Green globs of holiday cheer.

I'm in the coughing up couch-sized globs of mucus phase of this illness. I wanted to take a picture of one of these slimy wads that I keep catching in my tissues for a little show and tell, but even with my blurry boundaries that seemed like a definite over-share. Once, weeks after Dan had surgery for a deviated septum (read: nose job), he blew his nose and was so excited by what came out---a 10-gram post-surgery slithering eel of blood and snot that probably couldn't fit through the drainage hose during surgery---that he had to show it to me. (And I, of course, had to tell you about it.) The image is still with me and I have never forgiven him for it. (He still displays immense pride when speaking of it.)

It's now been a full week since I started feeling crummy and coughed up my first solid globule---a tiny green model earth---and there are no real signs of its waning. I don't want to go to the doctor. I just don't. Last year I finally found a primary care facility that I liked---very crunchy and founded in the principles of preventing illness versus simply treating symptoms; plus my caregiver was a nurse practioner, my favorite---but it just shut its doors for good. (I guess people want their pills...) So, while I know I could do the walk-in thing or even call a friend who manages a primary care office to see if she could get me in to see one of her doctors, I'm being stubborn. My sister, who is just getting over a bad cough herself, gave me some of her magic juice (vicodin-laced cough syrup) but it doesn't seem to be doing much. In the morning the cough is loose and phlegmy but by the end of the day it's tight and hacking and unproductive; the kind where the wheezing seems to travel the length of your torso and exits your throat in a thick, gravely, steam-like hiss. And you thinks it's over so you try to continue your conversation but it comes back with a tickle and then you're keeled over again hacking into your arm, but you're sure that it must be over now and you start talking again only it's not and you have a headache now from another round of hard coughing and everyone is handing you glasses of water which does exactly nothing for this type of cough. This kind hurts my chest and back. Eh, I'll see how I'm doing tomorrow.

It's resolution time so I have all sorts negotatiating to do with myself and hardly the energy to do it. (Fine, you can take the TV out of the bedroom and meditate every morning, but I'm keeping The Biggest Loser and not curbing my iTunes spending...) Plus, I'm trying to get all revved up for the positive changes I plan to make on January 1st (through January 8th) but my revving is more of a putter. Molly is down in RI for the week so in addition to full days of writing, I also plan to accomplish every single home-related task before New Year's Day. I'm cleaning out the cluttered kitchen cabinets, I'm organizing the book shelves by subject, giving away the clothes and shoes that never get worn, sprucing up the spoffice, cleaning up and sorting through all financial matters (this includes organizing all coins by year), and I will also write every letter, card, thank you, chain letter and ransom note that I meant to get out in 2009.

So, I have to go now. I will get all of this done or die trying! Wait, I could actually die trying. Dan will come home and find me on the rug surrounded by an embarassing amount of self-help books , a green snot-ball lodged in my throat. Hopefully he'll take a picture for you.

P.S. Merry (belated) Christmas everyone. I wanted to talk about this Christmas---which was actually one of the best Christmases (grammar club?) in recent history---but I'm much too busy and equal parts tired.

P.P.S. I e-mailed Dan to ask him if I could write about the infamous nose-blow (I ask for his permission all the time for those who think I just sell him out) and this was his response: "Of course – I’m still proud of that. I wish I had pictures."

Musings from a guest blogger

Miss Mellowsky is a little under the weather, so today’s Spew will be led by a substitute writer, Dan (her husband, for those of you who need an explanation). Please be nice to the substitute. No spit balls. No abusing lavatory privileges. No tacks on my chair. Don’t make me call the Principal!

Now, before I take on this assignment, I must admit that I will not be tackling any of the tough women issues that are normally so dear to Lola’s heart and blog. I am confident that I know less about women than I do about quantum physics and any discussion of these issues by me would begin to sound not unlike a Jerry Seinfeld routine (i.e., What’s the deal with all the toilet paper women use in the bathroom?).

Lola has a bad cough and she has been up all night. Her voice is slowly disappearing which is always the sign that Lola is sick. Right now, she sounds like Marcie from the Peanuts cartoon, so I keep having her call me “sir”, much to my own amusement. Here it is Christmas Eve, and we are looking for a very Brady Christmas miracle. Will she be able to sing “O’ Come All Ye Faithful” tomorrow at the Christmas Pageant? One hopes.

However, not only is Lola sick, but she is caught up in a typhoon of pre-holiday things to do. I’m beginning to think Christmas is not a pleasant time of year for someone who tends to be a bit anxiety prone. Let me paint this image for you:

Two days before Christmas, I wake up and walk out into our living room and find Lola sitting at her writing table, head down and immersed in her thoughts as she writes quickly to capture them all on her composition notebook paper. This is her ritual – what she does everyday to get her creative juices flowing. There is usually a bowl of oatmeal with flaxseed next to her.

So that’s what I come out to every morning. It’s taken me a long time to learn it (and I still push my luck) but Lola in this spot is the sleeping bear. Don’t wake her. Don’t interrupt. Don’t say hi. Don’t whistle. It just pulls her out of the zone. So, and again this has taken me a long time to figure out, I do what I can to leave her be, although I always look in her direction to see if she wants to say hi. Often she gives me the warmest of smiles, which starts the day out right.

Two days before Christmas, I pop out of our room, look in Lola’s direction, and she looks up and yells, “WEEDS!”(as in “I am in the weeds” or “I have too much to do.”) I knew we were in for trouble.

We’re doing our best to make it through the holidays, but I am glad I have Lola around to keep me laughing, even though, I must admit, I am laughing at her holiday craziness. Last night we wrapped presents and watched “Love, Actually” (she fell asleep the first time around) in front of our Christmas tree. And even with the weight of all that needs to get done firmly resting on her shoulders (and a mouth full of hacking phlegm), Lola found some peace in the simplicity and joy of a cozy night. A Christmas miracle indeed.

She’s in the shower now. The cycle starts again. We are about to take a three hour car drive only to come three hours back. She is stressed about what we still need to do. She is still thinking about cooking. She is still thinking about shopping. She is still coughing like a 97-year-old man with emphysema. But I know that at the end of the day, we will have survived this holiday once again. Hopefully she’ll have lots to write about tomorrow and she’ll give me a smile too.

Who needs jewelry?

Under the Mellederer tree...

1. To: Bowels
Merry Christmas!
Love: Lola

2. The perfect gift for the person who has everything.

3. It's a little known fact that the fourth gift the wise men brought was prunes; a much more practical gift than Frankincense, Myrrh, and Gold for a woman who just gave birth.

4. Our version of coal. (The large intestine is the stocking.)

5. Dear Santa,
Sorry about all that cheese.
Love, Lola

6. Our chosen gift for the first relative to ask when we're going to have a baby.

7. Dan sure took that whole "only get what we really need" thing seriously.

8. Word to the wise: When asking for a gift to help promote productivity, be specific.

9. It's a step up from last year's Preparation H stocking stuffer.

10. Man, I was hoping for an enema.

Your turn...c'mon, it's not like you have anything better to do three days before Christmas.

The Little Drummer Boy was cheap.

Dan got this ornament in early December of 2006 knowing that he was going to propose and that it would be a Christmas we'd want to remember. Sometimes I want to eat it.

Okay, holiday weeds---blah, blah, blah. I'm at the point where there is so much to do that I can't do anything; not even compose a decent blog entry. So, since it's been a while, some

Random Chunks of Spew:

Not to ruin the song, but "Baby, It's Cold Outside" sounds a lot like date rape put to music. "The answer is no...Say, what's in this drink?..."

Christmas movies watched thus far include A Christmas Story, Love Actually, Elf, Home Alone and White Christmas. On the feel-good scale, this run of holiday classics far surpasses the line-up of documentaries Dan and I recently viewed: Sicko, Crazy Sexy Cancer, Al Franken: God Spoke, Tyson, and Roman Polanski: Wanted and Desired. Of the two, Tyson was by far my favorite rapist.

(Did I really just make two rape jokes in one entry? Tasteless.)

We're holding out on Food, Inc. and Grey Gardens until after Christmas. I'm hoping Food, Inc. will disgust and horrify me into a healthy 2010. (I'm hoping Grey Gardens, which deals with hoarding among other themes, will get me to clean out my closet.)

As an experiment and a little side business, Dan started packaging and selling his peanut butter balls this season. Since Thanksgiving there have been fresh peanut butter balls on my kitchen table every day. In related news, screw Dan.

Concealing the secret of Santa stresses me out. I look forward to Molly no loner believing because I'm just not up to the task of not robbing her of the joy and innocence of childhood.

Since when does RI get more snow than NH? What's next, Portsmouth gets a school day and Foster-Glocester doesn't?

(Does Foster-Glocester really exist?)

(RI humor offers the inniest of inside jokes.)

Dan got a Christmas bonus and I told him he should put it right in our savings account so we don't go blowing it on gifts for other people---'cuz that's the Christmas spirit.

