Friday, February 26, 2010

Does my uterus look fat?

God I’m tired.

And just want to be curled up into a ball and enveloped and feel feet with my feet and twine thighs into legs and be held like a mama gibbon snuggles her monkey baby, sans the picking through scalp for mites and bugs.

I’m tired.

Having bled for the past 15 days out of 25 (don’t cringe, it’s biology; if it helps, imagine a paper cut or shaving nick alive and active for two weeks, the constant checking and care and blotting and fatigue) and anemia has crept into my otherwise strawberry-ice-cream-Rainbow Brite-life. I’m mostly a lump, a droopy poodle as my Dad called it. Just. Damn. Tuckered.

Not complaining, mind you. I am of the ilk that feeling bad is simply a cosmic partner to feeling good; you can’t have one without the other. Ying and Yang, Ping and Pang, chocolate and dirt. Plus I’m my own best medical resource; I track, I note, I listen to cells and bones and muscles and tendons and seek out help in Western and Eastern bents when needed. Monday very early I have an ultrasound, which makes me giggle because I always think of “ultrasonic” and the rock tumbler my brothers had as kids. You could polish a turd in that thing. The changes down below are merely my body reinventing the cycle. I know ladies whose Auntie’s don’t visit for months, years. Or who knock on the door and punch them straight in the throat, wincing in four-days-out-of-the-month pain. Mine's tolerable, but it will be ever so nice not to sleep with something that feels like a light ballet slipper attached to my underpants (and no more rinsing out the nice pairs in the sink each morning.)

And damnation I miss penetration.

To make up for nutrients lost I slow cooked a beefy pot roast all day, threw in fistfuls of baby bella mushrooms (I prefer the veg to the meat, dirty). If I don’t put the leftovers into a Ziploc easy store container soon I’ll eat the entire thing. My appetite is out of control, tempted to pull back the orange peel paint from the walks for a snack.

I’ll make a big bowl of popcorn (salt-butter-pepper) later, bet you cash money.

Tomorrow I will rise early and climb the mountain, after brushing the salt off my tongue. What is it in salt that leaves the “Where’s that cat that pissed in my mouth?” feeling the next morning?

Tuesday, February 23, 2010

It’s not about the cat

This may the most heartfelt blog I’ve written.

Or a schmaltzy piece of crap.

Sadie the feral cat. I’m a bit in love with her. Just a bit. She showed up so unexpectedly. Never, ever thought I’d commit to any-one-thing and then one day a gray slip of fuzz showed up, hungry and wanting nothing more that something in her belly. Gave it to her; I had a need too, the need to feel I was contributing, doing something, that I was a part of life outside of cable television.

Then I wanted her to go away. And I stole her baby.

But she kept coming around. She just seemed lost. Like me. Looking for someone to know she was lost. Too. So I feed her, at least. Acknowledged her.

One night right before bed, something somewhere somehow told me to open the front door, undo the deadbolt and see what was on the other side. There she was, 19 degrees below and sitting on the stoop, basically delirious and almost dead. Just waiting. For. Me.

Made her a bed that night and she took to it with little hesitation. She knew it could save her. Or maybe she just wanted to be warm, didn't matter. I did it anyway.

She's glorious really, with eyes that see me like few have.

Now she climbs into bed, sleeps on the pillow. There’s little that feels as wonderful as curling up together. Never really knew that before.

She takes me exactly as I am in the moment. I’ve fallen for her a little bit, and all she did was show up at my door one day.

And I noticed.

Saturday, February 13, 2010

Heart On

"I want to fix you dinner Saturday and watch a movie or Olympics with popcorn and cocktails. Choco-chip pancakes and bacon Sunday morning."

I know. Right?

One of the things I like about him is how when he makes pancakes and bacon (the real deal, thick and chewy from a meat shop) for breakfast he makes a special flapjack - sans cocoa - for the dog. I find it charming and sweet.

My weekend in italics. Nope, not as pretty as some, waist definitely not as small or breasts as perky. My ass jiggles and puckers in spots. And I’m still the fat girl that gets the guys, the attention and genuine respect and adoration for doing little more than showing up.

And chocolate chip pancakes which, despite my current puff and quest to slim, I will eat. Happily. Because it’s Valentine’s Day breakfast and someone special is making them for me. I'm gonna lap them up and lick the plate.

