluttering around telling everyone that I was chosen to carry the Messiah! (You’d think if the Holy Spirit knocked me up already, I’d know about it, right? Like, sparklers would shoot out of my belly button or something). How can I be sure who the father is! O! And My Little Drummer Boy will be here anyday! How the hell (make sign of cross on belly) am I going to explain this one??? I threw a tizzy of Biblical proportions and I can’t even ask God for guidance, given the circumstances. I’d have Hell to pay.

Anxiety-ridden, distraught, and puffy, I moped around the house dreaming of Little Drummer Boy. Joe didn’t want to see me unhappy, and thought a trip to the mall in Bethlehem might cheer me up. I should have known from the start that the trip was going to be a fiasco when the first thing we had to figure out was how to get me on an ass. I had to sit side-saddle, for obvious reasons, and it was murder on my own ass. Then halfway there.. my Holy Water broke! By my calculation, this is when Little Drummer Boy and his band The Wise Men showed up at my place and no one was home. They asked the neighbors if they knew where we went and they thought maybe the Star of Bethlehem Mall. The band had picked up a choir of angels along their travels, and the choir kept singing to them “oh come ye oh come ye to Bethlehem. Come and behold him, born the king of us angels. Oh come let us adore him! We think we see a light! Do you see what we see?”.

I seriously could not go another step – I had to get off that ass STAT and give birth to the Savior of the World. We stopped at a barn and asked the owner if he minded if I gave birth to the Overseer of his Soul in his barn, and he was like, “go for it”. And so I did and what a magical experience! Jesus Christ was SO cute – he looked like a be-haloed Glow-worm! I couldn’t really tell if he looked like the Little Drummer Boy and I have no idea what the Holy Spirit looks like (does anyone?), so I kept my trap shut. We were all pretty speechless actually. And then my Little Drummer Boy showed up with The Wise Men and the choir of angels and some of the things they picked up in the gift shops of the various kingdoms they had gigs in – gold, frankincense, myrrh – and they had just stopped off at Starbucks and brought me and Joe hot chocolate. The Baby Jesus slept, and the rest of us stayed up all night laughing softly about who our favorite reindeer was and why, and telling stories of how we’d each been naughty and nice that year. Little Drummer Boy and I just smiled longingly and lovingly at each other knowing we had a beautiful secret about JC’s dad. We’d never know… and even if we did, we’d certainly never tell….

Merry Christmas, my darlings!

xoxox
Mary (M.o.G.)

Hi!

oh.
** “Indians” = “Native Americans”. I have a funny story of my very first days in San Francisco. I was sitting in a bar (go figure) with my friends one afternoon, and this dude walked by with nothing on but a loincloth, war paint, a Mohawk, and a spear. Just walking down the street. No one turned around. Nothing to see here, people. I was like “WHOA! DID YOU GUYS SEE HIM?!?!?!?” And they were like, “Yup! Welcome to Haight Street!”.. and I knew I was home. WELL, I told that story the first time I shared at a meeting and I referred to the guy as an “Indian”. It was the FIRST time I had ever shared and was shaking and terrified. Some PC dickhead in the meeting CORRECTED ME!!!! “Your story about the man dressed as a Native American…”. WHATever! Now I am all self-conscious and worried I am going to offend someone by not being PC. He loses though. Now I am deliberately offensive. Fag.

Hi!

“The Girl with the Uterus Tattoo” hosted a Going-Away Party for my Uterus last night! Perfect, huh? Thank you to those of you who came – it meant a lot to me.  “Cassie” wasn’t able to make it, so instead sent me The.Best.Email.Ever. Here it is!:

“I’ve compiled a brief, not at all comprehensive list of things you can do without a uterus, for inspiration during and after your recovery:

*learn how to pole dance

*marathon America’s Next Top Model/What Not to Wear/trashy TV show of choice

*run an actual marathon, if that’s your idea of fun (it is not mine.)

*build a canoe

*visit the zoo that’s somewhere around here

*become a phone sex person

*continue to have the best sense of personal style I’ve ever seen

*get more tattoos. get a tattoo of a uterus!

*sync Pink Floyd with Wizard of Oz

*be a good cat mamma

*learn French

*learn Elvish

*learn how to swear fluently in sign language

*move to Cambridge

*continue writing your hilarious-but-poignent blog

*become a standup comedian

*write a bestselling humor book. become rich and famous.

*grow tomatoes

*create artwork from items you find in dumpsters

*become a stunt double

*marry a longshoreman

*balance the US budget, eliminate our national debt

*build ships in bottles

*start to build ships in bottles, get frustrated, throw ship-in-bottle kit out of a fifth-story window

*watch Community #sixseasonsandamovie

*create eye-gougingly cheery collages from women’s health magazines

*run naked through the streets

*go to lots of AA meetings!

