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.