Aunt Becky likes to use the phrase “You shut your whore mouth” a lot, which is one of the things I find most endearing about her. However, this week, Becks wants to interview her Internet as part of a little contest she’s sponsoring. In essence, she wants us to open our whore mouths! Well, I like few things better than talking about me with the potential to win something added in, so here’s your chance to learn some new useless trivia about me, Internet.
1) Do you like sprinkles on your ice cream?
I like sprinkles on everything. Especially Clive Owen. 
Could I have a double scoop of Clive Owen with sprinkles in a waffle cone, please? No, I don’t need a spoon. I’ll just use my…wait. What were we talking about again? I lost my train of thought.
2) If you had to choose one word to banish from the English language, what would it be and why?
Cellulite. Of course, if we’re banning the word, the ass cheese has to go with it.
3) If you were a flavor, what would it be?
I can haz flavor?
(Sorry. I couldn’t resist.)
My flavor is dark chocolate raspberry, naturally. With sprinkles.
4) What’s the most pointless annoying chore you can think of that you do on a daily/weekly basis?
Shaving my extremities. Who came up with this shit? And why am I still buying into it? We were meant to be furry, dammit.
5) Of all the nicknames I’ve ever had in my life, Aunt Becky is the most widely known and probably my favorite. What’s your favorite nickname? (for yourself)
Coco is obviously my favorite nickname, but my husband rarely calls me that anymore. I had an unfortunate period of being “Stinky” early on in our relationship (no, I don’t actually stink (much), and no, I don’t know where he came up with it), which I’ve since (also unfortunately) transferred to Badger. Yes, my child answers to Stinky. Don’t judge me.
6) You’re stuck on a desert island with the collective works of 5 (and only five) musical artists for the rest of your life. Who are they?
I can only pick 5? I guess I’ll have to go with:
David Bowie
Echo & The Bunnymen
The Rolling Stones
Tori Amos
Neko Case
7) Everything is better with bacon. True or false?
Is this a trick question, Aunt Becky? Because TRUE. I could eat bacon until my arteries crawled out through my nose to escape.
8 ) If I could go back in time and tell Young Aunt Becky one thing, it would be that out of chaos, order will emerge. Also: tutus go with everything. What would you tell your young self?
- Most guys will have sex with a tree stump if it’s reasonably attractive – and they’ll say just about anything to get sex. Sex is not love.
- Don’t “take a year off college to save money”. You’ll never go back.
- Stay away from that boy who is fighting a paternity suit. PLEASE.
- Don’t use “deep mahogany” hair dye – it turns your hair fuschia.
Check out Aunt Becky’s giveaway and Open Your OWN Whore Mouth!
The comments continue to come in on my last post, the one where I outed myself as an alcoholic beginning treatment.
All I can say is thank you, though that seems woefully inadequate.
I am so humbled by, and grateful for, every single one of you. Really. I felt so scared when I posted my confession; it is so utterly easy for me to be compassionate toward others, to prescribe gentle self-care and offer support, but it is nearly impossible for me to extend such courtesy to myself. It is so hard to believe that I deserve such an outpouring of love, but there you all are, one after the other, holding my hands, telling me you are proud of me, you believe in me. I should have known – you are amazing people, after all.
I sat and read through every comment extra carefully last night, on my mid-week break from group…and I cried and cried for nearly an hour, overcome with emotion at all you have given me. I’m trying to work my way around to thank you individually, but know this: each comment means the absolute world to me. I am holding each word close to me as I slowly begin to re-learn how to live without drinking.
On Monday, my therapist expressed some concern that I didn’t really have a support network besides my husband. Tuesday, I told her I’d written about my journey here and received some encouraging comments already. Tonight? I can proudly tell her I have an entire defensive line of support. Each day, each session, it gets slightly easier to open up, to think about how I ended up here more clearly, to learn a little more. Not that it’s a party up in here, because God knows it isn’t. It is extremely painful to confront every lie I’ve been telling myself; realizing that I most likely was about 25% as good as hiding my problem as I thought I was, plus acknowledging, again and again, that I have hurt my family, I have hurt myself, I am an addict and I will never be “cured”. It kind of sucks, even though it’s necessary.
I don’t want you guys to think I am suffering without end, however. I’m still me, I’m still here, and for the love of God, I don’t want this blog to ever become a litany of never-ending pathos. My house is decorated for Christmas. Shopping for Badger is done. My husband and I are taking him to see the best Santa Claus ever this weekend, and then we’ll have a fancy lunch and maybe go to the movies.
