Monday, December 31, 2007

Pigpen Gwen

Current mood:accepting I’m a lazy ass

I complain a lot about my tiny little condo and how there is no room and I have no where to put anything and its always a mess because of all of the above. But I realized something today. Something that speaks volumes about the depth of my laziness. It seriously knows no bounds. I actually like having an excuse to have a messy house. It's like if I did have the room to put things I would probably just have more things to fill it up and then it would still be a mess. I guess this as much a testament to our material excess as it is to my laziness. But when your house is one big chaotic clutterball, it is like surrendering. And in a weird way, it feels like freedom at the same time. I hope that you don't think less of me for that. I sort of do. But it doesn't take much for me to hate myself these days.

I feel like everyone I know has a neat house and cleaning routine. I mean, I once encountered my sister in law cleaning her blinds at 7 am (Love you Ash!). I thought it was odd at the time, but now I'm starting to think that I'm like the kid from Peanuts who had fruit flies buzzing around his head all the time. And that everyone else is Martha Stewart buzzing around polishing the silver and making fruit centerpieces for Sunday dinner. I'm so in the dust when it comes to that stuff. Literally and figuratively. Emptying my dishwasher is actually painful. I curse under my breath when I put clothes from the washer into the dryer. And it always occurs to me that I wouldn't survive in those days when they had to scrub each piece of clothing on those metal broiler pan looking thingies in the big tubs of water. I would have put a bullet in my head right quick. As it is, I'm content to teeter on the edge of civility. I get by. If I knew you were coming over, I could run around in 20 minutes and make my home presentable. But if you come over unannounced - don't expect me to answer the door.

Thursday, December 6, 2007

2 Year Old - Free to Good Home

Christmas picture time. I hate it. I tried to soften the blow of the activity a little this year by actually making an appointment. Every other time I get pictures done there's a line of families already in front of me and its annoying to watch other people's kids be cute while your kid is rolling around on the floor messing up the hair that you spend a scream-filled 20 minutes trying to perfect. So I got Liv's frou-frou dress all Christmas looking with black velvet and plaid and these cute little black patent leather baby doll shoes, but I realized the morning of picture day that all her tights are in the hamper because I haven't done laundry in 3 weeks. So I drop her at my mom's in the morning, ask her to get Liv ready, and I will pick up a pair of tights on my way back from work. I get done work at 1 and my appointment is at 2:30. It's tight, but I knew I could do it. So I stop and get tights, get to my mom's, drag Liv out to the car kicking and screaming. We get to the picture place at 2:15. (They actually told me that if I wasn't there by 2:15 then I would lose my appointment. Why not just make my appointment for 2:15 then? I don't get these people.)

So there is this 1 year old getting his picture done in a little suit with one of those newsboy caps on. He won't smile. In fact, at intervals he starts crying horrible, obnoxious tears. And the "photographers" are just doing everything and anything to get this kid to smile. Waving the paper in his face, tickling him with that duster thing they use, shaking Elmo dolls. My appointment time comes and goes and this ugly ass, annoying kid still isn't fucking smiling. Liv is getting antsy, running around and messing with all the toys in the toy section. She is, of course, rolling around on the ground messing up her hair which is suddenly all staticy looking. Her dress gets wrinkled, this kid won't smile. Her hair bow falls out, this kid won't smile. Finally the kid smiles and the mom says, and I quote, " can I just put his hat back on?" She puts the kid's newsboy cap on and he FREAKS THE HELL OUT AGAIN. See this is where ugly kid's mom and I differ. I wouldn't give a shit about that hat at this point. I wouldn't care if Liv wanted to hold a hand grenade in one hand and a samurai sword in the other, as long I got a picture with a god damn smile. But NOOOOOO. Newsboy cap is so important, it is essential to the Christmas Picture of 2007. Whatever.

When it is finally my turn, guess what happens? My beautiful, princess dress bedecked daughter refuses to get on the stage for the pictures. "I'm scared, Mommy, I'm scared". She wouldn't do it. Sometimes I hate her. I basically wasted my entire afternoon trying to get HER picture done. What an ingrate.

Sunday, December 2, 2007

Dirty Face

Hi Readers - I love everyone of you. I can't help but have authentic undying love for those who take moments of their life to read what I've written. I have to say a hearty Thank you. On a sad note I cried for about hour today after looking at this one photo:

This one picture just tells a story so much more achingly and earnest than most words can. I should at least try to convey what profound emotions the picture is pulling up from in me. This moment you are seeing in this picture is personal and powerful because I remember how it felt. I remember how it felt to follow Amy around the yard, sit on the large rock warmed by sun, to dance under the dogwood tree and grab at the white petals. All the while, my little face (or as one old man called me in the neighborhood) my little "dirty face" was always upturned towards hers, just to see what she, the charmed and somehow perpetually clean sister, was thinking. I wanted to read her mind and delve into its mystical secrets. I wanted so badly to be her, she of the special nick name "skinny minnie", not as derogatory as my own. To be thin and clean and pretty and....older. So when I see this picture I remember how not much had changed in the years that went.
I, of course, became the fucked up sister who did atrocious things and caused myself and others so much pain. I became the dirty face...maybe not literally...but I would spit in mirrors with contempt at the look of me. Meanwhile, Amy of the golden variety remained there for me always. Quietly picking up my pieces, urging me on towards better things. I resented her interference and I wasn't fair to her and I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry, Amy, for all times you called and I just couldn't answer the phone because I was in a place of self-loathing and couldn't allow you to hear that with all you were going through. And there it is. My selfishness laid bare.
On her death bed, she lay quiet though I could hear a slight wheeze in her chest. I thought she was asleep, so I started crying softly, not enough to wake her, but convulsive tears that happen when you come to understand what a selfish asshole you've been your entire life especially to this person who is about to die. And there is not a whole lot you can do to make up for it now, is there? Those fucking tears. I feel her hand begin to play with my hair the way she used to do when we were little, to comfort me. I looked back and her yellow eyes were open and looking at me. I said "Amy you have been such a good sister to me" Then she sort of smiled and said "you too". But that wasn't the truth. So I said "You've always better to me then I've been to you and I'm sorry, I'm so so sorry, Amy for what I've done...."She just kept rubbing my hair. I would like to think that is some sort of forgiveness. But I don't know. She was so lovely, and kind. Why did God pick her? I was the should have been me. The wrong sister has died. I keep waiting for someone to realize there's been an error and then they'll be coming for me. That's a scary fucking thought. But I am not feeling right tonight. I'm sorry if I am bumming anyone out.

