Category Archives: Unanswered questions

Shit My Psychic Says Too

(The prelude to this post is here).

There was probably not a person I came into contact with the week before my reading that I did not regale with the story about my weekend plans with my new psychic.   I was STOKED for this life experience. I mean, this woman claims to talk to dead people. Like that spooky white kid in the movie.  And John Edward on “Crossing Over”.  Best. Show. Ever.

Plus, in order to see The Rev (she is a reverend, apparently, though it is unclear for what sort of church), you have to be referred by somebody she has read before and you have to take an orientation class before you get there. So I feel like I’m kind of in this super special club.

But the ‘orientation’ was pretty ghetto: it’s a number you call and then you listen to this 30 minute voice mail which just sort of ends abruptly while she is mid-sentence.  Apparently she spared no expense for orientation.  But whatever – it went over what she does and how she does it so you don’t waste time asking her about it when you’re there. I’m all about efficiency, so sounded good to me. Here were the main points:

  • Dead people talk to her.  Dead people who know you. And watch you.
  • Dead people don’t give a fuck about time, so whatever they tell her could have happened already or maybe it’s happening now or maybe it will happen in the future (which comes in handy, doesn’t it?).
  • If the dead people tell her any details about your death or that you have cancer or something, she is going to keep that to herself.  She will not tell you anything that could be traumatizing.  In my case, she also will not tell me when/if Oprah is going to die – for obvious reasons.
  • The dead speak to her in a way she processes visually – so she doesn’t hear them, but they “show” her things.  When they are trying to say a name, they spell it, but they spell slowly, so she is going to take liberties and if they show her say, “M”, she is going to say “Michael”, “Matthew”, “Mark”….until either you say you know what she is talking about or the dead person spells the damn name.
  • They also show her pictures, so they could be metaphors for something or literally that thing. So sometimes she gets weird stuff and she’ll let you know because they may be an inside joke that you’d get but she wouldn’t. She says she often has to do some translating.
  • If she tells you about something and you don’t “acknowledge” it, by telling her you know what she is talking about, she can’t move on. The dead require your acknowledgment before they will continue playing Pictionary with her.
  • She says that whatever they are telling her are things that you can change, so if she warns you not to drunk dial your ex and you do, she totally called it and she wins. If you don’t because of her advice, she totally helped you avoid a bad situation and she wins.  You see how this works?
  • If you’re a minute late, fuck you – she starts the clock precisely when your appointment starts, whether your ass is there or not, and you’re paying for the whole thing.  She takes cash money. No pay pal. No plastic.

Okay, so those were the ground rules. Oh yeah, and something about not drinking within 24 hours of the reading because your energy will suck.  I conveniently forgot about that part because depriving my body of its nightly wine break is some crazy shit that I’m not going to dabble in, even if the psychic says.

The Rev lives in the middle of fucking nowhere, so it took what seemed like a million years to get there (so like, 90 minutes) and apparently the address she uses doesn’t show up on Google Maps right, so good luck finding the fucking place.  Needless to say, we were 4 minutes late and I was scheduled first. She wasn’t kidding. Clock was ticking when I walked in.

She does this is a shrink’s office who wasn’t working. It was a weird set up, where she just kind of tapes her name on the door when he isn’t around.  But I was a little relieved I wasn’t in her house because what are the odds she doesn’t own 54 cats? I’m allergic to those mean mother fuckers, and plus I was expecting the lady from Poltergeist to answer the door and tell me to go into the light in her bedroom closet and I probably would have and then I’d probably get molested by zombies and while I’m open to new experiences, zombie molestation does not top the list.

But whatever. So The Rev? She was probably in her late 40s, had hair from the 80s (feathered) and she was wearing a purple muu muu. She reminded me of my music teacher when I was in elementary school, in the 80s (go figure).  Also a cat person, no doubt.   And she was about to tell me everything I wanted to know about my future but was afraid to ask.  The dead people were going to help out too.  So the first thing that happens is that she gives me a flyer for a “healing” she was going to do next month and wanted to let me know about it.

The fuck? I’m not paying you to tell me about your upcoming jamboree and I’m four fucking minutes late, so I want to speak to my dead people NOW. Perhaps she picked up on my negative energy, or maybe she got the message when I crumpled the paper and my sweaty palms, but we moved on quickly from there.

She asked me to stand up and hold her hands.  I complied. She said the “Our Father” and invited me to join her.  I opted out  because I was pretty sure this is exactly how it all started with the priests for the poor bastards who had to be altar boys in the 1970s.  Nothankyouverymuch.