After our landlord's henchmen woke me up at 3am last week while shoveling our walkway, I asked Dan if he thought they would take something off our rent if we did the shoveling ourselves. A week later (and after nearly three years of living here) she called us with this exact proposal. I told Dan it was the "Law of Attraction" but he's convinced the place is bugged and keeps turning up the music to talk like this is The Firm.

(Is The Firm too old a movie to reference?)

(I think I may have just had my first official experience with "dating myself.")

I'm trying to decide if I should procrastinate exercising by doing Christmas cards or procrastinate doing my cards with exercise.

I've decided to procrastinate doing both with this blog.

I think I'll pour a glass of red wine now...could make for interesting Christmas cards.

And also pairs nicely with these.

That really is a pen in your pocket, isn't it?

Hubba-hubba.

Saturday night I danced at a gay bar in Boston until 2am, throwing around words like “best train ever” (and not talking conga lines).

Sunday night I donned a black vest and served as volunteer at the Portsmouth Music Hall, a small local theater, during the evening performance of the Holiday Pops.

So hungover my usher flashlight felt heavy, I had to laugh as I sat among a staff of mostly senior-citizen volunteers and watched a tall blond woman in a long red gown belt out an aria-style “White Christmas” and thought about how less than 24 hours before I was up on a club stage in a Santa hat belonging to one of a trio of Santas who stormed the bar and belly-bounced me between their stuffed red coats.

It was an interesting juxtaposition of evenings; one night I’m tangoing with a gay boy from Egypt named Hazem and the next Doris is telling me about her grandchildren while orienting me with theater seat numbers.

Though The Holiday Pops was a sweet show, Café Club was a far superior experience. (I hardly think Doris, Priscilla and Lorraine would have ended the evening on stage with me pulsing spastically to “Proud Mary” as my Mattie, Hazem and a bobbed blond girl had done the night before.)

Not that my going-out experience is so vast, but over the years the nights I’ve spent with Mattie dancing at gay bars ‘til the wee hours are among the best of my life. (I’m reminded of another lovely evening in NYC spent at a quaint little drinkery called “The Hole.”) For a married lady looking for a night of crazy, sweaty dancing there is no better place to be than in the midst of a crowd of gorgeous, sexy gay men. It is fun in its purest form because the dynamic between the men and women is such that we’re not trying to get into each other’s pants. It’s youthful fun. It’s boys and girls playing together without the divisiveness of cultural restrictions and hormones. We can dance---even dirty dance---and it’s still just dancing. At a “straight bar” feeling a bulge in my back makes me an adulterer. At a gay bar, a cock in the back is benign!

(When I explained this to Dan, he asked me, “What’s keeping straight guys from going to gay bars and pretending they're gay just to get close to the girls?”

“Um, having to go to gay bars and pretend they're gay,” I said.

Plus, in my experience, there’s no shortage of ass-to-crotch contact at any bars or dance clubs these days.)

To me, gay bars feel safe. There is no self-consciousness because nobody sees me. The gay men are looking at the gay men, the gay women are looking at the gay women (somewhat to my chagrin, gay women have never been into me) and I just get to dance around like a fool and ask the guys who they’re into. I don’t register sexually and thus barely register at all (unless someone wants to ask me about Mattie which is often the case). I’m not saying that it is usually my daunting plight to be ogled by straight men at bars. This is not, nor has ever been, my reality. I’m just saying that to be invisible is to be invincible. It’s empowering and freeing to be at a bar in which the man/woman tension is completely absent. (Plus, one guy said to me, “You’re super hot...and I’m gay,” and that’s the nicest thing anyone’s ever said to me. I’ve certainly never been called “super hot” at a “straight bar” before. Or anywhere else. Ever. I told him he had just in that moment improved my self esteem.)

My first time at a gay bar was in NYC, again with Mattie, where I found myself a groupie of one of the most beautiful women I have ever seen; a transgendered goddess named Candis Cayne. I stood amidst her large following of adoring boys, worshipping at her feet as she sang and danced at a Greenwich Village bar. I was enamored, amazed and in love; she was more woman than I will ever be. After the show all these boys waited their turn to tell her how much she meant to them; she was their Rosie.(That's her in the header pic---surprised?)

The best part of that night? Being christened by the fellas with my own Steel Magnolias nickname. They called me Miss Truvy after Dolly Parton’s character (Bliss!) and we spent the night dancing and do dramatic reenactments from the movie.

“...I’m fine! I'm fine! I can jog all the way to Texas and back, but my daughter can't! She never could!”

And I knew then that I was home.

Sadly, such nights out are somewhat limited because (surprise) New Hampshire is not quite the epicenter of the gay nightclub scene that one might think. No White Mountman Inn that I know of. Too bad,I would like to enjoy their version of Holiday Pops...in the back.

Or. (It's like Choose Your Own Adventure here at The Spew.)

Too bad, I think Doris would love it.

Or.

I suppose I should be grateful...I might have to start looking for Dan there.

Naddafinga!

"My little brother had not eaten voluntarily in over three years." (I couldn't find one that wasn't spliced up. My apologies.)

It finally feels like Christmas. Cold. Snow. You need cold and snow. A couple of weeks ago on a 60-degree day, Molly asked me if it snows in December. In the old days it did, kiddo. And then it came. Twice. There is snow on the ground though not much due to the rains which followed the other day’s white-out. In all the Christmas movies depicting the coziness of the holiday season in New England---the chimney smoking, the mom in the window waiting for her grown children to come home, the frozen-over pond on which children skate (I will dedicate another entry to why ice skating sucks and how a cold, bruised ass and bound feet do not a happy person make)--- never once have I seen the cold rains and mucky puddles that follow the fluffy whiteness. I’m going write a holiday movie titled “Wintry Mix.”

Still, despite the rain, I could make a snowball if I wanted to.

Our home is decorated so that also helps bring the Christmas on. Our apartment is so small and our holiday decoration collection so vast, that the resemblance of our home to Santa’s Workshop cannot be overstated. While decorating, in a scene reminiscent of “A Christmas Story” in which the curly-haired wife breaks the Old Man’s fishnet-clad leg lamp, I knocked Dan’s 20-pound stone gargoyle off the top of a six-foot high book shelf and it plummeted to the ground, breaking both its feet in the fall. (Fortunately, the hard-wood floor sustained no injury.)

“What happened next was a family controversy for years.”

“You never liked that gargoyle,” Dan mock-yelled.

He’s right. I never did. I have expressed this multiple times. Not only does it weird me out (the gargoyle and also the realization that the man I’m sharing my life with is into such things), but I don’t think it has any place in a living room (unless you’re the Hunchback of Notre Dame). Find a place for it your five feet of man space in the spoffice, I say.

But I caved and it took a spot high atop the bookshelf where I would hopefully never notice it. Now that I think about it, I can’t remember why I caved. I think it must have had something to do with the stance I took against his hanging this picture in the living room:



A cool picture, yes, (and painted by an old friend of Dan’s) but what I want staring down at me as I engage in hand-to-mouth fudge shoveling on my couch? I think not. The gargoyle must have been the lesser of two evils on a day where I was trying understand the concept of compromise.

I was trying to put a Santa hat on the gargoyle (very cat lady-ish, I admit) when the accident happened. Rather than using a chair, I opted to try to maneuver a reach-and-throw technique which ultimately ended with the gargoyle being shoved off the cliff, er bookcase, into the cob-webby chasm which lies behind the kitty-cornered shelving unit.

I apologized repeatedly as Dan moved the bookcase from the wall to assess the damage and sweep up little stone toes. His quietness told me that he was irritated with my clumsiness (a fate he’s learning he will be eternally suffering) and I really felt badly*. The truth is that I probably would have been more careful had the possession been mine. How wrong is that? Had it been a stone Justin Timberlake statue (a much more suitable element of living room décor) and not Dan’s gargoyle that fell, I would’ve been not only crushed but also pouty about Dan’s carelessness. And, yet, after the short-lived silent treatment, he not only accepted my apology but also really forgave me. I think he even felt badly about my feeling badly (or bad about my feeling bad). Whatever the grammar, I’m convinced that it’s this ability of his to shrug things off rather than go nuts that has kept him looking young enough to still get carded and why people are genuinely shocked to hear that the guy is 41. (We’ll save for later the problem I have with a 41-year-old man---with whom I share a bed---owning a stone gargoyle.) It’s Dan’s calm nature that will give him all those extra years later on.

I’ll take early death and still get good and pissed once in a while.

Furthermore, there’s still a part of me that wonders if the repression of all this anger every time I break his toys, leave the sink full of dishes and take up 75 percent of the bed, is going to be break him and ultimately lead to my early death being at his hands. As we were unpacking our tree from its long plastic tote (allergies), Dan said, “This is where I would put your body…”

Nothing says Christmas like a little Scott Peterson humor. The screwed up part is that every time he makes a joke like this---and it’s a go-to joke for him---I laugh and laugh. It’s the funniest thing to me, this kidding about killing me. Once he asked me what picture I would want him to give to the police should I mysteriously disappear. (I’m laughing while typing it; soul mates.)

