A QUESTION OF FAITH

I’ve always struggled with faith.  I’m actually a little jealous of people who believe so strongly and fully.  I wouldn’t necessarily consider myself an atheist but would classify myself as a skeptic.  I’ve gone through stages where I have believed there might be a higher being out there and I’ve gone through phases where I adamantly believed there was nothing at all.  During tougher times, even if there was a God, I was sure I hated him.  It is no secret that I’ve had some struggles in my life, especially over the last 5 years.  While this is by no means a “poor me” story, I think that most of you can probably understand my skepticism.  This is a dark world sometimes.  While I’m quite capable of finding the light most days, I struggle with what is “fair” and “unfair.”  There is just no logical reason for some of the misery that takes place on this earth.  So if I'm not sure whether or not there is a God, why exactly do I celebrate Christmas?

When we lost our son four years ago, I went to a very dark place.  I believed in nothing and even got a little snarky and irritated when people told me everything happens for a reason and that God needed him sooner.  God didn’t need him…I did.  And the words were meaningless to me.  The people saying them, however, were not meaningless.  They were well-intentioned, kind, loving people who just wanted to support me and shower me with their love and compassion.  That’s pretty hard to stay irritated with.  So I let them comfort me however they chose to do so and I put aside the thought of God with a shrug of indifference.  During this dark time, there was a small group of women who I had never met that reached out to me.  They had gone through similar losses and they understood my grief and pain.  They took time out of their lives and their families to put their arms around me, let me cry, and teach me how to move forward.  When I was lost, they found me.  When I needed a constructive way to remember my son, they gave me a position on the board of a non-profit that is now very near and dear to my heart.  It enabled me to serve my son’s memory in a positive way and maybe help a few others along the way.  This group became a family to me. Through this organization, I have met many parents who have suffered a loss. Some of them believe fiercely in a God and in heaven, others don’t.  I am content with both beliefs. 

Through my time with this non-profit, I met another amazing group of people. A group that consisted of some of the most selfless, humble, and caring people I have ever met.  I will not speak in detail about who they are or what their mission is because they choose to remain anonymous.  They are truly giving to give, not to receive recognition.  They, again, were giving countless hours of their own time to make life just a little bit better for those who were hurting and just needed to know that someone cared.  I honestly don’t know their beliefs.  We’ve never talked about it.  And, again, I am content with that.

We celebrated Christmas growing up.  I’m not sure I ever understood the reason for the holiday.  I knew the story behind it.  But did I believe it?  I’m not sure.  I don’t think I ever put much thought into it.  What I did love about the holiday was the magic of it.  How kind people suddenly became.  How people stopped thinking about themselves for just a few days and cared about others.  THIS was the joy of Christmas growing up for me.  We didn’t have a lot of money when I was a little girl and I don’t know that we had the elaborate gifts that I see kids open these days.  But I had two parents who were so selfless and loving that I never noticed the lack of tangible things.  I remember things like watching the parade with my mom, making cookies for friends and family, my dad putting the star on top of the Christmas tree.  I remember taking an angel off of the Christmas tree in the mall and providing what we could for those in need. The love and kindness was what I celebrated, not a baby in a manger.  And I was okay with that. 

I was surrounded by people of exceptional faith growing up.  People who went to church every Sunday, read the Bible, and prayed daily.  I, on the other hand, was not fond of spending my Sundays in Sunday school and had more questions than answers.  I have a curious mind that is always asking “why” and “how”.  This is a blessing and a curse.  I’ve had moments where I’ve thought “There has to be…” and other moments where I’ve thought “There can’t be…”  Many days, I wish I was someone who could just have faith in a higher power.  I'm not sure it’s in me to do so and I have accepted that.       

Through the ups and downs in my life, I kept searching.  Searching for a sign of a God.  A sign that there was something more.  Something to ease my fears that this isn’t it.  That there is something after this life.  Something to provide me with hope.  I never found the proof I was looking for.  I’ve never had that “aha!” moment that made me feel strongly one way or the other.  However, through every rough patch in my life, there has been someone there to help me up.  Sometimes it was family, sometimes it was a friend, and sometimes it was a complete stranger.  Oftentimes it was a stranger who then became a friend.  I found support in places that I would have least expected it and this is what gave me hope. 

  

I think as human beings we have this deep desire to label things.  When life is dark and challenging, we need something to believe in.  The jury is still out for me on whether or not a God truly exists.  But I do believe in angels.  I have witnessed them myself.  Despite the pain, sorrow, and hatred in the world, real-life angels walk among us every day.  So when I consider what exactly it is that I’m celebrating this Christmas, I have decided that I am, in fact, a person of faith.  My faith may not necessarily be in a higher being but in human beings that I interact with every day and these angels, alone, give me something to celebrate.    

EXCUSE ME WHILE I OVARY-ACT

As a disclaimer, I do not consider myself a die-hard feminist.  Or a man-hater.  And rest easy gentleman, this is not a man-bashing rant.  I prefer to think of it as a teaching opportunity for you to take back to the cave and share with your male counterparts who might still live in the 1920’s.  I know many of you are civilized and are aware of the fact that we are more than baby-making machines with the sole purpose of pleasing you and making you sandwiches, but even the most liberated of men still seem to judge us for our tendency to be a little emotional and sensitive.