She finishes with some gobbledy gook about love and peace and energy and I took some deep breaths and my annoying Type A ass kind of chilled out for a minute.  She let go of my hands and we sat down and here is what she told me in a nutshell and in this order:

  • I’m going to do something to my left ankle or shin that hurts like a bitch. (Can’t wait!)
  • My beloved grandma was coming through (She is the only dead person I really give much thought to.  I named my daughter after her. I love that woman).
  • Apparently she was with my uncle, who is coming through as a “spirit baby”, meaning this uncle was miscarried or died as a child.  (Grams had four sons and miscarried her fifth child.  Goosebumps.)
  • She asked me who “B” was. I didn’t know.  She offered Bob and Bill.  Bill is my grandpa.  (While she was alive they were exactly like McAdams and Gosling in The Notebook.  I mean, they loved each other as much as Lady Gaga loves copying Madonna.) So Grams first wanted to acknowledge my Gramps, who still cries about her 7 years after we lost her.  Aww…
  • Apparently we went from that to talking about some sort of eye infection that a opthamologist will have to intervene in.  It was unclear whether this was about me or about him.
  • Then a bunch of other spirit babies showed up.  She insisted my mom lost a baby and my ‘sister’ was there.  I was like “Wha? No.” and then I remembered: Shit. My mom did lose a baby when she was preggers with my actual sister.  She tells me that my spirit sister plays with my children. Oh. Wait, what? Weird.
  • She says that there is another spirit baby who is my nephew.  He wants to be acknowledged. Who knew there were so many baby spirits that weren’t born? (At this point I’m like, do we really need to talk about every baby in my family that wasn’t born? This is depressing).
  • So then she says who is [my dog’s A name], [another A name], [my son’s A name]? She was doing the name thing where she just starts guessing names because she sees an “AN” (in this case). My son’s name was third. I acknowledged it. She told me he is a handful and a daredevil (he is) and that I need to keep him safe by ensuring he wears helmets and pads when he goes outside.  She says she sees Evel Kenevil – but then quickly tells me she isn’t call him “evil” – it’s the motorcycle guy.  Yes. I know. She advises me to try to wear him out because he’ll just get himself into danger.  WAIT. What? Is he in danger, I ask. No.  The dead people are just saying he is crazy is all. Um, okay?
  • Then she says who is [S Name], [S Name],[My other son’s name]? Whoa. She is pretty good. I acknowledged and she moved on.
  • She says I have another child. I acknowledge she is correct.  Okay, I’m getting [MA name], [MA name], [MA name that is the male version of my daughter’s name]. Are you shitting me? I acknowledge my daughter. She moves on.
  • She starts laughing and says “I don’t know why they’re showing me this…but you’ll be a grandmother to twins. I usually don’t get things that far out, but congratulations.” I said I hoped they were really far out.  She said oh yeah – 18 or 20 years. Okay…
  • Then she says, who is [initial of my husband & my mom]? I waited. She said [name], [BD’s name]…and it was like, holy shit. Seriously? I acknowleged my husband. She said his deceased grandfather was there and was showing her a fish which could mean they liked to fish, or it was Pisces or a cholesterol issue.  Really?
  • So I offer that BD sometimes has cholesterol readings that are high. She latches. Tells me that I have to intervene to save his heart and then she starts going through her purse and finally pulls out this massive pack of vitamins (I shit you not) and tells me all the vitamins (CoQ10, Garlic, Fish Oil, etc.) I should force my husband to take so he doesn’t make me a widow too early.  What? Then she starts talking about her own husband who eats too much fast food and how she threatened to leave him if he didn’t change his ways. Wait. Isn’t this reading about me? ME. Lets come back to ME and MY life.  But so then she tells me to write down a website where I can get really high quality vitamins for him.  WHAAAT? Does she own stock in a GNC on the side for Christ’s sake? And is BD okay? I mean, should I be worried? I’m feeling a little traumatized here.
  • She says “your heart is fine (and it is), but you need to get more fiber. Your issues are in your intestines and colon.  Eat 30/35g of fiber a day. I like to have yogurt with Fiber One on top each morning”. Again, TMI. I don’t give a fuck what you had for breakfast.
  • I’m usually not this bitchy, but I’m all wound up now.
  • She says time is up, but I can ask a question.  I ask about my career.  She correctly guesses I’m in sales and tells me my job is too stressful and doesn’t pay enough.  She tells me to update my resume and get out of dodge before I get a pink slip.  Problem is, I just got a new job. One I’m definitely enjoying. For once. I mean, hopefully with this whole “time doesn’t matter” thing, she meant my last job? Then she advises me not to take the first job that comes along because it will look really good to begin with, but they’ll make me a “work horse and slave”.  Fuck.  Did I really get the wrong damn job again?  She did say if I wait for the right thing, I’ll get a low stress, more money position.  But you know what? She was supposed to tell me to get the fuck out of corporate America because I have an awesome future doing stuff I love.  But she didn’t.  So it ended on a downer.

