God and Gandhi

People who Knew Me When would probably have said I have been religious my whole life, and to a large extent, they would be right. I was reared a Christian Scientist (yep, the ones who don't take medicine) and had a very Generally Happy experience—being able to question, rebel, argue and still be loved. I was never a sweet, contented soul; I was constantly evaluating my faith, the principles by which I lived, and how all this fit into The Universe.

My concept of God was a little different than anyone else's (even other Christian Scientists), but it worked for me and helped me to be less of a judgmental asshole most of the time. It healed me, both spiritually and physically. I took a 2-week workshop with one of the most metaphysically evolved humans I have ever met, and his candor and humor and frightening brilliance challenged and enlivened me.

Then came the 2-act play wherein my faith, to a large degree, seemed to erode out from under me. Ex-husband and I fought about my beliefs when D was ill (I always gave him the option of taking D to the doctor), and then we just started fighting about almost everything. I begged God to help me stop it, to help me be a good wife, to help me fall in love with my husband again.

And for the first time in my life, I heard nothing. A vast, empty nothing. I tried again, assuring God that I wasn't expecting Her to instantly make my life better but to help me see how I could make things better and live up to the commitment I'd made in front of Her and Everybody that I would be a worthy spouse.

Still nothing. I was getting a little frantic by this point and, if you must know, a little pissed off, so I just waited. Maybe Patience was the key?

Then I got sick, as you know. I lost so much weight so fast that friends and co-workers begged me to see a doctor. For some reason, I had believed throughout most of my life that Doctors Could Fix Anything. The reasoning here, I suppose, was that because I never went to see a doctor (other than the gyno), and I'd sometimes had to struggle a little bit to work for healing, the curing my friends experienced with medicine seemed magical and instantaneous to me.

The irony of my carrying this belief around for so long was that after spending 3 months seeking out The Right Medical Professional to help me, I discovered that actually, medicine was more art than science, and sometimes it was shitty modern art you swear you could have done just as well yourself at home with your kid's Paint-By-Number set.

And so I was left with a whole lot of Crazy (which was supposedly the cause of the gastrointestinal adventures) and not a lot of answers. I was unmoored, a prodigal daughter, removed from my Mother-Father God, too scared and too proud to go back to Her/Him, too jaded and angry to go back to Who I Was Before.

It was that same feeling you get when you and your best friend/roommate have a fight—a big one, like where you say something about her boyfriend being a piece of white trash and she comments on your weight and were you seriously going to eat that donut, and then you say things like you've always thought she was dumb and makes terrible spaghetti, and she replies that actually, she never wanted you to be her bridesmaid, so you're fired.

You ignore each other for a while and then move to walking on eggshells and politely offering each other coffee in the early morning, before you're awake enough to remember that you hate each other. You think you'll probably make up and that you might even be close again, but you can never go back to that complete trust and unconditional love for each other you thought you shared. Your relationship has a veneer now—a sense of wariness that you never really get over.

I've been in that place with God for a while. We say hi in the hall, but we rarely have serious conversations, mostly because I am afraid God will say something that reminds me what a shit I am for giving up on our relationship because I wanted a Genie who would magically fix me and instead was given true Parent who sometimes makes you figure out your own shit because She knows you have the tools to do so, and you need to stop wallowing and up your game already.

So it was a little surprising to find myself buying Gandhi's Way to God, partly because I wasn't aware this was even a topic I felt like exploring more than makeup reviews and comparisons of brands of kitty litter. Also, I hate being a cliché, but I suppose clichés exist because they are what humans seem to naturally gravitate towards.

I expected a lot of the same shit I hear during yoga "practice," as if focusing on My Breath will reunite me with my estranged Deity. What I found instead was an incredibly powerful metaphor that reminded me how I used to feel about God and maybe, just maybe, how I might still feel. Gandhi likens God to an ocean, incredibly powerful and made up of millions and billions of drops of water, which would be us (in a spiritual sense). One of these drops of water by itself, he points out, has the exact same properties as the water in the ocean—same salt and mineral composition and microscopic critters swimming around. However, the droplet of water doesn't know the full extent of its identity when off by itself—alone, it feels evaporative and fleeting. Complete transformation occurs when the droplet realizes it is part of a vast force, capable of reinventing a whole landscape in moments.

I begin to wonder about—and maybe even accept that—I'm this tiny drop, completely oblivious to the fact that there's a whole ocean, powerful and vast, that I am a part of, that I am the image of. I don't know why this seemed to alter my worldview, spiritually speaking, but it did. I'm part of something bigger, even if I don't know it or want to believe it. I don't have to acknowledge it (though I do), but it is there, as immutable as gravity.

I would love to say that this book brought me rushing back to my church—or any church—but it did not. I'm vaguely interested in church but am still casting about to find one in which I belong. Christian Science still underpins most of my beliefs, but the church here feels clubby and weird and not what I need from church. I really want to like the United Church of Christ and their liberalism and earnest desire to really do the cool things that Jesus did, but it is a little too campy for me just now, having been raised in a church that could be described as "austere" or, more kindly, "minimalist."

I have a fascination with Catholicism (believing in the teachings of Cathol and everything it stood for, as Eddie Izzard has said), but there are some Basics that I can't accept—bread/body, wine/blood—it's a little too much for me to go to Midnight Mass, celebrate Jesus's birth, and then eat Him. But I love the ritual and the mystery and the completely broken and human history of The Church. The Episcopalians are somewhat more believable, but Eucharist services often feel more like English department meetings, where everyone's doing their part, and they're all very Invested, but no one seems particularly swept away by the spirituality thing that is/should be going on. I need a church wherein I don't feel like everyone is rolling their eyes at the whacko representative from the creative writing program as she cries all the way through the Easter Vigil service.

Unitarians are accepting and non-judgmental but aren't Jesus-y enough for me; evangelicals are plenty fervent and Jesus-y but often think they are the only ones in His club. Plus their politics (not to wash all Evangelicals with the same broad brush) are generally too extreme and sanctimonious for me, and finally, LDS is just right out, even though it might make my life significantly easier while living in Utah.

