I have great friends. One of them has a little boy who’s starting Kindergarten this year. She’s a very loving, very smart woman. Like me, she has strong viewpoints and no compunction about sharing them.

Which is why I feel completely comfortable calling her out when she makes stupid decisions. We haven’t had a serious difference in opinion since she decided NOT to get her son vaccinated (GAH! This still infuriates me!), but I feel I must protest when she starts making noise about how relieved she is that the school she’s sending him to has a vegetarian option on the menu.

WHAT? Excuse me? I have zero problems with people who make the decision (as adults) to forgo meat, or those who choose to be vegans. Yay personal choice! Yay freedom! And I do realize that it’s natural for parents to pass their beliefs and preferences on to their kids. Duh. But while I wouldn’t interfere with someone’s choice to become a vegetarian, I don’t think their children should be subjected to that same lifestyle – at least, not until they become old enough to decide for themselves, and by that I mean 18 + years.

There are alternatives, of course. I realize a lot people find tofu a good nutritional choice. Nevermind that tofu is basically coagulated soy milk, it gets the job done. But in places like Montana, especially rural Montana, those options are far more difficult to come by. What then? I just don’t think following a strict vegetarian diet is the healthiest choice for a small, growing body.

YES, I went there. Not that her parenting decisions are any of my business. I don’t even have kids of my own, and perhaps that means I should just shut my hole. But rest assured: if I ever DO have mini-mes, they’ll know what steak tastes like (and reap the nutritional benefits).

Note: While I believe including beef, chicken, and fish in a diet is better than going without, I recognize that a lot of people eat too much meat – which isn’t good either.

Just in case I haven’t yet pissed off everyone in the world, I’ll add that I wrote this while enjoying hotdogs for dinner. That would be pig AND cow parts. Yummy.

I realize that not all endings are happy ones. Some endings just are. If I was in the mood for optimism I could offer up something trite, such as “all endings are also beginnings”, or “when one door closes another door opens.”

However, looking at what I just wrote is making me want to drown myself in a very shallow, very murky puddle (or possibly my coffee, as it’s directly in front of me and therefore convenient for that purpose) so I’m thinking optimism is going to have to wait for another day.

I do not enjoy change. Earlier today I tried enjoying it more by adding pizza, but it didn’t help things go down easier.

My life has been idling at neutral for about five years. YEARS. What the hell am I doing here? I do not want to be one of those old people who end up bitter and alone thinking of all the opportunities they missed. I want to look back at my life and feel contentment, to be able to laugh.

For that to happen, change must occur. YUCK. I get cranky just thinking about it – which is a direct side effect of my most prominent personality trait, fear. Fear of the unknown, fear of failure, fear of getting mugged and having to stand in line at the DMV for hours to get a new license. Basically I’m a gigantic chicken. If life were a hen house I would rule the roost, okay?

I don’t like knowing that about myself. Fear shouldn’t play a role in my decision making, and the fact that it sometimes does makes me angry with myself. Angry and ashamed.

I’ve come to some heavy, not altogether comfortable decisions in the past week.
1) Change is essential. If I stay the course my life won’t be anywhere near what I want it to be.
2) I need to grow a pair. Or at least borrow a pair.

Oh, look – it’s raining. There are puddles outside calling my name. It’s nice to know God does listen, and can be helpful.

This pity party was brought to you by Amber. She appreciates your time and wants you to know she was totally kidding about all the puddles. Thanks, and have a great night!

A while ago, some bad things happened to me. These things caused a rift between me and some of my family; I felt betrayed, and they thought I was being ridiculous. Things haven’t improved very much, despite the passage of time and the lack of discussion pertaining to what I’ll call The Event.

I never said a word about any of it to my oldest brother – partially because I wanted to forget and partially because I had a feeling I knew exactly how he’d react, and I didn’t want to lose another family member.

I’m wrong a lot of the time, but I rarely consider it a relief. Today it was. I ended up randomly talking to him about The Event – he brought it up – and was surprised by how understanding he was. His perception of things was more like mine than I ever would have given him credit for.