Wednesday, November 28, 2007

Signs of the Times

I was driving yesterday around 2:45 in the afternoon. Bad Idea. I had to go through about 10 school zones. I don't think its possible to even go 15 miles per hour. It feels weird. I love kids, I do. But I think the whole school zone thing is sort of strange. Why can't we just teach our kids to be cautious? I know you are going to say, "But Gwen, if there are too many cars going fast then the little kids won't be able to cross the street". So what are crossing guards for then? When I was little I don't remember cars practically standing still so that I could cross the street. I had to "look both ways". Also, I knew I could get hit by a car if I didn't. Because my mom scared the shit out of me about that.

Another thing I hate? The signs that say Slow, Children at Play. It's so stupid to me because I think - aren't there kids in every neighborhood playing? Why do only a few select streets get that special sign? Are the kids on Chestnut worth more than the kids on Madison? Shouldn't I be careful even if there isn't a sign? I even a few times saw a sign that said Caution Blind Child. Am I to assume that a blind child is just meandering around the neighborhood without a chaperone? Who's fault is that? Keep an eye on your god damn child if they can't see. Don't try and make that my job. I can just see these parents lobbying the township "oh we need a sign! We need a sign", I'm just sick of signs. I'm on the universal precaution side of things. I have an idea! Let's just always be careful. How about that? Why do they have to have signs telling me to slow down, watch children, don't tailgate. It's like that stuff should really be a given. If you need a sign to tell you those things maybe you shouldn't have a driver's license. That is all.

Sunday, November 18, 2007

The End of The World Is Smaller Than You Think

The end of the world is smaller than you think.
It gropes on shiny days into the batter
calling the creeper towards death
on innocent afternoons.
I ate a tornado for lunch today.
I vomited avalanches into the bowl.
There are universal floods bursting
in every pink pill
and homely portal of potato
with eyes of storms lurking
like leftovers and teabags
steaming their wicked weather into unhealthy guts.
Aromas portend whole world catastrophe
leaking out of sealed pots and bakery chimneys.
I am knee deep in blizzards at breakfast,
cornered by hailstorms of popsicles, meteors, and sugar cubes.
Cruel, wicked joke of a globe.
Consumed by carrots
and a combination of carbohydrates.
Chocolate chip cookies are to blame for disaster
crushing me like a house
under the thumb of an earthquake.
I do not pretend to know aftermath.
I only shield my eyes
from nuclear bomb kitchens
from something out of horror movies
from hurricanes bubbling on the coils.
Armaggedon occurs three times a day.
Plus two snacks.
The Red Cross is not responding to these sorts of emergencies.
So I wrote this poem about six years ago when I was, obviously, immersed in my eating disorder. The reason I resurrect it now? I realize how I haven't really come that far from this cataclysmic attitude towards food. The whole process of selecting food and eating it can still be painful and overwhelming for me psychologically. I can still be racked with guilt for indulging. I still equate victory with restriction. Behaviors are so much easier for me to change than thought patterns. For my physical health, this is very, very lucky. But mentally I am just stuck. I am sure that I am not alone in having a dysfunctional relationship with food. Has any woman grown up unscathed? I want to set Livy free from it all. It is not innately female to hates one's body. There is an alternative way to be. How can break the cycle when I am still not completely healthy in my own mind?

Saturday, November 17, 2007

Livy Van Gogh

Current Mood: Proud Mama

Olivia saw a Little Einsteins where they featured this Circles in Circle painting.

After the show was over she drew this:

Coincidence? I think not. (I might be a wee bit delusional but its still fun to pretend we have a prodigy, is it not?)

Thursday, November 15, 2007

So Lovely, So Lost

Is it just me or is the world freaking gorgeous right now? I can't believe my eyes. I see this vibrant speckle of dying trees, stretched out like so many lonely bonfires on the horizon. Wet with rain, everything is shiny and melting together and it takes my breath away at every turn. Why is Amy not here to see this most amazing of seasons? I'd like to believe she is orchestrating all of this loveliness, painting it like a private canvas in her heaven. Maybe she finally got to take those art classes she was always planning on taking and this is her final assignment. A-, I say. I'm docking her grade for dreariness. Its a bit much with the gloom today, Ame.

I miss saying that: "Ame", "Amesters" corny, I know. I miss hearing "Stray Cat Strut" playing on my phone when she called me. I miss teasing her about being a cat lady. I miss being in love with Fall with her. We were always so excited together in Autumn, anticipating the holidays, picking out pumpkins, and baking. She was always baking. I think about all of her things, sitting idle in my father's attic.

Autumn is a dying season. But it never used to feel that way. Now it is hard to pretend it is anything else. I saw a sole leaf helicopter to the ground on it's final journey the other day. It made me cry too many tears than is natural. It is a funeral world, and you know it. Everything beautiful is almost gone, always teetering on the brink of extinction. This breath-taking blush of trees is ephemeral, each one poised to die a deciduous death. Nothing good ever lasts.

Friday, November 2, 2007

Drama Queen

I just read my last blog and I realized something about myself that you all have probably known for years: I'm fucking over-dramatic. I started to look at some old postings and I found some more evidence: I'm always making mountains out of molehills, exaggerating circumstances, using hyperbolic language. Practically everything I write has fatalistic, doomsday undertones, or more accurately, overtones. Its weird, because I never really considered myself a "depressive" personality. At least not in recent years. But there it is in black and white (actually black and pink). Gwen, the dramatic depressive. I don't know if what I'm writing is actually a true reflection of who I really am. Or maybe it is? If I printed all this stuff out and gave it to a shrink, I bet he would prescribe me some really good shit. I love brainstorming on here. I really get the best ideas.