This is not to say I don't adore and respect my friends who are members or affiliates of these various religious organizations; they just aren't on the same page I'm reading in the novel of life right now.

I'm not sure where this leaves me, a drop of water that sometimes stagnates, sometimes dances around, sizzling on the sidewalk, and, on rare occasions, finds moments of distilled clarity—but right now, I am left with Enough.

Schrödinger Ain’t Got Nothin’ On Me

I've always been one of those people who, pre-kid-era, treated her animal friends as family members—possibly a little too much, like the time Ex-husband and I decided our tabby was going to run for president and made her little campaign posters until she was bitterly rejected for even so much as a cabinet post by the candidate who beat her in the race but which she swears she did not want anyway. Our second cat was, predictably, her Campaign Manager, and tension was high in the house for the better part of a year (our third cat was singularly apolitical and kind of a hermit—if she were a person, ironically enough, I believe she would have been a Creepy Cat Lady).

ANYWAY, I got the whole spiel about how when you have a child, you no longer wrestle with yourself as to where you will spend your life savings—on a cat's hypertension/intestinal grody-ness/skin condition, or on, say, a vehicle. Once you pop out your very own human puppy, you MUST have transportation to soothe your baby into car-induced slumber or, failing that, to get yourself to a merchant who will sell you something to soothe your baby. No question.

I didn't believe it. These felines were my children. I'd had them over a DECADE. I cherished this fantasy even through my entire pregnancy, since Second Cat gave me world-class prenatal tummy massages.

But the same assholes who keep track of my every failing in the Unshakeable Parenting Philosophies Department pointed out that it was destined for the same glory as my protestations about never EVER using pacifiers, disposable diapers, or the Cry It Out sleep solution.

And of course, those same assholes are now laughing in my face. To wit, my ancient cat (the former candidate, yes, and my Mostly Companion for the last 16 years) has decided that peeing on the floor is really an area into which she'd like to expand her skills. I have changed the litter box, emptied it, scoured it, filled it with pristine litter and yet it seems to only be worthy of "poop receptacle" status. This is somehow more crazy-making than if she were also pooping on the floor, because it demonstrates not only that we can make the distinction as to what kind of deposit we're going to make, but we can also deliberately choose not to use the drop-box specifically designated for accepting ALL deposits.

I've even turned to "puppy pads," which are basically a large square diaper on which domestic animals can relieve themselves. Which she does. In the far upper-hand corner of the pad, so as to ensure that the floor gets a hefty dose as well.

As you know, I am approaching my one-year anniversary of my most recent adventure in Home Ownership. I currently cannot use large areas of my basement because the odor of "kitty-water" is so strong, despite having received a full-frontal assault from my arsenal of sprays, carpet treatments, enzyme formulas, powders, and air fresheners.

We actually had to remove the carpet from what was once our dining room because the smell upon entering the house was so wretched (Good news: we did find wood flooring underneath. Bad news: an area of that is ruined as well).

With the carpet gone, we laid plastic sheeting on the floor and made sure the room had its necessary amenities: water, food, litter box, Old Comforter for Sleeping. There is even a sliding glass door we often open so she can enjoy the air and survey her domain. She is required to stay in the room overnight but otherwise has free run of the house.

And yet, a new lake (or two) of Feline Offal on the floor greets me every day, and it makes me extremely crabby and bitchy and rather less the Prototypical Perfect Pet Owner I would like to be. Boyfriend has suggested—once gently, once less gently—that perhaps she is ready to shuffle off her mortal coil and just needs a "starter shuffle" to get going. It is true that her quality of life is not what it was: she was an Extreme Snuggler for most of the last 5 years but now mostly comes to Where the Humans Are solely to complain about the sub-par service. She sleeps even more than most cats, and save the occasional trip outside, is pretty much on the eat-sleep-poop and/or pee-on-floor routine, and it is Tiresome.

Of course, I feel horrible that I am, essentially, waiting for her to die before I get on with making my house look/smell/feel the way I want it to. I feel even worse for wondering if maybe Boyfriend is right and that it might be time to look at Peaceful Paths to Eternal Rest, because I know this notion is based mostly on my loathing of her ubiquitous and fragrant by-products and not on any benevolent gesture (and virtuous emotional sacrifice) on my part to let her go with dignity.

But what to do? The last two times this happened, I took her to the vet, only to spend $300 finding out she has diabetes, but only kind of, since it is something of an ephemeral condition for which she sometimes tests positive and other times does not. But what if this time it's different and she just has some crazy UTI that we could fix up with a pill and some wet cat food in which to smuggle it?

I think the thing I'm most afraid of is going in and having the vet say "Well, physiologically, she's fine. She's just old." Of course, I prefer she say "Oh my gosh, just sprinkle a little dirt (or ashes or cream of tartar or party sprinkles—whatever) on her litter, and she'll never go anywhere else," but barring that, it almost seems like the next best answer would be finding out she has some condition for which there is no cure and which will allow me to feel noble about putting her down. I am pretty sure that very thought ensures my reserved seat on the express train to hell, where I will endure dirty looks and occasional physical aggression from ASPCA supporters, humane society members, and PETA enthusiasts.

So I tread the waters of my conundrum and rant and rave and bitch about the constant mess, the constant stink, the constant guilt, and Boyfriend makes sympathetic noises in a very but-if-you-were-to-put-her-down-that-would-be-fine-with-me kind of way. And I remind myself to look at my cat in the same way I see my ancient-old Nana—with tenderness and understanding and compassion.

And then I hope, once again, that they come out with adult diapers for cats. Like, yesterday.

The MOTY Competition: Status Update

I just wanted you guys who are competing with my for Mother of the Year status that you can pack it in, because I nailed it this week, and I think I pretty much blew the competition away. So—nice try.

Yes, my plaque should be arriving any moment because WE FORGOT D AT CAMP YESTERDAY!! Boyfriend called during the day and said he would get him and then just forgot—completely biffed it, which he never does.

Unfortunately, one of our fave family games is: [Parent] enters house and says, "Hey! Has anybody seen a little boy?" and then D hides, and we say no, I don't think so, maybe I left him in the car or the Wii ate him or whatever, and hilarity ensues.