So this one is for the men out there.  Your wives and girlfriends have probably given up on trying to explain our mood swings to you in an effort to avoid the inevitable eye roll, dramatic sigh of exhaustion, and condescending comments that you give us when we have the audacity to express ourselves.  I, on the other hand, don’t give a damn if I offend you.  So listen up boys, I’m going to explain to you once and for all why we are the way we are in hopes that you realize there is more to us than what you learned in your high school sex ed class.

First of all, being a woman is hard.  And I don’t mean because of the pregnancy thing.  24-36 hours of labor is the least of our problems.  What I mean is it is a LOT of work.  All.  Of.  The.  Freaking.  Time. 

Let’s start with the masochistic ritual known as hair removal.    Shaving for men is optional.  In fact, I have heard of countless bets where you bet each other NOT to shave. Women would take that bet in a heartbeat and happily grow our leg hair out to lengths that would require a separate bottle of conditioner and an extra comb.  However, our society, as a whole, frowns on this.  As a result, most of us pluck, wax, and rip our hair out on a regular basis.  I have personally chosen waxing as my source of self mutilation so I feel that I can enlighten you on the experience.  Waxing is painful.  And sticky.  On one occasion, I actually glued my labia together while attempting to wax my bikini line and then glued my thigh to the shower floor when trying to undo the damage.  And I didn’t even remove a single hair!!  Those ladies who are more coordinated than me might succeed in yanking their hair out by the roots.  However, even a successful waxing session usually results in a deafening scream that results in the cute, concerned neighbor coming over to find you curled up naked in the fetal position or frantically rubbing aloe on your lady parts.   

After we have adequately tended to our waxing wounds, we then proceed to spend 30 minutes putting on makeup and using scalding hot tools at an alarmingly close proximity to our scalp.  We sometimes suffer from second-degree burns while attempting to look like the airbrushed women you drool over in magazines.  And we haven’t even gotten dressed yet.  When we do, this usually consists of something tight and uncomfortable with undergarments that rival ancient medieval torture devices.   So the next time I’m crabby and you ask me what’s up my ass, I will tell you.  It’s a half-inch wide piece of material that feels like a permanent wedgie and chafes my butt crack.  Yet I paid good money for it so that you can’t see my pantylines because apparently that is unattractive.  You won’t hear me judging you when your boxer briefs slip down and I can see the crack of your ass every time you bend over.  But, no, by all means, I’ll spare you those pantylines.  We then proceed to put on shoes that force us to walk on our toes as though we are auditioning for the New York City Ballet and polish everything off by wearing a 10-pound purse that holds the Band-Aids and aspirin we will inevitably need to make it through the evening.  And since we have to carry this scoliosis-causing bag anyway, please, allow us to carry all of YOUR crap for you too. 

Now, it’s not all bad.  We do have a slight reward for all of our hard work.  Allegedly, we have the potential to have powerful orgasms.  Unfortunately, to achieve this evasive experience, we have to pull out a Sharpie and draw a set of detailed blueprints on our inner thighs so you know which spots to target and which to avoid. Then we twist our bodies into positions envied by most circus performers to find the perfect combination of pleasure and pain, by which time, you are probably already done.  In all honesty, it is much easier for us to throw some batteries into that new toy we bought for half off on Groupon.  But, we go through the contortionist act anyway in an effort to please you so, do us a favor and spare us the story about the porn you saw with the woman who could get her legs behind her head while achieving an orgasm and cracking open a beer at the same time.  She’s not normal, probably had ribs surgically removed, and she’s faking that orgasm.

If you still don’t understand where we are coming from, I’d like to point out the hardships of my single friends.  On dates, men have the luxury of eating whatever they want and, in an effort to not look like the carnivorous beasts that we actually are, we order a salad and longingly watch you down your meat and potatoes.  By the end of the night, our stomachs are usually growling, our reflexes are slowed, and our judgment is impaired.  So those women who put out on the first date are not slutty, they are severely malnourished and just praying that your bachelor pad has an extra slice of pizza in the fridge that they can inhale while you are fumbling around for a condom. 

After eating that pizza, we then come home and give ourselves a guilt trip for it.  We listen to the voices in our own minds reminding us about our muffin top, stretch marks, and the cellulite that has been forming on our thighs.  We balance with one leg up on the bathroom counter twisting around and using three mirrors to try and count how many new dimples we have and cry as we attempt to figure out the lengths we might have to go to to remove them. Then we do everything from rubbing coffee grounds on our skin to wrapping ourselves in seaweed, bathing in mud, and, if all else fails, subjecting our bodies to lasers and scalpels in an effort to rid ourselves of these perceived flaws.  And we won’t even discuss gray hair and wrinkles. 

By this time, we are truly exhausted.  So it’s time for some beauty sleep.  But we can’t even do that without being judged!  Women are apparently not supposed to snore, wake up with dragon breath, and God forbid you are a sleep farter.  So we attempt to stay in one spot and appear to be dainty little angels.  It is not until we are truly comfortable in a relationship that we will allow you to see the reality of our sleeping habits which usually consists of our legs caught in an alligator death roll with the sheets in a fight to the death type of situation.