He was supportive. He was very nearly gentle, a word I can rarely apply to him. I definitely misjudged him.

I’ve got to start giving people more credit.

I got to plant my clumps of raspberries today, and all the digging and arranging and covering put me in a VERY summery frame of mind. The sun was beaming down, tempered by a nice breeze. My spirits soared. (On the other hand, I could have just been riding high on fatty goodness from the cheeseburger I ate for breakfast. Yes, BREAKFAST. Today I wanted a bad cholesterol fix more than a flat stomach).

My time outdoors in the complete lack of snow put me in the mood to wear a dress. So I did. A pretty, airy blue sun dress that stops at my knees. It’s flattering and cute. Unless, of course, there’s a couple of stray officers nearby when you stand up to put paperwork away, and one of the aforementioned officers politely points out that the static from the STUPID office chair has caused the dress to hike up so far that your lacy pink panties are clearly visible.

In which case I think it’s safe to say that the dress is less flattering and more humiliating. I turned various shades of red and yanked it down as far as I could while making a rapid escape to the ladies room, where I hid for about ten minutes muttering under my breath about the indignities of goddamn dresses, and WHY did I wear a dress anyway? I’m not a dress person, or a skirt person. I’m a tomboy – and clearly there’s a great reason why.

It’s true that I talked about wanting to show off my new & improved tush, but I had a specific time and place picked out and was also planning on helping myself to some liquor beforehand. I cannot BELIEVE my co-workers saw my UNDERPANTS.

At least I didn’t wear a thong.

You know those people who, despite having a little extra junk in the trunk or what have you, frown upon dietary aids such as pills and Slim Fast and even Jenny Craig? Because GOD KNOWS all a person really needs is common sense, the proper amount of exercise, and a reasonable diet combined with strength of will! I AM that person. Or I was, until last Friday.

Last Friday I ordered diet pills (and a cleanse). I caved. I gave up my credit card number with my head hanging. I started reading the reviews online, most of which were success stories, and I thought to myself, hey, if it works for them…why shouldn’t it work for me? I wasn’t being impulsive, not really. I’ve been sub-consciously considering this for a while now, more so lately because I have a goal weight that I want to reach in a certain amount of time, and I could use a boost.

I am now in possession of a big ass bottle of diet pills. Before you go tsk tsking me, I don’t expect a miracle. I’ve been exercising regularly, and I’ve made a truly sorry and pathetic decent attempt to change my eating habits. I’m hoping the pills will aid my weight loss, but to be honest I don’t expect them to work at all – all they really are is caffeine, right?

Have any of you ever taken anything? Did it help, or not?

Someone suggested a co-worker and I pretend to be sleeping together; their aim was to drive another co-worker over the edge (please don’t ask, because I honestly don’t know).

I live in a town so small that all it would take to start that particular rumor would be my vehicle parked at his house overnight, or vice versa.

Keep in mind, I thought this was a stupid idea. I never agreed to it. I don’t even like the guy I was supposed to be pretending with. Anyway, he came into the office and the subject was raised and he said, “I have a reputation to uphold.”

EXCUSE ME? Nevermind my not wanting to play along, I HAPPEN TO BE VERY DOABLE. Or at least I was a long time ago, when I went on my last date. I don’t have a bad reputation – I even go to church sometimes (okay, once in the last year…on Easter). I help the elderly get unreachable items from shelves in the grocery store. I’m nice.

But obviously not nice enough for Mr. I’m Too Sexy for My Shirt, who PS is NOT that good looking and only thinks he’s hot shit because of his glory days from high school, where his biggest achievement was sports. Ooooh, you can throw a football? GUESS WHAT, SO COULD OJ SIMPSON. Asshole.

Now that I’ve reverted to sixteen again (I wish I was still irresponsible enough to key his car without fretting over the consequences & bad karma), I’ll finish by saying that if I can’t get an unattractive jerk-off, I’m doomed to be sexless forever, spending the rest of my existence watching Buffy reruns and cuddling up to ice cream and my cat.