Or in our case yesterday, Boyfriend asked "Do you have a little boy with you?" when I walked in, and I joked that it was the cat's turn to pick him up, har har, because of course D was there and just downstairs playing. Of course. So Boyfriend and I talked for 5 minutes and then my phone rang and a sweet little voice said "Hi, it's Amanda from summer camp!" And my oblivious ass is all "Hey there! How ya doing?" thinking she wants to, like, grab a coffee or something. In her adorable chipper tone she assures me she's fine, and then there's an awkward silence and she says "Um, were you or Boyfriend going to pick up Davis today?" It took a second for it to dawn on me that she was serious—I honestly thought Boyfriend had put her up to it (no one has ever accused us of not taking a joke far enough).

I said "OH MY GOD, ARE YOU SERIOUS???" she said she was and that it was, like, totally no problem (except, of course, the fact that I cut my feet on the shattered bits of my broken heart). I booked it over there to get him, and he pretty much didn't even notice I wasn't there yet (thank you, iPad. Thank you, Angry Birds). I think it goes without saying that Boyfriend spent a small fortune at the ice cream parlor last night.

Anyway, I think we need a new Fun Family Joke to replace "Where's D?" Maybe something like "Please Sign This Sworn Statement That You Are The One Picking Up The Kid."

 

 

But I’m a Democrat

I've been noticing a trend in my jaunts around the fair city by the salty lake: panhandling, it appears, is a new growth industry. I'm sure this has something to do with the economy not quite being done pulling itself out of the crapper, but somehow, I just don't think that's the only factor. Let's face it—I can't be the only person impressed that the panhandler asking for money at the 1300 street exit ramp is a woman who, the Incredibly Serious Local News Station has discovered, lives in a McMansion right outside of Park City which she pays for with the substantive earnings she takes off of naively sympathetic freeway fliers. It's a fantastic story, and while it gives me an excuse not to give money, it has to be inspiring to those looking to break into exclusive club that is the Indigent of the Interstate; let's face it, though—she's got to be the "results not typical" poster-child of the vagabond world.

BUT either her story is to vagrancy what Oprah's story was to Opti-fast, or there's some kind of market swing favoring the cardboard-sign-holders I'm not aware of. It used to be when I got off the interstate at a fairly busy exit, I'd see maybe one poor soul standing in the rain with his sign. Now, it seems, exit ramps are prime real estate in that there is someone down on his or her luck at every corner. Usually, of course, I notice this when I am sitting around in my Perfectly Warm Clothing drinking Piping Hot Coffee and yelling at the other drivers who, like me, are fortunate enough to have any sort of transportation apparatus.

But the sheer number of humanity asking for a little help at each exit ramp seems to be the drifter equivalent of a housing market bubble. In days of yore, I could often be guilted into scrounging up a dollar or so since hey, that guy's been standing in 18 degree weather for over 3 hours; so what if I'm contributing to his Boon's Farm fund? But to have to choose between 3 different requests at the same time? My knee-jerk Liberal Guilt doesn't have the capacity to choose between The Pregnant Lady and The Ancient Old Man and The Guy With The Dog, so I just look away and try to distract myself by wondering what the hell Steven Tyler wrote the song "Ragdoll" about.

Thus it seems that the strategy has backfired, in that the highway begging Old Guard now have to compete with the Young Whippersnappers for spare change, and there's even less of it to go around in the first place, what with all the there-but-for-the-grace-of-God-go-I paralysis that keeps our fingers closed and our car windows up. It just sucks. Presumably it sucks more for those standing on the corner, but it sucks for those of us who are the minions of The Man.

And I realize I'm getting crotchety in my old age because I was ready to snap on a panhandler today. Our building is a little scary, and the stairwell to our basement bunker frequently doubles as a pissoir (or worse), and when I work late, I often get approached, mostly by Assertive But Ingratiating Youth. However, the last time I told this one guy I didn't have a dollar for him, he got mad and started YELLING AT ME. Let's look at our tactic here, dude. I often have the urge to holler at people who won't just give me their money anytime I ask for it, but I'm on medication for that.

Today, the same guy barked at me across the parking lot, bitching because—just like always—I don't carry cash (know your customers, people, please!). I started rehearsing in my head about what I would say to him if he approached me on a more Personal Space level, and I caught myself thinking things like "Stay the fuck away from me," "Do you really want to know if I have a conceal carry permit?" and—as an homage to my parents—"Do you know what I've been doing for the last 16 hours? I've been working. Working my ASS OFF! And suddenly I owe you something?"

I thought of saying these things—of actually saying them to this person whose life was probably a combo-pak of Poor Choices and Shitty Circumstances. ME! I'm a DEMOCRAT, for chrissake! I am supposed to love and cherish the downtrodden, not trod them farther down!

So what's a girl to do with the least of these, my brethren? Continue to avoid eye contact? Say pious things to myself about how whomever at the moment is asking me for money is Exhibit A of This Could Happen To You? I have no idea. I know this is the price we pay for capitalism, and that honestly, there are people in these situations even in the most pinko-Commie societies in the world.

Maybe there isn't anything to help one sleep at night over this. Maybe there shouldn't be. Here's one of my Favorite Scenes of All Time from The West Wing:

Toby, White House Communications Director, is working furiously to arrange a military funeral. When asked about what he's doing, he explains, "A homeless man died last night, a Korean War Veteran, who was wearing a coat I had given to the Goodwill. It had my card in it."

The President breaks in, trying to explain, "Toby, you're not responsible..."

But Toby's on a tear: "An hour and twenty minutes for the ambulance to get there," he says, "a Lance Corporal, United States Marine Corps, Second of the Seventh. The guy got better treatment at Panmunjom."

The President cautions him about all the trouble he's going to for this one guy and asks him, "Toby, if we start pulling strings like this, don't you think every homeless veteran will come out of the woodwork?"

Toby's line is one of the best in the entire series: "I can only hope, sir."

Which totally doesn't help me with my crisis except to make me wonder what happened to the girl who would have done the same instead of writing a bitchy blog post about panhandlers.

The Yoni Chronicles: Season Finale

This will be—I hope—the last time I blather on about Things Gynecological, so bear with me for one final post on the topic.