And really, since it’s still me we’re talking about, you’ll all be amused to know I’ve positively verified that there is no one in treatment with me who looks remotely like Viggo Mortensen in 28 Days …which is probably just as well, since in addition to the fact that I’m married to possibly the most awesome man alive, there are those pesky rules about no romantic entanglements with other patients and the whole focusing on getting better instead of flirting thing. Not to mention that my own look is closer to 28 Days Later than it is to Sandra Bullock.
Yeah, I know it’s irreverent to be joking about looking for Viggo as I begin treatment, but I’m in treatment for alcoholism, not personality removal. I’ve had a rough couple of days, and I’ll probably have more, but it’s just not in me to stay emo 24X7. Crying all the time is fucking exhausting.
On that note, I will leave you with another round of grateful, heartfelt thanks for coming along on this ride with me, and a vision of my latest incarnation:
I think the glowing eyes say “Happy Holidays – now let me eat your pancreas!”, don’t you, Internet?
P.S. I really, really do love you all. And not for your pancreases, either. Or is that pancreai?
I’m sure some of you have noticed I’ve been away more than normal. I wish I could say it was because all of the merriment of the season has carted me off to a land of holiday bliss, where the pie never makes you feel bloated and Norman Rockwell shows up to paint your family as the embodiment of joy…but that’s not entirely so.
I’ve written some difficult posts here, but not very many. Most of the time, I stay firmly on the path of cheek and semi-gentle sarcasm, with perhaps a dash of social consciousness thrown in here and there. But today I am shaking because this is, without a doubt, the hardest thing I’ve had to post here. However, it seems disingenuous to keep pretending online that I am fine and doing great and I have it all together, when the truth of my life is complex and shaming and hurtful and wretched. I am a fraud, plain and simple. There’s no way to really ease into why, so let me simply tell you this:
This week, I entered a treatment program for alcohol abuse. I have been sober since November 22nd. Today makes 9 days.
Are you surprised? Horrified? Disgusted? Betrayed? I don’t blame you. I have talked a good game, haven’t I, all the while hiding the fact that over the last 6 months or so, I have gone straight to “downward spiral with no light at the end of the tunnel except a train”. How could I, you ask? I ask myself the same thing. I have a family history of alcoholism. I know first hand how destructive it is. I know it is hurtful to my son and husband. I know all the health problems that accompany alcohol abuse. I know it is a genetically inherited disease. I know I needed to be vigilant. And still. And still. And still. Here I am.
How did I get here? I wondered, anguished and angry at myself and loathing my reflection. How did this become me?
The answer is deceptively, hideously simple: one drink at a time. There’s no question that this year has ranged from tough to actively horrific for our family. At first, it started out as a couple glasses of wine in the evenings a few times a week. Then three glasses. Then I would polish off a bottle while I fed Badger, washed dishes, did the laundry. Insidiously, it crept up on me, whispering soothing justifications in my ear.
I worked so hard all week and then came home to more work. I didn’t drink and drive; I didn’t even go out at all. I wasn’t drooling on the bathroom floor while my kid scrounged for stale cold cereal and Dr. Pepper. I kept the house clean, changed the linens, scrubbed the bathrooms and cleaned out the closets. I shouldered 99.9% the responsibility of finding help for Badger and I read him stories and cooked him dinner and made sure those teeth were brushed and got up with him every weekend. I paid the bills. I never missed work. I was an adult and I deserved this little break. I didn’t have a problem. I couldn’t.
Except I did. I do. Because people without a problem do not finish full bottles of wine and then crack open another for a nightcap after their kid is asleep. Alcoholics do that. People without a problem do not work their way up to doing this from “just” Thursdays, Fridays and Saturdays to every day. Alcoholics do that. People without a problem don’t switch from wine to vodka because it works faster.
Alcoholics do that.
I was doing that.
Alcohol is a sadistic mistress, if you are an alcoholic. I drank to ease the pain – recently, I’ve been forced to admit that the piss-poor year is merely a surface trigger to almost 40 years of self-hatred and pain that I am so adept at stuffing down – but the alcohol would wear off and the pain would still be there. I began having panic attacks. Insomnia tormented me. So I’d have a drink, just to calm down, I said. To relax me. Up. Down. Panic. Drink. Numbness. Panic. Drink. Who can tell me what comes next, class? Deep down, I knew something was wrong, I knew I needed help but I felt ashamed and scared and yes, slightly defiant. I wasn’t hurting anyone, for God’s sake. Only I knew I was. I was living this half-life, present but not really there, pretending the issue away as I rode a raft of lies down a river made of tears and broken glass.