*run naked through lots of AA meetings!

*start your own business making handmade but affordable cat treats

*go to Disneyland

*go to Disneyworld

*learn the ukulele

*bake a loaf of banana bread

*learn CPR. use CPR skills to save random person on the subway

*laugh at the misfortune of people menstruating

*save tons of money on tampons

*repaint your apartment

*go see a movie

*sponsor someone and relish the power of making someone else make a gratitude list for once!

*start a gang of ovary-less women. get matching t-shirts and leather jackets. roam the streets.

*win the lottery

*lose the lottery

*chair Live and Let Live

*start a new meeting in Davis Square. I am a very lazy woman.

*write, direct, produce, and star in your own dramedy about sobriety

*learn bird calls

*learn whale calls

*learn catcalls

*get coffee with me before a meeting, when we’re both back on our respective feet

*go up the down escalator

*do the gangnam style dance

*floss twice a day.”.

­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­­

Below is the Second Best Email I have ever received. It is an unfortunate snag in the mild and sublime language barrier:

_____________________________________________________________

From: “Kara”

Sent: Thursday, December 29, 2011 6:05 AM

To: “Pim”; “Eliza”
Subject: SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F status

Hi, Pim and Eliza!

Our SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F has a status of “special order”. This is incorrect – it’s a current product. Can you change this on the site?

Thank you!

Kara

______________________________________________________

From: Eliza

Sent: Thursday, December 29, 2011 10:36 AM
To: Kara; Pim
Subject: RE: SKU: DQ1617, MFG#: 4597-00-00F status

Sure Kara, just give me a moment. I just came on my desk.

Thanks 🙂

Best Regards,

Eliza

______________________________________________________

No, no. Thank YOU, Eliza!

Hi!

I intended to have my 2-part then-and-now tragicomical little blog post be about the 2008 presidential election season and my 2008 ovarian cyst – what it was like 4 years ago and how different things are now. But then shit got real: a couple of things stayed the same. The good “same” is that my honest and trustworthy boyfriends got re-elected. The bad “same” is that the gross ovarian blob (now more varieties for the same great price!) of 2008 slithered back into my body. That was totally unexpected. That totally harshed my boner. This past May I was told that there was a 95% chance my cysts would not return. This past Thursday I was told they did and I have to have a hysterectomy. What a mind-fuck!! Well hell, crown me “Miss 5%” and tell the Bearded Lady she’s about to get some competition!

Then – October / November 2008

So, my last blog and my last blob, where was I? Yes, launching republican Aquarians into outer space, returning from the emergency room to watch Joe and Sarah debate, languishing miserably (but oh so high) at home alone with my big twisty cysty. I had surgery a few days later – they had to take out my poor little right ovary, too, because the cyst was so obnoxious. My recovery from surgery was the happiest time I had had in so so so many years – being all bandaged and balloony, alone, my only job – the only thing I could do – was whimper, stare blankly at the TV, and heal. No one expected anything else from me – I couldn’t let anyone down. And things got even better! I’m not kidding. I got called in early for my follow-up appointment and got the news that my cyst was malignant. WINNING! Seriously, it was as if I won the lottery. God finally threw me a bone, a meaty bone. I’ve written before about my drinking life and the suicidal ideation, and fantasies of martyrdom. Cancer = perfect. Tumors from Heaven! It would be an innocent death! I wouldn’t have to do anything, again, not let anyone down, just hang on and be brave, be brave… be patient – it’ll all be over soon.

I am very lucky that I have never had anyone close to me suffer and die from cancer, but I have seen “Dying Young” a hundred times, so I get the gist, and still that seemed a more appealing fate than carrying on with life the way I was. Quitting drinking was not an option – duh – it wasn’t a problem so why would I stop? Anyway, when my GYN gave me the news, she followed it by saying, “You’re going to die.. but not for a long long time and it’s not going to be from this”.  DISAPPOINTED! So, I got a second opinion. He said the same. DISAPPOINTED! He said I am going to be fine, and I just need to have ultrasounds and blood tests every six months for the rest of my long life. GROSSED OUT AND DISAPPOINTED!

Now, you might think I’d have taken an honest look at things and considered making some changes, like with my health (wanted to die = non-issue), or my lifestyle (why? What’s the problem?). No. I started panicking about my age. I was 36. If I wanted to have kids, which I certainly most assuredly without a doubt did indeed, I’d have to get that party started. “Screen Name: Slushkitty. Likes: Long walks on the beach and dating assholes”. Let on-line dating begin! The on-line dating lasted about 2.5 years until I got sober 1.56 years ago. I got a couple of catastrophic relationships out of it… and a trip to Mexico to play with spider monkeys.. with a closet alcoholic. Despite the infuriation and humiliation, I do believe I had to go through the on-line dating experience, it was on my path. I did after all have a couple of dates with an angel “Bed” – I’ve mentioned him before – who I asked to take me to my first meeting after I hit my bottom with “&^%$#@” who bullied and pushed me screaming over the edge and straight into my moment of grace, into sobriety.