So there I am, left to figure out what the hell just happened for the last 26 minutes.  I felt a little lightheaded and creeped out.

I mean, she named my children! And she guessed the first name of my grandpa, and my husband. And it wasn’t like at other times she was naming names I didn’t know.  I mean, all of them she was right on with within three names.  How could she know their names? And all the miscarriages and baby spirits and stuff? That is fucked up.

So then all the stuff she said has me all worried about my son and his dare-devil behavior because I’ve always had the sense I had to worry about him since they laid him in my arms after birth, so that was kind of a sore spot for me.  And then whether my husband is going to have a heart attack or something.  The grandfather who allegedly came through died young of a massive heart attack. I mean, what did that all mean?

So the Rev got under my skin a little. All the fun and games of yesteryear suddenly weren’t so fun.  Even if she was guessing, she guessed right a lot about the things I can verify.  As for the things I cannot so far, time will tell.  I’m just waiting until I break my ankle and if/when that happens,  if you want to talk to dead people, I’ve got just the person for you…

So um, can I come back?

This question is as much for the 1-2 people that might see this as it is for me.  I stopped writing Love Notes about 18 months ago, and I blamed it on an unplanned pregnancy and a new job and Oprah’s 25th and last season and that was that. I just lost the will/time to write.  And since then I have even a newer job and now three kids and I live in the suburbs and I’ll be damned if there aren’t some stories to tell about that.  I lost something important to me when I stopped writing my blog.  But I’d like to find it again, I think.  And I’d like to do it here on Love Notes. So I think maybe I’m going to stage a comeback.  No idea when or if I’ll post weekly, but as long as I can tell my stories when my stories are ready to be told, I’ll be good.  And maybe so will you because you’ll laugh at how retarded I am on a daily basis.  Although I think ‘retarded’ is poor word choice. Lets just you and me call it ’emotional intelligence’.

But I guess I was wondering if any of my old readers/compatriots still have me on Google Reader or will find me again.  I guess it isn’t all that important because the important often retarded stories I have to tell will find an audience somewhere, right?

Holla back if you’re still out there.  I missed you.

Love conquers all – hopefully even in an office

Well, first I would like to congratulate myself on escaping the fires of hell my big huge corporate entity job so that I could take a job with a little, itty-bitty, tiny company that hopefully doesn’t go bankrupt. Today was my last day at the former and Monday is the first day at the latter. And much to my surprise and horror, I’m a little freaked out by the big change and I’ll tell you why:

MY NEW JOB REQUIRES ME TO WORK IN AN….AN…..OFFICE.  WITH PEOPLE.  There. I said it.  I have never done that before except when I used to work as a temp in college, but I always knew I would be free of those whack jobs in a few weeks and I didn’t want to starve so I did it.  Oh, the stories I shall tell you about some of my temp jobs!! Not to worry – definitely on my to do list.  But I digress.

I’ve never actually worked in an office before. I always had jobs where everything is really flexible and I can work from home, or from some temporary cube, or I’m on the road, or with clients and nobody bugs me or cares where I am.  And I like that. Total freedom to wear my pajamas to work most days, or watch Oprah when it originally airs. The little girl in me that used to always inform people that they aren’t the boss of me has grown up and she feels exactly the same way.

But this new job…I mean, they told me it was flexible when I told them that I’m afraid of offices, but I feel like the culture is that they expect you to actually go there. Like, everyday.  So in some ways I’m super-curious because I’m not one to shy away from situations that will give me priceless fodder for my best-selling memoir I haven’t written yet, and I’m totally gearing up for water cooler banter/debates by Tivo-ing American Idol and Project Runway, but on the other hand…I mean, will it be like “The Office”? Will I get a desk next to some clown like Creed, or Angela or Kevin? Please, please, please, dear mother of GOD, put me next to Dwight and Jim Halpert.  Or Oscar.  Or even Toby. Toby’s good.

So this makes me think about which Office character I’m most like. Because I guess my new office mates are also wondering what the new chick is going to be like and whether I’m a loud food chewer, or if I don’t wash my hands after I go to the bathroom, or if I’m on the phone all day trying to order a huge new projector thing for my mega-church,  or if my husband works for Vance Refrigeration. I actually am none of those things.  Well, BD might accuse me of chewing too loud, but I’ve convinced myself that that’s more about his hang ups and less about my chewing volume. I’m not really like anybody on “The Office”, because my Awesomeness is hard to capture in just one character, but if you twist my arm I think…and I’m not proud of this, but I’m probably maybe closest to that goofy new receptionist chick.  She kind of looks normal and nice, but she is definitely a little freaky, and weird and clueless a lot. Which I think pretty much sums me up perfectly.  Except that I would never fall for the Nard-dogg. Just saying.  So I guess I’ll be her if a board game comes out.