Like I said, this is a lot of work.  What do we have to show for all of this effort?  Seven days of uncontrollable emotions and hormones that cause us to laugh and cry at the same time while wearing something that feels like an adult diaper or playing “hide the string” if it’s swimsuit season.  And, while we are on the subject, let me offer you some advice.  Don’t you DARE ask us if we have our period when we are a little crabby.  If you are wrong, the question itself is enough to piss us off enough to make you spend the entire evening paying for it.  If you’re right, you better be wearing a cup because the probability of you getting kicked in the balls is high.  Do us both a favor and offer us a foot massage if we are a little cranky instead.  It takes you 10 minutes and the odds of any permanent damage to your testicles decrease dramatically.  

Now, we don’t ALWAYS have those dreaded 7 days a month.  But if we are lucky enough to be without them, it’s probably because we are carrying a little human being inside of us.  Yes, this is sweet, and precious, and we are happy about it and all that crap.  But that little human being will eventually take away our ability to sleep, our ability to poop in peace, and our ability to laugh or sneeze without wetting our pants.  But don’t worry, God rewards us later on in life with hot flashes and night sweats along with a decreased sex drive which you will inevitably bitch about too. 

So please cut us some slack the next time we are crying at the feminine hygiene commercial during the Super Bowl or have an irrational response to you asking how our day was. Chances are we have a g-string up our butt, our feet are bleeding, we are probably starving, and it’s time to wax our mustache again.  We certainly put up with your burping, farting, temper tantrums, quirks, and weird man smells so the least you can do is forgive us for occasional ovary-acting.  I don’t think this is asking a lot. We are, after all, doing most of this for you.

A Letter For Gabriel

Dear Gabriel,

          
         My sweet son.  I have thought day and night about what I might say to you if I had the chance.   If only you could have known how much you are loved and the impact you have had on your father, me, and everyone around us.  Since you did not have the opportunity to live your own story, I would like to share it with you now.

          Your daddy and I tried for five long years to have you.  We went through fertility treatments and many failed pregnancy attempts but we didn’t give up.  We wanted you so badly.  I finally got the phone call that I had been waiting for for so long.  I was pregnant with my precious baby.  I was sick in the mornings but I didn’t care.  I dreamt of the day that I would hold you and I imagined what you might look like.  I wondered if you would inherit your father’s amazing sense of humor.  I couldn’t wait for you to meet all of your cousins and your grandparents.  You were already so loved. 

          Shortly into my pregnancy, I got very sick and had to go to the hospital.  I was terrified that I was losing you.  They reassured me that you were fine but they needed to do regular ultrasounds to monitor us both.  I was excited about that because more ultrasounds meant that I got to see you more often and hear that precious heartbeat that warmed my heart. 

          On one of the ultrasounds that they did, they found a bulge coming from your belly.  They told me they could fix it but it was going to be a tough six weeks after you were born.  I was worried but I took comfort in their confidence that this could be fixed.

          They sent me to a specialist who performed more tests.  It was then that our true nightmare began.  You had some other abnormalities that were consistent with a disorder that was fatal.  They would have to do yet another test to confirm this but I knew in my heart that this was really bad news.  That evening I went for a walk.  I walked around our neighborhood and I felt you moving and kicking in my belly.  You were so active.  How could something be wrong?  I started to say goodbye at that moment.  I felt so guilty.  I had not even received a confirmation that we were going to lose you and yet I was already saying goodbye.  If your own mother didn’t think you could survive this, how could anyone else?  For that, I am so sorry.  I think that maybe if I had just believed a little harder, you could’ve had a chance.  I know deep down that isn’t true but I carry that guilt with me anyway.  Unfortunately, my guilt was only beginning. 

          When we got the call from my doctor that our fears were confirmed, my whole body went numb.  I heard some of the words he was saying but I was having trouble stringing them all together.  I heard words like “incompatible with life” and “will not survive childbirth.”  After rattling on for what seemed like forever, he asked if I had any questions.  The only question I could manage was, “Is the baby a boy or a girl?”  He told me you were a boy.  My precious son that I had wanted for so long.  I knew then that I would name you Gabriel as you deserved the name of an angel.

          Our lives became a whirlwind at that point.  Our doctors’ recommendation was to induce me early.  If we continued with the pregnancy and you, by some miracle, survived childbirth, you would suffer in a way that was unbearable for me to even imagine.  I was faced with a decision no mother should ever have to make.  I had to choose whether to induce early and let you go peacefully or continue with the pregnancy knowing that you would suffer and that the odds of you surviving were almost zero.  The death blow had been struck.  We knew this was the beginning of the end. 

          Your father and I made the decision to induce early and let you go peacefully in the only environment you had ever known rather than introduce you into a new world where you would feel nothing but pain and fear.  I will never forget the feeling of standing in that hospital staring at the doors.  It was surreal.  I felt you moving and kicking inside of me and I knew when I walked through those doors, you were going to be lost to me forever.  What kind of mother was I to do this to her son?  Why couldn’t I save you?  I felt completely helpless.

          After 26 hours of labor, you were born.  My precious Gabriel was here.  You were perfect in every way and we loved you instantly.  You were so tiny.  You had your dad’s nose.  We held you for 12 precious hours.  I never knew how short 12 hours really can be.  Those were our only 12 hours to be a family.  We talked to you, took pictures with you, took footprints, and held your tiny hands.  Your dad told you all about Notre Dame football and his thoughts that Michael Floyd might, indeed, be Superman.  You even got to meet your Aunt Susi who instantly adored you.  She would have spoiled you rotten.  Those 12 hours were the saddest and yet the happiest hours of my life.  When we had to hand you over to the funeral home, your dad and I held each other and cried.  We felt a pain that went so deeply into our souls that I knew our world had forever changed and we would never be the same again.  We lost a piece of ourselves that day and it took me a long time to understand that that was okay.  It is a piece of us that belongs to you alone and it is that void in our lives that will hold on to your memory and keep you alive in our hearts forever.       