I’ll stop this week, I promised myself over and over, Monday I’ll stop. I can. I never drank a drop while I was pregnant, and for months after, I had nothing, it was fine, I’ll be fine. I can do it.
But Monday would come and I’d have a few drinks. Then a few more.
And Tuesday.
And Wednesday.
And so on.
Finally, my husband begged me. Look at your son, he said, is this what you want for him? For you? For us?
No, I told him, gazing weepily at the sleeping form of Badger, so rosy and vulnerable, golden hair stuck up in drowsy cowlicks, clutching his ragged teddy. Of course not, no.
My sweet boy, the baby I cherish, deserves more than half a mother. My husband needs a partner he doesn’t need to constantly worry about. I need a full life, free of lies and manipulation and denial. I’ll find someone, I promised. I will.
The next day, I looked around, still a bit half-heartedly, for some help. In the light of day, once again, things didn’t seem so bad. However, I remembered my son’s face, and my promise. I found an AA meeting near my house, I searched my insurance carrier for private therapists who specialized in addictions and sent off a vague e-mail. Arrogantly, I assumed I could have a few visits, a meeting or two and be fine. Because that was working so well for me, right? Luckily, along with the half-assery, I also searched for treatment facilities. Just to see. I mean, I didn’t need inpatient treatment, I wasn’t some crazy person; I didn’t need detox and all that touchy-feely group crap. So what if I was a little shaky? But still. I’d just take a peek. I found a place called Solutions. Out of curiosity, I clicked over to their website.
Slowly, painfully, as I read, I was able to admit to myself that this was more than drying out a bit and then business as usual. Badger’s face danced in front of my eyes when I closed them. I saw him at ten, ashamed to bring friends over for sleepovers in case mom was drunk again. I saw him at fifteen, screaming at me that he’d do whatever he damn well pleased and no screwed up drunk was going to tell him how to live his life. I saw him at twenty-five, avoiding my calls and spending Christmas with anyone but me.
I saw him at four, still my baby, needing a whole mommy. I saw the time I’d stolen from him by being numb, absent, dislocated from the nights. I was stealing precious drops of life from my child, something I’d sworn never to do.
I called Solutions. It was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done, but I called and made my intake appointment, crying the entire time. While everyone else was battling it out over flat screens at Wal-Mart on Black Friday, I cried through my evaluation. I am now in an intensive outpatient program which will meet 3 times a week for 8 weeks.
Yesterday was my first group session. Hilariously and awfully, I would usually cope with new group things by “relaxing” with a few glasses of wine first. This time it is no longer an option. I hoped I’d be able to introduce myself and sit back, at least. No such luck. L, my therapist, zeroed in on me right away and she made me talk. Sober. I talked for almost the entire three hours, while she stripped away my shell and brought all the ugliness I’ve been suppressing for so long spewing to the surface in a corrosive eruption. She is not mean, but she is relentless. Probing. Unapologetic. Brutally, painfully blunt. Yet at the end, when the other 3 members of our group had gratefully made their escapes, she talked to me as tenderly as a mother while I sobbed out my anger at her for making me taste the bitter poison she’d released, and she knew it was not herself I was angry with at all, but me, most of all.
I left with the worst migraine I’ve had in five years and my eyes swollen shut, and she’s not done with me yet. I’m going back tonight, and then Thursday, and then for seven more exhausting, probing, anguished weeks of work.
It’s not supposed to be easy. I knew that going in. I suppose I know it will get worse, again, before I can begin to get better. But I intend to get better. I intend to fight. And I’m going to chronicle my journey through treatment, and into recovery, by God, right here. Because I need a support network, and I’m hoping against hope I can grab a hand in the darkness. Because maybe, when (not “if”, not anymore) I make it through this, someone else with a smiling face and hidden pain might see it, and reach out.
However, I won’t blame anyone who might feel like they need to step away from me now. Believe me, no one can despise me more than I despise myself right now. You can’t say anything more awful than I have spat at myself in the mirror. I lied here, but I lied most of all, and most convincingly, to myself. The only thing I can do is say I’m sorry, I misled you, I was wrong, and that’s why I posted this now. I don’t expect much trust, but I do beseech in my defense that so much of what I was posting, that you do know, is really me. It just wasn’t all of me, it was me pretending everything was fine for too long.
I have danced too long with the devil in that pale moonlight, but with time and work, I hope to be able to greet you all two months hence with the words that the devil’s dance is over, and I am in recovery. I stand before you stripped, now, and I know nothing can really be the same. It is terrifying and yet liberating.