After the incident Dan asked me if I crossed the gargoyle off of my "to-kill" list.

I wonder who’s on his.

That’s it, no Official Red Ryder Carbine-Action Two-Hundred-Shot Range Model Air Rifle for him this year.



*Grammar club---I know I’ve discussed this with a few of you privately, but it’s time to put it to the public: Does one feel bad or badly? I’ve read that since it is modifying the noun and not the verb, it is not an adverb and thus does not require the l-y. This same source said that to add the l-y would be to say that your ability to “feel”---that is the act of touching---is lacking. To not add the l-y make me feel weird. (Not weirdly.) Discuss.

We're artists, seriously.

This first, clean version was suitable for posting on my friend Mattie's public Fox Providence blog as part of his audition process for a Rhode Island-based talkshow.

Though Mattie and I have been friends since the days of school dances and middle parts (which we both sported but I kept for far too long), he has lived in California for the last four years so our visits with each other are infrequent (which is why we have 2 1/2 hour phone conversations). When we are able to get together, we do things like videotape (does anyone really 'videotape' anymore?) ourselves trying to do double cartwheels. Isn't that what most old friends do upon reuniting?

Following the posting of the previous video, Matt received (and posted) this:

From the Law Office of Mellowsky and Mellowsky

Dear Matthew Rodrigues,

On behalf of my client, Laura Mellow, I am writing to inform you of charges being brought against you as a result of damages incurred on 9 November 2009. Having viewed people’s evidence #471, video footage posted at web address http://blogs.foxprovidence.com/author/matthewrodrigues/, our office feels confident in our ability to prove that Ms. Mellow’s injuries---both physical and emotional---are a result of criminal neglect and malfeasance. The defense is certain the events depicted in the aforementioned video were deviously orchestrated for the purpose of sensationalism and as a result of Mr. Rodrigues’ ruthless ambition to become The Rhode Show co-host.

The charges against you include the following allegations:

Roofies were involved.

You dropped her.

On purpose.

It hurt.

As Ms. Mellow was only 17, thus a minor at the time of taping, said footage was illegally released.

Ms. Mellow suffered great physical trauma as a result of a serious injury which consulting doctors medically termed a “boo-boo.”

Ms. Mellow suffered SEVERE emotional damage as a result of 10 pounds (in legal terms, this is referred to as a ‘giant hiney’) that the camera put on and of which she states she was not adequately warned. We find this point to be indisputable as a recording which the defense has obtained has Mr. Rodrigues stating that “it’s just the way you’re standing…” (We’re hoping this will be a precedent-setting case to be known as: You couldn’t help a sister out? v. Ex-friend.)

Ms. Mellow would also like the record to show that she adamantly denies being a “tucker” but was filmed with shirt tucked into pants in an effort to prevent yet another Girls Gone Wild situation. She will be seeking $50 million in damages or the acquisition of the following:

1. Mr. Rodrigues’ Britney Spears concert t-shirt

2. The defendant’s mother’s chourico and peppers

3. The junk in Mr. Rodrigues’ trunk

4. A honey bear filled with multi-colored sand

5. A year’s worth of Brick Alley Pub buffalo shrimp pasta

6. A year’s worth of Pepto Bismol

7. Mr. Rodrigues’ favorite kidney

8. A foot massage every Thursday

9. Should Mr. Rodrigues get the job, the show will be renamed The Mellow Rhode Show.

10. Mr. Rodrigues will also be made to stand in front of famed grocery store Clements’ Market dressed as a turkey with a sign which reads: “I dropped Laura Mellow and I am so, so, so wicked sorry.”

We are hoping that you agree to our terms and think you will agree that, given the extent of the injuries, Ms. Mellow is going light on Mr. Rodrigues as a result of their years of acquaintanceship. Heretofore, such abuses of this friendship have been overlooked but further droppings will not be tolerated.

We are certain that this matter can be handled with expedience and class as long as you do everything we say.

Thank you for your time.

Most Sincerely, Cordially and Wicked Lawerly,

Lola Mellowsky, esquire

Matt didn't get the job (because the show was content with safety and mediocrity rather than risk and real talent) so he made this video:

Their loss.

All I want for Bic-mas...

Dear Mr. Bic,

I’m not writing to tell you that a pen exploded all over my white leather couch and it’s all your fault. I’m not writing to say that I’ve stopped kissing my husband because your razors aren’t giving him a close enough shave. I am writing to say congratulations! Congratulations for taking advantage of the fabulous opportunity I’m about to present to you.

I am a 28-year-old writer on the brink of big success. Since I wrote my first story about a pair of hunkalicious twins in my second grade class, I’ve known that writing---a fabulous writing career---was to be my future. I have no doubt that within the next few years I’ll be as well-known as authors Stephen King, J.K. Rowling and even Mackenzie Phillips. There will surely be a shadow of paparazzi trailing my every move, taking pictures of me enjoying the glamorous and riveting life to which a writing life lends itself. (Here she is at another coffee shopping working…)

This, Mr. Bic, is where you come in. I would like to give you the opportunity to become my sponsor before Cross and Uniball get a chance to steal me away as this wave of success comes for me and carries me to the top. This is a ground floor opportunity, Mr. Bic.

In exchange for your sponsorship, I would sign a contract stating that not only would I write solely in Bic pen but also that every Bic-book (I smell an Oprah-like book club) will be a best-seller. I would be photographed using only Bic pens. I would be willing to wear Bic spandex biker shorts and would perform all in-the-mirror karaoke while singing into a Bic pen. I would also promise to make various pen-puns regarding your product including, “These pens are fantast-bic!” or “Life’s a Bic, why not write about it?”

As my sponsor, your responsibilities would be minimal (though I would need you to provide the spandex). Your main obligation would involve sending me to a writing conference in Guatemala this February. (It’s well-know that most international trends have their origins in Guatemalan culture so the extra advertising down there would no doubt reap lucrative benefits.) “Write by the Lake: Joyce Maynard’s Lake Atitlan Writing Workshop” is a week-long writing program hosted by best-selling author Joyce Maynard at her home in Guatemala. The workshop, which will also feature the teachings of various other acclaimed authors, would enhance and hone my skills which, as my sponsor, I think would be of great importance to you. I am confident that I would come out of this experience a better writer. However, tuition and housing will cost close to $2500 and this in addition to the airfare from my residence in New Hampshire to Guatemala is unfortunately out of my fiscal reach. As a potential sponsor, I see this as an investment opportunity for you (and a dream come true for me).

In conclusion, I can only say: pretty please. The application deadline for the program is December 15th so time is unfortunately of the essence, Mr. Bic. I appreciate your time here and am hopeful that this letter will fall into the hands of someone who once had, or is still clinging to a dream.

Most Sincerely,
Laura Mellow

P.S. It’s Christmas time...

I wonder if Bic would sponsor me.

Dear Santa,

Applications are due by December 15th. Please hurry.

L,L

A year ago today.

(The actual starting date of this blog...long before I got the stones to really go for it and tell anyone.)

Saturday: December 6, 2008

This blog was supposed to be born out of the shitty (we swear here) day I had yesterday. It started as a one-thing-after-another account of a day that was ultimately put out of its misery through the use of Ambien, but I have none of that to show here because, fittingly, I accidentally erased the whole thing, rendering the entire day less productive than it already was. (Showering moved back to the top of the list.)

So instead it starts here: the morning after. However, the morning after (on a good day) offers perspective (however slight) on past events, so yesterday cannot be rewritten in an honest way without incorporating this newfound wisdom: I should have taken the Ambien earlier. (You gotta know when to fold 'em.)

Perhaps the day's mood can best be captured in the following e-mail which I wrote to my husband, Dan, in response to his suggestion yesterday that we start the weekend a bit early and meet for a 5 o'clock movie:

Nope. I don't want to leave the house all day. I am so fat and lazy. Maybe I could get it in me to decorate tonight. Maybe. But I can't get myself dressed and groomed for a movie. Why did you marry me?

While the e-mail was meant in jest (hilarious, right?), poor Dan, who is never quite sure when I am going to finally give up and jump from our first-floor apartment window, called me within moments of my pressing send to ask if I was okay.

I was.

Yesterday I would have said it was the combination of a run of sleepless nights due to Dan's cold-induced snoring, a three-pound (scale confirmed) weight gain, and the sounding of my broken car alarm, all before the coffee was even brewed, that led to a day of defeat for my ass and victory for peanut butter and chocolate chips (served up in a bowl cereal-style and pictured above.) Other than to prepare myself food or drink, my movement from the couch was minimal and I, indeed, never left our apartment.

Overnight, however, I gained total clarity as to the cause of my funk which, let's face it, started well before yesterday. (The Ambien CR website states: "When you first start taking AMBIEN, use caution in the morning when engaging in activities requiring complete alertness until you know how you will react to this medication." It's 8am. Am I drinking and blogging here?)