          After we said goodbye to you, I went through a period of time where I felt robbed.  I felt robbed of the hopes and dreams that we had for you.  I felt robbed of the opportunity to watch you grow up, push you on a swing, and teach you how to ride a bicycle.  The holidays became torture.   I plastered a smile on my face and tried really hard to be happy when I watched other kids open presents on Christmas or hunt for eggs on Easter but, inside, I felt angry, jealous, and alone.  I would walk into your nursery and stare at your empty crib and cry.  It infuriated me when people said things to me like, “Don’t worry, you can still have more kids.”  I didn’t want any other kids.  I wanted you.  People did not understand the pain of our loss because they never knew you.  They had never met you.  I felt that this diminished your existence and it made me angry.

          Little did I know that nothing could diminish your existence.  As time went on, I witnessed something amazing.  I watched as our friends and family came together in support.  I watched my relationships grow and change.  I watched our friends hug their kids a little bit tighter and tell them just one more story at night.  Their appreciation for their children had changed, because of you.  I watched as my relationship with your father grew.  We became stronger and closer than we had ever been and we have you to thank for that.  You gave us the greatest gift we could ever ask for.  You made us parents. 

          I have had the ability to help other parents through the agony of losing a child and you give me the strength to do that.  Every time I talk a mother through her grief, I feel closer to you.  Not only did your life serve an amazing purpose, you helped me find my purpose as well and, for that, I can never repay you.  You gave the ultimate sacrifice.  You gave your life to enrich ours.  You give us hope, strength, and courage.  You remind us every day about what is truly important in this life and to hold on to the precious time we have with our loved ones.  Do you know how proud that makes me?  I’m such a lucky mother to have had you for a son. 

          I’m about to do one of the most difficult things I’ve ever done.  I’m going to get on stage and share your story with other parents.  I thought it was only fair that before I share your story with them, that I share it with you first.  I hope that you are there, somehow, to hear out loud how much you are loved and missed and how proud of you we are.  I know that your story will continue to help other parents through their grief so, rest easy, my sweet Gabriel, that we will keep breaking the silence and never let your memory die.

Until we meet again,

Your loving mother.  

One Foot in the Grave

I really can't stand when people touch my feet. So, unlike most girls, I find pedicures to be pure torture. However, summer inevitably rolls around, and I am forced into the salon to protect the people around me from the horrific sight of my unpedicured toes.  I always wait until the last possible moment when my toenails are starting to grow into my skin and my calluses resemble something you might see on Fred Flinstone’s feet to once again bear the burden of my extra X chromosome and submit to the torturous ritual called a pedicure. 

So, this year, as the weather started to warm and my feet begged me to allow them to make the transition from boots to sandals, I begrudgingly entered the torture chamber and allowed them to touch my feet. As you can imagine, they were not particularly happy to see me.  They quickly disappeared into the back room to gather their tools which I assume consisted of a pair of pliers, a utility knife, and a belt sander.  They talked amongst themselves in Vietnamese in what I assume was their version of rock, paper, scissors to see who the lucky winner would be to go to work on my piggies.  They apparently had a new girl who was just starting. After getting a good look at my feet, they decided this would probably be good practice for her. I, on the other hand, was not so thrilled about having an amateur work on my feet. See, when I do go and get a pedicure I am not one who wants this to be an hour and a half long process while they massage my feet and pick at my toes. I want to be in and out of there in the absolute shortest amount of time possible with perfect toenails that look fantastic for 2 1/2 months because you know that I'm only doing this twice during sandal season. Not having to subject myself to pedicures is one of the very few things that I love about the winter.  

So, they gestured toward a seat that I walked toward as though I was headed for the electric chair and sat down across from a man who was currently getting his eyebrows waxed and I tried not to stare at him while I stuck my feet into the bacteria bin which I knew had probably held thousands of disgusting infected toes. Luckily, the water was scalding hot, so not only was I sure that it had killed any sort of organisms that might be lurking behind, it also peeled off my top layer of skin so the organisms wouldn't have had anything to attach to anyway.

The woman doing my toes offered to do a manicure as well since she was learning and practicing so I reluctantly agreed since my hands didn't look much better than my feet. She told me to sit back and relax and enjoy some TV while she went to work. I looked up at the TV, and in a moment of sheer irony, on comes a commercial for toenail fungus medication. I reached for a magazine instead. 

The new girl started to look distressed pretty quickly, not that I blame her. She started to sweat and said something to one of her coworkers which I told myself was probably a comment about how adorable my feet were and she needed to come and see them right away. In reality, it was more of a plea for help because she was clearly in way over her head.  Over walked the seasoned manicurist who decided to pitch in and help. New girl kept working on my feet and old girl went to work on my hands. She started massaging my hands, which is the only part of this process that I thought I would enjoy.  Well, that was until I realized that my next step would be to the hospital where they would repair my four broken fingers from the deep tissue/tendon/bone massage that she performed.