Please let me have the strength to succeed.
After 3 X-Rays and 3 hours in the local ER (2 of which were spent reading a book while we all waited for the Radiologist to read the damn films), my foot is not, in fact, broken.
What I have is termed “a really ugly sprain”. This is technical medical jargon used by my Doctor in the ER, who was really cute with curly brown hair and he kind of reminded me of Wayne Rogers as Trapper in MASH (Google it if you don’t remember it, youngsters). Sadly, Dr. Trapper was about as interested in my greasy-haired, flip-flop wearing, unwashed self as he was in shoving hot forks in his eyes. Not that I was interested. Because I’m married. But that doesn’t mean he couldn’t have been interested in me, and then I could pretend to be all “Who me?” coy and nothing would come of it but I would still feel pretty hot. The moral of the story thus far, lovers, is always shower and change out of your baggy yoga pants with a ketchup stain on them before you go to the ER, because sometimes, you do get the cute doctor.
Where was I? Oh, right. The foot. Anyway, I asked about the snapping bones thing and Dr. Trapper was all “Oh, those were probably torn ligaments you felt.” Which, you know, is less reassuring than I think he meant it to be. Because as the clumsy veteran of several ill-advised years of childhood gymnastics classes, let me tell you sprains = torn things that heal slowly and painfully and often re-injure! Multiple times! It’s the gift that keeps on giving!
He also nodded thoughtfully when I mentioned the “30 Day Shred” workout and its precipitate arrival in my life just prior to The Great Foot Debacle of ‘09. “Don’t do that workout again until you’re pain-free,” He told me, and since he’s a doctor, it’s really like he’s prescribing me to lay on my ass until way, way after Christmas. Hello, it’s doctor’s orders, Jillian! Phone THAT in, you workout fascist.
So what was the end result, you all ask? No cast, no das boot. I got a really ugly post-op shoe, but despite its fashion-backward appearance, der Schuh is worth its weight in gold because it keeps my foot from flexing, which means I can actually walk without my foot swelling to the size and shape of a regulation football. Also? I got some really good drugs, so at least when I’m awake at 2 AM feeling The Foot throb, I may not get much more sleep, but I will no longer care.
Now, as to whether or not I will recommend the workout and/or continue it myself once I’ve recovered from The Foot Debacle – all kidding aside, I am going to give it another whirl, because it is a great workout and the odds of anyone who is not a Level 10 Spaz like me injuring themselves is probably little to none. Even if you think you’re close to a Level 10 Spaz, I still say go for it.* Here’s what I’ll do differently: Despite Jillian’s strict orders to do the workout every day, I will start more slowly, like every other day, until I get my endurance up and a little bit of strength. This will undoubtedly not get me massive results in 30 days, but again, my main goal here is to get in decent shape in a minimal amount of time per workout, not to look like Jillian’s Amazons. Also? I will buy myself a new pair of workout shoes and wrap my ankles for the first few times I do this. Finally, if I do re-injure myself, I will not stupidly shove my foot in a shoe, keep working out through the pain, and do further damage.
Of course, me being me, I will most likely end up injuring some other body part before I ever get a crack at it. My ass seems simply fated to be the size and shape of a movie screen. Pass the fucking eggnog.
*And I may or may not be saying all of this just in case Jillian Michaels really is the Bellatrix Lestrange of Personal Trainers. Crucio!
You all remember my vow to get my sorry ass in shape by working out to Jillian Michaels’ “30 Day Shred”, right? And in my post I may have ranted on about Jillian’s fave catch phrase a little bit and ragged on her two Amazons.
Well, as it turns out, you shouldn’t give Jillian any shit, even on a semi-anonymous blog, because apparently, she has evil magical powers.
Let me give you an example. Two weeks ago today, as I told Moonspun, I woke up with what looked like a half a purple boiled egg on the top of my left foot. Well, I was bound and determined not to miss my workout, and I figured I probably dropped something on it, as I am wont to do as The World’s Biggest Klutz, so I shoved my foot into my shoe and did my workout. So the egg flattened into a large creeping bruise and it started to look ugly. Then, it swelled. I wondered if maybe it was a spider bite; there was a bite-y mark in the very middle of the worst of it. We have a freakishly high Black Widow population here, and despite what you’ve read/seen on the SciFi Channel (oh, SyFy, sorry), their bite is painful but almost never fatal. I didn’t feel sick, my breathing was fine and I didn’t have any oozing skin necrosis or anything. So I took some ibuporfen, iced it down, and figured it would go away on its own soon enough.
