Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

22 April 2014

Come and live in my brain...

Lawd I wish I could sleep!  Given the choice between sleep and almost anything else, I would choose sleep.  The thought of being able to fall asleep quickly, peacefully and easily makes me almost giddy with desire.  Having my brain actually shut. the fuck. UP. when I go to bed at night causes my eyes to mist up with longing and my arms ache to embrace the wooly curves of a fence-jumping sheep (but in a totally non-sexual way.  More like in a "Take me with you to Slumber Town" way).

Imagine, I say to myself, not thinking for 1 to 8 solid hours....

And then I have the same feeling I used to get as an annoyingly skeptical child when I would try to convince myself that a fat man in a red suit actually came down my chimney on Christmas Eve and left  unwrapped gifts under my tree...

Nope.  Not possible.  Pleasant to contemplate but it ain't happening.

(Except I never said "ain't."  Ever.  I'm pretty sure my mother would have shot me dead should the word "ain't" ever have dared to pass my lips.  Even as an adult when I'm being all ghetto and cool and shit I can't bring myself to say "ain't."  I write it... sometimes... and then I feel compelled to explain that I never actually say it, mostly because in my mind?  It would be like swearing in a house of worship.  Can't do it.  Would burn in Hell if I did.  Because my other sins pale in comparison to using a slang contraction of is and not.)

(FYI?  This is why I don't sleep at night.  I can't hold a single train of thought for longer than 8 seconds.  My brain would never win a bull riding contest because it couldn't hang on that long.)

Last night, as I was slowly climbing up the stairs to go to bed, I was soooooo tiiiiiiired that I couldn't keep my eyes open.  I dragged my exhausted body onto the bed and barely had the energy to pull up the covers.  I laid my weary head upon the pillow and BOINGGGG!   Wakefulness attacked me like a rabid dog. 

As if my mind had been planning it all day the theme song to Three's Company popped into my head. 

Just.... WHAT?  Where the hell did THAT come from?

Hello, Brain?  The 1970s want their theme song back. 

And Janet's hair.  And her clothes.

And Chrissy's short-shorts.

And Mrs. Roper's muu-muus.

Which led to an exhausting half hour trying to remember Janet's last name.  I had Jack Tripper, Chrissy Snow, Stanley and Helen Roper, Ralph Furley...


Janet WHAT? 

It. Was. Agonizing.

Come and knock on our dooooor...
We've been waiting for youuuuuu...
Where the kisses are HERS and HERS and HIS
Three's Company tooooooo!

*insert stupid 70's theme music*

*Author's note:  If you Google image search Three's Company, about half way down the page your eyes will suddenly be assaulted by a fairly graphic photo of a man with a rather large willy getting ready to lay some pipe on two very naked women.  FYI.  And if you're like me and sleep-addled, the first thing you will think is, "The fuck episode was that?"

What the hell was Janet's last name???  I was totally going to google it and then I got distracted by the porn.  Now I'm too tired to go back and check.  Crap.


So after the whole Three's Company debacle (not that the damn song ever left my brain... it just provided the background music for the remainder of the night) I thought I would try meditation.  You know, clearing my mind, thinking of nothing, just breathing and being.

Here's what happens when I breathe and be:

I become hyper-focused on my breathing.

Then I become dizzy and woozy because I hyper-ventilate.

Then I decide I'm having a heart attack.

Or a brain tumor.

Or both.

All to the tune of Three's Company.


I know!  I'll make lists in my head!  I hate lists!  Lists bore me stupid!  I'll bore myself so badly with list making that I will stop thinking and I will fall asleep!!!!

Bloody brilliant idea, old chap!

Great.  Now I'm thinking in a British accent.

Groceries!  I hate grocery shopping!!!  What do I need?

Sweet potatoes
Boca crumbles

One potato, two potato, three potato, four...
Five banana six banana seven banana more...

Do I need bananas?  Meh... I'm over bananas. 

Three's Company tooo!

Toilet paper?  You can never have too much toilet paper.
Dog food
Shit.  There was something else...
Tonic water
Oooh!  Cinco de Mayo!  Tequila!

What the hell is the date today?  Or is it already tomorrow?  What time is it?


There's a lovable SPACE that NEEDS your FACE
Three's Company toooooo!

Should I just get up already and go downstairs?  I've been in bed for four hours and all I've accomplished is remembering all the words to that damn song.

What the FUCK was Janet's last name?

I hated those girls who replaced Chrissy.  And what was up with that girl they hired to play Jack's wife or fiancĂ© or whatever?

Is Don Knotts dead?

Is Gomer still alive?

What was so funny about that friggin' hillbilly family they always had on the Andy Griffith show with the mute brothers and the horny girl who had the hots for Andy?  And that little annoying guy, Ernest T?  Why was he even there?  Why didn't Andy just shoot him already?