I don’t shy away from conflicts or uncomfortable situations – I feel safe, somehow, behind the insurmountable walls and long silences they create.

I know I’m not easy to live with. Even my best friend couldn’t live with me. I cleaned like it was my religion, stacking all of her belongings – even books she kept on our living room end table – on the foot of her bed to prevent ‘clutter’. I came and went at all hours, citing my independence as the cause.

I’m defensive. I didn’t have a happy childhood, and that experience has created an adult willing to assume the worst. Whenever anyone says something about me, I interpret that comment as negatively as possible. An example: Years ago when Jeff and I were seeing each other, we spent one bright winter morning fooling around in the kitchen. He hoisted me onto the counter and slid his hands underneath my top and commented, “You’re wearing lotion” – a harmless observation, spoken in a tone that indicated approval. I had the following thought process: He’s commenting on my skin. I don’t usually wear lotion, but he obviously likes it. Maybe that means he didn’t like my skin before? What if it was scaly and disgusting? Oh shit, I’m so stupid, why didn’t I start wearing it all the time when we started having sex? And I said, in a sharp and accusatory tone, “I always wear lotion.”

I’m endlessly suspicious of thoughtful gestures and compliments. What did he really mean when he said he liked my dress? He was probably checking out my boobs, hoping to get in my pants. (A safe assumption if he’s male with a beating heart). But I can distort the most innocent gesture to find dark ulterior motives. Why did he offer to sharpen the blade on my lawn mower? Was he just being neighborly, or does he think I do a bad job of cutting the grass? OR, does he want sex? (Admittedly a lot of my issues come around to sex).

I’ve always known I’m hard to like, hard to understand. It’s always bothered me a little, but lately it’s been on my mind a lot. My aunt – with the best of intentions – pushed me at a guy my youngest sister was friendly with, a total loser, and whispered excitedly that he wasn’t married. I might’ve come back with, “YEAH. And there’s a reason for it!” had I not been struck speechless. Does she really believe that’s the best I can do, that I may as well just settle and hope for the best?

I rarely talk about my feelings, and when people are clever enough to surmise what they are on their own my first response is always denial. Even when I’m feeling helpless and alone I do my best to appear strong and capable. Weakness is not allowed.

I’m difficult, and always have been. I worry sometimes that maybe I’m too difficult.

People are flawed and sometimes selfish. People make mistakes, and sometimes they have affairs. Take Rielle Hunter and John Edwards for example. It’s really no one’s business, right? So they had an affair. I try not to be too judgmental (and frequently fail), particularly when something doesn’t directly concern me.

HOWEVER.

Did everyone read the article (complete with photos) in GQ magazine? I have zero sympathy for Rielle Hunter. She claims that when she saw the photos she “cried for two hours” and found them “repulsive.” What the hell did she expect? She TOOK HER PANTS OFF. She tried to say she trusted the photographer and “went with the flow”. She also said she expected the photos to be “tasteful” and above the neck. Oh yeah? Then why did you take your bottoms off, Rielle? And you can’t tell me you honestly expected bottomless shots to be tasteful. Period.

I also found it ridiculous that she tried to say she just genuinely wanted to help John Edwards “change the world” and that’s why she was so interested in him. She also claims she didn’t come on to him, and that she had no ideas in that direction because she knew he was married. Yet her first words to him were “You’re so hot.” Uh huh. Where I come from, that’s a come-on. And most business negotiations and professional meetings do not start with those kind of statements. Unless I’m doing it wrong?

If GQ was aiming for tawdry and tasteless, they hit the mark.

Another thing that’s bugging me: this woman who’s trying to be the fattest woman alive, to break a record? Donna Simpson, isn’t it? She weighs 600 pounds – not because of any medical condition (although her weight has caused multiple health problems and considerably shortened her life span), but because she WANTS to weigh one thousand pounds (half a ton). So she eats and eats and EATS and doesn’t exercise – at all. In fact, she claims she tries to move as little as possible.