But so anyway…how does one conduct oneself in the office? I don’t know why I’m asking the Internet since if you read my blog you clearly aren’t at work — or are you? Do they let you do that?! I’m assuming I can’t really blog at work anymore. Or read your delicious blog.  Or check Facebook at 34 second intervals. Or burp loudly after an especially satisfying gulp of Diet Coke. I suppose pouring myself a tall glass of Shiraz at 4 or doing 3.5 loads of laundry is out of the question.  And random lunches with random people at random times — not so much.  How do people do it? I mean, how much of a waste of time is it to be in an office all day? What if I have nothing to do? I think the cubes are situated in such a way that everybody can pretty much see what you’re doing because there aren’t really high cube walls or much privacy, so I think I have to have Excel open all the time to look like I’m officially working.

Also, I have to start traveling again. They told me I didn’t have to go very often when I told them I don’t like traveling, but I might go so insane in the office that I become a road warrior and turn out like that lady in “Up In The Air” who is inexplicably still hot with the worst 70s hairdo ever AND breaks George Clooney’s heart, which, I mean, come on – I would never do. So I have issues. At least at my totally unsatisfying, frustrating, uninspiring current job I just quit didn’t make me do things like go to an office and have a desk all day. I got to go to Cubs games and out to lunches and lots of 3 o’clock happy hours. But my company was an asshole.  Like, if the company could be a person, it would be the biggest ass you’ve ever met.  Which is weird, because the individuals that work there aren’t assholes, but it’s one of those Gestalt things where the sum was more than the parts and somehow the sum of decent, smart people equaled Really Huge Global Douchebag Corporation.

So why did I take this new gig? Well, probably the same reason I voted for Barack. And, no,  not because Oprah said. I would have voted for any damn Democrat, because I was really voting for not George Bush.  And this new gig is like that – it is not old gig.  Once in a while (every three years to be exact), you have to do something completely different.  And I’ve been at this one 3 years, so I had to go.  Plus at this new place, the people seem cool and the company does appear to be laid back, and they seem to actually get the concept that their employees are human beings with feelings and families, but in a work all the time sort of way, since it is small and everybody needs to pull their weight to make it awesome. Which is fine because I work a lot. I do. I just do it when I feel like it. When the mood strikes. And I’m afraid that at 8:30 in the morning, the mood is not normally striking. No. That is about the time when I go to the gym the 7 times I did in 2009.

Anyway, now I’m rambling. I hope that New Job is 100x sweeter than Old Job. It may turn out to be A Job. But no doubt I’ll have a whole host of new and interesting stories to tell you…I just hope I get a chance to write them down. I may have to change my blog name to “Very Important Site for People Who Are Successful and Productive” so when I’m writing in it and someone comes by my desk they’ll see that in really big letters and be satisfied that I am indeed working very hard and I might just be the best new hire they’ve made since the Kelly Kapoor-ish chick from two months ago.

Wish me luck. And I apologize in advance if the posts are coming a little slower in the next couple of months. Demonstrating my Awesomeness will likely take a lot out of me.  It’s not easy to do The Worm on hardwood floors.

High Infidelity

I know I shouldn’t care and it’s none of my business and it’s a little disgusting and disturbing, but I’m obsessed with this whole Tiger-Woods-cheating-on-his-wife-with-several-bleached-blonde-VIP-club-waitresses thing.  I’m not totally sure why. Well, I’ll admit to being quite intrigued by the whole story that Elin beat him with a golf club (the irony!), which of course is awesome.  But I just want his wife to slap his face and walk away. I feel like she must leave him or maybe I’ll die.  Why the outcome of this fiasco is meaningful in any way to me is disturbs me, but somehow it matters.  Like I want to yell, “Elin, don’t let this boy DO you like that! Walk out on his punk ass and don’t look back!” But I don’t know him or her. Or about their pre-nup, which I think matters a lot when you’re one of the most famous/talented people in the world.  I mean, as evidenced by my very scientific poll (question 3) way back when, I have always thought that women that marry rock stars or professional athletes are crazy if they think their man isn’t cheating, but golfers don’t count. At least, until now. But thanks to Cheetah Tiger, I’ll add them to the list.

But I’m completely naive about these matters.  Marital infidelity is something I have a hard time wrapping my mind around.  I just don’t understand why you don’t just leave someone if you want to cheat on them.  Just admit you suck at being married, get a divorce, and then sleep with whoever, whenever you want. But don’t do it while you’re married, behind your spouse’s back and kiss your kids goodnight like you’re not totally fucking up their whole world because you’re horny.

