Monthly Archives: February 2012

Why I will always eat the cupcake.

Miserable, drunk, size 10 me Vs. sober (more or less!), happy, size 18 me.

Like everyone else on the entire planet, I struggle with my weight. 

I was a pretty lean kid, due in part I’m sure to how much time I spent outside playing, and managed to balance my insane teenage “eating an entire Totino’s pizza followed up by a carton of Ben & Jerry’s” calorie overload with 4-mile walks and bike rides and trail adventures (the only good thing about living in the suburbs – you had to walk EVERYWHERE, and everything was super far away).

But that all changed when I hit 16 and got a job at McDonald’s (woot! free chicken mcnuggets and quarter pounders!), and simultaneously discovered alcohol. If there were ever two things that can mess up an awesome metabolism, it’s fast food and booze. It’s no surprise then that I gained 40 pounds in less than a year, and became more interested in getting drunk and watching TV than heading outside.

Still, the weight gain didn’t bother me that much until I dated an absolute asshole (more on that at a later date) who mentioned it. All the time. Every single day. Which resulted in my barely eating anything – I would basically have a can of coke for breakfast, snag a Hostess product for lunch, and drink my way through the rest of the hours at school. But (also no surprise), this method failed to help me magically drop pounds (turns out a fifth of Bacardi is not exactly health food), with the added benefit of frequent fainting spells, low energy, and being sick for days on end. Who knew? (Adults, probably.) Continue reading


I went from being $1,000 in debt to $12,000 in debt – here’s how you can too!

This is the face we make at mountains of debt.

Just have major surgery. And then maybe screw up your taxes, just for good measure. It’s THAT easy!

When all the Occupy protests started, I became even more aware of all the things that were awesome about my life. I was lucky to be able to be making enough money freelancing to support myself; I was lucky to be in a stable, loving relationship that offered support if I couldn’t; and I was lucky that we had a beautiful home and could afford to pay our all bills and eat and entertain ourselves and have fun.

BUT. I also knew that if either one (or, even scarier, both) of us lost our jobs or had some major medical emergency, we would quickly lose that feeling of security, which could eventually lead to us losing our beautiful home, and then the ability to afford to feed ourselves. I just didn’t imagine how close I was to something like that happening.

The bulk of my surgery cost a whopping $23,000. Luckily, I had insurance, and even luckier, that whole “pre-existing condition” nonsense was no longer in effect, so it was covered by my insurance. Still, after they took a stab at it, it came to around $8,000. Or…so I thought before I called the surgeon’s office to pay their $700 share of that, and then found out the insurance processed it wrong and I owed an additional $400 and something. And, then there’s the anesthesiologist’s bill. And the pathology bill. And, well, let’s just say the bills, they keep on rolling in. Continue reading

I wish I could find you again.

{note: This was written in 2002 when I was regretting losing touch with a friend who had gotten me through some really, really bad times. I frequently Google and search his name on Facebook, but have never been able to find him again. I really wish I could, if only just to say, “Thank you for being there.”}

I remember the first time I met you, and I lied about my age because I knew you were a little bit older, and I wanted you to like me. I was 13, you were 15.

I remember talking you for hours on the phone, about everything and nothing. You laughing and playing and jumping, me lying on the bed and twisting the phone cord around my hand. Sometimes, we’d fall asleep on the phone together, and then wake up and whisper ‘goodnight’ before hanging up. I talked to you almost every night, and I loved it.

I remember you picking me up when you got your license, and driving me down to your house. We’d hang out in your room and be silly and watch bad movies. I remember your birthday parties, your friends, your parents. I remember you being the only one who made me happy, who understood me.

I remember you stopping by to see me after visiting your brother. You’d tap on my window to wake me up and I’d let you in. We’d sit and talk, sometimes we’d gripe about things we hated in our lives, and try to figure out how to change them.

I remember you holding me when I told you he hit me. We cried together, and I wished you were mine. I remember that one, perfect kiss, your moment of confusion — then kind of laughing it off as a lonely mistake.

I remember meeting you for pizza. One last time, before you took the military plunge, before you left me and headed off for who knows what.

I miss you, Kelly. I wish I could find you again.

That’s the difference between you and I.

So here’s how my fan devotion usually works: I fall in love with a band during a live performance, and then I dedicate myself to being at EVERY show that band plays, because I’m terrified they will eventually get to big to play the small, local clubs anymore and a) tour a lot b) move to LA or NYC and c) play shows WAY out of my price range.

Thinking about this reminded me of a story about how I used to follow a particular band around Seattle (I swear to you, I am not talking about The Posies – this time, anyway), and coincidentally, I discovered after a few shows that this guy I had a giant crush on in High School was in the band. Remembering him to be cool as well as cute, I struck up a conversation and we began having friendly drinks at every show after the set was over…which was awesome, because at the time I was single, and so was he. Awesome, that is, until I mentioned to him that I was divorced.

“Divorced? Really. Huh.”

Having just asked for my phone number, he was still holding the paper in his hand when he said it. Then he crumpled it up and put it in his pocket, and I knew he would never use it. And sure enough, he didn’t. The next time I saw him, instead of being friendly, he decided to just lay on the insults.  Continue reading

Juanita the Weasel helps explain my morning.

Sunday meltdowns are always the most fun.

This morning I was determined to clean up the kitchen, which I stupidly thought would involve just wiping the stove down and emptying the dishwasher. Then, after I made 6 trips up and down the stairs taking out recycling, garbage, and the WORST litter box mess ever and realized there were a shitload of dishes to wash and counters to clean and the floor to sweep and the cat was all up in my grill about his litter box now being clean and me not standing next to him while he ate out of his dish, it was all a little too much for me and I had a mental breakdown while making us yogurt parfaits. Something like, “Here is your coffee! And your motherfucking parfait! EAT IT AND LIKE IT” – which I tried to laugh through, but it so didn’t work. Instead, I broke down into giant sobs and cried on my too-good-for-me boyfriend’s shoulder while he listened to me try to tell him all the things I was stressed about, including having a dream that Eddie Izzard was torturing and killing our dog. (my brain doesn’t make a whole lot of sense most of the time)

So this is how almost three months without a FT paycheck, piles of bills, and still not feeling 100% decided to break me around 9:15am this morning. Who knew?

I feel like I don’t say this often enough, but I really, truly don’t know what I would do without all the amazing support I have, the experiences other people (like the awesome Bloggess who created Ms. Juanita the weasel) share, and even my stupid dog — who thankfully didn’t get suffocated by Eddie Izzard in a plastic bag and is just fine.

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