Giant Dwarf vs Misery

Yeah, I can't write about any kind thing-purge right now.  I've got tougher stuff on my mind.  I often joke that I was probably a criminal in my previous life and now I am paying penance by being a social worker.  I mean, really, what kind of person chooses this work?  I admit that I left the theatre because I didn't feel like I was helping people or contributing to humanity (mostly because the theatre we were producing in the '90s was utter crap and the audiences were smugly validated by the playwrights and vice-versa).  But my original intention when I went to graduate school in social work was to become a sex therapist.

WHAT HAPPENED?!?

Briefly, it turned out I hated doing therapy and was more suited to crisis-oriented work (theatre, go figure) so here I am with 13 years of Emergency Room social work under my belt.  When I first started, and I was 13 years younger, we got a lot of knife and gun club members (that's ED-speak for assholes who prefer to settle arguments with weapons rather than words).  With another trauma center that opened up closer to the thick of things and a general decline in crime in our fair city over the last decade, we haven't received as many of these hardcore homicides.  

But today we did have a homicide.  And a sexual assault.  And a lonely old man who fell on a bus.  Last week I dealt with two more sexual assaults, one on a child.  I see domestic violence, substance abuse and addiction, and homelessness on a daily basis.  I see families ignoring their elder relatives or outright abusing them.  I see families who care "too much" and end up doing more harm than good.  I work with schizophrenic and bi-polar people.  Sometimes people thank me for my assistance, and sometimes a patient will curse me out with some pretty awful epithets.

And you know what?  It's exhausting.  Really exhausting.  My husband spends 12 hours on his feet in another Emergency Department and he is tired too.  But his tired and my tired are a bit different.  I deal with peoples' misery, emotional crises, and unhappiness for my entire shift.  It affects me in ways I've internalized so much that I don't even notice until something even shittier happens, like the murder of a young person.

This afternoon I ran into one of our staff who deals with employee crisis intervention.  She thought that those of us in this profession should wear something akin to a "radiation badge" that xray technicians wear:  the badge warns the wearer when the exposure is too high.  She said that we all need to wear "exposure badges" that let us know when we're at our limit.  But it won't work.  We all work beyond our limit because we want to help and we have our own addiction to this crazy, chaotic place.  When she surmised that at the point the badge tells us we're reaching our limit, the employee would be placed in another work area.  And that's when I balked.  Where else would I work?  It's killing my spirit but it's feeding it too.

So it must be penance for a previous life's transgression(s). 

Giant Dwarf vs Packratitis

In 2009, I started this blog at the urging of my friend C., who, upon learning that I took a week-long staycation to purge my apartment of superfluous "stuff," encouraged me to write about the experience.  Five years later, here's what I have to show for it:  sporadic blog entries and the continuing saga of apartment purging.  Just like a hoarder's passion, it never ends.

It's been two years since I moved in with the Spazz and we are chock full of THINGS despite the fact that we have a three-bedroom apartment.  Yes, three bedrooms.  It's shocking when I think about it too.  So let me introduce my mother:

My mother is a well-known hoarder.  It spills out a bit in guest areas, but, in general, the hoarding is confined to rooms where a run-of-the-mill dinner guest can't see the disease.  That means that all three of our childhood bedrooms are crammed with stuff, including things we don't want to get rid of and know are safe on the mothership.  There are two more bedrooms, by the way.  They are also storage areas, and one of those bedrooms my parents actually sleep in.

So last June my parents celebrated their 50th wedding anniversary (don't worry, this is germane to the story).  My parents planned a grand trip to Berlin and Amsterdam and off they went.  A few days after their departure, I get a call from the Golden Child (our middle brother and the one my parents deemed to be the most responsible....and I'm good with that).

"Hey, you are not going to believe this," says GC.

"What?"

"You know how Mom and Dad left for Europe on Friday?"

"Yes."  Okay, I'm getting bit nervous because I can't tell from my brother's voice if something really bad happened.

"I got a call from mom's friend on Sunday.  She went to check on the cat (aka The Beast) and she walked in to ankle deep water."

"Holy shit.  What happened?"

"Apparently the reservoir on the toilet in the hall bathroom has a crack and the water kept slowly draining for a day and a half.  The reservoir self-fills, so the water kept filling and leaking."