Now – November 2012

For the past four years, quite remarkably, I have been keeping the appointments and having those delightful ultrasounds and blood tests. A couple of times I was hoping for bad (good) news, but mostly I was apathetic. In sobriety, I really haven’t had any emotions around them at all – they’re just routine and everything always comes back pretty and pink. The malignancy I had four years ago was non-invasive and the whole ordeal was over before it started. It was no big whoop. As I mentioned, I went in May for my routine check-up, and my oncologist said everything was just fantastic and there was only a 5% chance of it coming back. Well, I found out Thursday the bitch came back and brought a couple of friends. My Little Ovary That Could can’t anymore, so I have to have a hysterectomy next Saturday. These are my lady parts being bid adieu: ovary, simple appearing ovarian cyst, complex ovarian cyst, endometrioma cyst, uterus, fallopian tube, and cervix. GROSSED OUT AND TERRIFIED!

The shock has sort of worn off, and the nearly paralyzing fear comes and goes in waves. There are so many things to worry about and I’m having more emotions than I can identify. I knew that I would probably get a bucketful of kindness and compassion from my loved ones but Holy Shit, Batman!  I don’t want to get too sappy because I kind of feel like I need to save some material for my speech at my living memorial service (I’m 50% kidding – I’m 100% terrified). The Love that I have been overwhelmed with makes my lady parts want to throw a hoedown, square-dance, and scream “Yeeehaw!” to celebrate their last week on earth! On behalf of my lady parts, I would like to say, “Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. Thank you for making these past 1.56 years possible and almost impossibly lovely”.

My friend suggested a throw a Going Away Party for my uterus and I think that’s the most brilliant idea I’ve heard in recent memory. What do you say, guys! If I throw it (at someone else’s house), will you come? I think it should be egg-themed. Yeeehaw! (I’m totally serious about the party).

xoxox 

Hi!

This is not an entry about the election, but rather the election season. Let me first just urge you to Vote! (Ladies, if it gives you a little more incentive, cute guys are always at the voting places! That’s why I vote anyway).

Anyway, like many of my kind, I was prescribed benzodiazepines for the debilitating anxiety I experienced pretty much every day when I was still drinking. The fright caused by an anxiety attack cannot be overstated. People throw it around very liberally, “I was sooo scared! I totally had an anxiety attack!”. I’m like, “Oh really? Did they lock you up against your will in the nut-house for it, too?”. So many people have similar stories about hang-over anxiety attacks that landed them in the ER. The first ER I went to just wouldn’t let me leave. They sent me to a glorified drunk tank (plants, sunshine, yoga, WHATever) for alkies and other colorful people with good insurance, a safe place for them to stay while they waited to go to some treatment facility, which was out of the question for me. Why the hell would they treat a heart attack at a rehab? I went to the ER because I was dying, not for whatever it was they were insinuating I had. I truly had no idea what I was doing there and was none too pleased about it. Ooo I was so pissed at my doctor. I got out of the hospital and called him immediately (immediately after finishing the lemon juice and vodka, that is – I was into lemondrops at the time) to scream at him. He screamed back that I am an alcoholic. I was stunned! What did he just say to ME?! I fired him that minute. The nerve on that quack – how dare! But that’s an entirely different story altogether.

I became fond of benzos. Some doctors, as you may know, over-prescribe benzos. I ate so many and still had plenty on reserve, and got into the alarmingly dangerous habit of occasionally taking way too many at once. I wasn’t trying to kill myself – it was just this kooky compulsion. So, one day, four years ago, I went with that compulsion, and woke up (luckily!) with this dull pain in my abdomen and a squishy blob so big I could feel it under my skin. I was like, “Ah shit. I’ve gone and done it this time!”. I went to the doctor… a month later. It’s funny in a sad and troubling way that, looking back, I panicked because I thought I caused physical damage from Ativan, but it never crossed my mind that I could have done any physical damage from alcohol. Denial may have spared me further anxiety – it served a purpose whether right or wrong, it was neither here nor there – that’s just how I rolled, homies. I was tempting death without realizing it, but, no worries, my body was just fine! Except for the shaking. And the vertigo. And the anxiety. And the hallucinations. Oh I Googled “brain damage” a zillion times – there was undeniably something very wrong with my brains in the clarity and perception departments – they were brittle and shaky to such distraction. There must be a reason for this condition. But what is it? What is it? What ever could it be!

