Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

Because sometimes a status update just isn't enough.

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.


12 November 2013

The One With All The Gas

*Author's note:  I apologize in advance for this blog posting.

My husband Dan and I had this conversation yesterday while driving together to an appointment:

Me:  *suddenly and inexplicably being over-taken by the most heinous cloud of stink ever to encounter the human nostril*

Me:  *gasping for air and clawing frantically at the button to roll down the window*

Me:  *hanging my head out the window like a demented Shi-Tzu and sucking in oxygen*

Dan:  "What?"

Me:  *finally able to speak*  "WHAT. THE HELL. DID YOU DO??!!"

Dan:  *looking perplexed*  "Why?  What's wrong?"


Dan:  "Smell what?"


Dan:  *taking a moment to ponder this apparently difficult question*  "I don't know... I don't think so."


Dan:  "Huh.  Maybe I did.  I don't remember."

Me:  *gulping in air like a beached guppy*

Dan:  "Man, that stinks..."

This is where I went totally crazy and beat him to death with my purse.

Okay, not really.  But I did wax eloquent for the next 10-15-20 miles about how it is simply not possible to pass gas and not remember.

My soliloquy included such pearls of wisdom as "How does something come out of your ass and you not realize it??  I have never had anything come out of my ass without me being aware of it" and "Seriously?  Your ass is so independent of your brain that wind can shoot right out of it without your knowledge?  How is that even possible?"

His contributions to the conversation mostly consisted of the phrases "I don't know..." and "Could you drop it already?  It was a fart, okay?  It's not like I burned down an orphanage."

Me:  "You might as well have!" 

Because yeah, it was that bad.

Here's what I don't get:  How can a man who demands to know "what that smell is" every time he enters a room not smell a powerful stink bomb that has just emerged from the depths of his boiling and surging bowels?  Because that's what he does.  He will be idly sitting on the couch and suddenly will raise his head, look suspiciously around, and start sniffing the air like a blood hound on the scent.  "What's that smell?" he will demand, while the dogs and I sit quietly next to him and try not to look guilty.  Or smelly.
"I don't smell anything..." I will say, while the dogs nod their heads and hope it isn't them, because honestly?  I don't.  I smell nothing.
I surreptitiously sniff my arm pit when he isn't looking.  Nope, all good.
The dogs sniff their arm pits.  Also good.
He will continue to sniff and glare, occasionally wafting his hands to circulate the scent more efficiently.  "You don't smell that," he states.  Not a question... more of an accusation, like how is it even remotely possible that any normal human being can't smell whatever elusive aroma is tickling his nose hairs.
This can go on for hours.  If he can't ferret out the stink (which he usually can't... and I can't help because I cannot smell it) he will suddenly look at me and say, "Is it YOU?"
 Because apparently I'm known for my stench.  The fuck, I say!  He will lean over, sniff me, sigh, and say, "No... you're fine."
Well thank the Lord for small favors.  It's never me.  Yet he sniffs me suspiciously every. single. time.
Me:  *insulted*  "It is never me!  Stop smelling me!"
(Doesn't everyone have to order their spouse to stop sniffing them?  No?  Just me?)
He lets me know when the dogs smell, when the house has a strange odor, when dinner seems slightly off, when my shampoo isn't right, when I change my perfume, buy him the wrong scent of deodorant...
But he can't smell his own farts.  Or recognize what's going on when one escapes from his ass.
And therein lies the mystery.
Color me skeptical.
 Other conversations have gone something like this:

Dan:  *sniff sniff* 

Me:  "What?"

Dan:  *sniff sniff*  "Do you smell that?"

Me:  "Smell what?"

Dan:  "Did you fart?"

Me:  "No?  Why?  Oh my GOD!!!  WHAT IS THAT?"

Dan:  *light dawning on his face*  "Oh yeah... maybe that was me.  Sorry."

Years ago I had a Rottweiler named Coco.  She was the most amazing dog ever... fat, lazy, loving... and full of gas.  I have never before or since had a pet that farted as constantly or as noisily as Miss Coco-moco.  All day, every day, earth, air, wind and fire were shooting out of her hind quarters with alarming regularity. 

And yet...

And yet...

Every single time she farted, she would look startled, whip her head around, and bark at rear end.

Every. Time.

You'd think she would have eventually figured it out... like, "Oh yeah, that happened last time and it was just me again, farting..."  But she never did.  It was a huge surprise to her for the entire 10 years she spent on this earth. 

That's kind of how Dan is.  For 40 years he has been releasing noxious fumes from his rectum and he still doesn't get that the noise is coming from him.

This man has more gas that the Middle East and Texas combined.  Millions of years ago, dinosaurs curled up and died in his lower intestine and have been waiting ever since to emerge from his rectum in the form of methane gas.  Meanwhile, he firmly believes that if he holds in a fart, he will immediately explode and die.  Consequently, he has no compunction about farting anywhere and everywhere the need arises.  A typical trip to the store goes like this:

Me:  *casually standing in the aisle, perusing products and comparing prices* 

Dan:  *suddenly walking up behind me and shoving me down the aisle whispering "Go! Go! Go!" under his breath as we power walk through the store*

Me:  "What the..."  And then I notice the people walking down the aisle behind us, gagging and puking and clutching their throats.

I don't get it.  I really don't.  I would hold in a fart until my head blew off my shoulders before I would release it in a public forum.  But Dan?  Dan farts everywhere.  Work, home, church (if we went, that is), weddings, funerals, family gatherings... He does it so constantly and so naturally that he doesn't even know he's doing it.

 The 16 year old nephew, Dorkin, is starting to follow in Uncle Dan's footsteps.  (Hard not to when your role model has a never ending green cloud clinging to the seat of his pants, not unlike Pepe Le Pew.)  He is still at the age where every time he lets one go, he practically pees himself with delight.  The worse it smells, the funnier it is, apparently. 

But not to the King of Gas.

When Dorkin farts, Dan gets pissed.

"What the hell?" he will bark.  "What's wrong with you?  You just sit there and fart in front of your aunt?"

Me:  "YOU fart in front of his aunt."

Dan:  "I never farted in front of my aunts!"

Me:  "You fart in front of your parents, your brothers, their wives, their kids, my sister, her kids, their kids, my mother, your co-workers, your clients, your doctor, your friends, my friends, strangers in a grocery store, but not your aunts?"

Dan:  *long pause*  "That's right.  And don't you forget it."

An evening of togetherness usually ends with Dan loudly ripping ass then doing his Steve Urkel impression, "Did I do that?"  He will then laugh himself off the couch while I choke and die from the fumes.

That's love, baby.