Golden Child proceeds to explain to me how he contacted the insurance company and the disaster is no-fault so they'll pay for all the damage (famous last words in regards to an insurance company).  Then he says:

"THIS IS THE BEST NEWS EVER!"

And he was right.  Because almost half of the house was flooded, many items were destroyed.  Items my parents never needed and actually probably didn't know they had.  A few weeks later, the Spazz and I and the Golden Child and his very devoted girlfriend convened at my parents house to clean up what my mother considers "our stuff."

And there was a lot.  We filled a small dumpster and made countless trips to Goodwill.  And we barely made a dent.

So the Spazz and I drove home with two small shopping bags of keepers that I just couldn't part with and my beloved woven chair from my parents' living room that I've coveted for 40 years (and that's a whole other post.)  On the way, we started talking about our own hoarding issues.  Of our three bedrooms, ours is relatively junk-free and we use a second room as a guest bedroom and tend to have that one under control (for the most part).  But the third room, aka "the office"......well, that's a disaster area.  And we vowed to clean it up.  Two months ago.

Two weeks ago we started.  The room now looks worse than when we started.  But I have found some treasures so far.....so stay tuned for the next post.  I'll be enumerating the ridiculous crap I've kept for so many years.  It's truly staggering.

Giant Dwarf vs. The World-Wide Interweb

Yes, I have been off the blogger grid.  Way off.  For way too long.  Which probably upset no one.  But I'm back, which may or may not be good news to all 6 of my sometime fans, who have all probably already given up on me.  But the Spazz challenged me tonight:  after failing to teach me one of his latest Kenpo moves, the Spazz said I'm not doing anything new and admonished me for reading too much and not writing enough.  So I'm back.

Coming back was not easy.  Imagine my surprise when I tried to sign into my blogspot account and Google showed up.  WTF?  Apparently, the one email list I am not on is the one that would have advised me of this when it happened, and I have no idea when that was.  In any case, I had to figure out how to get on with my non-Google account which Google apparently accepts as it's own anyway. If you know what I'm talking about, you are ahead of me.  It's all binary to me.

So A LOT has been happening while I have not been blogging, but most of what I've been doing is falling down the internet rabbit hole on a daily basis.  It was bad enough before I got a smart phone a couple of years ago, but now it is decidedly worse.  I can ostensibly be on the internet 24 hours a day and it doesn't cost me a thing (the Spazz pays that bill).  This is very bad.

I work ten hours a day and when I come home it takes me at least an hour, if not more, to just get through the TON of junk mail in my email account.  Then I go to Facebook and it's over.  I get sucked in by every single post until it's so late I've now squandered valuable sleep hours.  Then, when I finally get off the computer, I get ready for bed, get into bed, and play Words With Friends and look for an interesting Bitstrip to post.  Maybe I'll look at the yoga schedule if I'm off the next day.  Maybe I'll check my email and Facebook again, because it's been ten minutes and there might be something important happening (there never is).

Finally, I get the fuck off the interweb, turn down the lights, and open my Kindle.  And I read.  I read so slow it can take me a month to get through a novel.  By the time I start reading, I'm already half asleep and doze off with the Kindle still glowing in my face.

And that's why I haven't been writing. 

But that's all going to change.  It has to.  Because, even though this blog is part of the Web of Evil, it's still something creative and I need to do this.  I really do.  So any encouragement, feedback, or just plain editing is welcome.

Now, if I can only figure out how to lose weight while I'm doing this.

Giant Dwarf vs. the Orange Monster

How long ago did I promise you an entry on painting?  Long enough ago that I barely remember the debacle that ensued, but I will dutifully report the events to the best of my ability.

As I had previously mentioned, the Spazz's apartment has been inhabited by my friends or friends of friends for over 20 years.  I'm fairly certain that the landlord has not painted the interior in that time.  However, I know for sure that my friend C had painted it and that the last paint job was over 8 years ago.  The buttercream yellow living room was already fading, and the remnants of her booger-green bathroom were showing through the rather quick white cover-up that was painted in later years. 

And then there was the orange bedroom.

I was there when C painted that.  It really wasn't that bad, but orange is a really hard color to work with when you are trying to build a love nest with your betrothed.  It was time for it to go.  I felt this would be a good job for a professional painter.  The Spazz felt it would be more fun to do it ourselves; I tried to explain how much I hate painting and asking friends to help was asking too much.  He wouldn't budge.  Since I already made the executive decision to hire professional movers (and I'm glad I did) I let him have this one.