I’ve never been tempted to cheat on my husband. Perhaps it’s because neither Angelina Jolie nor Milo Ventimiglia has begged me to have sex with them, or maybe it’s because cheating on my husband would devastate him, and our children and our families and undo everything we’ve done together.  Or maybe it’s because I’ve never understood casual relationships/sex. I’ve never had a one night stand. Not for any sort of moral/ethical/religious reason – more because it would introduce too many unknowns for me. I’m a binary person that likes things settled. Things are black or they are white. You’re married or you aren’t. You’re in love or you’re not. You’re with somebody or you aren’t.  Oprah is your BFF or she isn’t.  It’s hard for me tolerate “it’s complicated” or “lets not put a label on it” or “let’s just see what happens”.  So I just don’t get how you can live a life being married to someone, but cheating on them and lying about it all the time.  I’m just a total Pollyanna on this subject — I can’t help myself.

I’m 33 years old, so I should have this figured out. Or understand it a little. And YET,  when married men hit on me I’m always completely surprised by it.  Especially when it’s a married man who knows I’m also married.  I’ve found myself in this situation way more than I think is logically probable, which causes it to dawn on me WAY later than it should.  Generally this occurs sometime during what I think is a routine lunch meeting, but which he thinks is his chance to get laid.  When they start getting shady (one guy told me nonchalantly, completely out of the blue:  “I really like small breasted women, like about your size,  because my wife’s breasts are so large. Clothes just don’t fit on her as well as they do on you.”  To which my mind replies : “Oh dear Jesus! We’re not talking about business anymore.  He totally wants to sleep with me! He’s married!! I’m married!! How could he even think for a second I’m interested in him like that? Ew…. EWWWWW… Must. Get. Out of here. FAST.”

I totally panic like a deer caught in headlights when a guy starts getting suggestive because in my world, if you’re married, you’re married, so you’re not making it a top priority to get in my pants.  But apparently I’ve run into several men that don’t share that world view.  And then I spend the next week wondering why, of all the chicks in the world he could be spending his time trying to sleep with, he chose me.  Me, who is married with two young kids. Me, who has absolutely zero interest in him outside of work, who does not flirt with him or dress provocatively.  Me, with tiny boobs and glasses and a muffin top. But also me, who is intelligent, charismatic, hilarious, pretty awesome and completely modest. And married. Do I look like some one who wants another woman’s husband? What makes him think he could even compete for a second with my husband?  Honestly, I’m baffled by this.  Why me?

But I think I finally may have got an answer today I can live with.  I brought up the whole Tiger Woods thing (because I’m obsessed with it, as I said) with a totally random British male coworker about 28 years my senior today. He was saying he was totally sick of the story and couldn’t get why Americans even care when people cheat, since cheating is so rampant here.  He travels a lot on business and says that he is never at a hotel where he doesn’t find married people having affairs all over the place. Really? I guess I’ve never noticed, but then again, I probably wouldn’t see it if it slapped me in the face, because I don’t look for it and I like to pretend it doesn’t happen.

I told him I’ve had several of my clients want to turn a totally normal business relationship into some type of sexual/romantic relationship, and all of them were married and all of them knew I was married as well.  “Well, I don’t know you very well, but I would say it’s easy to see why they would hit on you.  You’re a very open, transparent and funny.  I bet you talk to them about their families. Most people aren’t like that, so you probably make your customers feel so comfortable and they mistake your openness for romantic interest in them.” Reeeally?  I make my living selling.  Salespeople are supposed to show interest in their clients.  I just never thought that asking a client something like, “Did your son win his soccer game this weekend? ” would so easily be translated by that man into “do you want to have a torrid, illicit affair in the back of my Subaru?”.  Maybe I should stop asking my clients about their kids.

Per June’s comment, I put this back in:

Oprah had a dude on her show that said the reason that men cheat on their wives is that they don’t feel their wife thinks they are “special” or important or awesome.  So in order to prop up their fragile egos, they will go out and find someone to have an affair with who does make them feel special and manly and awesome.  The kicker is that almost always the women men cheat on their wives with are less attractive, less educated, and pretty much less everything than their wife.  So I guess I must make my male clients all feel special and loved.  But then that means that if they want to have an affair with me, they also think I’m less attractive than their wives. And I’m offended by that.  Assholes.  Next time one of my clients literally wants to screw me, I’ll remember that they think their wife is hotter and I’ll just kick them in their old balls.  Then maybe their wife won’t seem so bad after all.

Hellz Yaz!