Last week, my Abnormal Cells and I made a visit to our friendly neighborhood Uterinarian to take a spin on the Cervical Biopsy Wheel O'Fun.

I do the usual "undress from the waist down," which, honestly, is the weirdest part of the whole shebang for me. I actually feel less weird when they ask me to wear the drape with the why-does-this-even-have-ties because it seems more, I don't know, holistically awkward than wearing a cardigan and t-shirt and scarf on top and then nothing but overgrown leg hair on the bottom. I feel like one of those kids' flip books where the people/animals have a head and torso on the top pages and legs on the bottom pages, and you can make all kinds of silly combinations, like a yak with ostrich legs, which is what I feel like when I'm all winter-bear bundled up on top with no pants on. But at least they give me a giant paper towel to wrap up in. Because that's the same as clothes.

So there I am, with my super-absorbent mega-sheet of Bounty, waiting for the doc for a million, maybe two million, years when he finally bustles in and asks brightly if I'm ready to get started, like I'm taste-testing a new cola beverage as part of a focus group. I tell him that of course, it's all I've thought about all weekend long. He laughs nervously.

Then, of course, he proceeds to crank open the ol' baby oven and take a look, spritzing with vinegar and then waiting and spritzing some more. I feel like I'm being worked on by Manuel, Stylist to the Stars, and he's primping up the inside of my uterus. "This product is to add volume. Oh! Which you maybe don't need."

ANYWAY, Gyno-man explains that he can't see any Abnormal Cells, which is good, but that he wants to take "a little off the top" to make sure they aren't hiding out somewhere, you know, sneaking a cigarette or something. He whips out a scalpel and starts scraping and cutting like he's going to snort a line of coke right off the exam table. I'm sad to say that he did trot out the line that will forever make him a cliché in my book (however nice a cliché) about how I "may experience some cramping." I muse to myself that he's lucky that my "cramping" didn't take off some of his digits, what with my cervical musculature being so buff from the 83948753 kegels and all.

And then, suddenly, Lightning McOb-Gyn solidifies his reputation for the 2011 calendar year as Fastest Deliverer of Uncomfortable Procedures by announcing that he's done. He leaves the exam room, I guess because it would be so embarrassing to get dressed in front of someone who was just peering into my Part Where Babies Come From.

At this point, I attempt to divest myself of the remaining lube-and-vinegar mix (New snack flavor sensation! Try some today!). I now remember, as I always do at this part of the Down-Low Show, exactly why they gave me a napkin the size of Maryland to wear when I arrived, as it is the only thing large enough to take care of the "wintry mix" G-man has left behind. At last, I go skipping out of the office, cautiously buoyed by the fact that Gyno-man didn't have to get out the snatch stapler and get himself a nice pound o'flesh (ounce, pound, whatever).

And then, of course, I go home to wait, all the while swearing off soda and cookies and Chinese food and vowing to start exercising and drinking water and living on bran and mega-doses of Vitamin Good For Your Love-Canal. And then I go and have a few candy bars and cheeseburgers to take the edge off the stress.

Finally, The Call comes. As soon as Gyno-man's receptionist identifies herself, I say, more belligerently than I intend, "You better have good news for me." She's taken aback, but she laughs and says yes, actually, she does. She reports that there was no dysplasia (which I always thought was something Golden Retrievers get in their hips when they get old), and that I don't need to see G-Man for another six months.

All at once, it was like the last ten minutes of every Little House on the Prairie episode ever. You know, the 10 minutes that follows what my childhood best friend called "Cry Time," which is when Laura starts bawling because she's really sorry for rolling in the mud in her new pinafore, or Mary is weeping because she accidentally broke the vase Pa made for Ma, which, good God, give her a break, she's BLIND for Chrissake.

Anyway, after that, there's the dénouement where everyone forgives everyone else, and Pa reveals that he just finished a new vase for Ma anyway, and Ma feels so sorry for all the trouble that she gives the new vase to Mary, and Nelly shows up with a newer, prettier vase (which she pronounces "vahse"), and The Ingalls just hug each other and laugh at Nelly, who catches her bitter tears in her stupid new vahse.

It was like that, except what I did was announce to my co-worker that the Gates of Heaven did not need to be stripped and refinished after all, and we shared a knuckle bump through the cube walls.

It seems a bit of a flat ending—all that build-up just to say "Oh, just kidding—you didn't think you'd really end up having to get the innards of your Inside-Out frozen off, did you?" I imagine it's like going on a game show and getting to the $1,000,000 question and having them say, "Oh, heck, just take it. You're probably smarter than a fifth grader."

But I probably AM smarter than most fifth graders, so I am taking my prize money and my Just a Little Quirky cells and calling it a win.

My Sensitive Ponytail kid is more rock-and-roll than your kid

So, D and I are going to see my parents in a few weeks. At first, it was just going to be me, but then my mother called and said she would pay for his ticket if I would bring him. I said sure, but asked why, which made me feel like an ass— 1) for being too cheap to bring him in the first place and 2) Why ask why? Who wouldn't want to see this amazing kid?).

She said Nana is fading or not doing well or very frail or one of the various other euphemisms for Might Be Dying, which pretty much shoved the hot poker of guilt right up the ol' address. I haven't called Nana in a couple of weeks, and her Christmas present is still sitting on the floor of the Chief (and I'm sure the "winter vanilla" and "pomegranate cider" scents I got will be incredibly festive in APRIL). Also, I have worked so hard to get her and D to fall in love, and now I'm being all Mother Capulet and keeping them apart when, for a mere $635, I could exponentially fan the flames of their mutual admiration. [cue Reunited, courtesy of Peaches and Herb]. So we are going.

It will be interesting, I think, to see this child interact with Nana at this point, as he is becoming quite the sensitive-ponytail type. Par exemplo, he is teaching me to play MarioKart on the Wii, and I—how to say—royally SUCK at almost every aspect of the video game genre. He is amazingly supportive, however; after I came in 6^th (out of 12!! Me!) in one of my first races—an event which would have been devastating, had it happened to him—he was very kind. He patted me on the back and said, "That was really good, mom!" He hesitated a moment and then said, "You know, most people don't think 6^th is a good place, but I think it's really good for your first time." He is a gracious person indeed.

