I LOVED my day of complete decadance at the spa I visited. I was rubbed down, slathered up, oiled and massaged, repeatedly asked if I needed or wanted anything, and…oh yeah, WAXED. I had never been waxed downstairs before.

I should add at this point that I unexpectedly got my period the night before, and was half hopeful worried they would refuse to perform the service for me. They didn’t refuse, but politely and cheerfully warned me that because of it I would be very sensitive, probably more so than usual. They ushered me into a quiet room labeled ‘The Garden’ and handed me an antibacterial packet and a pair of ‘underwear’ to put on.

The woman was very professional and attentive. I tried to convince myself to relax, but failed. I tried to take deep breaths. She dabbed on the wax, pressed the strip, and ripped. SWEET MOTHER OF GOD, do not get your downstairs waxed on your period. Aside from being gross on a whole other level, it hurt like nothing has ever hurt before.

She started expressing concern, saying I was bleeding (at least I looked as bad as I felt) and that it was likely because my blood was closer to the surface of the skin or some such technical nonsense I wasn’t hearing because I was too busy ‘holding my skin tight’ in some supposed effort to help it hurt less when all I really wanted was to gnaw her arm off so she could never be responsible for that kind of agony again, ever.

I cursed and then apologized, and then cursed some more without bothering to apologize. I clenched my jaw and breathed and tried to pray (in retrospect, if God was listening he was probably too busy laughing his ass off to be of any help). Nothing made it better. Every time she ripped a strip away I kept thinking that they DID NOT exaggerate for comedic purposes in the movie ‘The 40 Year Old Virgin’ during the waxing scene. And why is that funny?

Of course I plan to go again, because while she was torturing me she told a fairytale about how if you wax continually the hair becomes finer and doesn’t grow back as well. Okay, admittedly I could just be a masochist.

I have a problem with emotional eating.

I’m constantly fighting with myself about what I eat, how often I eat, and how much I eat. Weight has always been a consideration in my family. I say ‘consideration’ because we usually don’t mention it until we feel like someone’s weight is slipping WAY out of control (a few pounds here and there don’t matter). Then there are a slew of helpful suggestions punctuated with knowing glances – all motivated by love and concern. Seriously.

My mother was a very trim, very athletic woman. She rode horses and ran marathons and loved the outdoors. That attitude was adopted by my sister and I, although Heidi is much more vigilant about it. I love the outdoors. I like to exercise – but not if it interferes with writing or sleeping or other important past times. Typically, despite my average level of physical activity, I’m slightly overweight.

Food is the reason. I love an opportunity to eat, drink, and be merry. If I have something worth celebrating? Break open a bottle of wine! If I’ve had a miserable day? I go straight for greasy foods like cheeseburgers or super sweet ones like cake & ice cream. If writer’s block is getting me down there’s always potato chips.

I go through phases where healthy eating is a priority. I cut the crap and eat fruits, veggies, whole wheat, & nuts. And it’s not as though I consciously miss the junk food, either. I don’t get hungrier than usual or experience off the wall cravings. I’m fine. Until I hop back on the emotional roller coaster. The second I feel my stomach twist with tension or drop in terror or jump with excitement a signal goes directly to my brain: INPUT FOOD.

I often wish I was one of those people who CAN’T eat while experiencing extreme emotion, or even semi-extreme. Maybe then these annoying as all hell extra twenty pounds would melt mysteriously away and I could strike my Victoria’s Secret catalog pose in front of the mirror sashay in my most form-fitting jeans without experiencing shame.

I guess it doesn’t particularly matter. Twenty pounds or no twenty pounds, in a couple of months I’m slipping into my new black bikini and strutting to the nearest body of water. Or maybe driving and then strutting. Yeah, probably that.

I dropped straight into dreams last night when I closed my eyes at 10:30 P.M. They were splintered, but I remember this much:

Johnny Depp was not a superstar, but acting in a play as Jesus Christ. He wore the crown of thorns and everything. Also, he started romancing me in between rehearsals and opening night. We fell in love, and he had to save me from…

Michelle Obama, who shot me. I can’t remember why, but boy was she pissed.