So, in anticipation of the move and the painting combined, I took a week and a half off work and encouraged the Spazz to do the same.  About three weeks before the move, I checked in with Spazz to discuss the moving schedule and he informed me that he did not have many of those days off. 

WHAT?!?!?!

In fact, from the time his roommates moved out until the time I had scheduled the movers, the Spazz had only 3 days off....compared to the ELEVEN days I was scheduled off.

The conversation went something like this:

Me:  "You know we have, like, six rooms to paint."

Spazz:  "Yeah, I know.  We can do it."

Me:  "Really?  We're going to prime each of these rooms and paint them all by the time I move my stuff in?"

Spazz:  "It won't be a problem.  We'll just work on that the days I'm off."

At this point, I again begged to hire a professional painter and pay away the problem, but he dug in his heels.

So off we went to Home Depot, buying primer and paint and tape and rollers and buckets and all other weapons of painting destruction and......we started.  Now, on top of all of this, my brother and his friends were coming to town for an overnight, so one of those days off was already blown.

One friend was able to come over on one day to help.  The rest we did ourselves.  We primed the entire orange bedroom and half of the living room in two days.  My brother was coming the next day.  The Spazz was returning to work the day after that.

This was not going well at all.

My brother offered to buy some more painting tools and help.  Great vacation for him.  And just when the Golden Child was pulling into the Home Depot.....

The Spazz gave in.

"Hire the painter."

It was July 4th.  The painter, from here on out known as our lifesaver, came over anyway, surveyed the premises, gave us an estimate and a date and then did it all in one day.

And I must say that I have been very pleased with myself that I have not once said "I told you so" in all this time.

Giant Dwarf vs. Moving

Apparently, it's been so long since I've posted a blog that they've changed the whole set-up on this site and I have no idea if I'm doing this right.  In any case, I first want to apologize to my six loyal followers who have (not likely) been anxiously awaiting a new missive from the Giant Dwarf.  A lot has happened since I fell on the ice only six months ago, and my only excuse is:

I have been SO. Stressed. Out.

Seriously.

So let's go back to my healing ribs....shortly after I experienced the singular pain of breaking my ribs purely by my own doing, the Spazz gave five months' notice to his roommates to move out so that I can move in.  Subsequently, the Spazz and I went on our annual Valentine's Day trip where he proposed to me during a particularly grueling hike while my coworker left us alone on a mountaintop and I panicked because the sun was setting and I had no idea how we would find our way home. 

According to the Spazz, my exact response to his proposal was:  "Are you kidding me?"

I'm pretty sure that he has misquoted me.  I would place money on the fact that I likely responded:  "Are you fucking kidding me?"

In any case, I said yes and the wedding planning ensued (different blog:  stay tuned) and then it stopped and then I started packing and now I have one week left in my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and pink bathroom (and the POOL in the courtyard) before I move into a huge rent-controlled apartment that bears the signs of at least 20 years of neglect and is in one of the ugliest buildings I have ever laid eyes on.

And so....

I am stressed out.

When we first talked about moving, the Spazz insisted that we move ourselves.  I pointed out that after people turn 40, they are no longer in good enough shape to move themselves.  I spent my 20s and part of my 30s moving myself and other people.  My theatre years were spent helping people move, helping people paint, and then drinking beer and eating pizza afterwards.  It was romantic back then (not really) and an opportunity for team-building and camaraderie (which often bred resentment and resulted in scratched floors). 

The dirty secret is this:  I hated every minute of it.  I hated moving.  I hated moving my ex-boyfriend's 1500+ record collection up 30 steps in San Francisco.  I hated painting the theatre technical director's apartment for a fucking slice of pizza, only to find out he and his wife moved out less than six months later.  And I'm pretty sure my friends really hated moving my giant book collection and the 7 foot leather couch that, for the life of me, I cannot get anyone to take now that I no longer need it.

Here's the other problem:  I no longer work with a bunch of theatre people who are used to moving things.  I work with social workers, mostly small women, and doctors and nurses who actually HIRE people to move things for them.  The only person who has a truck is the Spazz, and I almost ruined that when he helped me move into my soon-to-be former apartment nine years ago.  So, having my friends move me is no longer an option.