I'm a little depressed. Shocking, I know. At the start of winter, in the midst of the holiday season, I am depressed. Not exactly a new concept. (The sting from the lack of originality when it comes to depression is the gift that keeps on giving; trouble sleeping, increased appetite, pondering divorce because your husband was the one who set off the car alarm, etc.)

Another symptom? "Loss of interest in activities or hobbies that were once enjoyable, including sex." (The National Institute of Mental Health.)

I don't want to decorate for Christmas. (You thought it was the sex thing right? Not on our first date, people.)

I don't want to haul out the holly or put up the tree before my spirit falls away. (Talk about self-medicating.) And usually, I do. I have four sisters. We're Christmas people despite being completely unreligious. Last night, while Dan and I lay on the couch, my sisters sent me notes about how they were either writing out Christmas cards, sitting in front of their trees, or drunk on eggnog and rum. I was watching a TV special about the top twenty-five Christmas movie moments and providing Dan with a cranky running commentary. (When Harry Met Sally, though wonderful in many ways, is not a friggin' holiday movie. Who makes these crappy lists?)

It's December 6th, the month is practically over anyway, do I really need another project that requires set-up and clean-up? Do I really feel like vacuuming up fake pine needles (Dan is allergic to everything) and rehanging the stockings every time they fall of the mantle? This is a harsh departure from the little girl who would "play Christmas" with her friends and was known to blare Nat King Cole's Christmas album from a portable radio at the beach in mid-July.

Thinking about when we trimmed our tree last year, I figured out why I’m not exactly eager to get up to my elbows in tinsel. Last year at this time I was pregnant. Last year we were gleeful trimming our tree and I remember Dan asking if the baby (who would have been born in July) would be crawling into the boxes of ornaments or trying to climb the tree like a cat.

"She may not be crawling yet but she'll definitely be staring at the big, sparkly thing in the middle of the living room," I told him.

We were elated last year at the time. It was our first Christmas married and I was pregnant.

I found out in January, at our 12-week appointment, that the baby had no heartbeat and had stopped developing.

So, no, I'm not exactly jolly going into things this year.

For I've grown a little leaner (Well...)
Grown a little colder,
Grown a little sadder,
Grown a little older.

This has been a long, hard year but I have grown a little stronger, too. The fact that I am outside of this depression, poking it with a stick a bit, is a testament to this.

I'm not quite sure what this blog is going to be but I'm quite sure I need to do it.

Just as I need to decorate this year.

Just as I need a little a music,
need a little laughter,
need a little singing
ringing through the rafter.

I need a little shove forward. I need a little project. I need a little proof that I'm creating. So that's what this blog will be. A little funny with the sad. A little sweet with the salty. A little chocolate with the peanut butter.

"A little snappy, happy ever after" though? That's pushing it.

P.S. (This is 2009 Lola.) So glad to not be in that place this year. Yay therapy! And Wellbutrin! And maybe even this blog...

An e-mail from the hubby. (I hate the word hubby.)

It makes me feel like I'm sleeping with a Saturday morning cartoon character. (Young Lola's version of this song went, "Gummy bears, bouncing here and there and everywhere, they're not even wearing underwear...")

I also don't enjoy the terms "wifey" or "The Mrs." One time, as a joke, Dan called me "Mother" and I called my lawyer. Still, it's e-mails like the following one he sent me the other day, that make me enjoy him so.

Subject: Our Christmas Weekend‏
From: Dan Lederer
Sent: Tue 12/01/09 11:33 AM
To: Laura Mellow

Saturday:
Morning: Workout – Morning Pages – General Lola “things”
12:00: Set up tree and decorate (think cozy music)
4:00: Break with cheese, crackers and wine
5:00: Go to Exeter Christmas Parade
7:00: Home for Dinner and Wine
8:00: Watch tree and NyQuil. (A new running joke in the Mellederer home. The other night in bed he said, "I'm ready for my NyQuil" and when I laughed him off---and rolled over---he said, "You're all talk.")

Sunday
Morning: Workout – Morning Pages – General Lola “things”
11:00: Brunch in Portsmouth (Mimosas?)
1:00: Christmas Story at The Music Hall http://www.themusichall.org/calendar/event_detail.asp?eventID=887
3:30: Home to watch tree. Christmas Cards? Blog?

You in?



I'm in.

It just started snowing. Perfect. Last night I changed into my jammies at 7pm and we ordered Chinese food, shared a bottle of red and watched a movie. After we toasted I said, "This is what I hoped being married would be."

Same goes for this weekend...

Love,
The Old Ball and Chain

Lifetime's Best

Do yourself a favor and watch this whole clip. You won't regret it.

Since Meredith Baxter Birney is the Spew's unofficial spokesperson, I count her coming out as my victory. (There's no sense to be made of it but it's just the way I feel.) My sisters and I often invent words and expressions that we use seamlessly in a strange sort of sister language (that Dan, remarkably, is somehow learning). (Mellictionary to come...) It is a common occurrence to get on the phone with one of them and hear her (any of 'em) say, "I just totally pulled a Meredith Baxter Birney," and I know that she has just overeaten and is referencing the above movie and we move on to the next topic without missing a beat.

Hearing her name in the news still makes me happy and I'm glad she came out. 62-years-old. Power to her and everyone else still trying to figure out things as they go.

Somehow the goal became posting a bookish entry by 11:59 and I made it!

Please welcome Loooola Mellowsky! (This picture is headed to my vision board…)

Three months ago Meryl Streep threw down. (She didn’t call me directly, but her people have been in touch.) Inspired by Julie and Julia, Nora Ephron’s fall film in which Streep played Julia Child opposite Amy Adams’ modern-day office grunt turned successful writer, Julie Powell, I set out to finish a rough draft of a book or “bookish” in three months. It should be noted that Powell, whose mission was to whip up all of the recipes from Child’s “Mastering the Art of French Cooking” and blog about it, gave herself a year. Dan, my often wise and sometimes right husband, recommended that I also take a year. But, having been playing around with a bookish idea in my head for over two years already, I was sure its execution would be smooth like buttah, sizzling then settling on my computer screen in three-months time, maybe less. The result:

Dan: 1
Lola: 0

I don’t want to give you Melliterary blue balls, but this is about as anticlimactic as it gets. (I suppose that could be disputed.) While it would be oodles of fun to post an offer letter from some powerhouse publisher, three months does not a bookish make. (At least from this writer.) That said, I haven’t been twiddling my shift keys all this time. This is what three months of my life look like in paper:



Much of this was actually written (hand-written) before this challenge even started but it certainly wasn’t the neat stack of Dunder Mifflin’s finest you see here. It was a mess of notes, half-essays and haiku-like scribbles, spread around marble-covered composition notebooks, fancy leather bound writer-y journals, Moleskine shorties, flip-flop-shaped list paper, index cards and practically every other form of paper with the exception of a cocktail napkin (which is where every great book seems to be born from these days...perhaps this is what ultimately doomed me.) Before I could go forward, I wanted to know what I already had so I went to work transferring my horrific handwriting to the computer while doing some light editing, organizing and outlining along the way. I took notes on where I wanted to go with certain pieces, what I thought some sentences meant or could mean if I developed them further, and where things might fit in the big-picture bookish. I got lots of manila folders which I labeled in black Sharpie and began sorting by topic and subtopic and then later chronologically.

There was real effort but it was time consuming; three-months consuming, in fact. I could look at this two ways:

1) Zip-a-Dee-Doo-Dah, I had more than I even realized!
or
2) Dagnammit, I’m no further along than I was three months ago.

I’m choosing both: Zip-a-Dee-Dag, I have a ways to go but I’ve done and learned a lot already.

It’s not that I didn’t do any actual writing. (Exhibit A: this blog.) Some days I’d show up at my desk with a fresh batch of ideas to get down and experience my favorite part of writing---ending up at a place that you didn’t know you were going or at a thought that you didn’t know you were thinking. That is where I find my writing high. The buzzkill? Editing. The high becomes a low in equal proportion. If I stay with a piece long enough (which is unavoidable in long-term work like a bookish), I undoubtedly end up hating it and there’s a wounding defeat that comes from getting so fired up by an idea only to decide that in its execution it has become utter crap. Most writers would advise to keep going anyway and I did and am. (But can you imagine the pressure? My family kept making comments about how they couldn’t wait to hear about the bookish and in my head I’m all, “Fuckity fuck fuck.”) I was clinging to the idea of getting everything organized by December 1 (I didn’t) so I would have something to point to, but the lesson I learned is that finding balance between writing the writing and cleaning the writing is essential. That lesson is something I feel comfortable pointing to as the fruit of three months of work. (That’s also some stack of paper.)

But how fucking unsatisfying is that for you?! If I followed a blog in which someone promised a product, documented their progress and then as a big finish delivered a lesson on balance as a way to atone for their not having anything to show, I would click that baby x in the corner of the screen with all my pissy might. (I would also leave hostile comments using words like bullshit and ho-bag but I’m not advising that you do this.)