People in the 60s were wayyyyy too easily entertained.

Or was it the 50s?

The Darlings.  That was their name.

What is up with all those redneck shows on the Discovery channel lately?  It's like rednecks are the new Jersey in so-called reality television. 

Naked And Afraid... bwaaaaahahahahaaaaa!  I keep forgetting to watch that.  Where do they poop? 

Come and dance on our flooooor....
Try a step that is newwwww....


I hate it when men have perfectly plucked and shaped eyebrows.  I don't care HOW gay you are, it looks ridiculous.  Don't do it.  Unless your goal is to look like a drag queen, in which case?  Rock on. 

I wish I had their eyebrows.

Even if I fall asleep right this second I will only get 2 1/2 hours of sleep.

Wait... did I just fall asleep?

*long pause*


And then I do that thing where I wonder what it'll be like to die.

And then I think, "At least I'll get some friggin' rest."


10 April 2014

The One Where I Come Careening Back Into The Blogosphere With Pomp And Circumstance

SOOOOooooo... this is awkward.  Where the hell have I been?  What the hell have I been doing with my time???? 

Well, there's been a lot of this:

And this:

And this:

Maybe this:

A LOT of this:

And ultimately, this again:

... followed by much slipping on ice, falling on my ass, bitching and moaning and taking pictures of the thermostat in my car and sending them to family and friends in California because no one in the state of New York gives a shit.  (I may or may not have spent a considerable amount of time whining all summer about the heat and humidity and proclaiming loudly "I WISH IT WOULD SNOW!"  Now it's like everyone is blaming me for this endless winter, like it's MY fault that Mother Nature is an asshole.  I said SNOW, not fucking NARNIA.)

Did I mention that an ice storm hit on my birthday and I had to cook my own birthday dinner and didn't get a cake?  Because THAT was fun. 

So yeah, all that complaining took up most of my time.  It was like having a full time job and working tons of over time. 

On the plus side, I DID find a cute pair of high heeled wedge boots that are made for walking in the snow and have reasonably good traction.  That made getting dressed and leaving the house a little less craptastic. 

In other news, when I wasn't bitching about the weather I was deep in contemplation about Finding Myself.  (Yes, I said Finding Myself.  Like it's 1970 or something.  Seriously.  I'm a Time Traveler, yo.) 

I turned 51 on December 20th.  That, in and of itself, was way more traumatic than it should have been.  I mean, 50 is the new 30, yes?  Which would make 51 the new 29, because as you all know, I am aging backwards.  What's hard about turning 29? I asked myself.  You've been 29 before.  It wasn't that bad.  You got through it.  You didn't die.  So what's the big deal THIS time around?

Well, as it turns out, the Big Deal is that turning 29 the second time around isn't nearly as fun as it is the first time.  The second time you have wrinkles, thick gray hairs randomly springing out from various parts of your face and head, skin that is losing the battle with gravity and allllll this old age shit that is screwing up your mojo and causing you to do strange things like purchase a pill organizer because you take so goddamn many that you can't keep track of them yourself because your mind is going.

Your friends start getting grown-up illnesses and dying.

In your head, forever and ever, you see them as being 18 years old and fearless, racing into the turquoise surf of the Pacific Ocean, smiling... laughing... and then suddenly, they aren't there anymore.  And you ask yourself, how did this happen?  Wasn't that, like, yesterday?

The last time I spoke to my father before he passed away he said to me, "This life... it goes so fast.  It just goes so fast."  He was 91 and dying of cancer.  His life was full of incredible things.  He was brave, strong, tough... talented, creative, a genius.  He did terrible things, he did wonderful things.  He was a seriously flawed human being who never stopped living until the day his number was up. 

I'm 51 and I haven't done shit. 

I became overwhelmed with panic because I am closer to 100 than I am to 0.  Loosely translated, this means that I am almost dead.  With all the health issues that I have not been allowed to ignore lately (fucking doctors) the fact that I am not immortal has become increasingly clear. 

The knowledge of my imminent demise had a massive domino effect:

Holy shit... I've wasted over half my life sitting around wondering what I should do with my life.

Oddly enough, time didn't stop for me... it just kept right on going.

Time is such an asshole.

I don't want to die thinking I have wasted this life.

*suddenly losing train of thought*

Oh Jesus, what if I gain 600 lbs and wind up being like the mom on Gilbert Grape and have to be hoisted out of the roof because I'm too fat to fit out the door and my family has to burn the house down to save me the indignity of having my huge, bloated carcass being dropped into a dump truck because I'm too large for the hearse...

Shit!  Do I have time to lose weight before I die?

*CRASH!*  All the dominos came down.

For some reason, everything in my life eventually boils down to exactly where  I am weight-wise.  Like, it's okay to die if I'm thin, but if I'm fat?  No.  Not acceptable.  I will not be fat throughout eternity.