Wednesday, October 31, 2007


I'm restless tonight. No matter what I do, I can't relax. It has a lot to do with my mental states, a reflection of this inner turmoil which gives me zero rest. The only thing I can do to shut up the negative murmurings in my brain is to never stop. I fill my days with activity and tasks. I overload my schedule with doctor's appointments, training sessions, pilates classes, lunch with friends, work, cleaning. It never ends. But standing still would result in a breakdown. Or maybe not. I just don't want to take any chances. At least I'm working out again and doing so like a fiend. Pushing myself physically is one thing that could always stave off bouts of sadness and anxiety. So that is a positive side effect of this insanity, I suppose.

In July I spent a weekend at Kripalu, which is a yoga facility in the Berkshires. I remember feeling apprehensive on the way there, not knowing what to expect or whether or not I had committed myself to a weekend in some hippie commune hell. But my experience was profoundly soul revising, if that makes any sense at all. Its like I learned how to breathe again. The bare bones accomodations coupled with the exquisite natural surroundings really made an impact and reminded me of what was most important to me: becoming a simple woman living a simple life. Being a grown up in this modern world is so complicated. I hate it all the time. Sometimes I despise the things I own. Its not that I don't appreciate what I have. I just know deep inside that I don't need it all. And it makes me feel ashamed to think of the excess of materials that I've come to believe I need. Anyway, what I value most are those intangible elements of my life: moments playing "noseys" with Liv, making love at the spur of the moment with my husband, seeing a rainbow after a warm rain. It sounds so corny and cliche but its just true. And being at Kripalu taught me how to recognize what I truly need. I want to go there hone that skill, that ability to stop and tune in to what's really important and to recapture the feeling that stopping and being still is not going to destroy me. I think it may be the key to saving my life.

Friday, October 19, 2007

Patrick Dempsey Can't Buy Me Love

It pains me to say it, but I have developed a rich and vicious hatred for Patrick Dempsey. This isn't easy for me. It's a difficult job, this hating of an actor who started out so likable and promising. I still remember him, way back in 1987, when he played an awkward but adorable teenager who said "Nerds, jocks. My side, your side. It's all bullshit. Its hard enough just trying to be yourself" in that timeless classic Can't Buy Me Love. I especially loved him as Lily Manning's schizophrenic brother Aaron on Once and Again. I thought he did well on Will and Grace as Will's sports-fanatic boyfriend. And he still had my heart in Sweet Home Alabama as Reese Witherspoon's spurned fiance. I even yelled at the screen, "I'll marry you Andrew even if your mother is rat faced Candice Bergen!!"

So what happened? What caused this ignominious fall from grace? Four words: God damned Grey's Anatomy. Fucking show. The only thing I hate more than Patrick Dempsey is Grey's Anatomy and all its repugnant, STD ridden cast members. I saw it one time. I was very innocently switching around the channels, as is my wont. And then...all of a sudden I saw a lady wearing scrubs "hilariously" tacking a pair of underwear to a bulletin board. Um...that is beyond gross.

One of the "doctors" on the show was also in a horrible movie from the nineties called "My Father, The Hero". If you watch this show, ask yourself this question: Do I want to be associated in any way, shape, or form with someone who acted in a movie with Gerard Depardieu? If that isn't bad enough, her character in the movie pretended he was her boyfriend when he was actually her FATHER. Even pretending such a thing is awful beyond reason. How do you recover from something like that? You NEVER do. You could take a million showers and you would never feel clean. You could bathe in rubbing alcohol for the rest of your life and the Depardieu dirt would still infest your pores.

So there's Katherine Heigl and then all the rest of them and if you ever see a picture of these people, look at their faces. Seriously. If you watch this show, and I pray to sweet Jesus and all the saints that you do not, look at their faces for about 2 minutes really hard. And then you will see what I'm talking about: creepy, cold, dead eyes. But don't look directly into their eyes. There is obviously a danger in doing that. You might turn into a fuckwit and start saying shit like "Did you let me scrub in for this operation because I slept with you? ".

I know plenty of people watch this show. Good, hard-working, decent people. If you're one of them, don't feel bad. You're the victim in this situation. Advertising has misled you down a dark path, making you believe that this show is risque but harmless fun. I can almost forgive you. But please don't email me saying "But Gwen, it's a really good show!1!! Give it a chance, cuz u will luv it!!1!! McDreamy Rulz 4 eva. Patrick Dempsey is hot". Patrick Dempsey has greasy hair that's coiffed in the same style as the guy on the 20 dollar bill. Other reasons I hate him: His first wife's name was Rocky and he named his sons Darby and Sullivan, he juggles, and most disturbing of all he won a golden globe for best actor in a drama series when Kyle Chandler's hair wasn't even nominated. Kyle Chandler's hair can act circles around Patrick Dempsey. I am not making this up. And one last thought before I go, if I ever hear or see the psuedo words "McDreamy" or "McSteamy" again, I may try to McKill myself.

Sunday, October 14, 2007

"S" & "Z" are not interchangable letters

I saw something the other day that made me wish I were blind. It was the sign out front of a new tanning salon. It read: Caribbean Tanz. What happened in our culture that made it suddenly cool and edgy to murder the English language? What did the English language ever do to you people? If the American public were on trial for their crimes against grammar, here is the evidence:

Exhibit A: gurlz, tanz
Exhibit B: My baby daddy, Now Open Monday's
Exhibit C: Chillin, Trippin, etc.

The motive here is an apparent hatred for the letters "S" and "G", and an inappropriate relationship with the letter "Z". There also seems to be a confusion on the part of the perpetrator about the use of possessives.