At one point, my cousin offered to help me move.  He was laying on my aforementioned couch, half-asleep with his toddler daughter crawling on top of him and said, in his usual haze:  "Hey, my friend and I can help you move.  He has a truck!"  I thanked him for the offer and thought about it after he left.  My cousin is a good guy, but his friends kind of freak me out and I really didn't think I could rely on this friend-with-the-truck.  And if the friend craps out, we're stuck.  His wife is pregnant and both of his daughters are under the age of 3.  Not the best moving team.

During this time, I have been packing.  I'm not sure if you were paying attention earlier, but I've lived in my apartment for NINE years.  I was thinking about that recently and that is actually longer than I have lived in any one place my entire life (even in my childhood....I lived in our house in Philly for only 8 years).  Now, some of you know that I am the offspring of a dyed-in-the-wool packrat.  My mom keeps EVERYTHING.  When my sister-in-law visits, she gingerly wades through various items in my brother's room and calls it "excavating."  This apple has fallen away from the tree, but not far enough.  I've got a lot of stuff and the only comforting thought is that I am moving into a bigger apartment.  But that is no reason to keep everything and so there has been a bit of a purge going on.

First emotional obstacle:  getting rid of things.

Second emotional obstacle:  packing the still too many things I am keeping.

Third emotional obstacle:  realizing that oh-my-god-I-am-getting-married-and-moving-in-with-my-fiance-and-losing-whatever-single-life-freedom-that-I-had (especially living alone the way I wanted to live and not having a roommate or a family member or a husband getting all up in my business).

That last one is kind of big. 

And it just hit me this week.

And it's a doozie.

I'm leaving my cute apartment with the pink kitchen and the pink bathroom and the great light.  I'm leaving my incredibly unbelievable (but true!) shortest-commute-ever (I've walked 3 blocks to work and back for the last nine years).  I'm leaving the pool that I almost never used.  I'm leaving this neighborhood that I've grown to love.  I'm leaving some of my favorite restaurants and some of my closest friends.  I'm leaving my 98 year old neighbor who is so hard-of-hearing that I know what she is watching on television (she watches the Jimmy Kimmel show every night) and can hear her phone ring while I am watching television.....with the volume turned up really high.

I was so not emotionally prepared for this.

So I have to say that the one thing that is helping to relieve the stress is this:  I called Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage several weeks ago and made arrangements for someone professional (I hope) to move my stuff.  The Spazz wasn't happy, but I made the executive decision with some unconscious knowledge that I would not be in the best mental state to handle this on my own nor to be nice to my loved ones who were willing to help. 

And, if you are a Member of the Tribe like me, you'll understand that I was happy to receive a call back from Nice Jewish Boy Moving & Storage's manager, Tony Ortiz.

(By the way, this may be the end of this entry, but don't worry.....there's more to come.  Stay tuned for Giant Dwarf vs. Painting.)

Giant Dwarf vs. Ice

Okay, so, if you read my last post, you will recall that I have a particular aversion to cold weather which then extends to winter sports. We all know I don't ski. Or snowboard. Or toboggan. But I did write that every year I think about going ice skating but never do, which is good because I hate the cold and am at risk of bodily injury.

So I get through the holidays without killing anyone or jeopardizing my relationship and January comes around and we get this round of very warm weather. Thanks to my new and unimproved schedule-designed-by-Attila-the-Hun, I have varying days off during the week, so the Spazz and I were spending a nice Monday together. We decided to go to Santa Monica and hang out on the Promenade (I haven't done that very much since I moved here and for good reason: once they threw Midnight Special under the bus, I resented the whole lot). As we drove toward the parking lot, I noticed the ice skating rink and remembered my blog post. Wouldn't it be romantic, on this 75 degree day, to skate with my honey in Santa Monica?

So I suggested this activity. Yes, the just-had-my-knee-fixed Giant Dwarf asked the Southern California-raised Spazz if we could go ice skating. And he appropriately responded: "are you sure that's a good idea? I mean, for your knee?" And I responded (rather flippantly, I may add): "why not? wouldn't it be a good test to see how well the surgery worked?"

(Spoiler alert: the surgery was successful. The knee fared quite well during this ordeal.)