Meanwhile, on my feet, new girl decided that she was going to try a hot wax treatment on my legs.  It would have been nice if she asked me first, but she just brought the wax over and placed it on my legs before I realized what was happening. Unfortunately I had just shaved my legs prior to this visit in an effort to not look like a complete Neanderthal. Have you ever put hot wax on freshly shaven legs? I would highly advise against it.  Luckily, my feet and legs had started to go numb anyway from her constant prying, filing, and other torturous rituals that she could come up with to punish me. So I turned my attention back to my hands.  When I looked down, I realized that four of my fingers were bleeding from where she cut me while trying to trim my cuticles. Luckily, she dabbed some alcohol on them to get the excess blood off so it wouldn't ruin my French manicure that I was having done. My eyes started to tear up, but I still refused to say anything, because the man across from me still had not complained once about his eyebrows getting waxed. By the way he was now getting his hands and feet done too.  If he could do this, so could I.  I would not be shown up by a man.

Then came my favorite part of the experience...the part where I almost died. I always thought my headstone would read something cool, like “Eaten by a great white shark” or “Slipped and broke her neck while trying to climb on stage at a Chippendale's show,” not “Death by pedicure.”  Again, remember they are working on my hands and feet at the same time in an effort to get me out of their shop as quickly as possible.  The manicure I am receiving requires a UV light to set.  A UV light requires electricity.  My feet are still in the water basin of death when the seasoned manicurist decides the best way to handle this is to place the electric UV light on my lap with both of my hands inside.  I’m sure, in her mind, this is a great solution to getting finished quicker and, at the same time, making it impossible for me to move, squirm, and writhe away from their every move.  Unfortunately, as she turned around to grab something, the light started to slide towards the tub.  Defenseless with my hands inside of the machine and my feet in the bin, my life flashed before my eyes and I yanked my feet out of the water, kicking the new girl in the shoulder in the process.  At the same time, I pulled my hands out of the light sending it crashing down at the manicurist’s feet.  I strung together a slew of words that would have made a sailor blush and they responded with a string of words that I didn’t understand but I can tell you that it didn’t sound like, “I’m sorry for almost electrocuting you.” 

I was a bit shaken and I insisted on a different manicurist who wasn’t a homicidal maniac coming over to finish the job.  I glared at them all while he finished up and then I paid a ridiculous amount of money for my bleeding fingers, water-wrinkled feet, and newfound trauma before stomping out to my car and slamming the door.  How on earth do women enjoy this experience??? 

The logical part of my brain told me that, next year, I should just embrace unpedicured toes and use that money to buy wine and therapy from this year’s experience.  Unfortunately, the logical part of my brain is very small and the vengeful side is large.  So I’ll be back, sadistic salon workers, and I’ll be sure that my feet resemble something out of your worst nightmares next time around….    

Lucy-Fer

Recently, I went through a bit of a rough patch.  My health was not fantastic, I never seemed to feel quite right, and my anxiety levels were trending upward at an alarming rate.  My career that had once looked so promising and rewarding was in a downward spiral and I was miserable and hated getting up every morning for work.  I worked from home and I don’t think that helped the situation.  Winter had settled in and it was gray and cold outside and I frequently didn’t leave my house for days.  I felt like a failure.  I decided it was time for a career change so I started applying to different jobs in an effort to improve my sense of self worth.  Unfortunately, I was finding that I was overqualified for some jobs and underqualified for others.  I could not seem to find that happy medium.  So I waited as the responses didn’t come and the interviews I did have didn’t pan out.  Waiting sucks. 

So, it is not only for this reason but at least part of the reason that we decided to get a puppy.  We currently have a 10 year old yellow lab and thought he’d like a companion, especially if I was going to start working outside of the house.  So we found an English Cream Golden Retriever puppy, 8 weeks old, and decided to bring her home.  She is beautiful and affectionate and, for the most part, very, very sweet.  We named her “Lucy.” 

I am a huge animal lover and anyone who knows me knows that my other dog, Killian, is the love of my life.  He is actually prioritized over my husband the vast majority of the time.  We got him when he was 8 weeks old and we bonded immediately.  I trained him myself and we have spent almost every single day together since he was a baby.  I thought for sure I would have the same immediate and special bond with Lucy.  Unfortunately, I didn’t.

We brought her home and my first concern was for Killian.  I did not want him to feel replaced so I overcompensated with how much time I spent with him and maybe even left Lucy out just a little bit.  When we got Killian, I wasn’t working so I had all day and all night to devote to him and his needs.  Now, I’m working full time, my husband is out of town a lot, and I am not only having to watch Lucy to prevent her from destroying my house but also to prevent her from hurting Killian.  She doesn’t yet understand that he is old and jumping on him hurts.  She is a typical puppy with a ton of energy and extremely exhausting.  At first, I felt like I had a toddler running around my house.  But, then, as I watched her more closely, I became convinced that she was a demon puppy sent to punish me for my many sins.  At night, in an effort to use up all of her energy before going into her crate to sleep, she runs around in circles in a performance that resembles something straight out of The Exorcist.  She jumps on the chairs, scratches me with her demon claws, and gnaws at me with vicious little puppy teeth.  She even used those deadly fangs to chew a perfect circle in our carpet which I logically assumed would be used in rituals to offer up her human sacrifices. 