She has kids. In fact, she broke a record and ended up being the largest woman to ever give birth at 500 + pounds. What kind of example does she thinks she’s setting for them?

Oh, wait, she thinks she’s healthy. MY ASS. Forgive me, but anyone deliberately aiming for a half a ton is NOT a healthy individual. She’s putting her life – and therefore her children’s lives – at risk. She needs to find another goal for her life.

Okay. I think that about covers recent news topics that have angered me.

HAPPY SAINT PATRICK’S DAY!

Last Sunday, after more searing pain in my chest and abdomen, I was taken to the hospital in Great Falls and given an emergency ultra-sound. Not-so-shockingly, I had gall stones. They arranged for surgery immediately.

I was scared witless. I’m not ashamed (okay, maybe a LITTLE ashamed) to admit that the very idea of being unconscious while someone hacked away at my insides made me want to live with the pain forever and ever, except that forever would have been drastically shortened to forafewmonths.

They admitted me and I signed a variety of paperwork, most of which was a blur due to the amazing drugs they were feeding me – I felt like I was floating, everything was disjointed and surreal. They decided to starve me (not that appetite was an issue at that point, or at least not until my older brother ate a slab of CHEESECAKE in front of me) and put me in one of those papery cotton gowns with the buttons no one can seem to figure out.

Surgery sucked. The surgeon assured us it would take a half an hour to forty-five minutes. It took an hour and a half (at which point my friends were gnawing on their cuticles, wondering about death and dismemberment), apparently because my gall bladder was very badly infected, not to mention loaded down with “a bunch of stones” – the doctor’s exact words. Ah, bliss.

They outfitted me with a draining tube (capital Y.U.C.K.) and wheeled me upstairs, where the nurse actually asked me to STAND UP to walk to the bed, despite the massive amount of morphine in my blood stream, which was doing surprisingly little for the pain. My friend Kate claims that I looked at the nurse, sporting a disturbing pallor and sunken black eyes hazed with drugs and confusion and said, in utter disbelief, “Are you kidding?”

They were not. I hate to sound like a big crybaby, but people, THE PAIN. It was not like anything I’ve ever felt. I’ve been forced to re-evaluate my tolerance for pain in general! I’m not a wimp, and I wanted to curl up and DIE when I stood up. Kate claims I went, if possible, EVEN WHITER, before my knees buckled and the nurse had to catch me.

Just to keep things in perspective, evidently surgery and intense pain don’t hinder my vanity one little bit. I have very fuzzy memories of this, but I went to pee and while washing my hands I’m told there was a sharp intake of breath; everyone rushed to the doorway to see what was the matter. I was gaping at my reflection, and a second later declared: “Well, fuck, I’m not winning any beauty contests today.”

Yes. I’m really a lovely person once you get to know me.

I was in the hospital until late Tuesday afternoon, still being starved and drugged regularly. They removed the draining tube despite the nurse’s concern that she wanted it to be considerably less full before removal, and YEOWCH. I didn’t realize how uncomfortable the damn thing was until they yanked it from my side, very quickly. And how LONG. There was at least eight extra inches crammed into my abdomen, I swear.

ANYWAY.

Guess what? I was happy to be home. Home in my own bed, doped up on Percocet and snuggling with my cat. She nearly died when hopping directly onto my freshly stitched gut, but was too fast in moving her ass out of the way when I screamed for me to succeed in killing her.

Wednesday I started feeling worse. I was dizzy and sweating. I could still hardly eat. I kept thinking about what the nurse said, about feeling a little better every day. I ate about three bites of the porkchop my grandma made me and shuffled off to bed.

I ended up passing out in the middle of the night after getting up to go to the bathroom, and naturally fell on my stomach. Hard. After quitting the Percocet (which I blamed for the incident) and trying to eat breakfast highly unsuccessfully (HELLO, projectile vomit) I called the doctor.