I’m pretty much done having my own kids.  Physically, I just don’t think I can do it again.  Although the thought of having more kids delights me. If I could snap my fingers and have a potty trained 3 year old delivered, I’d do it.  I’ve also tried to talk BD into us getting an Indian surrogate mother, or better yet adopting a few Liberian choir boys (all Oprah’s ideas) but he is not for it.  At all. Sure, these ideas do seem a little far-fetched, even for me, but I’d be lying if I haven’t fantasized about each for days on end. I’m not sure if it is because I might be able to get on Oprah if I did it or because they’re the best fucking ideas I’ve ever heard.  Probably the latter.

My deliveries were traumatic, and I’m not that psyched to get strapped down again while they cut me open while I’m still fucking conscious.  I honestly believe history will look back on this time and shake its head in disgust with the c-section rate at 46%.  I hate to admit it, but I have to side with Ricki Lake for once (please don’t tell Oprah I said that, or she will never leave Gayle) – but all of these medical interventions during the process of childbirth is going way overboard. Routinely cutting women open to deliver children is not okay. It really isn’t. It’s fucked up. But this post isn’t about that. Not really.

It’s about Oprah , I mean birth control.  Right now the point is to avoid giving birth again and I would be kind of surprised if I changed my mind about that.  But here is the rub – I’m stuck in a terrible Catch-22 of Epic Proportions. I’ve spent the last 15 years on birth control pills except for when I’ve been trying to have babies.  Until I was off the Pill, I had no idea I actually wanted to have sex. Really wanted it. I suppose this is because in nature, people are supposed to have the urge to procreate. But, at least for me, the Pill is like the ultimate sex kitten killer. And nobody likes killing kittens.  Especially the sex ones. And I had no idea that a side effect of the Pill is asexuality non-existent libido. I just thought I was tired or my vagina was extremely anti-social or something. But I didn’t realize that was just the Pill talking.  I think my vagina is an extrovert.

But here is where the Catch-22 happens: off the Pill I look like an oily teenager riddled with zits all over my chin.  I went out to lunch with my old PhD advisor the other day and — I swear this is true — when she saw me she screached, aghast, “What happened to your face!?” Uh, thanks. Good to see you again too. Yeah, so she lacks a certain tact, but I appreciate honesty. She told me I should go to the doctor immediately because something must be very wrong for me to have my chin boiling in huge puss-filled cysts. Sorry I have to use that verbiage, but I have to make it clear how disgusting my complexion gets.  Apparently that is me being off the Pill.  That is the trade-off. Libido or zits. Nobody wants to have sex with me when I remind them of Anthony Michael Hall in Sixteen Candles, but when I get that all cleared up on the Pill, I don’t want to have sex with anybody. Since I’m only allowed to have sex with one man, the world isn’t suffering, but we sure as hell are.  A conundrum, see?

So I relayed this information to my doctor recently. Her answer was Yaz. I was like, “Isn’t that the one for crazy people?” and she said, “Yeah, but it will clear up your skin. For God’s sake, you need it!” So I’ve been on it two weeks. Hmm.

Here are the pros:

  • relatively certain I won’t get knocked up because I don’t foresee sex happening ever again.
  • no new exploding painful zits on my chin.

Here are the cons:

  • relatively certain I am now completely asexual. ” This is bad, real bad. Michael Jackson.” – Kanye
  • relatively certain I have eaten several times today, but my body thinks I’m a lying SOB.
  • relatively certain I will gain 25 pounds by next week if I stay on this drug.
  • relatively certain I lost my mind at each of the 1745 slightest infractions by one of my dear, sweet, young insane children this last week. “Now I’m mad, real mad. Joe Jackson.” – Kanye

(Ooh. I’m excited!! Did you catch that? I just crossed the threshold of blogging where I describe all of my medical issues with prescription drugs in detail. YES!.  Now I just have to wait to be nominated for some type of blog award. I’m pretty sure I also have to be hella funnier and have more than 6 people read my blog too, but those are just technicalities. I have a prescription drug problem everybody – Put your hands up, ya’ll. Woot. Woot. Holla. Holla.)

So I will have to say “Hellz No!” instead of Hellz Yaz. But that puts me back at square one again. I have a bad feeling that zits and sex drive are linked to the surge in the same hormone.

Okay, dear Internet. It’s time to pull your weight and tell me which way to go on this – is it better to be un-pregnant, asexual and beautiful, or an un-pregnant whore with grotesque chin zits? And just to sweeten the pot, if you find a solution that allows me to be an un-pregnant beautiful sex kitten, I will send you the Oprah quote magnet featured here:

I have one of these on every magnetic surface in my home.  You can start your collection today, if you can solve my Conundrum of Epic Proportions.  I will also nominate you for a Genius Award, and who doesn’t want one of those?