It didn’t help that my husband did bond with her immediately.  The evil temptress became his precious little princess and everything I tried to do to discourage her bad behavior, he negated because he was incapable of telling her no.  I cussed at them both when I would step in dog crap outside or walk in to my bedroom to find her eating my freshly laundered socks and underwear.  Her accidents or decisions to roll around in mud always seemed to be right after I got out of the shower or at times of utmost inconvenience.  Then, when I yelled at her, she smirked at me and looked up at my husband with those big brown eyes and he melted and let her do whatever she wanted.  I squinted my eyes and glared at her.  I know what you’re playing at, sister.  I used those same eyes to get myself a diamond ring.  Where Killian was dumb and sweet, Lucy was smart and manipulative.  But there’s only room for one manipulative bitch in this house and I’m not relinquishing my throne. 

About a week ago, as I shot up from my desk to clean up the furry devil’s third accident for the day while corralling her to a different room so she didn’t walk through it and track little pee prints throughout the house, I was suddenly very aware of why people say having a child will not fix marriage issues.  I was irritated and crabby from chasing her around, cleaning up her messes, and getting up early with her when she cried.  I couldn’t figure out why this was so irritating to me when I did it all so willingly with Killian.  I’ve always been a very patient person.  Why couldn’t I find some patience for this feisty little dog who, deep down, I knew just wanted my time and affection?  Now don’t get me wrong, I didn’t neglect her or anything.  I played with her, snuggled with her, bathed her, and trained her just like I was supposed to do.  I even trained her to go to the corner when she was naughty.  But I didn’t feel a deep attachment to her through any of it like I did with Killian.  

Then I realized that I was unfairly resenting her.  I missed getting up in the mornings and sitting with Killian while I ate my breakfast and drank my coffee.  He would let me sleep as long as I wanted without bugging me.  He is already potty trained and obedience trained.  He spends his days laying by my side or staring out the window.  He’s not adventurous, no longer explores anything that might be dangerous, and doesn’t chew up my Ugg slippers.  I don’t have to take him out in the snow to go potty.  He knows my moods.  When I’m sad, he comforts me.  When I’m angry, he stays out of my way.  When I’m happy, he’s happy.  Lucy, on the other hand, needs constant supervision and attention. 

It finally set in that for the last year of my life, it has been all about me.  My career downfall.  My frustration.  My disappointment.  Lucy needed me to make things about her and until I finally realized this, I wasn’t ready to do that.  I was content wallowing in self pity and worrying about my own needs.  I looked down at her and felt so ashamed of my selfishness and I felt like the worst doggy mom on the planet. 

I got out of my chair, sat down on the floor and pulled my beautiful puppy onto my lap.  It was at that point that I sold the little she-devil my soul.  I showered her with the love, affection, and slew of apologies that she deserved.  She looked up at me with those big sweet brown eyes full of instant forgiveness and unconditional love.  She covered my face in puppy kisses and nuzzled up to my chest.  It was then that I realized that I Love Lucy…finally.  

Radioactive

            Two years ago I was diagnosed with thyroid cancer.  That’s a whole different post in and of itself but you need to know that to understand this one.  Part of the treatment involved in thyroid cancer includes something called “Radioactive Iodine.”  The first time around, I failed to see any humor at all in the situation for obvious reasons.  Now, two years out, they told me I would need a follow-up scan every year for five years that would require another dose of radioactive iodine.  The follow-up scans are just as scary, in my opinion, as the first one.  You’ve put cancer in the back of your mind, hoping it's gone and that it’s never coming back and now you face a test that, again, could turn your world upside down.  However, this time around, finding some humor in the situation was a little easier and might be what pulled me through the whole ordeal without me going completely crazy. 

           The first thing they did was make me stop my thyroid medication because they needed me to be extremely hypothyroid.  If you don’t know what that means, I both envy you and hate you because you will probably never understand what it feels like to slowly lose your mind.  And I don’t mean small things like forgetting where you put your keys.  I mean things like putting my garbage in the refrigerator and giving dog food to the turtle.  Yes, that actually happened.  That was before putting empty cans of green beans in the pantry and forgetting why I went to the grocery store.  No, I don’t mean forgetting my list or forgetting what I meant to buy, I mean seriously forgetting why I was at the grocery store or how I got there.  I’ve always been somewhat flaky but this was beyond crazy, even for me.  Nothing made sense to me anymore and the smallest tasks took so much focus and energy.  I now understand how my mom feels every time she turns on her computer.

            The second thing they did was put me on a low-iodine diet.  If you want to lose weight, I highly recommend this diet because the food, well, sucks.  Every day for breakfast I had a little slice of cardboard followed by Styrofoam peanuts for lunch and then the glorious 6 ounces of meat I was allowed to have once a day for dinner.  Everyone told me it was only for two weeks and it couldn’t be that bad.  Well, I invite my smoking friends to cut out smoking, my drinking friends to cut out alcohol, and every female on the planet to cut out chocolate for two weeks.  If you love food as much as I do, this diet is a special little slice of hell. 