I think the obvious lesson here is that alcohol is tricky, even in moderation. When a single glass of red can turn Michelle Obama into a Republican, it’s time to start drinking milk.

My best friend gave birth yesterday! She’s one of the most important people in my life and I couldn’t be there with her, which sucked, but she called to tell me all the vital information:

They named their little GIRL (squeal!) Isabella Fay. Isabella because let’s face it, it’s a beautiful name, and Fay after her mother. She was 7 lbs 6 ounces and 20 and 1/2 inches long. She has light brown fuzz on top of her head and a seemingly laid back disposition (at the time of the phone call, anyway).

I can’t wait to go see them! I have to wait until Sunday night (SUCK again) and it just might kill me. If I do survive I’m going loaded with flowers and balloons and smooches.

My friend reads this blog (I think) so if you could all tell her congratulations and send good wishes to baby Bella, I would deeply appreciate it.

Edited to add A PHOTO! from the hospital website:  Isabella!

7:30 A.M. Lara, my one-year-old niece, wakes up and blinks at me sleepily. “Hi, Amber,” she coos, and squirms closer to give me a hug. I hug her and then beg for mercy. “Honey, please go back to sleep – just for a half hour. I’m so tired…” Amazingly, She DOES.

9:00 A.M. Lara leans over me, almost pressing her nose to mine, and demands a diaper change. She gets one. While I’m bundling her into clothes Molly is whining, desperate to go outside. I take both baby and dog outside for about twenty minutes while still wearing pajamas and bed hair. Neighbors slow down to gawk. My dignity evaporates into the chilly morning air. I wish for a higher fence.

9:30 A.M. I cave to Lara’s demands of hunger, but because I’m too lazy tired to cook I take her downtown to Spud’s. We eat french toast, hash browns, eggs, & bacon. What? We were hungry!

10:00 A.M. We visit Lara’s grandpa at his office, where she demands candy. Evidently we should have ordered toast.

10:15 A.M. While we’re walking back to the car I see my pregnant friend’s car. She’s going into labor tomorrow, and I can’t resist stopping and checking on her. Lara and her little boy bond over the zippers on their jackets.

10:30 A.M. We go back home to walk the dog. Molly is excited to see us and slurps noisily at Lara’s face. I encourage her to be nice to the baby. She misinterprets ‘nice’ and jumps up, knocking Lara on her butt. Lara cries, pointing at Molly and stubbornly repeating “Bit me?” even though we both know it’s crap. I soothe her with candy because I’m just the Aunt and I can do things like that.

11:15 A.M. My sister calls and asks me to meet her midway, so she doesn’t have to drive as far for the baby exchange. I agree. We end up at separate midways, both expecting the other to show up any time now. She clues in before I do ( I’m claiming sleep deprivation as an excuse) and finally meets me where I actually am. The baby exchange commences. Kisses and hugs are shared. I drive home with a list of errands and chores blinking in my head like a neon sign.

12:30 P.M. Molly still stinks to high heaven. I decide to administer a much-needed bath, despite the fact that I work at four and the last clean article of clothing in my house is a pair of sexy underwear that I’m saving for a special occasion (such as the loss of my second virginity).

1:30 P.M. I decide that since I’m covered in dog hair and nearly as wet as Molly, I may as well give my car the wash it’s been needing for so long. Nevermind the laundry. If all else fails I can go to work naked. The pointing and staring might help me stay awake.

2:00 P.M. Going to work naked was a very bad idea. I don’t even get waxed until the 25th. I stagger around my bedroom tossing jeans, work shirts, panties and bras into my laundry basket. I manage to sort whites and colors. I break speed limits and other laws driving across town to the laundromat. I do not have enough change. I feel the urge to cry and remember my period is coming any day. Then I realize I forgot to take my pills. Cursing ensues.