So, I feel I owe you at least a little something concerning what this bookish is all about. Until now I’ve been talking about it in only generic terms---chapters, topics, outlines---and this has been all about self preservation. What if I write that this bookish is about one thing and it ends up being about something else? What if I never finish it but I finish something else and people say weren’t you writing a book about that other thing and I’m all, shut up asshole. What if someone steals my ideas?

The fact is I don’t really know exactly what the bookish is about. Lame, but true. I can tell you this: The whole thing was born from the idea of documenting the first year of marriage. (I’m now a few months past the two-year mark though it seems like it’s been eons longer than that, perhaps indicative of why it’s book-worthy.) My experience early on when looking for resources about marriage was that most of the stories I read and heard were those of women who were years into (or out of) their marriages and looking back at the those tough early days with the wisdom that time provides. Helpful? Yes. Relatable? Not totally. I wanted to read a book from someone in the trenches and thus wanted to write a book from in the trenches. It wasn’t just the stuff of toilet seats and snoring that Dan and I dealt with. Nor could the questions and issues that arose be settled with advice about never going to bed angry and always kissing good night.

It was the stuff of money: Do we merge our bank accounts or keep our money separate? Also, we’re starting our life tens of thousands of dollars in debt---how do ya want to handle that?

It was the stuff of religion: You’re Catholic and I’m totally not, how do you want to handle that? And what’s your mom going to say when we don’t baptize our kids? Also, wanna convert to Buddhism?

It was the stuff of principles: Despite initially thinking I could handle it, I ultimately decided it went against my values to change my last name. To Dan’s credit, this was never an issue for him. He even said he was “proud” that I kept my last name. (I understand and respect whatever decision anyone else makes and reserve the right to change my mind or merge our last names which would be my preference.)

It was the stuff of communication: We’re not really good at talking about things---wanna talk about it?

(I recognize that many people---many wise, insightful people---talk about these things before they get married but given our aforementioned struggles with communication, we decided to wing it.)

The bookish I wanted to write was certainly not going to be a how-to guide (we still don’t know anything) but just one couple’s experience littered with some research, anecdotes and much of the humor that exists between Dan and me. There are real struggles here (as in all marriages) but every day---every single day---we laugh. Maybe it’s because I watched two of my sisters get divorced within a few years of marriage or maybe it’s just because I’m overly analytical, but I find myself a student of this institution as I live it. (Dan loves this.) The complexities fascinate and frighten me in equal measure.

But, from what I’ve observed, it’s rare for a woman (I could never speak for a man because I know nothing about them) to speak of the difficult aspects of marriage, particularly in the early years. It almost seems that to admit that things are hard would be a betrayal of our marriages or spouses; a failure of sorts. I really adore Dan and our marriage is sometimes difficult and takes work. Those are not mutually exclusive concepts, but if even I’m biting my tongue about it then I know others are too. Maybe if we talked about it more we would feel less isolated. I remember having dinner with a friend of mine and her new husband a few times in the early years of their marriage. Though I knew she loved him, she always seemed so unhappy, so disillusioned. I often wonder now if she needed an outlet or just to hear that somebody else was feeling the same thing.

This bookish idea came to me while I was still only engaged. Once we got married I observed things and kept a daily log like I was studying the mating habits of tree frogs. Then I got pregnant and miscarried and all bets were off. The pregnancy, the miscarriage, the depression which followed; these were among the defining elements of my first year of marriage (and my life for that matter).

And then I was so crazed after my miscarriage about how little this topic is discussed and the grief spoken that I wanted to write about that, too. We all know how common miscarriage is, we all know someone who has had one or even several, but have you ever heard the story of their loss? Women don’t often go into specifics. To grieve for someone who was never real to anyone but you is beyond lonely not only because it’s yours alone to bear but also because it is near impossible to express this grief in a culture where miscarriage is depicted as a medical complication instead of as a death (which is how most women feel it). I could go on and on but the fact is that I see this as another situation, like abortion or even the decision to not have children at all, in which women feel they must maintain a polite silence. The sad injustice of this is how little it serves our gender; how once again we are alone with our secrets.

It is both maddening and terribly sad how the truths of both these topics are unspoken. Worse still is the shame that always shadows secrecy. It is hard for me to just accept such things especially when I see that it could be easier for others if we women just got to talking. Or writing.

But do you see why I’m not really sure what specifically this bookish is about? Although most women say it takes having another child to really move on after miscarriage, I chose not to go that route (and still feel I am in a healthy place). Does that belong in the marriage book or the miscarriage book? Are they one bookish? And then I have moments when I feel that the book I want to write involves traveling the country and visiting friends, family and whomever else will let me in their kitchen, to talk to them about their marriages. Should I be talking to them about their miscarriages too? Their abortions?

So what can I say? I’m clearly working but the “on what” is less obvious. And it’s certainly not easy to articulate---except for maybe in a soapbox-y blog (and I’m not so sure I’ve done even that).

It’s not quite a zygote of an idea, nor is it a fully-born book. It’s an in-between; a growing, developing not-quite-book. I can’t think of another word. It’s a friggin' bookish.

I'll take Blogs That Rhyme With Procrastination for $500

Twas the night before Bookish,
the deadline in sight.
My brain was straight-crazy;
my forehead, quite tight.

That chapter is missing,
it must be somewhere.
Oh this shit is awful,
I don’t even care.

Dan was all cuddly
reading books in our bed,
hoping I’d take a break
to give him some…NyQuil.

I don’t know where this is going,
I haven’t a map.
Why did I set such a deadline?
These pages are crap.

My head was going blank,
the state of things sadder,
when I thought of my pipe
that old clay Mad Hatter.

I could smoke me some weed
or even some hash.
It’d be like my own private party,
a Bookish Eve Bash!

This had worked in the past
at my childhood home.
A few tokes of a joint
would yield bad teenage poems.

Weary of smoking and blogging,
I counted this out.
It was staying awake
I was worried about.

I tantrummed and cussed,
a dash of Tourette’s.
I can’t take an all-nighter
without cigarettes!

That wasn’t an option,
having quit years ago.
I can’t go through that again,
I’d rather do blow.

The clock was ticking away,
the hours just piddling.
I know what I need,
a 10-milligram Ritalin!

But drugs weren’t the answer,
I knew in my heart.
I’m not a kid anymore,
I can’t play that part.

Hard work and commitment,
that’s what this would take.
And sadly those traits
you just cannot fake.

So I sharpened my pencil
that trusty #2
then said, “Screw this,
a computer will do.”

Tap-tapping away,
on my face a wide smile.
I played the keys like a piano
on a blank new Word file.

sadkjlaskdj I wrote,
and kdjfadlf too.
I don’t think this counts,
but it’s so fun to do!

Now get down to business
no more messing around.
Although you are lost,
you must get yourself found.

Enough with procrastinating,
this most fatal of flaws.
Set some limits for yourself;
lay down some laws.

No Facebook, no e-mail, no perezhilton.com,
No crosswords, sudoku, or cybersex with John.*

So I started again,
this time with great ease.
Words starting flowing.
Finally, Jeez Louise!

Though one thing did get me,
I couldn’t resist.
Rhyming and meter
did seem to persist.

One last great distraction
made me its bitch.
Something wanted to be written
but which one was which?

My hand started moving,
my brain starting to roam.
The thing I delivered?
This fun little poem!

I’m going to bed now,
all-nighters, no more!
I’m not getting graded,
I’ll just always be poor.

It will be harder tomorrow,
my task is uphill.
But my man is still waiting
for his dose of NyQuil.

Bookish will be done,
all in good time.
I’ve got ‘til tomorrow
at 11:59!

*names have been changed to protect the innocent

P.S. It took everything in me not to rhyme all-nighter with pillow biter which I thought it was too offensive. (Clearly not so offensive that I couldn’t include it here to illustrate that I’m, indeed, hot like wasabi when I bust rhymes.)

Said the pervy wife to her husband, Dan

Do you see what I see?



A tail as big as a kite?

At the risk of sounding friggin' wicked uncultured (which I am totally comfortable being but not sounding), I have to admit that during my niece's production of The Nutcracker tonight, I was, um, distracted (or utterly, utterly focused). I only wish life's secrets would reveal themselves to me as clearly as white tights do a male dancer's. Though I may sustain an air of maturity while at the ballet, quietly commenting to my theater neighbor about the lines of these athletes' toned physiques and the impeccable displays of artistry and technique, in my head I'm screaming, "Weiner! Weiner! I can see their weiners!"

Not a whole lot of adult conversation today in the Mellederer home in general.

Earlier today:

Dan: You know what I love about this gym? They provide towels.

Me: Eww. Why would you want to use a towel that has someone else’s sweaty ass crack on it?

Dan: They launder them!

Me: It still has ass crack on it.

Dan: This is where you and I differ on how we see the world.

Me: Why would you want to use one of those towels when we have a closet full of clean towels here?

Dan: Why would I want to lug around a sweaty towel and then bring it home and wash it when I could just use one of theirs and throw it in the bin?