My entire life has been centered around my weight.  Seriously.  My mother put me on my first diet when I was 8 years old and according to photographic evidence, was a normal, healthy little girl. 

Summers in junior high and high school were spent at our family cabin frantically dieting for a month or so because I needed to get down below 100 lbs.  (I usually started the summer at 105.)

Then came the roller coaster ride of pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, pregnancy, baby weight, depression, weight gain, weight loss, weight gain, weight loss,...  And so it goes.  How do you feel?  I would ask myself.  Well I don't know, I'd respond, let me go step on the scale and I'll get back to you.

So I spent a few years in the 90s gaining and losing 100 lbs.  And gaining it back.  And losing some of it and gaining back more of it. 

I pulled my head out of my ass in 2005 and lost all of it and kept it off until I moved to New York, when I began re-fatting with a determination that should have won me a prize.

When I was hoisted by my own petard in August of last year (aka informed that I was ridiculously unhealthy due, in large part, to my weight) I had a head-removed-from-ass-ectomy and started putting my health first again.

In doing so, I finally, FINALLYYYYYYYY figured it out.  Finally.

My huge light bulb moment went something like this:

It's not about your weight, you dumbass.  It's about your health.  And your personal choices.  Stop waiting to be at your ideal of a perfect weight to live your life. 

I knowwww, right?  Profound.

And yeah... for a smart girl I'm not exactly quick on the draw when it comes to myself.  (However, if you ask me for advice about YOUR life, I'm Dr. Freaking Phil.  I rock with the good advice, and I do it without all the hillbilly homilies.  Though that's not to say I don't appreciate a good hillbilly homily.  Or Dr. Phil.  In my next life I want to be Robin McGraw.)

In case you were wondering, this is the Year Of The Dani.  I am making changes, positive changes (this is, indeed, a changing day in my life).  I've changed my intake, my out put, my outlook, my hair (I'm growing it out, which is Kind Of A Big Deal).  I became a vegetarian in January and am so freaking creative in the kitchen that I deserve my own show on Food Network. 

I'm happy.  For the first time in a really, really long while, I am truly happy with myself. 

Go me!!


06 December 2013

Falling Down In 10 Easty Steps

1.  Quickly survey your surroundings.

2.  Note objects or anomalies that can create a potential hazard.

3.  Promptly forget to watch where you are going as you head into the Great Unknown.

4.  Bump into it, trip over it, slip on it or fall in it as the situation demands.

5.  Feel yourself being hurtled through space.

6.  Try to correct the situation by doing one or both of the following:

     a.  Propelling arms in windmill like fashion, hoping it will help you become slightly more air born so that the odds of landing on your feet will increase by a thousandth of a percent.

     b.  Continuing moving forward at a rapid speed in hopes of somehow gaining your balance, thus creating the impression that you are racing towards your inevitable doom.

7.  Position your body so that landing will be painful and embarrassing.


9.  Briefly forget that you have arms with which to help break your fall.

10.  Make sure there's an audience so that your performance will result in the utmost humiliation.

     10a.  (For women only:)  Pee a little when you land.

As I write this I am sporting injuries of my most impressive fall to date (which is totally saying something, believe me).  I thought I had achieved my most awesome and embarrassing fall LAST week when I fell into and broke my in-laws toilet, but alas, I was wrong.

In my lifetime of falling, I have:

1.  Broken the same foot 5 times. 

2.  Three of those breaks happened in two years.

3.  Broken the middle fingers on both hands on two different occasions.

4.  Knocked a small disabled child into a water toy.

5.  Broken my ankle.  (I was carrying my 2 week old child in his car seat and stepped on a rock.  I fell down three steps, never let go of the baby, and broke my ankle.  In other news, I had three kids ages 3, 1 and newborn, and a broken ankle.  Yeah.  Good times.  I've blocked it all out.  All I remember is the fall and my hysterical laughter when the doctor told me to rest and stay off my feet.)

Those are just the more notable incidents where severe injury occurred. 

This fall?  The one I had two days ago?  Much, MUCH better.

My string of bad luck started two weeks ago.

(By "string of bad luck" I mean "two really embarrassingly stupid falls.")

Two weeks ago I had gotten up in the middle of the night to pee.  I was wearing ear plugs, because as previously blogged about, my husband snores for a living and he's damn good at his job.

We were at my in-laws house and everyone was sleeping, so I crept into the bathroom and did not turn on the light.  (Pay attention:  You may recognize a theme here.)  I sat down and immediately plunged into the freezing cold toilet bowl as SOMEONE (my 16 year old nephew) DID NOT PUT THE SEAT DOWN. 