            Then comes the actual radiation dose.  I walked into the nuclear medicine department at the hospital which is behind very large, heavy wooden doors with “Caution” written in bright red across them.  You know those horror movies where the girl runs upstairs instead of down?  That’s what I felt like at this moment.  Sure, let’s walk through the doors with the enormous caution sign.  What could possibly go wrong?  Luckily, Jason is not standing there in a hockey mask as I expected.  Instead, they take me into a room where I wait, by myself, completely isolated from other patients.  The nurse enters the room dressed in a Hazmat suit holding a container made of lead.  I’m not kidding.  I start looking around for the hazmat suit that they surely meant to give me but I didn’t see when I walked in.  When one didn’t appear, I then started looking around for hidden cameras.  You have got to be kidding me.  So, with her massive gloves protecting her from the medicine she wants me to put into my body, she opens the lead container and reveals a pill in a glass jar.  Through her mask and what I now presume was a Darth Vader voice changer, she tells me to go ahead and take my pill.  I look at her like a deer and headlights and squeak out, “Are you sure…… this is safe???”  “Oh yes, dear, we have to wear this suit for our protection because we are around it all the time.”  Not an entirely comforting answer but I decide it’s an acceptable one.  I start to dump the pill from the container into my hand when I hear, “STOP!!!”  There it is.  They are messing with me, I knew it.  Darth Vader speaks again, “Do not put it in your hand, take it straight out of the container, please.”  Seriously? Now I can’t help but laugh a little deliriously at the creature standing before me in her space gear.  I can’t touch it, but I can swallow it.  How does she not see the irony in this?  But, like a good little girl, I do as I am told and take my pill.  She tells me to expect some nausea and fatigue and sends me on my way with instructions to return two days later for my scan.

            The scan is the scary part.  This is where I find out whether or not the cancer has returned.  I calm myself down by trying to find ways to laugh at the situation and I think about the first time I went through this.  When I had my first dose, my only little ray of sunshine was hoping that this radioactive medicine would give me superpowers.  Maybe I would grow four more appendages and have the ability to smack six annoying people at one time.  Or possibly I would gain the ability to read people’s thoughts in little bubbles above their heads.  No such luck.  But I was also very sick then.  Superheroes can’t be sick.  Maybe that was the issue.  Surely, this time around I would gain some sort of benefits from the radiation.  That thought provided me with enough entertainment to get me through my scan.  I did learn, however, that they have microphones in the room when I heard laughter coming from their safe room as I hummed the theme from Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles as I entered the scanner.  Go ahead….laugh minions….hide behind the protection of your 6-inch glass in your radiation free cubicle.  You will be my first victims of whatever powers I obtain!!!    

            They then move me to the second scanner and ask me to lie on a table that was clearly built for someone of Kate Moss’s stature.  They rubber band my feet together, tuck my arms into a blanket and large plastic arm holder thingies (I think that is the official medical term) and give me a pillow that forces my head to hang backwards at an angle that I’m sure will do permanent damage to my spine.  She then tells me to feel free to take a little nap if I’d like.  Lady, I can barely swallow in this position, suddenly have the urge to itch my nose, have one butt cheek hanging off of this table, and if I sneeze wrong, I’m sure the other will follow.  Not exactly a day at the spa.  Just scan me and shut up.    

            After two hours, my scans are over and I’m told I can go eat while I wait for my results.  “Can the food contain iodine?”  “No, not yet.”  I sit in my chair and pout as I pull out an apple and look at it with disgust but start to nibble on it anyway because the lack of nourishment is starting to affect my brain and I truly can’t afford any more damage.  Luckily it doesn’t take long for the doctor to come out and tell me that my scan is clean.  No cancer.  Relief sweeps over me and I’m not entirely sure if it’s because of the cancer-free news or the knowledge that I can now go demolish an entire pizza by myself.  But nevertheless, I walk out of the hospital with a huge smile on my face.  I’ll admit that I was still a little disappointed that no superpowers had shown up.  I came home and played with my pet turtle in hopes that, at the very least, I had enough radiation in my body to pass on to him and maybe, just maybe, I would come downstairs the next morning to find a crime-fighting ninja in my fish tank.  I’ll keep you posted. 

Spectrophilia

I am a married woman whose favorite pastime is browsing dating websites.  But I don’t mean reputable websites with normal people, I mean places like the Craig’s List personals.  If you’ve never done it, give it a shot.  It is a great way to waste an evening and a bunch of brain cells at the same time.  However, I still maintain that it is better than watching the Kardashians and wondering when Bruce Jenner is going to officially install his vagina. 

Anyway, I was bored one evening and surfing these websites when I came across the term “spectrophilia.”  For those of you who have never heard the term (and I’m really hoping that most of you haven’t) it is a sexual attraction to ghosts.  Fantastic.  My night of boredom suddenly got interesting.  This is something I needed to know more about.  So off I went searching around on the web for more information on spectrophilia.  I had no idea that this was such a common fetish and how many people claim to have had an encounter.  Now I’m jealous.  I’ve never been seduced by a ghost before.  But, then again, I don’t exactly look like Demi Moore.   

          Then I found it.  My new favorite website.  This is saying a lot since my previous favorite was a site where you could literally rent midgets for different occasions.  But this new website was an actual “how to” on summoning a succubus (that’s what us pros call it instead of a spirit).   This website is the key to phenomenal sex.  Literally.  Who needs the Kama Sutra?  So I’m reading through all of the information and I get down to the bottom of the page where it asks if you would like to sign up for 7 free lessons on how to physically attract a ghost.  Well, yes.  Yes I would.  So I put in my email address and anxiously waited for lesson #1 and the waterfall of spam that would inevitably come with it.  It came almost immediately.  I’m hoping my future ghostly lover doesn’t come as quickly as that email did.   