Me: Because you know our towels have only touched our ass cracks.

Dan: They’re not ass crack towels, they’re sweaty head towels.

Me: People use ‘em on their ass cracks, I’m sure of it.

Even if there aren't any trace amounts of ass crack to be found, another person's sweat-drenched towel can only get so clean, that's all I'm saying. (Indeed, probably not quite the high-brow dialogue Tchaikovsky was used to.) While I am tempted to make the obvious "Worse still, what if someone's drying off their nutcracker?" joke as a witty closing to this entry, it seems cheap and amateur. Although we've established that I'm uncultured, I'd hate to be unoriginal.

Instead, I will say: Weiner! Weiner! What if they dry their weiners!

Best half a long weekend ever!

Is there any other time of year this stuff gets used?

Wednesday:

12:30pm: Dan and I decide to work half days and meet for lunch in Portsmouth. Dan calls to say he will be late to which I replied, “Fine. Then I’m buying books,” and head to bookshop to get out of the rain, look around and indulge my book-buying addiction. (I buy books like other women buy clothes. Many of the purchases just sit on a shelf, but I have to have them. This explains why I once owned a book called Bagatorials, a collection of musings from brown paper bags.) I use my addiction for good and instead of buying Artie Lange’s memoir for myself (and since I couldn’t find Mary Karr’s latest work), opt to surprise Dan with the The Simpsons: An Uncensored, Unauthorized History by John Ortved when he finally shows.

1pm: Lunch at Flatbread Pizza, a pizza joint known for using “local organic produce, free range and clean meats”. We share a half chicken and black bean and half taco pie and wash it down with a blueberry wheat beer from Maine. (No gluten in pizza or wheat beer, right?)

2:30pm: Armed with a .45 in my ankle holster, we brave the Wednesday before T-day Stop and Shop crowd and fill a grocery cart with Yukon Gold and sweet potatoes, a couple of different sized marshmallows, and what Dan referred to as, “the most dairy we’ve ever had” in the form of skim milk, whole milk, light cream, heavy cream, whipping cream, three different types of cheese and yogurt. Also, mucho butter (and two bottles of red wine).

4pm: Wednesday afternoon nap---‘cuz when do we get to do that?

5pm: The cooking begins. Dishes prepared include:

Mashed potatoes- Having watched far too much holiday Food Network programming over the years, we’ve cut and pasted parts of our favorite recipes to come up with the perfect mashed potatoes. First we peel and cut ‘em and then leave them submerged in a giant pot of cold water for a half hour to get some of the starch out, making for optimal fluffiness. After boiling the potatoes (in a fresh pot of water) we use a potato ricer rather than a masher as both Dan and I our extremely anti-lump. We meanwhile combine and heat our various dairy products (heavy cream, whole milk and whatever cartons need emptying) with a stick of butter, an entire head of minced garlic and rosemary (which we later take out). We add the heated liquid bit by bit and stir it into the potatoes. Oh, and we had a couple (if not a few) bags of shredded cheddar and parmesan cheese. This year we added cream cheese too because why not have a little fat with your fat?

Coconut-covered Sweet Potato Balls: This Paula Deen recipe is so good, Dan owes Paula his left sweet potato ball.

Sweet Potato Pie (sans the crust) for the purists- Mash em’, stir in a stick of butter (Paula schooled us good), real maple syrup (or honey) and some cinnamon and nutmeg. The best part is the streusel topping (we robbed from a Tyler Florence recipe) made with a stick of butter (mmmhmm), brown sugar, flour and chopped pecans. (Also good licked off fingers.) Crumble it on top and it toasts right up in the oven. We stuck mini marshmallows along the edges (and made a L and a D in the middle) for fun.

Creamed Onions- Blech. Dan, who makes his own cream---no Campbell’s Cream of Mushroom soup for my man---, makes this for the moms. He’s done it for his mom every year, he’s made it for my mom and this year he prepared it for my brother-in-law’s mom. For the first time in my 28 years I try it---not great but the fact that it is basically a vat of cream helps.

7:30pm: Run back out to Stop and Shop for corn syrup (for Pecan pie) even though I fucking had it in my fucking hand during our first fucking trip to the store but thought we fucking had some at fucking home. We didn’t. Make trip out more productive by picking up Thai food for dinner (like the Pilgrims did on the first Thanksgiving Eve).

8-11pm: Finish all our food preparation (the washing, peeling, cutting, soaking and boiling of 12 pounds of potatoes takes longer than you might think), make pecan pie, eat Thai food, watch Glee, (Dan) does two loads of dishes, drink a bottle of wine and curse ourselves for taking a nap and not starting earlier.

Thursday:

Slept ‘til 9am---holla!

9-11am: Enjoy the Macy’s Parade and a couple of mimosas on the couch with Dan. This tradition started last Thanksgiving, our first major holiday spent in NH. Usually we are traveling on holiday mornings so now that we stay local on T-day we revel in the fact that we can just enjoy our morning and home and not have to stress out trying to get out the door.

11-12pm: Stress out trying to get out the door. Shower, dress, throw everything into the car and head to sister’s house where we are to celebrate with Becky and Jeff and their three girls, Jeff’s brother and sister-in-law and their three kids, plus Jeff’s mom and her husband. In rush to get out the door, pecan pie is left on table.

2pm: Ruin perfect mashed potatoes by adding too much milk during re-heating process. (Perpetrator will not be named but his name rhymes with “fan.”) Lots of jokes about potato soup made.

3pm: Death by turkey, stuffing and cookies.

5pm-1am: Drink lots of wine, eggnog and rum cocktails and eat lots more food. And cookies. Play two hands of Texas Hold ‘Em, a typing game on Bec’s computer (which I shouldn’t be admitting) and Trivial Pursuit…all of which I win. Really. (It should be said that Dan carries our Trivial Pursuit team, pulling out names like Ken Kesey, Jim Carville and Pat Riley. I know that Toni Morrison was the first African-American woman to win the Nobel Prize in Literature and remember that the characters in The Joy Luck Club were playing “Mah Jong.”)

1:15am: Dan drives us home and I somehow don’t fall asleep on the car ride though I do end up walking in the house shoeless, a sure sign of a night well-spent.

2:15am: Oh my god, NBC airs Texas Hold ‘Em games late-night. I am enraptured and can’t turn it off. Dan says I am never allowed to play online poker.

Friday:

8am: Peruse Black Friday online sales over morning coffee and oatmeal (which really is gluten-free.) Dehydrated and sick from too much gaiety, I promise myself I am back off gluten.

10:30am: Take hot bubble bath and listen to the rain. Try to read a book on mindfulness so that I am able to stay in the moment but it stresses me out and takes me out of it. Opt instead for The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows and am able to stay in the moment by transporting to 1940’s England.

12pm: “Nap” with Dan. (I kid…)

1pm: Layered leftovas sandwiches. Two pieces of bread sandwiching together, among other things, a layer of stuffing. No-gluten diet starts tomorrow.

3pm: Lie head-to-toe with Dan on couch reading our books. (Guernsey is such a treat. I am in love with every character and will be so sad to leave them when it’s over.)

3:45pm: Really nap.

6:30pm: Present. I’m not sure what the future holds but I’m pretty sure it’s going to involve pecan pie.

And there’s still two and a half days left!

The kid is cold...

Don't let the adorable nose freckles fool you...

I used to like my seven-year-old niece. After last night, I could take her or leave her.

Last night, Chucky, I mean Molly, said the meanest, nastiest, ugliest words that could ever be spoken to a writer (particularly one who is constantly trying to convince herself, despite all evil inside voices to the contrary, that she is a writer…and also a contributing member of society).

“You don’t work,” she said from the backseat as I drove her to ballet.

“I do work,” I said, in the kind of faux-nice aunty voice I’ve had to muster before when she’s said something like, ‘Why does your bathing suit have so much space at the top?’

“I write and I take care of you every day.”

“Have you been published?”

Get outta my head, kid! Did my therapist tell you to say that? Is this some kind of test?

It took everything in me to keep from saying, “At least I can spell published… Jerkface!”

It wasn't said out of curiosity; that innocent way with which seven-year-olds usually inadvertently slay adults. There was a sharp judgyness to her tone. Her delivery was an impeccable blend of high-school-reunion-bitchy meets anorexic Ralph Lauren sales clerk. It wasn’t a kick in the chest, it was a verbal Chinese throwing star to the self-esteem.

I wish I could say that I saw this for the teaching moment that it was. I wish my confidence was such that my instinctive response was to say, “I’m living my dream, Molly. I’m going after something I’ve wanted since I was a little girl. Did you know you can do this? Reach for the stars and all that la-de-fuckin’-da.”

I wish I could say that I delivered the following monologue (while an orchestra built to a thunderous crescendo behind me):

Oh, young Molly, my beautiful and inquisitive niece, I understand how life can seem confusing sometimes; how, perhaps, against the backdrop of society’s dreary banality, I may seem like a different, more radical and youthful sort of adult than you’re used to and not just in that cool-aunt-who-knows-how-to-make-balloon-dogs way that you’ve always seen me.