It's one thing for stupid teenagers to abuse perfectly innocent words. They're young enough that rehabilitation is still possible. But when adults who have the wherewithal to open a legitimate business name said business "Caribbean Tanz", God help us all. That is why I hate Toys "R" Us and its hell spawn Babies R Us. It's bad enough that they use "R" instead of "are", but they have to make the despicable "R" backwards too. If I had the resources I would set every one of those stores on fire and have fireworks light the sky with the words "Out of Business "R" You".

Am I perfect? No. Have I ever made a grammatical error? Of course. The difference is I don't do it on purpose. And if I do, I have the decency to be ashamed of myself.

P.S. If you are scratching your head and thinking, "What's wrong with 'Now Open Monday's'" then I don't want to be your friend anymore.

Thursday, October 11, 2007

Whine and Cheese

I was thinking today about the time Amy and I went to Chester County to visit the wineries. It was right after Liv was born and I needed a day out and away from all the demands of having a newborn. It was about this time of year because the leaves were really starting to change and it was a bit crisp outside (Like a normal October should be). I know its sounds cheesy, but it was really a magical day. We felt alive and happy and just so comfortable being together, as we always have been. The wine helped. It was Amy in classic form: chatting it up with the winesellers and co-tasters, asking for more cheese samples, even though you're only supposed to get one. We ended up at this really great place called Va La Vineyards. We sat in an enclosed porch with all this artwork overlooking the vineyard drinking wine and being sisters. I'll never get that back. I'll never know what that feels like to be there, with her, and completely okay with the world. And it makes me sick to my stomach. And sometimes I can't breathe. Its so unfair how happy memories can become so horrifying. How thinking of her and her wonderful life can make me cry. I don't even know why I wrote this because nobody cares about it but me.

Saturday, October 6, 2007

Possible Situation

I don't know what is wrong with me lately. I am usually so hateful and cynical. I always find things to get on my nerves, people to complain about, situations to analyze and bitch about to anyone who will listen. But lately, I've been numb and its bleeding into every aspect of me. I feel as though I can't get passionate about anything, and I need that to get good and angry and ....I don't know, comical?

I always find my anger and hatred turn into something I can laugh at. Something amusing. I experience, I analyze, I get fucking pissed, and then I discuss. And I get it out of me. Like a life bulimic or something...I purge all these nasty thoughts and feelings with a diatribe of hyperbolic nonsense (i.e. I want to light old people on fire, etc ). But now, there is just a big vat of nothing...I'm even being nice to people. Don't worry, its nothing crazy. Just letting a car get in front of me, picking up shit that someone dropped in line, telling a woman her ugly baby is cute. I mean its not CPR or returning lost money or anything. But even so, its disturbing. I even said "hello" to a stranger today. What is WRONG with me? Guys, I'm scared. If I go visit my grandmother, it's game over and you know it.

Tuesday, October 2, 2007

Out, Out Brief Candle

"The body is a damn hard thing to kill" - Anne Sexton

I hope, for my sake, that this sentiment is true. I had another biopsy today and it was every bit as annoying as the one I had 3 months ago. And now comes the fun part: the wait. There really is nothing like waiting to hear whether or not you have cancer. I keep having these dreams, nightmares really, that I am dying the same death as Amy. It is the first time in my life that I'm having dreams that make any sense at all, dreams that are clear and obvious. If I do die a similar death, at least I know what to expect. Maybe that's what dreams do - they prepare us. Watching Amy die gave me a perspective on what it looks like. But dreaming about dying helps me know what it will feel like. It's creepy, I know. I just can't help but thinking that I'm not long for this world. Some candles are met to be blown out early.

"Out, out, brief candle! Life's but a walking shadow, a poor player that struts and frets his hour upon the stage and then is heard no more. It is a tale told by an idiot, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing" - William Shakespeare

Tuesday, September 25, 2007

Cut me off a slice of that Hamm

So I've been watching this new show, Mad Men, and I am completely enamored with it. For one thing, it takes place in 1960 and I have always been fascinated by that era. But I am slowly falling in sick love with the show's protagonist, Don Draper (played by the awesome John Hamm). This is the scary thing: Don Draper is a chain-smoking, manipulative, arrogant, deceitful bastard who not only cheats on his wife but also his mistress. I like to tell myself that I like him despite his faults because he looks so smoking hot doing all these things. But the truth is I find this character so incredibly sexy partly because he does these things. Why? What is the twisted part about me that is turned on by such unapologetic and misguided machismo? It sure explains why I dated so many jerks in my day. So I have to say it's a good thing I met Todd when I did, because if I didn't end up marrying him I would have been in real danger of marrying an asshole.

Thursday, September 20, 2007


Current mood:regretting making an ass of myself

Did you ever say something to someone in a conversation like weeks ago and you can't get it out of your head? Just thinking about the stupid thing you said sort of eats you alive? A few weeks ago I was having a conversation with my sister in law and I said, "I've been too sedimentary lately. I need to get active". And later on that night I did a replay of the conversation in my head and realized that, of course, I meant to say sedentary. I just keep thinking how stupid she must have thought I was. It haunts me. But what can I do? I can't really call her and be like, "remember when i said sedimentary and should have said sedentary?" I would just be reminding her and reliving the embarrassing event all over again. This is what I get for trying to say 4 syllable words. I should stick with the 4 letter ones. I never mess those up.

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Lollipop, Lollipop, Oh Lolli, Lollipop

Sometimes I feel like I'm holding onto my sanity by a very thin thread. Its as if at any given moment it could be gone and there would be me: catatonic and numb. I don't know if that's giving up so much as just giving in. At some point I will just get to that place emotionally and say "all right, universe, you win." I try so hard to believe that there is something in me that's strong, something that will hold me upright through this tempest of horrible things. But let's face it...I can't even handle the normal, everyday stresses of life without turning to one self destructive behavior or another. What the hell am I doing here? What is the point of me at all? Part of me wants to live, but I don't want to do the work. I want to sink into the madness, let it envelop me like a really good dream. Because the alternative is to accept the nightmare, which is my life.