So we headed on over to the rink and rented our skates: we were the only ones there at that time. Having the whole rink to ourselves was a mixed blessing: there was no one to bump into but also, being the only ones on the ice, we were highly visible to passers-by. We both gingerly started skating, but the Spazz was quicker to pick it up: I attribute Spazz's natural talent for ice skating to his lifelong pastimes of surfing and skateboarding. I have to. Because I could not master the balance portion of teetering on thin blades on frozen water, despite the fact that I took figure skating lessons as a kid.

The Spazz kept warning me not to fall backwards and I was successful in following this advice. Rather, I took the less-followed path of decline: I fell forward.

On my front. On the ice. And while the upper half of my torso was somewhat protected by the two mounds of fat that have been oversexualized and worshipped for centuries, the area directly underneath my breasts hit the ice with a force so strong that it knocked the wind out of me. So there I was, splayed on the ice, barely breathing, and feeling a pain I had never felt before.

Once I got my normal breathing rate back, that pain started to intensify. Taking a deep breath caused a sharp pain in my ribs; coughing and sneezing caused excruciating pain.

I had rather successfully cracked my ribs while participating in a leisure activity.

But, being the offspring of my frugal father, I was not about to let my $12 rental fee go to waste, and so I continued to skate. If that's what you want to call it. But the Spazz and I continued to go many laps around the rink, even as more and more people joined us on the small surface and young children did triple axles around me as I shuffled forward.

We finally decided we had enough and left the rink as the workers there reminded us that our entrance fee will allow us to come back anytime until midnight that night. I cannot believe I even briefly considered doing that, but I knew in my heart (and in my ribs) that we were not returning that night....or possibly ever.

Cracked ribs hurt. A lot. Breathing hurts. Sneezing and coughing are full-blown assaults. And when a week later I was nauseous and about to vomit, I quickly took a Zofran before I risked upchucking my actual ribs. Thank goodness I didn't just eat oatmeal on a Virgin America flight (see my post from 5/13/11).

So, once again the fates proved to me why snow and ice is antithetical to my existence. Okay, I guess it's really more accurate to say that I was not blessed with a natural athleticism. But let's just say that snow and ice only make me even more of a klutz. Oh, and in regard to my brother who thinks I'm a pansy-ass for not skiing or participating in otherwise winter-y activities: he and his girlfriend just went skiing in Utah a few days ago and she tore her ACL on her first run.

So it's not just me.

Giant Dwarf vs. Winter

I’m not a big fan of cold. Cold weather, and especially cold, wet, gray weather, makes me sad. People ask how I survived colder winters in Philadelphia and I remember complaining an awful lot. In middle school, we had to take public transportation to school and there were times, on the really cold days, when the bus just didn’t come. And I would stand there, waiting at the bus stop, in my completely useless rubber boots and contemplate how long I could wait there until my toes turned black.

And I won’t ski. When people ask why, if my brother is there he’ll chime in with my stock answer, with not a little bit of derision: “Why would I pay to be cold?” The Golden Child, an avid snowboarder, cannot wrap his head around that. But really….why WOULD I pay to be cold? Not only that, why would I pay to be cold AND put myself at risk of great bodily injury? It just seems like a colossal waste of money to me.

I do remember liking to ice skate as a kid. Every winter, I make a promise to myself to skate in one of the many outdoor rinks in Los Angeles (yes, you read that right), but every year it occurs to me that the ice will make the outside temperature that much colder. And I would risk bodily injury. So it gets stricken as an activity pretty fast during the holiday season.

That being said, though, I do like to go to hockey games. I realize that the arena will be colder than usual, so I bundle up in enough layers to protect myself and two other people from the frigid conditions. Last hockey game I went to, our seats were so high that I was worried that the weight of my layers would cause me to tumble forward and fall to my death in the middle of the first period at the Staples Center. That would have been humiliating.

So, the other day, I was reflecting on the good things about winter. Yes, I hate the cold. Yes, I hate December and the unique chaos that this month brings. Yes, I hate the short days and the early darkness. But there are things I do love about winter. Here they are:

Boots.
I love boots. Whenever I go into a shoe store, I look at the boots first. Ever since I bought my first pair of lace-ups just before I started college, I’ve been addicted to boots: combat boots, cowboy boots, engineer boots, rain boots, slouchy boots, and anything Doc Martens. I’ll wear boots in the summer, but sometimes that’s just silly. But it’s always okay in the winter.