You: “Coco, why didn’t you go to the doctor?”
Me: “I don’t need a doctor. It’s just a big bruise. Or maybe a bite of unknown origin. I’m FINE.”
So I resigned myself to an ugly foot, and for a few days, I kept doing my workout.
Except the foot? Was not improving much. It swelled. It began to feel weird and tingly sometimes. There were two small but painful lumps on the top of my foot and when I tried to wear my cute boots, or my cool black clog shoes that are ugly as hell but will last forever and are completely comfy, my foot actually screamed “Oh no you don’t, motherfucker! YOU WILL NOT PUT THAT SHOE ON ME!” (My foot has a serious potty mouth, doesn’t it?)(Probably from too much Pulp Fiction)(But you have to admit, the use of the word was warranted here)
That was last week. I stopped doing the workout to rest my foot a little, and figured it would improve.
You: “Coco, for the love of God, please tell me you went to the doctor at that point!”
Me: “I don’t need a doctor! It’s perfectly normal for your feet to scream in agony when you put on your super soft shearling-lined slippers! I am FINE.”
This week, something popped in my foot. Which, can we all agree, is never a good thing? And now? I can hear bones snapping if I walk too fast. Also, if I stand with too much weight on it, I can literally feel the bones giving way. While you, dear readers, are undoubtedly squirming just reading that and wondering at the state of my mind if I’ve dealt with this for 2 weeks now, I must point out that I have a super high pain tolerance – and except for the occasional semi-agonizing ping when I stepped wrong, or the shoe thing, the numb, tingly thing has me more concerned than the pain. Also, as exhibited here, I am incredibly, stupidly stubborn.
Based on the amount of bruising, swelling, bone grinding, and the length of time the foot has not improved, I am beginning to suspect I have a stress fracture in my foot. And what causes stress fractures? High impact workouts, lovers. Jillian Michaels and her butt kicks broke my foot. See what I mean about her having voodoo magic? It’s like she knew I was talking smack about her!
You: “Coco, damn it, will you please go to the doctor NOW?”
Me: “Yes, Internet, now I will.”
If I end up in a cast or surgery, I swear to God I’m billing Jillian for my co-pay.
On the bright side, I can lay around and tell my husband “I’m supposed to rest my foot! Bring me ice cream and put on the ‘V’ marathon, damn it!”
I’ll keep you posted, Internet!
A series of letters to people who have annoyed me this week.
Dear Punk on the freeway this morning, going too slow in the fast lane, yakking on the Bluetooth AND texting while weaving erratically and frighteningly into my lane,
Put your fucking phone down before you kill someone, you moron. You’re driving a crappy little Honda covered in primer, so I know the fate of the free world does not rest on your shoulders. You are not important enough to endanger my life because you want to sext your girlfriend while you’re on your way to your job at the Burger King drive-thru.
Thank you,
Coco
Dear Neighbors Behind Us Who Let Their Dogs Bark and Bark AND BARK All Hours of The Day And Night,
You are obviously not capable enough to care for a cactus, let alone two large dogs. Are you a household of Helen Kellers over there, that you don’t hear your out of control animals making enough racket to wake the dead? Really, I’m not kidding, I think corpses have actually begun to reanimate at this point from all the damn noise. If there is a zombie apocalypse, I will feed you to them straight away, because it will be YOUR FAULT. Dudes, do you seriously not hear them or are you just too high to care? Take your fucking dogs inside, train them, or get rid of them. And lay off the Mary Jane, you half-wits. You clearly can’t afford to lose any more brain cells.
Warm Regards,
Coco
Dear Homeowner’s Association Nazis:
There is nothing wrong with our front yard. You are not improving the beauty of the neighborhood by sending us these useless form letters admonishing us to “rake the bare spot at the back corner of your front landscaping so the rocks cover it evenly” because that spot is only visible if you come on our property and literally stick your nosy face into a shrub. You are, however, proving that you are a bunch of self-righteous busybody douche canoes with too much spare time on your hands. You need a hobby. Have you thought of skydiving? Perhaps competitive bitching. In any event, if I get one more pointless letter I’m going to take my rake and shove it up your collective left nostrils.
Happy Halloween,
Coco
What’s pissing you off this week, Internet?
Monday while Badger was safely at school, I finally got to watch “30 Days of Night”. Ya’ll know I love me some vampires, regardless of whether they’re scary or sexy (although if I were ever to be attacked by a vampire, I much prefer the sexy, kthxbai), and “30 Days” was about the scary kind. I’ll spare you a complete plot rundown because, you know, it’s not infused with any deep meaningful metaphors or anything. Lots of blood and creepiness about sums it up.