However, I will say his sensitivity is almost overwhelming sometimes; I may have mentioned his reluctance to throw ANYTHING away; For instance, since at least TEN of his stuffed animals sleep in the bed with him, I tried most naively to cull some of the herd that had been relegated to Not on the Bed status. The look of horror on his face suggested this modest proposal was akin to asking which one of his children he'd like to beat and starve to death.

But it's not just stuffed animals—it's dried-out markers, stale snacks, and every single one of the 4,567, 092 worksheets he brings home from school every day. The other day, he wouldn't let me throw away a receipt, and went so far as to name it—he dubbed it "Reciept-y" (I didn't say it was an inventive name, but to be fair, he had to come up with it on the fly). Best I can tell, the act of naming said receipt was done in order to shame me for the very idea of committing payment-slip genocide. Throwing something away that had a name was clear evidence of a dead, desiccated soul.

Lest you think he is a six-year-old pantywaist, however, I can assure you that he more than asserted his manly awesomeness weekend before last. It was a moment in which my heart overflowed with piercing parental pride. I mean, some parents long for their child's graduation; some wait impatiently for their offspring's nuptials, and some hang on to the dream of their spawn having ankle-biters if their own. This was a comparative milestone moment for me.

The scene: we are backing out of the driveway on our way to Target, and Owl City (shut up) is playing on the stereo. He asks who it is that's singing, and I tell him.

He said, "Hey, mom, you know who's a really good singer? This guy named Steven…uh…Steven, um…"

I held my breath for a moment and then, very coolly and calmly said "Tyler? Steven Tyler?"

"YES!" he said, and then asked which band was Mr. Tyler in again?

I took a deep breath and said "Aerosmith?" and waited for the exasperated sigh and the "no, mama, no."

To my extraordinary glee, however, he said "Oh yeah!! That's it! They are AWESOME!"

I felt my eyes tear a little as I quavered, "Really? What Aerosmith song do you know?"

He said "Uh, it's about dreams."

"You mean Dream On?"

"YEAH! AAAWESOME," he shrieked.

I cannot tell you how proud I was. To have my child tell me that he likes one of the Greatest Rock Bands of All Time and one which features My Teenage Rockstar Crush, no less, was further evidence that there is a God, and He is clearly ready to rock.

At Target, I strode to the back of the store and peered through their paltry CD selection, only to find that between AC/DC and Air Supply, there was…nothing—not even a divider with "Aerosmith" on it to indicate that by some neglectful oversight on their part, they had just temporarily run out of The Awesome. To find that there was a section for Air Supply was bad enough; to find it and no Aerosmith was beyond the pale.

I marched up to the department's Helpful Youth and gently explained that I needed to find the endcap they must have dedicated to The Band that Brought You "Sweet Emotion," since there was a clear void in the mainstream music section. After squinting at a book of barcodes for several million minutes, he gamboled over to an island kiosk and began hunting there. I assured him I had looked there and that it seemed to only feature crap like Miley Cyrus and Kid Rock and other clearly inferior musical acts. Lo and behold, though, he did find a greatest hits kind of thing which contained the necessities: the aforementioned "Dream On" and "Sweet Emotion," in addition to "Love in an Elevator" and "Walk This Way" featuring Run-DMC.

So then, since we are a G-rated-family-show kind of Party People, we got Trolli sour gummi worms and Butterfingers and sat in the car and rocked out, though D insisted that "that isn't Steven Tyler singing" until we reached the requisite screeching terminal chorus of "Dream On." At that, he smiled triumphantly and said, "Now, THAT'S Steven Tyler."

It is a good thing one cannot cry and eat a Butterfinger at the same time.

Gyno-Man and the Temple of Womb

Sooooo because I know my readers (shut up—I totally count spam bots as part of my audience) has been just chomping at the bit for a ya-ya update, I bring you news: some good, some bad.

The good news? My bladder isn't taking quite the deep dive we had thought—it's really the region as a whole that is, as Eddie Izzard would say, slowly collapsing like a flan in a cupboard. HOWEVER, it seems that the innards of ye olde honky-tonk are, thank God, not getting worse. So it seems my kegelmania has allowed me to (at least so far) give gravity a big F-U. Or at least a really dirty look.

And then there's the awesome news. Upon arrival at my appointment, I was informed by Gyno-Man that our rendezvous, whose purpose was to inspect the foundation of the former fetus-house, turned out to ALSO be a perfect time for my annual exam!

I will say this—Gyno-Man does THE FASTEST pap smear I have ever had, the whole scoot-down-to-the-edge-of-the-table-salad-spoon-giant-q-tip-here's-a-towel spiel takes like 90 seconds MAX. His assistant, Gyno-Girl, barely has time to slap on some gloves and grab a Petri dish. Which is pretty much fine with me.

So I don't really mind the annual exam, even if that big daddy cotton swab makes my face squinch up when it takes a swipe at the portio vaginalis. In fact, the part I like least doesn't even happen during the appointment. The thing I dread is The Phone Call—the one that usually comes about 2-3 weeks afterward. You know, the one you only get if your Cha-cha Chart gets the big "FAIL" stamp on it? Yeah.

So the long and short of it (I was going to say ins and outs of it, har har) is that I've discovered that last summer's cervical biopsy was actually only one in a series, and next month will bring us the sequel: Cervical Biopsy II: Return of the Vaginal Vinegar.

(Gyno-man puts vinegar on the area to make the abnormal cells visible. This is fantastic because it's like getting an extremely painful medical procedure AND a free douching, so while you may be doubled over in agony, at least you're not questioning your feminine freshness. Also, you smell like Easter eggs.)

I got invited to this biopsy bash because apparently, I have Abnormal Cells and Gyno-man and his sidekick want to take a look around. Personally, I find "Abnormal Cells" to be a rather hostile and presumptive name. I mean, what if these cells are just Really Weird Cells who never really felt like they were part of the group, so they dyed their hair and wore black all the time and carried a bowling ball bag as a purse? Maybe they're Misunderstood Cells. Cells Crying Out for Help.