Cranking up the heat.
I love heat. I’m Mrs. Heat Miser, I’m Mrs. Hundred-and-one. My dear departed Coco shared this love of heat and she’d park herself in front of the heating grate, and I’d crowd around her to get some of the warmth as well. On a cold day, I love to get in my car and turn up the heat until I’m cooking inside. It’s cozy and it makes me happy. However, real hot heat in the summertime is just oppressive.

Hershey Kisses Candy Cane flavored candies.
Oh my god I love these! And I love that they’re seasonal because that makes them all the more special.

Twinkle Lights.
Yeah, I love those too. I'm a cheap date: they make me happy. I can see why all of these festivals of light are meant for December. When you have short days and long, dark nights, twinkle lights make everything magical.

The Yule Log video.
I bought one for a dollar a couple of years ago and I love it. This year I bought a “Fireside” home fragrance thingy and I can’t wait to plug both in at the same time. The holidays are already cheesy; why not go all the way?

So, I’ll overlook the cold and look forward to curling up with the Spazz in front of my Yule Log video with a glass of wine and my Hershey’s Candy Cane Kisses...and then we’ll watch my favorite holiday movies: Elf and The Hebrew Hammer.

Giant Dwarf vs. The Circle Of Life

My beautiful, sweet kitty died today. I’ve had many cats in my life (or, more accurately, they’ve had me), but this one was different. Truly. She was a people cat. She liked people more than she liked any other species; she never bit or scratched (anything, actually, which made it a bitch to groom her nails), maybe hissed once or twice (and for good reason), and just loved to be pet. She purred like a muscle car motor. You could hold her like a baby and she would just fall into your arms. She was my joy.

Coco came into my life almost 6 years ago. She was a senior cat then, at 9 years old (or thereabouts….no one knew for sure). A year before Coco moved in, I had been “time-sharing” a cat with my ex-boyfriend’s step-cousin (wrap your head around that), and that poor kitty died what seemed like a horribly uncomfortable death at her house.

I decided not to get a cat for a while, but, almost a year later, I was pining for another little furry life in my house. I was talking about it with our unit secretary at work one day, about how it was time for me to get a new cat. Just after I said that, one of our nurses, Kimmie, came up to the desk and asked if we knew anyone who wanted to adopt an older, sweet kitty; Kimmie’s grandmother could no longer take care of the kitty. The secretary and I looked at each other and I told Kimmie I might be interested. A week later, Kimmie brought Coco (formerly known as Brandi) to my apartment for a trial run. She was a doll and she had a new home.

Unfortunately, I didn’t like the name Brandi and wanted to rename her. There were many options: first, I called her “Edith Bunker” because she always ran to the door when someone knocked or came in. Then I went with “Little Bear” because she reminded me of that cute little Maurice Sendak character. My theatre friend in Berkeley named her “Lady Chewbacca Noelle” (“Chewy “ for short), which almost made the cut. “Coco” was a shortened version of “Coconut” and ended up being the winner by default: I had to take her to the vet, they needed a name, and “Coco” was the nom-du-jour.

As a lifelong cat owner, I have to tell you I have never met another cat like Coco. She had none of the “cattitude” I’d become accustomed to with my previous cats. She wanted to be around people, she loved to sit next to you and put her paws on your lap. Before her body was too old to do this, she would lay on her back for hours, without any care in the world about possible predators or errant human legs. She rewarded mellow with mellow: whereas the Golden Child was a little spastic for her taste, she loved to sit on the Thinker’s lap while he watched TV or worked on his laptop.

Taking in an older cat comes with some heartbreak. I knew that my time with her would be short, but I had hoped she would live another few years. Our family cat, Sandy, lived to 18 and for some reason I’ve attached that age to cats who live out a normal life. But I’ve learned this is not so.

Earlier this year in April, Coco was diagnosed with chronic renal failure. Since that time, I have been giving her subcutaneous fluids. I never thought I could stick a needle into anyone, but here I was, acting as nurse to my little girl. At first I really needed help holding her down, so I am so thankful to the Spazz and my friend Mir (as well as Kimmie, Rosh, and Luce) who came over many, many nights to help me. This did help, and she was able to live normally for a while. But then she lost her sight (from high blood pressure, a common side effect of the renal failure) and, though we were able to get some of that back, she began to slowly decline. At first, it was imperceptible. But, as I look back, I can see it now.