Anyway, there was this one scene, where a group of survivors are holed up in a hidden attic while their neighbors and friends are being systematically chowed down by the vamps (who are very messy eaters). As the screams and gurgles taper off a bit, the attic people hear a girl calling for help and at first want to rush out and save her, but Sherriff Hottie (Josh Hartnett) points out the vamps on rooftops already surrounding her. She’s bait; if they attempt to help her they will be discovered and all of them will be vamp chow. The Attic People can only watch in horror as, after determining that she has failed to bring out any new entrees, the vamps slash her and then chow down on her, too.
What’s really creepy about this scene is the looks on the faces of the Attic People. Their only two choices are equally gruesome in that situation, and they are obviously reduced to a state of utter despair, abject hopelessness and sheer misery. They are waiting to die.
That, my friends, is exactly how I felt after completing Jillian Michaels’ ”30 Day Shred Workout”. (Notice how similar the title is to “30 Days of Night”. Coincidence? I think not, young grasshopper.)
After hearing my girls Lola, Becks, and Juicy comment on how hellish good a workout it was, I picked up a copy on a whim at Target. I figured, hey, it’s only 10 bucks, and I was intrigued. I’ve been neglecting my bod for over a year and it shows. I don’t give a shit if I ever look like Jillian does, because I am not cutting out wine and chocolate and cheese for nothin’, but I really do feel better when I am working out and strong. Lately I’ve just been feeling strung out, sleeping badly, no energy, short of breath…none of this is a good thing anyway, but with a perpetual-motion Badger in the house, it’s exponentially worse. I don’t have the time or inclination to join a gym, and my workout time is limited to 5:15-5:45 AM because that Badger I mentioned? He FREAKS when I work out. I think he thinks I’m dying. And after The 30 Day Shred? I might be. Like I told Juicy & Lola, that bitch made me cry. Now she’s made me cry twice.
Lest I frighten the uninitiated away from ever trying it, let me tell you what I like (besides the 20 minutes long thing) about it. First, I like Jillian. She’s just tough enough to make me mad at her, which stirs the tiny bit of competitiveness in my soul so I must beat her, but not so tough that I actively hate her. Much. And she’s not perky. I can’t stand perky. It makes me homicidal.
Second, I like that the workout, while being extremely hard, is actually comprised of basic moves that anyone can do. Yes, you too. Jumping jacks. Push-ups. Squats and presses. Butt kicks. I’ve never been able to follow those stupid dance-y step routines where the overly perky instructors (who already make me feel homicidal, remember) are up there chirping ”OK, now a triple axe four leaf clover left step together crossover grapevine and we’ll move on!” while I am merely trying to keep from falling off the fucking step and everyone else is gliding around like a drill team. So if you’re like me, you’ll appreciate the simplicity of The Shred. Note I didn’t say “ease”. Because it is about as easy as doing dental surgery on yourself with a chainsaw not easy.
Third, when Jillian promises results in 30 days? I am inclined to believe her even at this early stage of the game. In 20 minutes, she crams a powerhouse workout in. I’m not too proud to admit I couldn’t walk yesterday without some serious wincing. I am literally shaking with exertion and begging for death 5 minutes into this thing. By the time I finish it, I’m sweating like a pig, my legs are on fire, and I am barely able to crawl into the shower. In 20 minutes.
“Wait,” you’re saying to yourself, “this doesn’t sound like fun. It sounds awful.” And it is. I ain’t lying to you. But here’s the thing: I don’t care what anyone says, all exercise is awful if you are a lazy ass like me. Yes, even yoga. Even pilates. Even belly dancing or Hip-Hop dance or ballroom dancing or whatever the hell people say they do because they just love it. I hate exercise, but I recognize and respect that I need it. I hate the gym. So I want something I can do at my house that works and works fast and hard so I can get back to being a lazy ass the rest of the day. This is it, lovers.
I mean, about halfway into it, even though I still want to die, my body begins to work. It hates me, but it is moving easier and I am getting though it. I AM BEATING JILLIAN. I know that every day, if I just keep going, it will get less horrifying, and I will get stronger and pretty soon I will be kicking Jillian’s ass and taking names. So I push myself through it.