Molly, I am living my dream.

(Cue Music. Stage darkens and Lola walks downstage into spotlight.)

When I was a little girl, I knew I wanted to be a writer when I grew up. In fact, I was your age, a wee second-grader myself (who rarely if ever made cold and hurtful remarks), when I entered my first writing contest. (My piece featured two boys, Dan and Dave---named after the hunkalicious Hatch twins, still the stars of my fantasy threesome---, and a little girl who wants to play baseball despite a bully’s taunting. A work of post-modern feminist literature focusing specifically on gender egalitarianism on the playground, I really was ahead of my time. I think there was also a talking fish involved. I still don’t understand how I lost to that fourth grader who wrote about a talking house but I digress…)

The point is, as an adult I am both living and still pursuing that dream. Most adults lose sight of their childhood hopes, Molly. Though it took me almost 20 years since that writing contest to realize that seven-year-old Lola knew what she was talking about, I am finally doing right by her and going for it completely (and enduring the insecurities, neuroses and constant feelings of inadequacy that come with it).

(I was talking about writing there, not the threesome with the Hatch brothers.)

See, Molly, you can do whatever you want with your life. Here I am, proof that you can be whomever you want to be (provided you like noodles and butter). Whenever you feel like your dreams are out of your reach just think of your ol’ Aunty Lola (doing laundry at your house) and remember that anything is possible.

I wish I had explained to Molly what it means to pursue art and how money isn’t the only driving force. We were on the way to ballet class, the life lesson was practically laid out for the teaching.

Instead, open and bleeding, I sulked in the front seat and grumbled something about the old newspaper job.

When she lobbed this next one at me, “Do you wanna hear me sing There Was a Little Bird That Sat on a Fence?” I answered, I’m ashamed to say, with a sarcastic, “Naaah.”

(Only 10 seconds of silence sat between us before I said, yes, please sing it for me, and she did.)

I can laugh about it now but it took a full car ride home of blasting the Glee soundtrack and listening to Don’t Stop Believin’ seven times in a row for me to recover. Still, it’s a little horrifying to realize that were life a sitcom I would be the wacky aunt or the underachieving sibling with the scruffy facial hair whom everyone is waiting for to snap out of it and “get a real job.”

In my most oppressive moments of insecurity, when fear is plugging my nose and doubt is covering my mouth, I’ve even had these thoughts myself. Maybe it is time for me to grow up…

But then the image of a little seven-year-old girl who wanted to be a writer comes into my head and whenever I think of taking out the ol’ resume and using bullet points to paint a picture of someone other than myself, I can hear her raspy voice in my ear:

“Bitch, please… ”

Screw light therapy, this show is going to get me through the winter blues.

Fair and balanced.

November, last year. (That fridge is hard evidence that I am, in many ways, becoming my mother.)

It's 10am on Sunday morning. The sun's been shining since 7am when I woke up and sleepily made my way over to the little table by the window where I am now, to write. (I don't want to jinx it, but how fabulous has this November been?) I am trying not to be crushed by a shelf full of Bookish pressure but the fact is that this deadline seems unreachable given the holiday and the surrounding festivities and visits with friends coming up this week (never mind the last three months of poor time management). Still, I'm not quite giving up and plan to put my head down these next few days and hopefully pull something together. The plan for today is to work into the night. (I hate calling writing 'work.' I cling to the term 'work' sometimes because of its validating properties, but I reject it for the same reason. 'Notha entry, 'notha day.)

Dan, husband of the century, just left with three Santa sacks of dirty clothes, sheets and towels and went to the laundromat after my tantrum-y declaration that not only would I not be doing laundry today, but I probably wouldn't be doing it all week. I didn't say the words "So turn your boxer shorts inside out and deal with it," but my tone offered exactly those sentiments. He volunteered to do it and I thanked him while I separated the whites from the delicates. (I'm too much of a control freak to give that part up.) He said, "It's only fair. You always do it." Good answer, Dan. Good answer.

We may try to squeeze in a walk in the sun when Dan gets back (get your Vitamin D while you can, people) but we both have our own projects going on today. Yesterday, Dan and I picked up multiple bags of chocolate chips, tubs of peanut butter, crates of eggs, bars of shortening, cans of evaporated milk, large paper sacks of flower and sugar, and lots of pecans, almonds and walnuts in preparation for a day of baking. This afternoon the apartment will be rich with the smells of Dan's famous brownies, peanut butter balls, (more) fudge, various cookies and banana bread (my contribution if I can get my act together). All Dan's treats are famous. He plays as naturally in a kitchen, as a dancer on a stage. Watching him, it often seems like a choreographed routine of turns and pivots from counters and bowls to the oven and table as he moves from melting a pot of chocolate to the brisk and deliberate stirring of heating fluff and eventually onto a finale of thick, glossy batters being poured into their various receptacles. (His homemade chicken soup and its knee-weakening creaminess is a story for another day.)

Now that he's off and laundering I'm sort of wishing he was here starting his dance, the festive and sometimes melancholy arrangement of Christmas music, his soundtrack. He'll come over to me at my window where I'll still be writing (god-willing) and give me spoonfuls and bites of each still-warm treat. There will be lots of sweet kisses as the hours pass and the sun lowers into night. That will be this year's picture of a Sunday in November. Dan cooking, me writing---I could live a life of Sundays like this.

When Dan woke this morning and saw me at my table he said, "I love seeing you sitting there. It remind me of our dream house where you'll be sitting at a bigger table, at a bigger window with a better view."

Then, noticing how my table rocks due to the sloping hardwood floor he said, "And it will be balanced."

From where I sit, all is in balance today.

'Tis the season to be jiggly.

I bet any insomniac knows who this guy is.

Dan made his first batch of fudge of the season and left it in a plastic tub on our kitchen table...all day...in the same apartment where I live and work and often seek distraction. I had no less than seven pieces. I had to finally ask him to get it out of here. "Put it in your car if you have to!"

I know my limitations. Resisting fudge is just not something I'm capable of. The one-inch cubes are so small that I can actually convince myself that I didn't really eat anything because something that small doesn't count and couldn't possibly do harm. It's not like I'm swallowing a heaping ladle of sugar. (That's exactly what it's like.) As the days shorten, my body starts doing that carb-craving thing (pretty sure fudge is a 'good' carb) and in the past few years, as womanhood has become me more and more, I've noticed a fun little pattern of putting on winter weight. (Oh, the fun of estrogen never ends!) I'm really trying not to do that this year. Tubs of fudge---delicious, fresh, creamy fudge made on my own stove top---don't help.

So far it's just been about 4 o'clock sunsets and spaghetti and meatballs but next week marks the start of the holiday season (the goddamn, mother-fucking, hap-happiest season of all) and that's when things get really hard. What am I supposed to do then, skip all the parties for hosting, marshmallows for toasting and caroling out in the snow? (Let's be honest, I haven't hosted a party since I was 20 and the only hosting duty involved knocking on the neighbor's door to let her know we'd be loud---nothing short of a Valium could get me through one now---and aren't marshmallows more of a summer thing?) But even if I skip those, there will still be almond crescent cookies for yumming, peanut butter balls for gumming and gigantic piles of blow.

The pressure is unbearable. How am I supposed to not drink wine when it's just sitting there in someone's cellar waiting to be uncorked? Who do I look like, Candy Finnigan? (Such joy every time I am able to use her name on here.)

In this month's O Magazine, Dr. Phil told me to say this to my loved ones when facing holiday eating pressure or cravings (HEP-C): "I have a lot invested in what I'm doing, so please don't take offense if I either bring my own food or turn down something you've worked hard to make. This is really important to me, and I appreciate your support." I'll let you know how that goes down with my foodie family...

The fact is that I want to indulge. I want to play. With all due respect to my digestive tract (which will certainly make its opposition to this known) I'm going to bend some of my own rules. The days of no gluten, no eating after 8, and no spiked nog before noon will have to return after the new year. I could use some holiday cheer and by that I mean holiday cheese. Everything in moderation---blah de bloo de blah blah.

But, though I want to loosen the reins, I don't want to loosen my belt if I can help it. I've learned too much and worked too hard to get a giant ass for Christmas (especially since I wanted a pony). (I like this one better.)

So, with the start of the holiday season comes the start of a new exercise routine: Tony Horton's Power90 Boot Camp. It's absolutely as cheesy as it sounds. It's a 90-day at-home video program. I alternate between a cardio video and a weight-lifting video, six days a week. I'm starting off at level 1-2 of the "Sculpt!" and "Sweat!" videos (as well as the "Ab Ripper 100"...I swear to gawd!) but eventually will move up to the level 3-4 videos (as well as, you guessed it, the "Ab Ripper 200" video). I'm not the gym type (except for when I had a $10/month membership and went one time because I lost power in my apartment and didn't want to miss Ellen) so at-home videos work for me.