Back to le lump… so, I finally took a couple of Ativan and went to the doctor and had a bunch of tests done. It turned out I had a Goodyear Blimp-sized cyst on my ovary. They remove cysts when they’re over 4cm and mine was 11cm. I do everything BIG! (<– said with jazz hands). So, they scheduled surgery for the next week or so. I wasn’t in pain – just grossed out that I had a grapefruit-sized cyst hanging off my grape-sized ovary. It’s all about fruit. But then the cyst, she twisted. PAIN. I was delirious with pain. I was in so much pain I didn’t know what to do and couldn’t figure out how to get to the ER or if I should even go to the ER, so I decided to pass out on the bathroom floor and worry about it later. Luckily again, I woke up in the morning and went right to the hospital. This was the day of the Sarah Palin – Joe Biden debate….

I spent the better part of that day delighting in a steady stream of morphine, tripping from Starlight to Moonville, on a rocket to The Fourth Dimension (name that musical). Surgery was moved up a few days, I was sent home with a pile of Percocet, and I made an ill-advised but predictable stop at the liquor store. At that time, exactly four years ago, there’s no way I could have watched 90 minutes of winking “you betcha!”s without being drugged, so I guess the twisted cyst had good timing. Now, I am having an extraordinarily hard time putting into words how I feel about Mrs. Palin without being judgmental. I had a visceral reaction to her, as many did, but my main horror was this: she’s AQUARIUS! Why oh why oh why oh why??? We’re supposed to be peaceful and humanitarian, unwavering in our demand for fairness and famous for our open-mindedness. Anyway, I don’t even remember that debate. What happened? Was it good? Four years later, another vice presidential debate. Again, my other boyfriend Joe Biden takes to the stage. This time I am cold stone sober as he debates Mr. Eyes Without a Face, who is also… AQUARIUS! At least these two didn’t get elected (see what I did there?). You know who else is Aquarius? DICK CHENEY! But so is Abraham Lincoln. Nelissa and I are also Aquarius, and we are both gentle and sensitive and patient. OK, I can’t say that with a straight face. Nelissa is these things – I’m working on it. Funny, I visited my friend “Dandelion” the other day, and she reminded me of the first time we hung out and exchanged phone numbers. The first text I sent her I threatened to kill her over my imaginary boyfriend – she showed me the text – she was not telling tales. I was totally kidding, of course, but she was skeptical, afraid I was a psychopath, and not the peaceful and gentle Aquarius I am meant to be, and that my cats can prove I am!

But back to planets and outer space, Aquarius are meant to be just wonderful astronauts. I think maybe I’ll mail a couple of astronaut school applications to some of the aforementioned vice presidential candidates. They can take a marvelous trip to the stars, take a break from Earth for a while. It will suit their Aquarian love of adventure.

Stay tuned for Part 2…

Hi!

Been a while.. how’s it going? I have been completely miserable and uninspired, and I have not been in the mood to ruin your day. Slushkitty! Guaranteed to depress you! Because, you know, it’s all about me and my suggestive and seductive mood-altering mind-control. Meow. I’ve been going through something so awful at work that I have spent the past four days clawing myself away from bars and liquor stores. I have been sober for 1.5 years and only twice could I have killed myself for a drink – suffering such crushing emotional despair that numbing myself, even knowing the consequences, seemed the most humane option. I live a straight 15-minute shot up West Broadway, which shall now be referred to as “Booze Boulevard”. During the first two attacks, I called every friend in the program until I got a hold of a live one – ha! I just remembered, I actually got a hold of my BFF Celery and told her I wanted to drink so badly I was homicidal and these Southie skanks better watch their fucking manners or they’ll have hell to pay, to which she lovingly and abrasively, like only a normal drinker can, screamed, “What the hell is wrong with you?! After all this time?!”. Anyway, sweet Celery stayed on the phone with me as I zig-zagged my way, crossing the street at almost every corner so I wouldn’t have to walk past a bar or a liquor store, until I made it home sweet home. This Friday, you betcha I zig-zagged up Booze Blvd. alrighty, but counterclockwise. I walked slooooooowly by every bar, surveying the scenes, asking myself logical questions – I wonder if they have cocaine? It’s been 1.5 years – that’s sort of like “never”, as in “never come back here again!” In my defense, .. I have no defense. But they probably don’t remember me anyway… right? I walked past the liquor stores remembering that they deliver! I don’t have to decide right now! I didn’t drink. Anyway, I think these past few weeks have been the worst few weeks of my sobriety – drinking crossed/bulldozed by mind starting on Friday and stopped… today maybe? I am not going to drink today. I’ll be fine. My darling angel Bambie is celebrating two years tomorrow and asked me to present her with her medallion on Friday. I am so delighted and honored and excited! I am so so happy for you, Bambie! I need my eyes to be as bright as yours. If I can’t muster the love for myself to stay sober, I can certainly love you most to stay sober. You dig, kittycat?

xoxox