Plus, "Abnormal Cells" sounds like a punk band. "Opening tonight for Lycra Banana Hammock is…. THE ABNORMAL CELLS with their hit single Roller Derby Face Plant. Put it together for 'em, folks!"

ANYWAY, for those of you who have not experienced a cervical biopsy, I tend to categorize it as the root canal of the gynecological world. It hurts—so much that they don't even try to feed you that shit about how "you'll just feel a pinch," because in this case (more so than when they usually say it), that is kind of like saying "you might experience a little bleeding" after shoving your hand into a meat grinder.

However, it's not like I'm-dying pain, like having a kidney stone or watching your child incessantly say "penispenispenispenis" in the middle of the produce section or going to your high school reunion and seeing your ex-boyfriend try to pick up the girl we all called Mattress Back. A biopsy hurts, yeah, but it's not that bad.

To continue, my first CB went a little like this: Gyno-Man assumes the position, I get my stirrups situated, and he starts talking about… hiking. Yes, hiking. I mean, don't get me wrong—I LOVE hiking, especially here in the Wasatch. But the idea that I'm going to get so wrapped up in recalling my climb up to Lake Solitude that I'm not going to notice when he takes a frigging hole-punch to my uterus is a little insulting. So after the hole-punch, he takes his specimen, which, despite feeling like a ripped-out flap containing most of my indoor plumbing, turns out to only be a tiny swatch of uterine goodness.

(I wonder why they get a swatch. I mean, do they go home and say "Hey, what do you think of this color for the dining room?" and when their partners say, "Wow, that's great—really rich tones! What's it called?" they have to make up a name like "Cervical Souvenir" whose tag line is something asinine like, "It's time to make your living room a living womb.")

I digress. Easily the best part about the cervical biopsy is waiting for the results, where I go from writing my will to thinking if I just drink enough pomegranate juice, I'll be fine. But the result, at least last time, is "inconclusive," and so we "keep an eye on it" which is French for You Better Schedule Your Next Appointment Now, Even Though He Said Come Back in 3 Months.

This is not at all satisfying, since you can't even do ridiculous twat squats like kegels to help the situation. You just have to wish that the Abnormal Cells will become happy, well-adjusted cells. I am hoping if I listen to the Cure and pierce every bit of my flesh and carry a pentagram, the Abnormal Cells will get over their adolescent phase and grow the fuck up already.

So that's the latest from WTMI, where we mostly promise not to write yet another poontang post. At least probably not next time.

WTMI Bulletin

Ok soooo remember the awesomeness I detailed in this post about my naughty bits and their migratory habits? And how I was becoming an Olympic hopeful for the kegel competition? And how hard I was working towards acquiring some serious pick-up-a-pen-and-sign-my-name-with-my-Kung-Fu-super-grip action?

Well, there's good news, and there's bad news.

But I shall start with some background.

So the other day, I'm just strolling around the office, minding my own business, and I realize that Something Down There wasn't right. In fact, it felt like there was perhaps a new Something Down There that wasn't before, which is every bit as disturbing as it sounds. It's like realizing you sat on a Hershey bar in white pants and now have to walk around the rest of the day, mindful that you have brown smears on your ass you can do nothing about. Except that in this case, the white pants are, you know, my REPRODUCTIVE ORGANS and, of course, their surrounding squishy shelter, which in D's day must have been a 4-star hotel but now has morphed into some kind of uterine housing project.

So anyway, I start freaking out and immediately make an appointment with my PA, who, because of experiences like these, probably gently bangs her head against a wall when she sees my name on the appointment chart. She comes in, we chat, she explains that really, she's just sort of the gatekeeper and that if I need more than, say, a flu shot, my next stop will be at a Specialist's office. But she agrees to take a look and see if the situation really is in line with my hysteri-o-meter (yes, pun intended). She asks if she can use El Specu-lama to do a little recon, and I reply that I thought she'd never ask.

Before she starts, though, she gives me her Earnest Look (which I think she's been practicing since last time; it felt even more intense) and says, "Are you really ready to find out?" I ask her what she means, and she explains that the treatment for a prolapsed wha-hey-hey is often a hysterectomy. I explain that, not to put too fine a point on it, I would scrape out the whole kit and kaboodle myself if she happened to have a melon baller handy.

As you know, I'd just as soon demolish that entire basement rec room. Truly, the only reason I've kept it this long is because, despite being the bane of my existence for all but 9 months of my life since puberty, it did make the most beautiful thing to ever come into my life, and that fact buys a lot of emotional real estate around here.

Yes—other people keep pregnancy tests; I keep organs that don't even like me very much. "Blast away the whole region," I think, then add, "Well, except that tiny republic to the north."

ANYWAY, she takes a look and—here's the good news—announces that while things in the baby-making district aren't perfect, I do not appear to have the Womb of Doom. But even in the middle of my imaginary mini-celebration wherein I receive the Iron Vagina award, I have a gnawing suspicion. There's still someone lurking around the neighborhood who shouldn't be there.

The bad news is that what I'm feeling is my bladder, which has, I guess, put in a transfer request to move into the uter-house, you know, because it's obviously such a great place to live. So my pouch de la pee-pee is staging an invasion, and my Davy Crockett just can't seem to defend the Alamo, if you know what I mean.

And while I thought almost nothing of ripping out my nethers and flinging them to the wind, I realize with a sinking feeling that the urinary storage device is not quite as disposable an organ, unless I want to carry a genetically enhanced Zip-loc baggie around with me for the rest of my life. And it seems a little early in the skating program to be jumping right into that particular triple salchow.

I open my mouth to explain this to my doc, but she's way ahead of me—she knows a great urologist (who, to my chagrin, does not take my second-from-the-top-tier insurance), and they can fashion a sporty little doodad called a "pessary," which I think is French for "bladder hammock." It's basically a sling that keeps a particular organ all tucked in where it belongs. So now I head back to Dr. L, Gyno-man (who is totally going to be a superhero when I start writing comic books) to see if he agrees that yes, it is my very own piss-pocket that's causing all the hubbub.

At which point I will return with Waaaaay Too Much Information. Yes, friends, tune in to WTMI for constant updates on Stefanie's Southern Hemisphere, which I know is practically all you think about.