Friday, September 14, 2007

Skinner's Rat

I was thinking more about what I said earlier. Maybe I'm more like Skinner's rat. Life is my maze, getting out of bed is the lever and the coffee is my food pellet reward. Either way I'm acting like an animal. Damn scientists and their studies on behavior. Its got me all messed up and analytical. Anyhow, the whole point of the blog earlier was supposed to be something else entirely. But I get carried away sometimes and start talking about stuff I never intended to. Anyway, I went into Starcracks this morning (which is my new name for it) and I was just going to get a water and veggie and pesto dip snack. Todd had jogged to Dunkin Donuts (the other love of my life) this morning. (And YES Todd went for a jog, that wasn't a typo). So he had brought me home a coffee, bless his soul. Nothing better than having a cup of coffee on the bedside table when you wake up. So anyway, the point of all this rambling is this...I only wanted to grab a water and some vegetables. But I guess I go into the place so often, that the barista girl actually started making my mocha the second I walked in and I hadn't even ordered it yet. (Ding!) I smell the coffee (Ding!) and I got the stuff I wanted and she winks at me and says "the usual?" So, its official, Barista Girl is like a drug dealer. I think I'm out. I think I can withstand the peer pressure. But she just drags me back in...practically waving the whip cream can in my freaking face. Its a vicious cycle. I would have actually felt guilty if I didn't buy it after she started making it. How messed up is that? I spent $3.25 on something so that Barista girl wouldn't feel stupid. But you know I drank it. And it was totally YUM!
Have a great Friday!

Pavlov's Dog

I spend way too much money at Starbucks. I hate it, because I feel like I'm saying something so stereotypical. its like the same old recycled joke, haha, Starbucks is expensive. WE GET IT. But, honestly, every morning I drive by one on my way to work. Cafe Mochas are like a suburban housewife's crack cocaine. Of course just getting to work in the morning is pure torture. Having to get out of bed, having to get dressed and sort of do my hair. Brushing my teeth, waking Liv up early so she can scream like a banshee in my ear for a half an hour while I dress her. And of course sitting through Pinks. All of this god damn work, just to get to work. So its like I need a little incentive...I'm like Pavlov's dog and the sweet, sweet smell of caffeine is the freaking bell. Ding! My sister in law is an amazing person. She is also a runner. I said to her the other day, "I've done the running thing. I really did. And every run felt like torture, like a piece of my soul was being ripped out. How do you keep doing it, day after day?" I ran 4 times a week for a month. But I just couldn't do it anymore because it sucked. Or maybe because I suck, I don't know. Anyway, she said that she's addicted to it at this point. But here's the kicker, she said that when she gets up in the morning and goes for a run, that she looks forward to that morning cup of coffee and toast. That's her motivation. For running. And I think to myself, what kind of lazy ass am I that I need an incentive just to get out of bed in the morning? Lord Alive. And I'll tell you something, if I ran 5 miles every morning, there had better be some REAL crack cocaine waiting for me when I got home. And a Cinnabun with extra icing.

Thursday, September 13, 2007

Insurance Fraud Dads Need Love, Too

So I saw this commercial a few days ago and it actually gave me heartburn; that's how disgusting it was. Basically, this guy is driving a car and looking miserable. That's Lou. Then you notice a teenage girl in the passenger seat looking miserable with a horrible braid hairdo. That's bitchface Jodi. The voice-over starts talking about how this guy committed insurance fraud and now all the people at school are talking smack about this girl because of her dad. The voice over guy keeps talking about how committing insurance fraud is so horrible and that he basically ruined his daughter's life or something. Then...THEN...the guy stops the car and they're in front of a school and he says something like "I'll see you after..." and Jodi gets out of the car without saying anything and SLAMS the car door. Like way to thank your Dad for giving you a ride, bitch.

I guess the point of the commercial is to make us feel sorry for Jodi because she is being made fun of at school because her dad committed a crime. But really it made me what to pound her face into a brick wall. I bet her dad committed insurance fraud in the first place because he couldn't afford to buy her all the Abercrombie and Fitch clothes and the IPod and the cell phone she wouldn't stop bugging him for. She probably kept bitching and bitching about not having enough cool stuff to impress her lame friends at school with. So he broke the law for HER and this is how she repays him? With a slammed car door in his face after he was nice enough to give her a ride to school? If my daughter's friends were making fun of her because I committed a crime, then I would tell her to get new friends. Or I'd give a swift kick to the jaw. But this girl is such a superficial bitch that she probably doesn't want nice friends, so who's fault is that when you pick shitty friends and then they turn on you? I have zero sympathy for this "insurance fraud dad" girl and if I went to school with her I'd make fun of her too. But not because of her dad. I'd taunt her because she is such an unforgiving, worthless, ungrateful, materialistic, whiny, little monster. And then I'd go buy a six pack of beer for her dad, because if he has to live with that banshee he's gonna need a few drinks.

Monday, September 10, 2007

Hungry, Hungry Hippo

I'm tired of hearing about how bad Britney Spears looked at the VMA's. You want to put down her performance? Go ahead. It sucked. You want to talk shit about her whorish antics? I'm all ears. But everyone needs to just zip it up about the condition of her body. She looks fine. Seriously. I mean if Britney is fat then I am officially a freaking hippopotamus. Is it any wonder that women (as a whole, maybe not individually) are so fucked up about food and eating it? Is it any wonder that I don't know a single woman who ever said "I love my body"? Jesus H Christ...I pick up In Touch magazine this week because yes I am a sheep and like to read the gossip rags and on the cover it says "Scary Skinny". But if any of those women on the cover gained any weight they'd be ridiculed for that as well. I'm not feeling particularly sorry for Britney. She has a lot of dollar bills to wipe her tears with. I'm feeling sorry for me. Because I'm looking in the mirror, at my own body, and not a-liking so much what I see.