There’s a spinning class Monday night.

Thank goodness the scale is down a pound this morning. Having no residual Post Menstrual Bloat (PMB) to blame a week-and-a-half after the ebb of the flow, can't blame the ever-inching-upwards weight gain on anything more than too sugary vodka drinks, late night gorging and skipping more and more days at the gym. Yesterday for the first time in years, perhaps a decade of doing it, I missed a deadline. Not late per see (and let’s face it I’m not curing cancer or world hunger or leading a Haitian relief fund here, I write marketing copy...perspective people), just won’t deliver with as large a cushion for second editorial review. And I’m okay with that. Because faced with yet another head down, very little movement from a sitting position, hands on the keyboard day of writing and editing and e-mails and images I chose instead to go for an hour of hard cardio. Even missed a conference call to do it, put myself before the work. As I sit here now, there’s a cat box to be cleaned, bed to be made, last night’s dishes to rinse (I like order, my house always looks like an extended stay hotel right down to the perfectly folded towels and clean soap) and instead I write.

Because like the gym, I've been putting my own words second lately too.

I can’t gain back any more of the 30 I lost. The eight I’ve got now has put a damper on weekend trips to Macy’s and left me a bit shy naked, in the belly region. My old nemesis.

But one never turns done food made with love. And chocolate chips.

Happy Valentine's Day.

Wednesday, February 10, 2010

Vanilla Absolut-ely

The first rule of blogging (or texting or sexting or dialing) is not to do it drunk or tipsy.

I’m about to break that rule.

Mixed and drank a couple of “Wedding Cakes” tonight, all of the first and most of the second while working late from home (deadlines you know), a concoction aptly named by my dear and beloved NYC Gareth, a combo of Absolut Vanilla and ginger ale that tastes like a highball of butter cream frosting and goes done just as easily.

Work is kicking my ass, the boss anointing me with an expanded leadership role of writer, editor and project manager. What the fuck is a project manager other than the person who stands over shoulders, cleavage exposed and folded into a fortune cookie seam, gettin' her done? May soon head back to collegiate halls to learn the tools of a graphic designer. The first two classes are scheduled most of a Saturday and all of Tuesday night for a bit. Work is kicking my ass, did I mention?

So many words to share through my hands so quickly that the typos and thoughts are running like vomit after bad shrimp. First thought, women. Women friends. For those without a uterine device, friendships with women are hard, or can be. If you find the real deal broads, you're golden. But insecure women don’t feel for other women, really, and when one tries to make amends it often feels as if it comes with an addendum, an apology with a side of "told you so." Do you men get that from your ladies because, Jesus man, I’m sorry. And really, the reason us chicks argue or bicker or bitch is because we want what the other has, to be desired too, fawned over. I was just always too tall to ask for help getting anything off a high shelf so I dislike helplessness in you and, yes, my bad not yours.

I’m in bed, green afghan and cat nearby licking the tops of her paws. I never thought (although I imaginated) companionship could feel so wonderful and vanilla at the same time. Comfort like a shoe that fits without blisters and I fucking love my pointy-toed red flats. I don’t know what I’d do without them, worn and spotted from running around in the wet as they are. Last night my shoe skipped in quietly, after two days in the air and on the road, through the unlocked front door. And it was good, so good.

Been thinking of the guitar player lately, not in a sexual or wanting way but because of the experience and the escapade. The butterflies in the stomach, being the girl with the band. Sharing secrets. He was a marker, a beginning and unfolding of long-under-lock-and-key frisky adventure and ending for the memoir. Advice from an author who gave it said a memoir must read in the classic format of enticing fiction – situation-conflict-resolution. Sometimes I think at the end of the final chapter it should be him knocking on the door, all scruffy beard and gorgeously-dark washed jeans and hip shoes, strap across his back, ready to keep his generous penis out of strippers.

It won’t be, but it plays well. Renee Zellweger could play the shit out of that.

In summation, happy. And it’s good. Still figuring out the woman I am and want to be but for the most part getting there with fewer bruises and a few more pounds. He simply holds on to them, pulls them closer.

And did I mention it feels good?

If only you’d read this before spell check, you’d be laughing a liquid straight out a nostril.

And now I want popcorn.

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