(If you think that's dorky, you should see my unitard. My mom used to do Jane Fonda videos, it's genetic. I promise a care-package of fudge to anyone who can find me an online video of the song "There's so much more to you than meets the eye" from the Jane Fonda "New Workout" video. I don't think Jane is the singer as I seem to remember another brunette taking center stage, but it's foggy. I looked all over and couldn't find anything. Seriously, I'll send you fudge.)

I officially started Sunday so the program, if I stick to it, will bring to me February...just in time for bathing suit season. If I can figure it out I'll try to chart the progress here. I'm not sure I'm up to talking weight (I once got kicked out of gym class rather than let my P.E. teacher, a man whom I loved and still consider a conquest I'd like to land in this lifetime, weigh me) but maybe I can do some sort of pounds lost kind of thing. (This, of course, assuming there are pounds lost which, considering the whole calories in/calories out concept, might not happen until January.)

So, now that I have a plan, who's coming with me? I said, WHO'S COMING WITH ME?! C'mon, you know you've seen the infomercials and were thinking of buying the videos anyway. I already tried to get Dan and my sister Bec on board but apparently the week before Thanksgiving isn't the ideal time to solicit exercise partners. Who knew? I suppose I'll have to rely on cyber-support from the message boards.

No matter what, it's on. I wrote it here. That means it's in stone. Wait, wasn't there another promise I made here that involved a three-month commitment?

Melliterary Spew

The 12 days 'til Bookish are such a pain to me! I'm going to need fuel. Since the days of smoking butts are over (four years on Christmas Eve---holla!), whatever shall I use?



Seriously, can you blame me?

Loved this movie.

It was just so good.

More inappropriate blogging.

The results:
Just to be clear: “There are no signs of breast cancer.”

Yesterday I experienced two significant milestones in the life of woman. (No, they weren’t making out with a girlfriend “just to try it” or breaking into my husband's e-mail account to find what needs finding ---check and check.) The first one is a matter of life and death and the second is an issue of sperm and egg.

Last week during my appointment with Jodi I showed her a lump on the side of my breast---it felt more like a jelly bean than the pebble I was supposed to be looking for---and after she felt it she sent me to get a breast ultrasound at the York Hospital Breast Care center (since I’m still too young for mammograms…and anal). We both agreed that it was probably a lymph node (after the appointment I found a similar “lump” on my other breast) but since it has been there for more than a year she decided I should get it checked out.

Yesterday I went in and, as expected, it was indeed a lymph node. In the week leading up to it I wasn’t worried at all and when Dan asked if I wanted him to come with me I told him it absolutely wasn’t necessary. (I don’t worry about big things like this; they are way too far out of my control. Instead, I focus on my attention on little things like am I sure I turned off the stove? and was that store clerk scowling at me because I somehow offended her with the way I said “plastic” instead of paper?) I wasn’t going to waste an ounce of energy worrying about breast cancer and in the end I didn’t need to.

I went into the exam room, asked “Diane” if I was supposed to tie the robe in the front (which made sense but still caused a moment’s pause), laid down on the table and got a breast ultrasound. (They really love that jelly don’t they? We were dealing with a particularly small area, and still I needed two hand cloths to wipe myself down.) Within minutes she was able to see that it was a lymph node and all was well…

Except, the room had a sadness to it. All I could think of was that on that examination bed, in that tiny room, many women had received very different news. I’m sure many women hate that room. (I, myself, was grateful that this ultrasound was taking place in the Breast Care center and not in the radiology department where I first learned I was miscarrying.) Though Diane was very warm, this room was small and there was sad daytime radio playing. A husband or partner would barely be able to fit in there to hold a hand. I’m glad I don’t have to hate that room.

As uneventful as the breast ultrasound was (thankfully), it was still an event; my first beyond-the-hand breast exam, my first “lump.” Sitting in the waiting room, Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words “Light tomorrow with today” on the wall, I realized just how significant this moment is for a woman, particularly for the one woman in the U.S. being diagnosed with breast cancer every three minutes and the one women who will die of breast cancer every 13 minutes (according to Susan G. Komen for the cure ®). I am fortunate that things went as they did, though keenly aware that I’ve entered a phase of life where statistics such as these resonate a bit more.

The second event, well…I wasn’t going to write about this one. I mean I really, really wasn’t going to write about this one because I’m pretty sure it falls under the category of TMIPBV (too much information promoting bad visuals), plus it's pretty effing embarrassing (even for me). But I can’t help myself. Too ripe.

Yesterday, I got sized for a diaphragm.

Rim Shot sound bite Cool Sounds sound bites

I told Jodi when I went in yesterday that my sisters had been busting my balls about the whole thing (Mattie said, “How thick is this thing---is it like a tire?”) and she said, “Were they calling you June Cleaver?” (No, they had not made that particular joke. Thanks, Jodi.)

I have always been anti-diaphragm for a reason based in staunch feminist principles: my mom had one. There are just certain things you don’t want to have in common with your mom.

But I was out of options. I loathe condoms and last winter when my estradiol level registered at below 10, the level of postmenopausal women, I hurried off my birth control pills and swore them off completely. Plus, I don’t buy organic, hormone-free meat and dairy products so I can ingest the hormones directly. I’m getting crunchy in my old age and I just want my body to perform at maximum capacity and have it do what it does without altering its natural processes. That said, I don’t want my body doing what it does with Dan’s body, to create a baby. I know that some would argue that my not having a child during these “child-bearing years" is going against my body’s natural processes. I understand this and will take the risk---and as I’ve read it, there are risks--- to settle what needs settling before baby-making.

I actually went into Jodi’s office last week planning to ask her about getting an IUD. While waiting, I sat in her office playing with the plastic Mirena uterus and trying to figure out how a miniature pogo stick could prevent pregnancy. I wasn’t crazy about the idea of an IUD. I don’t know much about it but the risk of a punctured uterus frightens me a bit, especially since my uterus has already been put through the wringer so to speak. I also don’t dig the idea of the heavy bleeding and cramping associated with the ParaGard IUD or the synthetic progesterone released from the Mirena IUD to combat those side effects. (These are the only two IUDs available in the U.S.)

But I had made up my mind to go for it anyway (what choice did I have?) until Jodi told me that getting an IUD was a good option if I was sure I didn’t want children for the next two years since it’s more of a long-term birth control solution, and I felt a surprsing pang of sadness. I know right now I want to wait to have children; I don’t know what I’ll want next year or even next month.

Jodi (being Jodi) understood my ambivalence and pointed me in the direction of the diaphragm. (“If you can get over that mom thing it might make sense,” she said.) The pros: It’s not a mood-breaker since it can be dealt with hours before and hours after, I’m not messing with my body’s chemistry and there’s a third reason but it involves the word sensation so I’m going to leave it out.

Another benefit is that there’s still a potential element of surprise associated with the diaphragm. MayoClinic.com says that it is 84% effective though this increases if used properly and consistently. I like the idea that the possibility exists that something could happen without my planning it---that’s part of the fun of getting pregnant, the buzz of being late and wondering what if. (Jodi also said that it takes the decision out of my hands a bit; there’s some element of the “universe” telling me what is supposed to be. This is exactly what I wanted---though I couldn't articulate it---and exactly why I love Jodi. She also said that the world wouldn’t be populated without these types of birth controls---“when it fails, it's because people aren't using it”--- which made me laugh.)

So I went and got sized which is something I could only ever do with Jodi (and maybe Justin Timberlake). For the most part she stayed out of the room while I got acquainted (though she did offer to take a picture for the blog). She also had me stand up and walk around to be sure it was comfortable which felt like when you take those awkward mini-walks in a shoe store to see if a shoe fits properly. (I was looking for the shin-high mirror.) Awkwardness out of the way (and I think we're mostly past that part of the blog as well), she went over the facts with me.

You use it with spermicide (a word that cracks me up as it conjures images of sperm genocide…and who doesn’t like a little genocide humor?) so at least there’s another line of defense. Plus, I’m going to do a little research on the whole “Family Planning” approach (sounds very Suze Orman) which involves things like Basal Body Temperature and knowing when the moon is in the seventh house and Jupiter aligns with Mars, I think.

While it is so very hard to admit that I will be using a diaphragm (I haven’t picked it up yet), I’m hoping that maybe I’m at the forefront of some cool, retro trend that is making a comeback like stretch pants and cocaine. At some point people are going to realize birth control pills (and store-bought meat that contributes to girls getting a set of Double D’s at age six) are not good for them. (Though this will be the end of profit-driven medicine---swine flu vaccinations, anyone?---and thus the end of life as we know it, but that’s another entry.)

Maybe I’m a trend(re)setter. Maybe soon women will be knocking down their gynecologists’ doors for diaphragms and lining up at midnight for the latest models. They'll be available in lots of neat colors and will come with jewel-encrusted cases! Apple® will introduce the iPhragm!

I’ll just sit back fanning the flame of a “pregnancy epidemic!” and lining my pockets. Just thinking of it gets me in the mood (for something to happen up to 6-8 hours from now).