In the last week, she declined so much that she was eating less and less unless I put it right in front of her. She had lost her sight again. And she was barely moving. When I went to pet her, she could barely purr. She was finally giving me the signs I had been dreading. Her quality of life was gone. My sweet girl was fading.

Today has been filled with tears. I am not an easy crier. In all my time with the Spazz, he has never seen me cry until today. But this beautiful creature had broken my heart; here was a being that gave unconditional love and joy. Letting her go was agonizing but I knew that euthanizing her was the right thing to do. I found a mobile team who was compassionate and caring and my little Coco died peacefully while the Spazz and I caressed her.

So, my little Coco-Edith-Chewy-Brandi-Little Bear: thank you for coming into my life and bringing me so much joy. You are the definition of love. Rest in peace, my little sugar. You will not be forgotten.

Giant Dwarf vs. The Anal Probe

So while we’re on the subject of bodily emissions, I’d like to talk about my colonoscopy. Yes, I am too young for it. Let me tell you how I got talked into this completely horrific experience:

It all started with a teensy little virus. Really. Back in February, my gut contracted a bit of a virus and I didn’t even know it. I found out after. I found out when it became impossible for me to digest anything adequately, when I would bounce between days of constipation and then, well, the opposite. After two weeks of this, I broke down and went to the Urgent Care clinic.

(PUBLIC SERVICE ANNOUNCEMENT: Please note that I did not waste my own time nor the time of Emergency Department personnel by presenting to the ER. I looked up the urgent cares covered by my insurance, picked the one closest to me, called in the morning and was seen by the afternoon. If you’re not dying, I strongly recommend this route.)

Urgent Care being what it is (and it would have been the same in the Emergency Dept.), the doctor saw me, drew some labs, and recommended that I get to a GI specialist tout de suite. She recommended the handsome and charming Dr. N, and kept talking about how gorgeous and nice he was. I was a bit wary because I really don’t care if my doctor is handsome or charming; I kind of prefer that he was at the top of his medical school class and that he doesn’t cause me any life-threatening harm. Still, not knowing any other GI docs I wanted to go to, I made an appointment with Dr. N and was seen fairly quickly.

Dr. N examined me, asked me a few questions that meant nothing to me but a lot to him. One of the questions was: have you had any blood after a bowel movement? I answered it innocently enough because of course I have, usually as a result of hard poo or overzealous cleaning (TMI, I know, but there’s a point, I swear).

Warning: Yes was the wrong answer.

After presenting me with his theory that I contracted a virus that severely fucked up the flora in my stomach and that was likely the cause of my troubles, he then went on to express concern about the blood in my stool. What? Doesn’t this happen to nearly everyone? Apparently not.

He suggested a colonoscopy.

I told him I’d think about it.

Dr. N then proceeded to torture me for the next two weeks by restricting my diet so that my stomach can basically calm itself down. Here’s what I wasn’t allowed to eat: (1) Dairy; (2) Alcohol; (3) “Ruffage” (sic); (4) Soda; (5) Gum; (6) Artificial Sweeteners; (7) Whole grains. Okay, I can handle the no alcohol or soda, but NO CHEESE OR VEGETABLES for two weeks?!? Seriously? Life without cheese is sad and useless. It was a struggle, but I got through it. I took the probiotics that he also suggested and prayed that I would see no more blood.

After two weeks, I felt better, but I did see a bit of blood. Being an honest and death-fearing person, I told Dr. N, but was still reluctant about the scope. He suggested I find out my parents’ history and if one of them had polyps, subtract 10 years from the age they first found out and that’s when I have to get my butt scoped.

Thanks, Dad.

So I called and made an appointment. I would go to Florida first (yeah, the trip where I blew chunks all over the airplane restroom), come back, and do the prep the following Wednesday for a Thursday procedure.

When people tell you that the prep for a colonoscopy is the worst part, they are minimizing it for you.

It is beyond worst. Have you done this before? Next time I have to do this, I’ll at least prepare by setting up a TV and my computer in the bathroom so I can just not leave the toilet for several hours.