Ah, crap. I have to go eat again.

My Best Friend’s Wedding

Once upon a time, in a land very, very close by, my best friend got married. My very best friend in the world. And she asked me to be her matron of honor and I was totally….honored. And it was wonderful and blissful – after all, she was MY maid of honor at my wedding and we were the closest of friends. So close, people thought we were lesbians until I got married.  We talked about her hopes and dreams and all that other fluffy stuff. I even went through a wedding magazine with her without throwing up.  Then we went to a bridal store and picked out her gown, and flowers and everything was turning out so nicely.

Then one day not soon after, I peed on a stick and found out I was pregnant with my first child. Ah! What a blessing! What wonderful news to share with my best friend! And the due date was a month before her wedding!! I wouldn’t even have to have a big pregnancy bridesmaid dress!  I couldn’t wait to tell her the news. A baby!! Not really a planned baby – but a wanted baby!! She seemed so happy for me. She talked excitedly about putting together a baby shower (she loves to plan stuff).  Could life get any sweeter than this?

No. It couldn’t. She invited me over for dinner a week later so that we could talk about her wedding and my baby. Excellent!! We could celebrate some more! As we dined on take out and she made sure I didn’t even sneak a sip of wine, she told me that her fiance was uncomfortable having me in the wedding. SCREECH. The needle on the record just scratched. WHAT?

Yes, although it was true that we’d been inseparable since our first week of college and we didn’t do anything without each other for many years, her fiance didn’t feel my presence in the wedding was appropriate any more.  Apparently, he thought that perhaps I got pregnant just to take the attention away from her, where it should be, and a good friend would not have gotten knocked up the same year her best friend planned to get married.  Plus, she explained, it was probably bad for my health and she thought I probably wouldn’t want to come after giving birth and she was really doing me a favor. By kicking me out of her wedding.  My best friend. BUT…this isn’t all bad…she had thought of a role called a “bride’s assistant” that she thought I might be perfect for. Meanwhile, her sister had been promoted to matron of honor and she was sure I would understand.

Wait. Hold up. What is a bride’s assistant you ask? Apparently it is a job you get when you get kicked out of your best friend’s wedding for having a baby. She gently assuaged me by promising that I could still do a toast and even buy a bridesmaid dress if I wanted. To look like I was in the wedding. I wondered where this Bridezilla was hiding my best friend? I wanted her back. I needed her back. I was having a fucking baby! She was getting married! We were going to do this together like we’d done everything else, of course. Right? RIGHT?!  Best friends forever!!  I told her I would be there if I had to have my baby during the ceremony. I promised I could live up to all of my duties. I would never let her down – and I meant it.  I mean, didn’t it say something about my loyalty that I was begging to be in a wedding? This is coming from a girl who doesn’t like weddings, or dresses, or flowers or showers or any of that. And I’m begging to dress up in a color that makes my skin look like vomit a month after I give birth to my first child?

It wasn’t enough.  On that day that I got fired from her wedding, our best friendship (and my heart) broke in two, and nothing has ever been the same since. I guess you might say we patched things up – we managed civil, distant and awkward conversations. I had to regretfully inform her that while it was a very tempting offer, I could not take the “bride’s assistant” job and dress up like the bridesmaids so I could pretend to be in the wedding.  I would just go as a guest. As fate would have it, she decided to promote me to bridesmaid after her fiance’s sister, another bridesmaid, got knocked up too. So after I got kicked out of the wedding, I got to get back in because someone else got preggers.  I never heard whether her husband thought his sister had also plotted to have a child just to ruin their wedding, but apparently he became more comfortable with my participation in it. I know in my heart this wasn’t his call. It was hers and she felt betrayed and it was convenient to blame it on him. During the next 9 months, she planned her wedding and I planned for my baby and we grew apart with an ocean of resentment between us.

In all that time, she never asked about my pregnancy or my baby, as if neither existed. I asked about the wedding, but it was hard to care about what the answer was. My best friend had died months ago.

Three weeks before her wedding, I gave birth to my son and nearly died in during the “routine” c-section.  My parents called her.  She came to the hospital. She didn’t really want to have much to do with the baby, but she was a little weirded out that I almost bled to death, so she came. And that counted for something, but I think she was probably thinking right then she had totally made the right decision, because there was no way I’d be at her wedding now.

Three weeks later, I left my newborn and my husband and flew to her wedding drugged with pain pills and crying the whole way. I dutifully strapped myself into a girdle, put on a very ill fitting bridesmaid dress, popped my pills every two hours and did what I was told to do.  I was still really swollen everywhere from the blood transfusions and anemic. I was likely the most misshapen bridesmaid of all time, but I did it for her. To honor what we had before this. This was her day and it was beautiful and she was lovely. But she had underestimated me. I was there. Not at home with my new little baby. At my best friend’s wedding. The one she originally kicked me out of.