Friday, September 7, 2007

Pinks II

Pinks, part II Current mood:still disillusioned
so anyway, where was I before I was so rudely interrupted? Can you believe the nerve of my boss expecting me to work at work?? Anyway, I'm finally in the damn MRI and lying so still. My neck hurts, my back hurts, my ribcage hurts from pressing against the metal slab. Could they make these things any more uncomfortable? So the woman says, "You're moving too much. Try breathing shallow." ?!?!?!? I'm in the machine for 1/2 hour and I have to breathe "shallow" the entire time. I kept thinking that this must be what it feels like to have a lung disease. So it's over with and it was crappy. But you know what? I'm glad its behind me. Now I'm leaving work and going home to open a bottle of wine and eat a gallon of ice cream, which I will probably throw up. Good times. Good times.


Today was great. Except take great and think of the opposite of that and that's what my day was like. The only good thing that happened was that this morning instead of watching Pinks when I got up Todd had on Sportscenter. Small little victories, I suppose. Damn, I hate that show Pinks. First of all its on the Speed channel, which is the most moronic concept to begin with.

Anyhow, if you haven't seen it here's a little synopsis and every episode pretty much plays out like the one before. Two guys talk $hit and rev their engines, then they talk some more $hit about who's dick is bigger, I mean who's car is faster. Then they race. Whoever loses the race bitches and moans and complains as if it wasn't his fault. Then the baldheaded twerp who hosts the show starts trying to get them to compromise and the guy who lost is supposed to get "lengths." Yeah I funny is that? Lengths would be car lengths and that's how far the loser gets to start out ahead in the next race. Anyway, they argue about lengths for a while until they agree on a certain number and then they race again. What I don't get is why should the loser get any "lengths" in the first place. If your car lost the race, you suck. If you get "lengths" and win the race is that really going to make you feel good about winning? It would be like a cheap win.

Anyway there is usually about 5 races. It is so drawn out and boring. The only good show was the one where the baldheaded twerp tried to be cool and ride a motorcycle and he ended up crashing. It was awesome. I was in such a good mood for the rest of the day after I saw that.

Anyway, enough about Pinks. This morning I had to go get an MRI and I've already told you how much I hate them. I have to drive to Univ of Penn and I am the biggest idiot because no matter how many times I've gone there with Amy, I still got lost. Like lost driving around the city and calling people and crying my eyes out. Thank god for Tina, Renee, Jodi, and Alisha. Yes it took that many people to help me find my way. By the time I got to the hospital I was hysterical...I go to Penn Tower, which is where I was told to go when the appointment was made. I'm sitting in the waiting room for 1/2 hour and this thought occurs to me: Dwight Schrute is right. There is way too many freaking people on this planet.

I mean this place was teeming with people, breathing all over the place and talking on cell phones to even more people taking up room in other places. I started getting nauseous just thinking about all the people sitting there. We need some sort of plague, but quick. I know you're thinking, "but Gwen, you're a person, you're breathing and taking up space." I know. I'm probably the worst one of all.

Anyway, after holding my vomit back for a while I sort of calmed down and started doing some logic puzzles. For some reason they seem to relax me like Xanax. And I didn't have any Xanax with me. Dumb move, Gwen, dumb move. Finally the lady calls me up to the registration desk and is all "You're in the wrong place, you need to go to Dulles building". Holy Mother of Jesus Christ. So I go all the way over to the other building which is like 10 miles away and wait over there for a while. They call me up to the registration desk again and tell me that I am in the wrong place and need to go back to Penn Tower. I am not kdding. These people don't know what the hell they're doing and I am trusting them with my life? So I just sort of go limp and say "I'm so confused" and I think the lady got a bit afraid of me, something in my eyes was transmitting crazy vibes. I love when that happens. So she makes a phone call and says, "we can take you here". Hooray for craziness! So after filling out a bunch of paperwork, like a bazillion nosy ass questions. to be continued...

Thursday, September 6, 2007

I Don't Love Life, But Sometimes I Like It

Todd is watching football. And Liv is entertaining herself for once in her freaking life. Its a miracle. So I have a few minutes to "blog" and I was told that I must continue to "blog" or be murdered, so in the interest of staying alive, here goes. After reading an article entitled "phrases that make my blood boil", I got to thinking about a certain phrase that elicits the same response from me. That phrase being "She loved life". Every funeral, every tribute, every obituary, every fake conversation in a grocery store about a person who recently died, you can overhear some form of this term. It makes me want to hurl. At first I thought the reason behind this was obvious. Who doesn't love life? Who doesn't hold onto their existence no matter how pathetic or meaningless? When people say this aren't they stating the obvious while trying to sound deep and meaningful? But the more I think about it...No. My question is, How the hell do you know that she loved life? Does anybody ever really come out and say "I love life"? You'd never hear it from these lips, that's for damn sure.

I don't love life. Sometimes I like life. Sometimes, I'm a little fond of life. But mostly, I just tolerate it. Every night when I go to bed it is such a relief, I'm thinking "God, i'm glad that's over". And when I wake up in the morning, I feel what can only be described as disappointment. Like, again? I have to do this again? I resurrect to the same day over and over. The same sinkful of dishes with food caked all over them, the same clothes in the dryer that I keep running over and over again because I convince myself that if I can just manage to take them out when they're still hot I won't have to iron anything, the same kitty litter needing to be changed, the same whiny (but beautiful) child asking for juice, the same god damn Berkheimer tax bill that will never, ever get paid. Do you realize the majority of our lives are spent doing things we don't really want to do? And the one thing that we actually love doing, which is sleeping of course, we don't really get to enjoy because we're, well, asleep. I don't know, maybe heaven is like sleeping but knowing what it feels like to be asleep. that would be awesome. maybe this is depressing to you, so i'm sorry. The way i see it, though, is the pursuit of happiness is pretty futile. I mean,there are millionaires out there, people who can ostensibly BUY love and joy, that are miserable. What makes us think we stand a chance?

So I'm going to sleep...the closest thing to heaven I know. Sweet dreams.