2:30 P.M. I’m back from the laundromat for the second time and taking Molly for a walk. I’m in my paint-covered, overly large sweats. My ‘Have a Coke & A Smile’ tee is also huge on me. I bought it that way to sleep in. Needless to say, even without the addition of my brown Ugg knockoffs, I’m a fashion victim – and still sporting bed head. One of the officers I work with sees me. I swear under my breath. He pulls along side with his window rolled down and comments about the ‘nice pig’. I give him the look he deserves and state the obvious – Molly is a dog. He smirks and says, “Actually, I was talking to the dog.” I consider crying again but veto the idea, consoling myself with thoughts of cake for dinner. That is the 3rd time this week people have implied that I’m fat. I AM BLOATED, YOU ASSHOLES. GET YOUR FACTS STRAIGHT.

3:00 P.M. I drive back to the laundromat to put my stuff in the dryers. It isn’t going to be dry by four o’clock. I have a short fantasy about calling in sick.

3:15 P.M. I rush through a shower. Seeing myself naked does not boost my confidence.

3:25 P.M. Yes, ten minutes is rushing. Bite me. I race around the house getting ready for work. I unearth an ancient, ill-fitting pair of jeans and another overly large sleep shirt that isn’t covered in mud from Molly jumping on it. I catch sight of myself in a mirror and decide never to do last-minute laundry again. I also plan on getting rid of my mirrors.

3:55 P.M. I despair about leaving Molly alone on her second day and then leave anyway, because my paycheck is what’s going to feed that ungrateful bitch. I notice a decline in my positive thinking. I stop by the laundromat and collect my laundry.

4:00 P.M. I make it to work on time, barely. I’m wearing a pajama shirt. I am NOT wearing makeup. Upon seeing officer who joked about my being a pig, I instantly feel grotesque. I act like a big girl, smiling and joking with co-workers. I promise myself cake AND a cheeseburger, in exactly that order.

6:50 P.M. Night shift arrives. Night shift cop talks of having surgery and being AWOL for two months afterward. While I sympathize with his plight (am fond of this particular cop) this means I will have to work with evil bastard substitute. I try to cheer myself up by thinking of the lack of surgeries in my future. FAIL.

I adopted a dog! Actually, she’s the same one in the photo from earlier. Formerly Shirley, she is now the much-improved Molly. Heidi and Craig came along, and after getting a kennel and a dog bed at Walmart I made the mistake of swinging through Petco. I’m telling you, it was like I was in ecstatic shopping hyper drive. Who knew the buzz from pet adoption could be so intoxicating?  After zipping through nearly every aisle snagging whatever looked cool, I ended up spending $95. NINETY-FIVE DOLLARS. What did I buy? Let’s see – a collar (and a new one for Luna, to be fair), a leash, tags, various toys, a brush, rawhide sticks…and…surely there was something else? Surely I didn’t spend almost a hundred dollars on dog toys and treats?

Molly was very patient and well-behaved on the ride home. She’s sweet and gentle, and they ‘cat tested’ her at the shelter so I was expecting her to be fine with Luna. She was fine with Luna. The cat, on the other hand…

Luna’s tail got about eighteen sizes bigger when I carried Molly inside. Then she skulked around looking peevish while I set out food and water bowls and tried to help Molly settle in. I turned around to grab a squeaky toy for Molly and Luna attacked, complete with claws and hissing and rearing up! Molly whined and cowered, and when I intervened (frantically) I got scratched. I didn’t expect that reaction – last time I introduced a dog (granted, Rowdy was a much smaller dog) she just sniffed a bit and hissed and then eventually started chasing him around in a playful manner. I didn’t honestly believe I’d be fearful for Molly’s safety. Now I’m not so sure.

I’m at work now (working, of course) and I think I’ll spend some time this evening searching the web for information and tips on how to properly integrate pets, the way my sister recommended.

