January 2006

Holy shit, I couldn’t write an entry here if you paid me.
HELP!

Lately I’ve got this “know-it-all” feeling in my gut.

It’s this feeling – totally irrational, of course – that no one out there can possibly tell me anything I don’t already know. I feel rather cynical and jaded. Everything elicits a “DUH!” response from deep inside my brain – other people are experiencing things, learning things, seeing things that I’ve already been a part of. I keep stepping backwards, away, instead of repeating, “I know.” This is not a polite way to converse with other people. I know. I know.

I need something new.

“ENOUGH. We’ve had enough updates from the beagle’s orifices for.. all of today.” — Coffee.

“Thank God for OxyClean.” — Dana

I’m reading Pam Anderson’s book “Star Struck” and I’d like to take this opportunity to say WHAT THE FUCK IS THIS SHIT? Maybe I’m just not loving it because I didn’t read the first book she wrote? Or maybe it’s crap. Either way, I’m supporting Canadian Lit. (Ha!)

I have a pimple on my chin that, no joke, I can squeeze every 30 minutes and still get a nice blob of goo on my fingers. If I left it alone, my entire face would be taken over by it. If I’m going to have magic powers, I’d prefer something a little less.. erm.. pimply.

I wish it was summer. Lately I have this urge to get in the car in the middle of the night, put the windows down and open the sunroof, and drive around staring at the sky. More specifically, I’d let Coffee drive while I stared at the sky. I’m all about the safety precautions, dontchaknow. Anyway, this goes with my urge for camping. Maybe I’ll see if I can find a local campground that’s still open at this time of year and drag Coffee and a tent out for a weekend. That oughta’ cure my desire for fresh air.

Tonight, for dinner, I am either eating a rice krispy square or a sandwich. Possibly both. It’s hard to say. Being a grown-up ROCKS.

I need a drink.

Eventually the worm turns and all the girls get fat again. Too skinny again. Fat again. Emaciated and overweight and new breasts and old breasts and new shoes. Focus on the shoes! No, look at her double chins and those gigantic breasts – oh, thank god – and then, again, gone! Poof! Shazam! Missing. Where did she go? Does she have a talent? It doesn’t matter. If we can’t say something nice about her singing, let’s at least mock her ass. Did she sleep with him? Her? Them? I think she has hair – somewhere – on her body! CAN YOU IMAGINE? I heard she does drugs. I heard she never touches alcohol or pot. She’s too skinny. Look at her thighs! Is that a scar on her chin? Why is she wearing blue eyeliner? And she’s too fat again. Too thin. Weird angles. Not enough to fuck. Too much flesh.

Is it any wonder all the women in Hollywood are insane?

This morning, as I rolled around on the carpet and waddled around with my ass up in the air, I decided that I’d find working out much more agreeable if the person directing me weighed 400 pounds. Not 400 “fit” pounds. I want someone who sweats a lot, mutters profanity, and occasionally looks up into the camera with an expression that reads, “Are you fucking kidding me? You want me to do WHAT?” I want someone who randomly falls to the floor and laughs hysterically after trying unsuccessfully to hold a very simple pose. And who then can’t get back up because she’s laughing too hard. Yes. I realize it doesn’t sound like a very effective workout.

The simple explanation is that these well-dressed, skinny little perky women with their “Let’s wrap our legs around our bodies fourteen times and then unhinge our spines and twist into a fortune cookie!” directives make my brain shout, “FUCK THIS!” simply because I am not a 90 pounds woman with unhinge-able body parts. So I figure: meh. I mean, clearly this woman has been doing these contortions for decades, and I’m only a few weeks into this. I don’t need to push myself to compete. While she’s forming the letter “Q” with her left arm and “Z” with her right arm, I’m lying on the floor hoping she’ll get stuck like that.

Having said that, I didn’t work out at all yesterday and last night my body started to mutter at me that it was starting to feel a little knotted-up. Since tomorrow is the official start of my 5K training program (I have a plan that gets me to 5K in 8 weeks) I figured I’d go with some basic yoga today to unknot the muscles and stretch things out.

I’m pretty sure Perky McPerk will miss my profanity-spewing face tomorrow when I’m running.

(And oh god, I really want some Lululemon pants..)

I have developed a total girl-crush on Lindsay Lohan.
She uses “mutherfucker” gratuitously. I use it regularly!
She has freckles. I like freckles.
She has “issues”. I have issues, too!
AND, she’s hot. Or hawt. Or hott. All of the above?

For the sake of conversation (and, really, for my own records) I have been completely panic-free for a few weeks now, to the credit of Celexa. I haven’t had to touch the Clonazepam in many weeks (a month? Longer?) and I’ve been sleeping soundly with only the usual random bits of insomnia. I am still carrying around Clonazepam in the event – the unlikely event – that I freak right the hell out in a public place, but it seems unlikely. I’m back to being.. well, me.

The funny thing about the Celexa is that it does a really good job of balancing me. As much as I feel different from my unmedicated-self (in ways that aren’t easily put into words) I have to confess that it’s a fair trade for the lack of anxiety and the generally feeling of “peace” that I’m carrying around. I still feel anxious over the things that normally cause me anxiety (like meeting new people, going places, leaving my home, you know..) but it’s an observable anxiety instead of an overwhelming one. I can simply say, “Huh. I feel kind of anxious about this” instead of, “Holy shit, I’m going to DIE.” It’s, um, nice.

On that note, I’m going to go and clean out a hamster cage. We’re switching from the corn-cob stuff to CareFresh. I totally shook up Weetie’s world when I switched him over – I mean, I blew his hamster-mind. Soft? Fluffy bedding? WHAT THE HELL?!

I used to really love the Dove line of products – shampoo, conditioner, deoderant, face wash, shower gel. About two years ago, I found myself feeling kind of crappy whenever I used it – and pondered the possibility that I had developed a sensitivity to either the scent or some ingredient common to all of them. Even though the products made my hair/skin soft and manageable, I felt crappy enough that it wasn’t a big sacrifice to switch to other brands. Since then I’ve alternated between the Aveda products I love (which are stupidly expensive) and various good-smelling products from any ol’ line.

Recently I used the Dove face wash that was shuffled to the back of the shelf beneath my sink, and it seemed okay. No weird feelings. No craptacular response. So I bought the Dove shampoo and conditioner (for dry hair) and used it today.

Scent is important to me. I sniff everything and everyone, and I make associations between smell and people/places/things/events.

Showering today I realized: Dove = Deb. As I scrubbed and rinsed, I giggled a little at the ‘smack in the face’. Duh. I remember the first time she used the shampoo and then visited me – I was sniffing her like the beagle does (hint: as though she’s sniffing your soul) and repeatedly commenting on just how GOOD she smelled. And shortly after I started using the same shampoo because of that fabulous scent.

And now the entire world around me smells like Deb’s hair.