Of course, I don’t want you guys to think I’m all crushy over Jillian. There are a few things that annoy me about this workout. For instance, Jillian uses the phrase “phone it in” excessively. Like “don’t phone it in, get deep into that squat” and “if you want to work out for 20 minutes you can’t phone it in”. I don’t really want to rip her tongue out or anything, but it is an irritant. Also, I can’t stand the 2 girls she has working out with her. I don’t know why, because they never say a word, but really, Jillian? You had to get 2 amazonian supermodels to work out with you? Bring me some short girls with pudgy thighs like me and show them kicking this workout’s butt. But that could also just be due to the general hostility I feel toward all 3 of them as I wonder if my heart might actually explode. I’m sure they’re both perfectly lovely human beings. *snort*
So there you have it, sports fans. I’m going to keep you posted on my progress (not every day because most of the posts would be essentially the same: “Today, I still hate Jillian. I cried all through the squats.”) and if you want to join in, let me know and we’ll all compare notes.
P.S. If you are in really poor condition like me, take my advice: start with 3 pound hand weights. For the love of God.
Yesterday, I stood on my front porch with a brand-new Thomas the Tank Engine backpack, holding the hand of a very excited little boy. You see, yesterday was Badger’s first day of special preschool, and he was going to ride on a real yellow schoolbus for the very first time.
Since one of his first words ever was “schoolbus”, and he points them out in ear-splitting screeches whenever we happen to pass one, you can imagine this was the equivalent of meeting all three Jonas brothers AND Edward Cullen (and/or Robert Pattinson) AND Zac Efron to your average tween girl. Yeah. He was thrilled.
“Mom, where the schoolbus?” He asked, approximately 38,247 times. As luck would have it, the bus was nearly half an hour late, and my son was filthy and hysterical by the time I made the third phone call. Fortunately, my tone of barely repressed desperation seemed to sway the Bus Gods slightly, because just as Badger was tearfully accusing me of faking the whole thing (“The bus is not come! I go inside! You a bad boy, Mom!”) the bus arrived in all its yellow, shiny glory and I was redeemed (“Oh! The BUS! The bus is HERE! OH MY BEAUTIFUL BUS!” accompanied by much gleeful clapping and dancing).
I expected a couple of tears, at least. But no. After a moment’s hesitation, the siren song of the schoolbus won him over. He bounced up the steps and sat down like he’d been riding the bus since birth, smiling and holding his backpack.
“Bye Mom!” He waved to me as the driver buckled him in. I descended the steps and blew him kisses and waved.
He looked so very small.
They were driving my baby away.
I made it until the bus exited the gate and then, as predicted spot-on by Heather, I lost it. There were tears and snot and very noisy sobs and a semi-hysterical phone call to my husband where I may or may not have unfairly speculated that Badger would end up wandering the deserted playgound alone, crying because he didn’t know where to go and it was a huge mistake for me to have let them take him and he was too little and…then I calmed down enough for my husband to ascertain that our house wasn’t being firebombed by aliens after all, but that I was merely having a breakdown over an everyday event like I normally do. Bless his heart, he soothed me and was very patient because he knows me so well.
About 5 minutes later, I felt better. Near the end of the day, I called his teacher Miss J, and she told me that he had a good first day and played nicely with two little girls (note to self: e-mail Miss J about what happens when the honeymoon period wears off because danger: wild badger).
I was almost OK with this whole deal.
Until drop off time came.
And went.
Within the next 30 minutes, I had made four phone calls to the transportation dispatcher and two to the school. I called my husband again and threatened to have everyone who worked for the bus department in a four-state radius fired. Again, bless him, he humored me and did not a) laugh or b) try and use logic on me (i.e. “Aren’t you overreacting? It’s just not possible for you to have everyone fired, you know.” which would only infuriate me and elicit a rambly, delusional response like “YES IT IS because I am the Angel of Death and I own this hellhole planet! Off with their heads!”). Finally, an HOUR after Badger was supposed to be home, the bus arrived at last. I all but rushed the poor driver, who was a substitue who got lost and who was such a nice man that I forgot all about being the Angel of Death and I just wanted my wee son back safely.*
There he was, in a seat by himself, backpack sitting neatly next to him. He was still smiling.
He still looked so very small to me, but as we descended the steps of the bus and they closed behind us, I was wrenchingly aware that the bus was really a metaphor for our lives as a family. Those shiny yellow doors were closing on the final vestiges of Badger’s babyhood. He is all little boy now, and only the miserly night lets me see that baby face from time to time. Soon, even that will morph into adolescence and then young manhood. As he chattered on about the bus (obviously the star of the day), I felt a tiny surge of melancholy. And while I am desperately thankful that he will at last be getting some help and I am so glad he is growing like a weed and is whip-smart and I want him to be a regular kid…those doors still squeezed my heart very tight indeed.**
.