Overall though, I’m excited to have a dog. Long walks! Fetch! Someone to tear the throats out of any would-be intruders! Win-win, I say.

Oh! And Happy St. Paddy’s Day! I’m not Irish, but I wish I was!

Movies that I’ve watched recently that made me wish the disc was scratched beyond repair, and not just my copy but ALL THE DISCS:

1) Burn After Reading – Comedy? Really? I like to think I have a great sense of humor, but this movie made me laugh exactly one time: when Brad Pitt did his little dance. Seeing Brad Pitt act like a spastic gym junkie was cute for about two seconds.

2) Pride & Glory – Normally I love Edward Norton, but even he couldn’t save this one. It was convoluted and dry, and admittedly I didn’t even finish (I quit after about forty minutes for the sake of my sanity) but I just didn’t see any chance for improvement.

3) Step Brothers – Why do I do this to myself? I hate Will Ferrell, and in spite of it I keep renting his movies. He isn’t funny. The movie is gross and obnoxious. If you like the lewd and nasty, be my guest.

4) Lakeview Terrace – Don’t do it. Put the movie DOWN. It should’ve been action-packed, but instead it tried to be a psychological thriller where Samuel L Jackson mostly stood around looking menacing and spewing racist remarks. I usually feel relieved when the credits roll on a piss poor movie – after Lakeview Terrance, I shared a look of mutual horror with my brother and we despaired over wasting two hours of our lives.

Movies I’ve watched lately that made me smile/laugh/jump up and down on my couch a la Tom Cruise in a frenzied joy:

1) Wanted – Intriguing, original, and sexy. Let’s face it, Angelina Jolie can’t be in a film without upping the sex factor about seventy million percent. I’m not saying she doesn’t need a sandwich or eight, she just sizzles on screen. The ending was completely unexpected and perfect.

2) Taken – Mmm, Liam Neeson. Aside from the obv. eye candy factor, this movie rocked. My date misinformed me (I thought we were going to a horror movie) and I couldn’t have been happier to discover he was full of crap. It’s intense, but worth it.

3) Good Will Hunting – I’ve watched this one countless times, so I bought it and watched it again. It’s very real and very moving, and I’m not a crier but I’ve been known to sniffle at the ending if I’m on my period or dangerously close to it. Bring Kleenex.

4) Shoot ‘Em Up – Clive Owen. Guns. A small, disturbing bit of  necrophilia. Several hysterical one-liners. Clive Owen, accompanied by Clive Owen’s delicious accent. Face it, this movie should be in every DVD player. Worth buying! (Caution: Not for the faint of heart, prudes, or those who believe movies should be based in reality).

And now, on the off chance you aren’t as bored as I am yet, a brief list of movies I don’t intend to see, because I’ll be washing my hair/watching paint dry/scooping kitty litter: Madea Goes to Jail (No, just NO), Changeling (Seems too depressing), Role Models (Seems like it’s meant to be funny but will end up depressing me), & Australia (A massive failure according to most reports – didn’t Nicole Kidman even say something about not being proud of it?).

Lastly, (oooh, a bonus!) movies I’m dying to see: Duplicity (Clive Owen, anyone?!), Monsters vs. Aliens (I do love a good animated movie), The Last House on the Left (I’m still waiting for one of the newer horror movies to actually scare me, and until I find one I’ll continue to vigilantly pursue every new release), & He’s Just Not That Into You (After all the hype, how could I not watch?).

I am DONE. I promise.

I’m (hopefully) taking off to GF on Tuesday morning with my favorite Millers (Heidi & Craig) to go to the animal shelter and pick out a puppy. Okay, technically she’s a dog – and not just any dog, but a beagle/basset named Shirley. Why Shirley? Because there were two of them, both girls, and the shelter named them Laverne and Shirley. I’ll be changing the name if I do adopt, because let’s face it Shirley is NOT a dog name. Or a fun name. If I was adopting them both I might leave their names as is, but I can only afford to fix one set of lady parts.