Being groggy, half asleep, in the dark and sensory impaired due to the ear plugs and lack of visibility (Ambien also may or may not have been involved) I fell backwards into the toilet tank.

I know, right?  Da fuck???

Pain shot through my back as I flailed about and gracelessly tried to right myself.  I stood up leaned against the wall while I put the seat down, then sat my wet fanny down to pee. 

Then I idly wondered why my feet were getting wet.

I got irritated, thinking SOMEONE (16 year old nephew) had missed the toilet bowl and piddled on the floor.

I stood and pulled up my pajamas.

Also wet.


Vaguely I became aware of the faint sound of my husband yelling.

The light flashed on and I was greeted by a large naked man with a wild look in his eyes and loud words pouring out of his mouth.

I removed my ear plugs and over the yelling could hear the sound of rushing water...

Fucking hell, you guys.  Just fucking hell.  I didn't crack the toilet tank.  I broke that mother in half.

Water was gushing out and flooding the bathroom.  I grabbed towels and started mopping while my husband ran downstairs.  I heard another bellow of shock and ran down to see what was happening.

Oh happy joy... the water was pouring through the ceiling and into the kitchen below. 

Later that morning Dan and I did the Walk of Shame through Home Depot to pick out and purchase a new toilet for my in-laws.  (They told us not to be silly... it was an old toilet and as my father-in-law so sweetly said, "We can GET a new toilet.  We CAN'T get a new Dani.  Are you okay?"  He is so sweet.  I love him forever.)

Dan:  *helpfully*  "Dani broke it, so we have to buy the new one."

Long story short, for the next two weeks I had to hear and rehear the story about how "Aunt Dani broke Gramma and Grampa's toilet."

(Please note that the most frequent teller of the tale was my wonderful and understanding husband, may he Rest In Peace.)

I escaped from the Broken Toilet Fiasco fairly unscathed.  I had a huge bruise on my back and hip but otherwise was unharmed.  (My ego took the biggest beating.)

I thought that would be my crowning achievement, my Mark of Fame at the home of my in-laws.  It totally erased all other less impressive mishaps. 

Karma being what it is, it decided to prove me wrong.

Two nights ago (yes, still at my in-law's house) everybody went to bed by 9:00.  I decided to stay up, talk to my girlfriend, and enjoy the peace and quiet.

Around 11:00 I headed up to bed.

I got into the bedroom and suddenly realized I had left my Pomeranian, Javi, downstairs (he can't climb the stairs anymore) and had also forgotten to turn down the heat.

Because I am so graceful and not at all accident prone, I determined that I didn't need to turn on the light... I could maneuver the stairs in the dark.

*insert ominous music*

I went jogging down the first few stairs when the vague thought entered my mind that I was falling.

It happened so quickly that I wasn't afraid, or startled... it was more like, "Huh... I seem to be bouncing on my face down the stairs.  How unusual.  I've never gone down this way before..."

I fell down approximately 8 stairs.

And knocked my ass out cold.

I don't know how long I was there, sleeping peacefully on the floor at the bottom of the stairs, but I woke up to the sound, once again, of my husband yelling.

*blink*  *blink*

I remember very little after that, other than throwing up for hours and trying not to fall asleep.  I don't remember going to bed or changing my clothes, I don't remember bringing the dog up or turning down the heat.

I remember nothing until I woke up at around 5 in the morning with an excruciating headache and my body feeling like I'd been hit by a truck.

The entire left side of my face is swollen and purple.  I can't open my left eye more than about a quarter of an inch and my forehead is so puffy that I look like I'm about to experience the rare occurrence of Forehead Birth, something which hasn't happened since Athena sprung full grown from the forehead of Zeus, circa whenever B.C.

I have a huge bruise on my left shoulder, can't turn my head, have a bruise on the palm of my right hand (no idea what my left hand was doing as I was hurtling down the stairs... probably the Princess Wave or something equally useless) and bruises covering my lower body from hips to feet. 

I can't wear my glasses because any pressure on the side of my head makes me cry.

I can't wear a bra because of the shoulder bruise.

I can't comb the left side of my hair because IT HURTS.

And I'm not quite sure how to put on my make-up... Should I make the right eye look like the left, or just pretend I don't have a left eye and only put make-up on the right?

Decisions, decisions...


Next week my funny and fabulous friend Cassidy will be guest blogging for me!  She writes the wonderful blog,  Vanilla In The Front, which is a poignant, thought provoking, funny and insightful look at loving yourself and accepting yourself unconditionally.  She stepped out of her usual blog topic to share her hilarious viewpoint about raising boys and I can't wait for you all to read it.  Cass cracks me up on a daily basis and her boys are as bright and funny as she is. 

Plus she's beautiful and has amazing hair. 

Stop by her blog and show her some love.

And in case you are wondering, I am accepting all offers of sympathy, Vicodin, and vodka.