.
*But the bus drivers are LUCKY they showed up on time this morning, and Badger was delivered timely at drop-off because I can still have everyone fired.
**Then, of course, Badger began to torment the cats and scream for potato chips and throw the clean laundry everywhere and I began to count down the hours until bedtime. Order was restored to the Universe at last.
Praise the lord and pass the vodka! Badger has been approved for IEP services with the school district!
Let me tell you guys something, I was so nervous I almost threw up going in to this meeting. I have been hearing “Let’s just wait and see.” and “Well, he seems OK, except for that, you know, thing where he attacks other kids at random. Have you tried time-outs?” for so damn long, I actually had given up hope that the evaluation would find him in need of services, especially when the psychologist said he didn’t see many signs of “specific behaviors that signaled qualifying special needs”. It turns out he just meant “Badger doesn’t show signs of Autism”, which I already suspected.
So, for 4 days a week starting in 2 weeks (approximately), my no-longer-a-baby boy will be picked up by the school bus and attend a structured special education program with no more than 11 students at the local elementary school for 2-1/2 hours, then be dropped off at home again. I had no idea what to expect so I was pretty amazed at the level of detail they went in to with respect to goals, timeframes, and the like. I will receive progress reports and we will also meet in 6 months to review Badger’s progress.
The best part? He cannot be kicked out for behavior. Because he is referred to the program due to behavioral issues, in large part, it is the program’s responsibility to ensure that he and the other kids are safe by providing the appropriate level of supervision. No more phone calls saying come pick up your monster! CAN YOU SAY AMEN, SISTERS AND BROTHERS?
I was so relieved to have someone believe me AND offer substantial help that I burst into tears as soon as I left the office. I love my son more than anything, but I can’t lie, it has often been a rough 3 years and 9 months of trying to figure out what was going on with him.
I don’t expect a quick fix or perfect results. I am just so, so happy to have a starting point for my sweet son.
Thank the gods, something finally went right.
I almost always hesitate asking people to support causes. A lot of people are going through rough times right now, and having someone you trust (you trust me, right, Internet?) start asking you to part with your precious cash to save the Green-Bellied Dung-Eating Toad can get annoying awful quick.
Nevertheless, in the midst of wallowing in my self-pity yesterday and early this morning, I clicked over to check out Jen’s blog. Quite a few of you probably already read Jen, so please bear with me for the recap.
Jen is one of the most giving, loving people I know. She’s a good mom. She’s a good friend. And Jen’s family has been through a world of hurt this year. They, like me, like most of us, just didn’t need one more thing.
Naturally, the Universe responded with yet another crappy event. Jen’s son Eric has a little dog named Annie. Annie is kind of a crazy little thing (I’m not being mean, Jen will tell you!), but she is adorable, and she is part of the family, and she is, most importantly, the light of Eric’s life.
Annie also needs some very expensive surgery. She tore all the ligaments in one leg and she is in a lot of pain. Apparently, the surgery is the only option for saving Annie. Even if there are any alternative treatments, they would cost many hundreds of dollars that the family doesn’t have.
What really made me burst into tears was reading in the comments that Eric had already told Jen he understood, it was too much money. Then I read that Eric’s younger brother had been putting up signs offering to do odd jobs to help pay for the surgery. I dissolved into a snotty, blubbering mess.
It isn’t fair. I am so sick of seeing really crappy things happen to really wonderful people.
So I decided. I am going to take every piece of poo the Universe is flinging at me and I am going to respond by trying to make things better for someone else.
I’d like to start with Annie. And I’m going to ask you to help me.
At the urging of one of Jen’s readers, she set up a paypal account where people could donate for Annie’s surgery fund. Amazingly, she has already gotten almost $900 in donations, but the surgery costs at least $1600.
I don’t have much to give, but I’m giving what I can. Please help me say to the Universe “You are not taking this dog away from this kid because of a lack of funds.” Please help make a difference for this family. Give five dollars. Give a dollar. If you just can’t give, you can still help by posting this on your own blogs, tweeting it, putting it on your Facebook pages… heck, do all of that anyway. I know a lot of you have larger readerships than me – I figure it’ll take about 150 people donating $5 each to get to the goal.
So if there are ten of you here, and you each know ten people I don’t know, and train A leaves Boston going 63 miles per hour, what time does Timmy need to be at the airport? Seriously, I can’t do the math but I know the Internet can be a huge driving force to get things done. If you can, click over to Jen’s blog and give what you can. The PayPal link is in her right sidebar.
Please. Help give Eric his Annie back.