I realize a dog is a huge responsibility (not unlike training for a child) but I’m so ready. I love animals! Yes, I’ll have to add to my expenses and take her for walks (so fun! and good exercise!) but I’m not worried about any of that.

What worries me is Luna. She’s used to being in a one-pet household, and she very definitely rules her roost. She’s been around other animals – I babysat Rowdy (my sister’s dog) once, and after the initial period of ‘who the hell are you and why do you smell funny’, she played with him and they seemed to get along. Of course, Luna could’ve eaten Rowdy.

A medium sized dog will probably seem like a huge threat at first, and I’m keeping my fingers crossed hoping that Shirley (soon to have an improved moniker) won’t get her eyes eaten out of her poor head. Yeah, that’s right, my moneys on Luna.

Also: I got my tax refund and am planning to purchase a much-desired digital camera, so pictures will follow any adoption.

There’s a spider living in my shower. A small, round black spot with spindley legs and beady eyeballs. I first noticed it about a week ago. I was rinsing the conditioner out of my hair and I happened to look up. There, dangling above my head (not nearly far enough above my head) was a spider.

It should be noted that while I’ve always had an aversion (good substitute word) to bugs of any kind, I’ve been getting better. I’ve been using logic on myself. Such as, I’m way bigger than that puny little spider. I could squash it in a heartbeat. It’s more afraid of me, ect ect. I actually killed the last spider lurking beside my desk without so much as a girly squeal of panic.

Except something about being naked made me feel vulnerable and panicked, like maybe the spider was aiming straight for my boob, and I screamed like a banshee and stumbled back, nearly killing myself. I managed not to fall, but I kept staring up at it. It was a little too high for me to reach, so killing it (especially naked) was out of the question, and it’s not like I was running to the phone to contact my neighbor or grandma in that condition. (My grandma doesn’t have any bug/spider fears. She is invincible).

So, and here’s the really embarrassing part, I found myself conversing with it while I frantically washed the rest of the goo out of my hair and cursed myself for not being bald.

Me: “Hey, it’s okay, right? Can’t imagine you coming down here anyway – you’d get washed straight down the drain, and neither of us wants that.” I lied.
Spider: Dangles in a sinister, threatening manner.
Me: “So…you just stay up there, and I’ll stay down here, and we’ll both be good. Right? Right. That’s the plan. You just stay up there…” Until I can find some pants and a handy weapon.

I finished my shower, got dressed, and rushed back with a huge wad of kleenex and my small step-ladder to kill the little bastard. But he was gone. GONE.

So now, every time I shower, I’ve got one eye fixed on the damn ceiling and the corners while I frantically wash and scrub and stagger out, breathing a small sigh of relief that the spider has evidently chosen to go into hiding. My showers have gotten considerably shorter, which is probably good for my water bill.

I haven’t been making a lot of effort to write. I haven’t had a lot to write about. I was thinking about it the other day – what can I say that would be worthwhile, humorous, interesting? Ultimately I came up blank. I think it’s because lately, I haven’t felt like I have a lot to look forward to.

I try to be optimistic about everything I possibly can. Look! The sun is shining! The snow is melting! I have a fantastic new hair cut and color (photos pending)! My cat loves me!

As you can see, my reasons are looking a little thin. Especially written down. Thank god for my sister. She’s scheduled a spa day for us at the end of March – a day to get manicures, pedicures, massages, facials, waxes…it’s should be a fantastic day, filled with quality time and relaxation. Well, except for the waxing. Nothing too relaxing about getting your hairs ripped out by the root. Or so I’m told – it’s the first time for both of us.

I was sure I had a point when I started. Oh, yes. I need to give myself things to look forward to. I can’t just expect fortune to plop in my lap and say hi. I have to find it. I have to do whatever’s necessary to make my own excitement and adventure, to give myself events to look forward to.

Hopefully I’ll come up with something more exciting and relatable than this. For your sanity, as well as mine.