Wii are fit to be tied

So D got "the Wii" for Christmas, and then Boyfriend went out and got a Wii fit for, you know, the out-of-shape adults lying about the house, thinking that perhaps we would be more induced to exercise if a) we didn't have to leave the house in 18 degree weather b) he could play video games without guilt and c) it was a little more fun to work out, since my fitness phase and its accompanying endorphin highs hath abandoned me long ago. And so, the Wii fit.

I have many opinions on this device.

If you don't have one, well, let me try to sum up. It's an excessively cute device that allows you to play excessively cute games all while cutting you to the core with only dimly-masked snide remarks specially formulated to make you feel like shit about yourself.

Oh, it's cute. No doubt there. Cute little voice (what I imagine Hello Kitty would sound like if she had a mouth), cute little dancing icons, cute little games like hula-hooping.

And a mean, cold heart.

First, it gives you a "body test." Boyfriend happens to be a tiny bit overweight, and after the Wii weighed him, it proceeded to turn his little avatar/icon/"Mii" into a small, animated butterball. Then it makes you do a stupid balancing game and gives you your "Wii age," which factors all the aforementioned features plus your chronological age into what I can only surmise is a completely random, totally arbitrary number. At least I hope so. My first "Wii age" was FORTY-NINE!!! What? And yet a mere two days later, I am a spry 30-year-old. My friend says it has never given him the same age range twice in a row—one day he's 53 (he's actually 36) and the next he's 17. And then 80. Of course, it told D he was 30, and really, if I added "five-going-on" before that, I'd be hard-pressed not to agree.

Anyway, the Wii also makes what I'm sure it thinks are "delicate" comments about your weight. "Being overweight is pretty unhealthy," it said to Boyfriend. WHY DO YOU THINK YOU ARE IN OUR HOME, LITTLE WII? Because if you're not going to help us get in shape, you can take your snotty assvice right out to the trash!

Oh, and don't skip a single day, or it will, in what it must think is a jocular fashion, comment on how you must have been "too busy to work out yesterday, huh, stefanie?" Ha! If my trainer had talked to me like that, I'd have canned his ass. Of course, I could only have gotten 2 sessions out of him for what the Wii cost, so mayhaps my expectations are a little high. And the Wii does give you a trainer! You have your choice of a very androgynous man or a very butch woman who not only look and talk like mannequins, but also evidently work just about as hard. I've had two training sessions so far, and I have yet to see my trainer so much as offer to get me a virtual towel.

All of this is to say that it's clear that the Wii was not designed by people with an intimate understanding of American culture, wherein we 1) need to be stroked for working out even for 2 minutes 2) NEVER EVER called fat, (even when we are), and 3) not given a hard time when we do finally show up to work out.

Nowhere is this lack of cultural understanding more evident than during the little lectures you get during the course of using the Wii. There's a lot of obsessing about "posture" and "balance," both of which, except for maybe pop-yoga-moms, most Americans find to be generally uninteresting. Americans want to be Buff or Cut or Thin or Shapely or Bulked Up. We don't give a shit about posture. We don't care about balance. Well, I mean, we care, but really only to the point of being able to hold two weights at the same time without requiring surgery later or to have good form while we're running off another 500 calories. I'm not saying we shouldn't care about these things—obviously the people more interested in posture and balance are living a hell of a lot longer than those of us worried about the shape of our buttcheeks. I'm just saying we don't.

The Wii gives a decent workout to beginners, though, as far as I can tell. It's not something that a professional athlete is going to use in the off-season to remain in top form, but I did one of the running exercises, and my calves still hurt. Boyfriend's core is going to be Jillian-Michaels-esque if he keeps up with the hula-hooping. I'll admit, it does make me a little sad when I score so low that the game actually stops working or gives me a score of "unbalanced" (YA THINK?? And on so many levels!), but I'm sure learning how to ski jump (which is no doubt Exactly Like the Real Thing) and do kung-fu moves to a funk rhythm is going to more than make up for that.

But one thing that MUST go, that Nintendo MUST abandon RIGHT NOW is the feature in which the Wii says "oohhh" when you step on it for the first time on a given day. And it's not an I'm-so-excited-to-see-you kind of "oohhh." It's more like an I-think-I-just-stepped-in-cat-puke "oohhh"or an is-this-donut-filled-with-bats'-assholes? kind of "oohhh." I mean, I'll take the abusive scoring system and the nasty comments about my current fitness level, but here's a tip, Nintendo—free of charge: if you are trying to get people to work out and use your little product,
DO NOT MAKE IT GROAN WHEN THEY STEP ON IT. I mean, it might as well come out and say "Jesus, the TiVo said you were turning into a fat fuck, but wow…"

But I figure if it doesn't toughen my glutes or lats, maybe it will toughen me up psychologically, so I don't sob like a pantywaist when the device points out that "hand-eye coordination really isn't your thing, is it?" and the boxing coach gives me a withering look and says, "I know you can do better than that" (those are direct quotes). If not, it may meet an untimely battery failure.

I'm just saying, I really don't need an appliance that's going to give me a complex. I have plenty of those in stock in the back, thanks very much.

The first day of the rest of my life, or why there is no magic number

So I had a Big Day last week. I think I said in my last post that I've become "skinny" again, and, true to form, I have been having the same struggle with it that I've had before. Oh, I "hate" that none of my clothes fit, and it's just "so annoying" to have to live on coffee and candy bars and Mountain Dew because I simply can't eat anything else until evening, when I try to eat like a normal person with my family. That's what I say, of course.

But every morning, I step on that scale, and I hold my breath. I have a Magic Number, and I don't want to go over it, even if it means being a normal person. I honestly have been thinking about it this way: that because at least I know it's a control issue—and hell, I need ONE DAMN THING I can have control over right now—that it is helping curb my constant anxiety, focused mostly around ye olde jobbe. Also, I Do Not Have a Problem, because I also have a Magic Number I don't want to go UNDER, and People with a Problem just want to keep losing and losing and losing.

Apparently, though, it's not as effective a method as I thought, as those around me seem to experience an almost palpable aura of anxiety while around me. CRAZY, RIGHT???