At the reception, she asked me about when I wanted to give the toast.  Toast? What toast? Doesn’t the matron of honor do that? We hadn’t ever said a word about that since the day she dismissed me from the matron of honor job. I told her I forgot all about that. I wanted to forget any of it ever happened, but alas…I honestly had no idea she was expecting a toast from me – the person who knew her better than anybody at that wedding save her new husband — and who got kicked out of her wedding for having a baby. I hadn’t prepared anything. I declined to do a toast. She was shocked. I was relieved. The toast I would have given her the day she asked me to be her matron of honor was so much different then any toast I could give her now.  Did she not understand that?

Since then, we’ve both had two kids and live in the same city and have careers — we still have a lot in common. But we’re just barely friends. She still invites me to her parties and I accept once a year.  My other friends tell me I should “divorce” her. But I can’t. And I won’t. To honor what we once had. Which was a friendship. True friendship. Like Oprah and Gayle. Like Liz Lemon and Jack Doneghy. Like Jon and Kate, before the eight.

And even though its been a long road, I’m sure we’ll all live happily ever after…

Help me make up my mind – is John Mayer as much of a d-bag as I think he is?

I don’t like grey areas.  I’m a person who is only comfortable if I hold a strong opinion on something that goes one way or the other. So I think in binary – 0 or 1 (shit, its painfully obvious now that I once was a programmer), off or on, for or against, night or day, black or white (except in Obama’s case, in which a mix between black and white is incredibly delicious).  This isn’t really a trait I’m all that proud of, but hey, it is what it is. Obama rocks my world. McCain? I used to love him when I had to pick between him and any other Republican. But when juxtaposed with Obama? Oh sweet Jesus, are you kidding? (I must take a moment to compose myself – the lust overwhelmed me for a minute there).

So I have some really nagging issues that will not resolve themselves. I just don’t know where I stand and its making me crazy. I know where I stand on everything. Except these incredibly critical, highly thoughtful and earth-shatteringly bold questions. So what better way to formulate a “for sure” opinion by asking The Internet?  Okay, so here are the most pressing questions I have for you, wise Internet friends*.

  1. John Mayer writes great fucking songs. “Comfortable”, “Daughters”, “Say”? Awesome. The work of a truly sensitive, sexy, intelligent genius. Okay, but I read Us Weekly like the bible and that guy appears to be a total douche, unable to even fathom the emotional intelligence to write these songs.  So my question is: Is John Mayer a douche bag or what?

  2. UPDATED: Polldaddy doesn’t show you guys the “other” answers people put in. So I will. Other answers Love loves: “yes, but he’s so damn hot” and “yes in public; no in private. The guy is a media hound”.

  3. Michael Jackson. MJ. The King of Pop. I didn’t realize until he died and they did those video retrospectives on VH1 how fucking cool he was. I mean, I own almost all his shit, but not until he died did I just freak out about how cool he was. I made my 5 year old and 2 year old sons sit down and watch all his videos with me. I think that accounts for most of their nightmares these days, but I felt it was imperative that they knew who MJ was.  I mean, how else will they ever grow to understand their mother?  On the other hand, some say this guy a child molester. In my humble opinion, child molesters should be killed upon a guilty verdict being rendered. I’m sorry, but I have compassion for anybody else in this world, but not pedophiles. Ever. Never. Now, MJ was acquitted of that stuff, but so was OJ but everybody knows he did it. Yet, every famous person that ever met the guy swears he was the coolest dude on the entire planet and I kind of hope he was.  Now, I’m taking a big risk since Oprah’s episode on MJ airs tomorrow and Oprah may reveal her true thoughts on this subject, which will count for a lot.  But I’m going to trump Oprah and ask the Interent. My question is: Was Michael Jackson a pedophile or what?

  4. You may have read my last post about men being sex addicts. All of them. So my question is this: if you marry a professional athlete or rock star, who many women want to fuck on contact and who you are away from very often, do you seriously, honestly believe and expect that your husband will remain faithful after you marry the dude? Is that even realistic?

UPDATED: Other answers Love loves: “Depends on the dude. I doubt Herschel Walker would” and “Don’t give a shit as long as I’m married to a rock star”

I would provide a fourth question, but I have a very strong opinion on whatever other question you may throw my way. Try me – and I’ll give it to you just the way I think it is.  It’s just these three that have me totally baffled.

Oh wise Internet, what do you say?

* Nel and Belle’s answers count x5 since they have read all of my posts and know the very essence of my soul.