Thursday at noon I was back in the hospital here in town, being diagnosed with an infected liver as well as severe dehydration. Complications of surgery, they said. I’m happy to say that after getting admitted AGAIN and jabbed with an IV needle AGAIN (I have “bad veins”, which I take to mean they’re small and far below the skin’s surface) and pumped full of antibiotics, they only kept me overnight before shipping me home – with a sizable list of very foul-tasting prescriptions.

Hello, pending hospital bills. It’s nice to meet you. What’s that? I owe thousands of dollars? GREAT. I can totally afford that. Thank god for my insurance. Oh, wait, my deductible is high. Goodbye, income tax refund (and new digital camera).

There’s an interesting twist in all of this: my sister-in-law, Joy, was also admitted to the hospital in Great Falls and operated on, to have her gall bladder removed, on the same day. She did not get an infection and end up back in the hospital. Some ladies have all the luck.

I came home from work on Thursday night, drank a glass of milk, and climbed into bed. At 1:00 AM I was wide awake, clutching at my chest and cursing my body for developing acid reflux (and myself for downing two cups of coffee at work). The pain was intense, but I figured it would subside fairly quickly; I’ve been taking Nexium faithfully for three months now, and milk is usually soothing. HA.

2:00 AM: I took three Tums and drank another glass of milk.

2:45 AM: I thought of calling the Tums people and accusing them of false advertising, but the phone was in the living room and I was worried moving around might make me throw up.

3:00 AM: I took even more Tums, plus a Pepcid AC tablet.

3:50 AM: I drank some water because my throat was dry and scratchy, then built a mountain of pillows to prop myself up on, thinking if I slept upright the acid would stay down.

REPEAT. REPEAT. REPEAT.

At 11:30 AM on Friday, after experiencing almost no sleep and absolutely zero pain relief, I caved and called my doctor. I went in at noon and explained everything, including my two cups of coffee. He gave me two chalky white tablets (GREAT, right?) called Gaviscon, which looked a hell of a lot like Tums, but bigger.

He assured me that they should nix the heartburn immediately. I was so desperate by then that I didn’t even care that the Gaviscon tasted HORRIBLE, and foamed in my mouth (likely giving me the appearance of a sleep-deprived, rabid raccoon). I waited for the promised relief, which didn’t come.

I expected him to do what the other doctor did the last time this happened, which was to give me a GI Cocktail, a nasty little orange-y shot that tasted like puke and numbed me from my throat to my pelvic bone.

After putting me on the exam table and pressing on various parts on my stomach he declared that because the Gaviscon was ineffective, and because of the pain (which was pretty localized), it wasn’t heartburn. He also said two cups of coffee wouldn’t do that to me, particularly because of the Nexium. He said it’s more likely that it’s a problem with my gall bladder, which can feel very similar to heartburn. GOODIE. He scheduled an ultra-sound and told the nurse to get me a shot of Toradol to deal with the immediate pain.

Now, being eternally hopeful and deliberantly ignorant, I was expecting a nice, friendly shot in the arm. Instead I got a nice, friendly shot IN THE ASS. Lovely. And so dignified. Furthermore, I waited (doctor’s orders) for a little over a half an hour, and the shot did NOTHING to decrease the pain.

I ended up getting an IV and getting pumped full of Demerol, and some other drug I can’t pronounce or even remember. The first dose did a nice job in taking the edge off; the second erased not only the pain, but my ability to think clearly. Or walk in a straight line.

My Grandma drove me home, advising me not to eat or drink anything creamy, especially DAIRY (milk, anyone?) because if my gall bladder is malfunctioning, it will only exacerbate the problem.

I spent the rest of the day sleeping in a drug-induced coma. I had dry cereal for dinner.

When the Demerol wore off (sometime in the middle of the night), the pain came back. It isn’t as severe, not by half, but whatever the problem, it’s definitely making itself known.

Proof that I am indeed as vain and self-absorbed as you all suspected: If the ultra-sound confirms my doctor’s worries about my gall bladder, I’ll probably end up having surgery. And my first concern was that I’m going to have SCARS and end up looking gross in my bikini.

On the upside, honesty is clearly one of my virtues.

Oh, and if I wasn’t a drug addict before yesterday…