And then on top of it all, I had to go and get sick. I have been exhausted. Not just tired, not just fatigued—exhausted. As if I were, as Anne Lamott puts it, dragging a giant dinosaur tail around behind me. Ok, I thought, so I'll just sleep more. Except I can't sleep, because of the anxiety. When I DO finally get to sleep, I sleep as long as I can—on the weekends, sometimes 10 hours. I slept 13 hours the day after Thanksgiving. Of course, during the week, this translates into setting 3 alarms, ignoring all of them until it's oh-shit-o'clock, and I am destined to be late because the dinosaur tail is not cooperating.

Obviously, in addition to Anxiety, I have Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

Then I get to work and my nineteen cups of coffee rouse me to a mostly sentient state, and at some point, I usually get the spins. Oh my God, now I have Vertigo. Great. Just what I need on top of the anxiety and Chronic Fatigue Syndrome.

I get hungry, and I usually ignore it because I'm totally nauseated. I'm not pregnant, so I must have some sort of horrific gastrointestinal Hiroshima virus I picked up from the vending machine. So, Anxiety, Chronic Fatigue Syndrome, Vertigo, Ecoli. Super.

Let's not forget the moodiness, the constant headaches, (all-over body aches, really), occasional fever, the feeling really cold all the time. I'm pretty sure this is Mono. Also Depression, because I am crying every day. Every day.

I finally go and see a doctor (one whom I love) so she can just diagnose this Anxiety-Chronic Fatigue Syndrome-Vertigo-Ecoli-Mono-Depression business, give me something to make it go away and wah-lah, as the French say—all better.

So I tell her all of this, and she looks properly concerned, furrowing her brow and tapping her pencil on her lip. She asks about my eating schedule; I tell her I can't eat except at night (undoubtedly because of the Ecoli—duh). She asks how much I'm sleeping, and I tell her I can't sleep because of the Anxiety and anyway even when I do it doesn't help because of the Mono and Depression and the Chronic Fatigue Syndrome. I begin to wonder if she's listening at all.

And then she gets up, stands inches from my face with absolutely no regard for personal space and says, "YOU HAVE GOT TO CHANGE THINGS RIGHT NOW." I look at her, baffled, and she explains that virtually every symptom I've described is because of the not-eating. Can't sleep? That's because the only food you give your body is close to bedtime, and now that your brain FINALLY has glucose, it wants to play, as all brains do. And the tiredness is because, well, you didn't sleep well, and you have not filled your empty tank with fuel but are insisting your car drive up the canyon. In the snow.

The nausea? Virtually inexplicable, except that gee, you get up, pour caffeine and acid on your already-acidic gut with nothing to buffer it (like, say, FOOD).

But what about the vertigo? I say. That's clearly not related to food, because I get it even after I've eaten. She got close to me again and said, as if speaking to a child, "That is your body's way of saying it isn't happy with your choices and that you have got to change." I ask if it's kind of like an "F-U" from my body and she says "In capital letters, bold, and underlined."

Then she gets solemn (which is somehow scarier than her brute force belligerence) and says "You have got to change. You cannot do this anymore. I will help you, if you make the choice to change. But you have to do it, and you need to do it now."

I'm so scared at this point that I burst into tears and—ever the superficial brat—explain that I can't possibly gain weight, that I know it's a control issue and that my shrink is helping me fix that so I know it's not her responsibility, but I FREAK OUT if I weigh more than my Magic Number, which I weigh right now. She points out that she is three inches shorter than I and weighs the same. And I notice that she is tiny. She says "you are not healthy; your body is talking to you, and it's saying, help me."

So she gives me a regimen where I am supposed to eat little bits ("two bites of yogurt—that's all I'm asking!" she says, "and then another two bites of something else an hour after that."). I agree to do this but tell her I am coming back if this doesn't fix things. She says she is considering making me come back and check in in a week's time anyway, but she trusts me if I say I will do it.

I go out to the car, and I cry, not because I've missed my usual crying spell (that's usually taken care of by, like, 10AM, tops), but because everything she has made makes sense. I have been stupid and stubborn and petty, and I have stopped eating to make people feel sorry for me, feel guilty for treating me badly, and to get attention. I feel like a horrible person.

I get it together enough to drive home, and as I'm driving up the exit ramp, I face the biggest fear head-on: if I start eating again, I will go above the Magic Number. This freaks me out until a tiny voice asks "who do you think cares about your Magic Number? Who is it important to?" Not Boyfriend—he begs me to gain weight. Not D—it's annoying and frustrating when I can't eat with him. Also, I am "sharp and bony" when we snuggle together. My friends say I need to fatten up. And people at work wouldn't notice me if I came in with a nose ring and a Mohawk, wearing a leather bustier (well, except for the vegan. She might notice the leather on the bustier and sneer.) SO WHO CARES? Who's getting ANYTHING out of the Magic Number?

And the only answer is: me. I'm the only one who gives a crap about it, they way a crazy parrot cares about his mirror, convinced it is his only friend. Nobody else will care if I'm off the Magic Number, if they notice at all. They will, however, notice if I'm suddenly NOT grouchy, tired, bitchy and vibrating with anxiety. They will notice if I share a cheeseburger and laugh if it has onions on it even though I asked not to have them. They will notice if we share nachos, tuna casserole, and pizza. They will not feel sorry for me if I don't hit it, and they will not feel guilty if I go over or under it. They. Don't. Fucking. Care.

My Magic Number isn't making anyone else feel shitty except me.

So boyfriend and I have dinner, get yogurt and crackers and cheese and fruit at the grocery store, and one week ago was Day One of eating again. And you know what? Calories make you feel FANTASTIC. Margaret Cho once said that the Atkins diet wasn't for her "because carbs make you want to, you know—LIVE." I'm not a Bubbly Squishy Tinkerbell plush that giggles when you rub its tummy, but I am also not a tired, ass-dragging, whiny, headcase, stressball weenie. I don't suddenly heart my job the way I did before, but not liking it becomes a hell of a lot less consuming. I don't know if this is temporary or if I'll freak out when the Magic Number creeps up (because it hasn't), but I like being a nice person.

And also? I like having pop-tarts again.