This Is Dark

i've been thinking today about honesty...and whether or not i'm going to keep writing these blogs. I guess part of me knows that anything i'm putting up here is completely filtered and candy coated. It has to be. If I put the things that were really going on in my life and in my head, it would be way too dark and twisted. Also, I might offend people. because I do that when I'm being honest. And this is of course based on the assumption that anyone is even still reading...but it seems like some of you are because I am getting views. Anyone reading this crap is a saint.

Lately I've been feeling so mean. I told Todd to stop eating pretzels last night because the crunching sound was destroying my will to live. Each crunch felt like a dagger in my brain and I wanted to smash the pretzels into a million freaking pieces all over the place. But I didn't because then I'd just have to vacuum and I hate doing that. It's way too much work. Everything gets on my nerves. People are irritating. except for a select few...and I think you know who you are. if you're not sure, then you are probably irritating to me. But email me anyway to ask. and if you don't get a response then assume that means you are irritating. God I'm a horrible person. there is no death too painful for the likes of me. also I despise the word blogging. Its disgusting.

Tuesday, September 4, 2007

My Body Is A Judas

I hate MRIs. Not that I know anyone who actually enjoys having one done, but I just dread them with every fiber of my being. I'd rather have a major surgery. At least during a surgery you're out cold and then they give you really good drugs afterward. With an MRI, you get to be awake the entire time in some unnatural position with a futuristic tube surrounding you like you're in some godforsaken sci-fi movie or something. And don't get me started on the noises...the whirring, the beeping, the high pitched "chirps", and all the while the only thing I can think about is what horrible disease they're uncovering in the process. Cause you all know, I'm dying of something.

Yes, I'm a hypochondriac. But I have totally good reasons for that. It's like crazy with a purpose. I'm carrying around this deadly BRCA2 gene, like a god damn F*cking Judas in my DNA, waiting to kiss me goodbye with a malevolent lump of cancer in one or both of my breasts. How ironic that I spent so many years immersed in self destructive behaviors, and now I find out that all that work and sacrifice (or more specifically "exercise and starving") was wholly unnecessary? My body was probably thinking "girl, I got that covered".

So now, I guess I fight for my life. It's a weird passive aggressive fight, though. It's like I'm not really doing anything but talking to doctors and getting bloodwork and going for tests. And then, of course, my big day. My prophylactic bilateral mastectomy, which is just a fancy way of saying "I'm getting my boobies cut off so I don't get cancer". In a weird way, I was looking forward to it. I thought it would be such a relief to not have to worry (as much) about this issue anymore. Plus, my breasts have never been anything to write home about. Just these little barely there things, a big whatever. But now that its getting closer to setting the date, I'm getting really sentimental about them. They may be small, but they're mine. Am I really ready to cut myself up? Will it be worth it to scar myself forever? To change my body, a big part of who I am? How much am I defined by this physical self really? I am just so angry to have to make this decision in the first place...I wish I could go back to the days when I had control over my own suffering.

Friday, August 31, 2007


Last night, sitting in Vinyasa flow I was filled with overwhelming tranquility. The whir of the fans overhead, the quiet swishing of the big, white paper lanterns, the feel of hardwood beneath me, the last vestiges of the day's light pouring into my third eye...I don't know, its a beautiful moment in time. To be in blooming lotus with your head tilted toward the sky, begging some unknown entity for the knowledge to move forward. I guess that's why I keep obsessing about butterflies. There is something innately progressive about them...the process of change and how hard that can be. For me, it is like I am learning how to live all over again. I am in my own chrysalis...resisting movement, resisting change. But its a biological process we can't stop. And I am paralyzed with fear about what the future holds. I have to share what I have read about this process in a butterfly, I find it weirdly fascinating, so humor me...

"Like other types of pupae the chrysalis stage in most butterflies is one in which there is little movement. However, some butterfly pupae are capable of moving the abdominal segments to produce sounds or to scare away potential predators. Within the chrysalis, growth and differentiation occur. The adult butterfly emerges (ecloses) from this and expands its wings by pumping haemolymph into the wing veins. This sudden and rapid change from pupa to imago is called metamorphosis."

I am holding still, but moving nonetheless.

Wednesday, August 29, 2007

Thoughts on Child Molesters

I've been doing a LOT of thinking on this subject, being a mom and all. And, of course, I worry about Liv being the victim of some degenerate pervert. And if, by the way, she ever was, there would be no end to the tortures I would perpetrate onto that monster. That being said, what really gets me is the way that some people are wasting all of their time lobbying to pass laws that prevent sexual offenders from living in their neighborhoods. This troubles me because that's the equivalent of saying that somehow their children are more valuable than anyone else's. Because, let's face it, the child molesters have to live somewhere, so if they're not living in your neighborhood, they're living in someone else's.

Okay, now for my second problem. How on earth is preventing a sexual offender from living in your neighborhood going to really protect your children? Wake up, folks. No law can stop your kid from being a victim. Only you can. If we're not confining these people then they pretty much have the ability to go anywhere, even if we tell them they're not allowed. That's like assuming my two year old will not run into the street just because I told her not to. If their is an ice cream truck on the other side, she's a-running whether I told her she could or not. I guess the point to my rant would be, wouldn't our time be better spent making sure these sick monsters are permanently confined in mental health or correctional facilities? Why are we letting them out and then waiting for them to offend again? Because the chances are they will.

I guess my feeling in a nutshell is this: Just because you get a law passed that says a sexual offender can't live in your town, it doesn't mean that they're aren't any already living there who haven't been caught yet. Also, if a child molester isn't allowed within a certain number of feet from a school, does that mean he will abide? Well, if he was willing to destroy a child's life in the first place, I doubt that law will have any meaning to him whatsoever. So, to me all those laws really do is give us a false sense of security.

This issue has been annoying the hell out of me I had to get these thoughts off my chest.

P.S. I realize sexual offenders can be women, but they're mostly men, so that's why I said "He" and "Him".