          I click on my email and wait for it to load.  I have so many questions.   Is this considered cheating?  Can I choose a male spirit or do I have to be willing to experiment?  Do ghosts believe in foreplay?  Will he spoon me afterwards or just vanish into thin air?  Unfortunately none of those answers were addressed in this first email.  Instead I got a questionnaire that was entitled, “Are you succubus material?”  Well now I’m worried.  I didn’t realize that being rejected by the spirit world was even an option.  I click on the link for the survey.  The questions on the form peak my interest even further.  It asks questions like, “What type of relationship are you looking for?”  My options are sexual, friendship, or a long term relationship.  Hmmmmmm…  Do I want a long-term commitment?  I glance at my husband and ask if he would have a problem with this type of relationship.  He rolls his eyes and asks me if I have virus protection on my computer.  He’s not a believer.  Then I’m asked what qualities are important to me.  Some of the choices are: romantic, dominant, funny, and friendly.  I’m going with friendly.  Nobody wants a rude spiritual lover.  The last question asks how any hours a week I can dedicate to summoning a succubus.  Umm…as many as it takes!  I put in my answers and hit enter.  I was told I could expect my next lesson in two days.

          Again, I anxiously waited for lesson #2.  Lesson #2 is called “Channeling.”  Now we are getting somewhere.  I anxiously read through the information looking for something cool like drawing chalk outlines in my room or lighting candles and sacrificing chickens.  Imagine my disappointment when he basically described channeling as emptying your mind.  This has never been an issue for me.  In fact, if my mind was any emptier, I’d be Paris Hilton.  Surely I would have had a ghostly encounter by now if that is all there was to it.  Another two day wait begins…      

          Lesson #3 focuses on the types of succubus.  I learned a lot from this one.  Apparently, there are three.  They include the Romantic which, to quote the master, “feels like a thousand angels caressing your body at once,” the Prankster who likes to arouse you in public places and tease you, and the Sex Addict who is apparently intense, has gold eyes, and tends to be interested in one night stands.  Him!  I want him!  What girl doesn’t like a little gold with her one night stands?  My decision is made, I’m ready for my first summoning ritual.  Bring on the sacrificial chickens!!

          Lesson #4 arrives three days later.  First we go over the supplies needed which consist of a vacant room, incense, flowers, candles, and a blanket.  No chickens.  Darn.  He gives me a 10 step process to initiate my first encounter.  I’ll give you the condensed version.  Enter room and burn incense clearing the energy in the room.  Lie on your back with your legs 45 degrees apart.  Close your eyes and breathe and picture your ghostly lover the way you would like him to be without giving in to the temptation to touch yourself.  Really.  He actually says this.  How can I possibly commit to that with my legs spread 45 degrees apart and incense burning all around me?  Talk about temptation!  But by some miracle I manage to control myself.  Then I am supposed to look for any sort of tingling sensation or voices in my head that might be a signal that I have made contact.  Unfortunately, I have just the usual voices in my head, nobody new tonight.  Finally, I am to lay there for 10 minutes concentrating on my breathing.  I am asleep in 3….

          Lesson #5, the auditory mental connection.  In this lesson, we focus on listening to our thoughts and differentiating our own from those of our succubus trying to contact us.  Apparently humans think for only 2-3 seconds at a time.  I believe this.  I have been to Wal-Mart.  Any dialog that lasts longer than that might be contact from another being.  I’ll let you know if that ever happens to me.  So far, 3 seconds is my max.  Other signs of contact include voices telling you to do things.  Awesome.  The next time I’m in legal trouble, I’ll tell them my ghostly lover made me do it.  One way ticket to an insanity plea.  I wonder if my succubus gave me that idea?  Thank you, Casper.  That might come in handy.  

          Two days later, lesson #6 arrives.  I’m disappointed to find that this is simply a question and answer email.  But I read through it briefly because there are bound to be some entertaining questions in here as well.  I’m not disappointed.  First, he starts pushing his book that he wants to sell you.  One fellow summoner asks why his methods are so different than others.  There are others????  His answer is that you should buy his book instead of theirs because their methods are outdated and ineffective.  Shocker.  Then there was my favorite question, “While awakening from a sleep state, I saw a furry scary creature with many eyes sitting above me.  Is this a succubus?”  Answer, “Nope, you have just met the old hag.  She is not dangerous, but can give you a scare.”  I actually have personally met this being.  It was when I was in college and the old hag came in to my room and spoke to me before I had my morning cup of coffee.  However, I called this creature, “Mom.” 

          Finally, I receive lesson #7.  This was supposedly about following your emotions and letting go of negative energy.  This was not really a lesson so much as a message from his spiritual lover about the importance of meditation, keeping a positive attraction with your succubus, and, most importantly, buying her lover’s book.   

So, after two weeks of lessons, I never did achieve a connection but I did learn a lot.  What I’ve learned is that I have way too much time on my hands, I’m very easily entertained, and that people will pay for just about anything if they think it will get them laid.  I feel like I should get a cut of the action too since I am now well versed in the techniques of spiritual love.  Can I interest you in my new spiritual dating website?  I will call it, “Finding your boo…”