The Deep Down Desire of A Butterfly

The process of metamorphosis can be scary, I imagine. I think about caterpillars, in their snuggly gossamer beds, only knowing what they know. It must feel so safe to be there, in that place where nothing ever changes: just the same lull of wind pressing against the soft cocoon. Then, out of nowhere, god knocks on the door and says "out, out you go!" Down the bark, down to the world, getting your wings...I wonder about that first flight...does it hurt? I bet it does. And deep down inside that tiny, winged soul is a dream of white, soft, simple beds that nestle in trees.

Monday, August 27, 2007

Depression is A Warm, Snuggly Blanket

People throw this word around a lot : Depression. They say it with such nonchalance sometimes "I'm so depressed, Jimmy broke up with me", I'm so depressed, I gained 10 pounds over Christmas", "I'm so depressed I didn't get that promotion." You know it very well may be that all of these people are truly and clinically depressed. I don't know. But what I think is that they think they are only because some TV commercial gave them a label for their perfectly acceptable feelings. Our culture would have us believe that negative feelings themselves are unnatural. If you go to a doctor, they give you a pill to make it go away. But how can they say that a person taking a shot of tequila at 8 am is not doing the exact same thing?

I guess what I'm saying is that sometimes I feel like I'm not allowed to be sad, that for some reason I'm expected to just go on in my life and pretend like the insides of me aren't twisted and scarred and bleeding. No one wants to really, really see the aftermaths of mourning and grief - its too frightening. But its real. So, I'm tunneling under the blankets. And it sort of feels good to be honest. Isn't that why people are always stating that stupid thing "be true to yourself". Whatever the hell that means. My interpretation is that I need to wallow for a while in the sadness, because it is natural and true. And don't worry, I always wait until 5 to drink tequila

Friday, August 24, 2007


Well the Lord didn't answer my request to get rid of the gloomy weather, so I'm sort of mad at him right now. For that and for letting my sister die. I won't hold my breath for an apology...God doesn't work that way. It's his way or the highway to hell, I suppose.

I get so annoyed when people talk about miracles. I don't mean little ones, like seeing a beautiful butterfly (hello, Amy), or the first daffodil of springtime, or the smell of your baby's skin, or the feel of your dying sister's hand tickling your hair. I mean big ones, like the Lord Jesus saved my child from drowning, or I was down on my luck and I found an envelope containing $3000 when I was on my way to buy a gun to shoot myself (thanks be to Jesus). To me it is the height of arrogance to assume that luck and someone else's carelessness is a sign from above. Why would god pick you? What is so special in you that god went out of his way to save you when He lets millions of people die in Africa every year who never get to experience the taste of chocolate or clean water? Babies die horrible deaths every day, and God does nothing to stop it. But YOU, you're special.

I don't know, maybe I'm mean but I just can't wrap my brain around these thought processes. Such loonies who contribute all their successes to a higher power, and believe that any time they are defeated they just didn't believe enough, or weren't good enough. I swear to you Amy didn't get cancer because of something she did, and she wasn't allowed to die because she was horrible. We all know she was the most giving, selfless type person. These things just happen in life and God doesn't have anything to do with it. I wonder if he isn't just indifferent regarding this place. Or likes to just watch what happens. My daughter loves to build tall block towers, but is overjoyed by knocking them over. Why? Maybe God is this way too. To make such beautiful things and people and then watch it all slowly deteriorate when you have the power to stop that from happening - it baffles me. Are we made in his image, really? Why can't I understand this behavior then? I guess right now I'm thinking about mortality too and questioning where I'm going when I'm gone. I'd say right now my shot at heaven isn't looking too good.

Friday, August 17, 2007


Well I'm into my grief almost two weeks now and I have to say, it is not at all what I expected. I guess I thought I would be non-functional when Amy passed away, I thought I wouldn't be able to even get out of bed. But here I am in this sort of numb fog, going through the motions of life, eating, drinking, even laughing sometimes, in a parody of what was once my normal life, a normal life which of course means, a life in a world where Amy existed. And then once in a while, it will hit, this wave of pain so deep and searing, and it takes me under and I can't breathe. Once the tears have come and then gone, a calm comes over me. A calm I know can only be coming from Amy. In this way, I know she is sending me strength from above. Because I have to keep going without her, I have to for Liv. But sometimes I don't want to.
Losing someone you love really sucks.

Monday, June 11, 2007

Zen Gwen

Well here it is. My first blog. You've been anticipating this for so long, I just know it. Just dying to have some light shed on the innermost workings of my twisted mind. I hate to disappoint you but at the moment I'm feeling really mellow. Maybe it's the hour...11:00 pm is really late for me anymore. I know; I'm old. Maybe it's the Dilaudid I just took because my back hurts. Like really, really hurts. I thought yoga was supposed to be GOOD for a person. I am probably the only person on the face of the planet that finds a way to make yoga hurt. Oh well. I'll keep going because I'm sort of addicted to it at this point. This fact really classifies me as a lazy person, that is if the 30 hours of television I watch weekly didn't already do that. For one thing, this form of exercise was chosen because a good portion of the time is spent "breathing" (fancy sanskrit word = pranayama) and resting (fancy sanskrit word = shivasana). Spinning Class? Kickboxing Class? Step/Cardio/Muscle Tone/Hip Hop Boot Camp/Jumping around looking like an idiot because I can't follow the complicated dance-like moves Class? Get behind me, Satan! When I'm working out in front of a bunch of people, I'd rather not feel like a complete fool. In fact, I want exercise to make me feel (and, if possible, look) like a goddess.

I'm pretty good at breathing, and also laying on my back (Hey now...get your mind out of the gutter). Mountain pose (aka standing) - I'm marginally good at standing too. If I don't have to do it for too long. My favorite pose (fancy sanskrit word = asana) is Warrior. For some reason, I feel totally bad ass in this asana. I guess that is sort of the point.

Anyway, for those of you following my never-ending health saga, my biopsy results are in and guess what? I don't have my breast...yet. But I won't rest until I find out what the hell is wrong with me...because I can assure you that something is. And when I die, I want a really pretty tombstone engraved with the simple, yet appropriate, phrase "I told you I was sick". Good night!!!!!!