First, I spent Wednesday at work, drinking only liquids as I was directed. Clear liquids and NO red or purple liquids. It was not a good day; I need to chew something when I eat. I was ready to go to bed when I got home.

But not so fast, buckaroo. Because, when I got home, I had to drink this swill called MoviPrep. I am not exaggerating when I say that this stuff tastes like ass. I have never actually tasted ass, but I expect it’s one of the worst tastes ever and that is what MoviPrep tastes like, even with the “lemon-lime flavoring” added. They should have used it on Fear Factor, it’s that bad. I had to drink 2 liters of this stuff, a serving every 15 minutes for an hour, then wait 45 minutes, and do it again for another hour.

I actually had to hold my nose to drink the MoviPrep and gagged every time I swallowed that shit. I thought this was the worst part. It wasn’t. After the first liter, I found myself running to the bathroom every five minutes. And this is what I mean by camping out in the bathroom: I pooped so much that after I got through half of the second liter, I was pooping orange water. I was clean as a whistle (whatever that means), thank you very much, and I had absolutely NO nutrients in my body by the time I could finally go to bed…..which was after midnight.

Now what’s interesting is that my initial fears about the colonoscopy were not about the prep. I have an unnatural fear of needles and I was anxious about the IV. I had to talk my doctor into giving me an Ativan before the procedure because I was worried that if they put the IV in me without any happy pill, I would not be able to continue with the scope and will have wasted everyone’s time. (I tried to do this with my orthopedic surgeon last summer but he just responded with “don’t worry, we’ll just gas you before we insert the IV.” It worked, but I was super sick after I got out of surgery and it took hours for the anesthesia to wear off.)

I took the pill with a tiny sip of water when I got to the hospital. The funny thing about Ativan is that I don’t realize it’s working until much later after the fact. Here’s the evidence that indicates that that stuff calms me the fuck down:

(1) I brought my iPad with me to read my book while I was waiting. Apparently, I logged on to facebook during that time and posted this: “I’m in a lovely pattern gown that ties in the back, complemented by a pair of beige, non-stick socks. I lost my battle with MoviPrep last night. I now await the scope…..”

I realize I’m an oversharer, but I would not have typed this if I wasn’t loaded. I would have been too terrified.

(2) My nurse, Achilles (yes, really), got that IV in my hand without me feeling it at all. It didn’t bother me one bit at the time. However, as I write this right now, I am getting nauseous just thinking about it.

(3) Achilles came to my bedside with two other male nurses and asked who was the best looking. I said “Achilles” because it was the only name I could remember and also because I didn’t have a panic attack when he inserted the IV. If I wasn’t high, I would have said “you’re all good-looking” because I was raised with good manners.

(4) There were no female nurses so everyone in the suite was male. They asked if I had a problem with that. Would I have a problem with three men sticking a scope up my butthole while I was out like a light? “No problem,” I cheerily replied. That was the Ativan at work. (Of course, even without the benzo coursing through my system, I don’t think I would have had much of a choice anyway.)

And so it came to pass (pun intended) that the scope was completed and I came out, again, clean as a whistle. The results were normal, I got to take home photos of my rectum and colon (which more than proved that the MoviPrep is extremely effective), and think for the next few weeks about whether or not to blog about this.

Yes, the prep was a revolting, horrific experience, but the truth of the matter is this: this is an important test to rule out bad stuff and early detection is key to effective treatment. So that is my message to you, dear blog fans: take good care of yourselves and keep your buttholes healthy!

Giant Dwarf vs. Virgin America

Last month, I woke up at 3:45 in the morning to go on vacation. I don’t know about the rest of the world, but “3:45 am” and “vacation” is a complete oxymoron to me. But that is how my vacation began, after about 2 hours of sleep following several hours of frantic packing for weather I can’t even begin to understand.

Yes, I was going to Orlando, Florida at the invitation of my uncle and aunt. UD owns a couple of timeshares in Orlando (he is a total Disneyphile) and invited my brothers and I and our significant others to hang out in the land of Walt, Mickey and a few thousand British people who for the life of me I can’t understand why they want to vacation in Florida.

But we’re not in Florida yet….we’re still in Los Angeles. In the middle of the night. Where it’s still kind of cold. And creepy. My landlord is a complete asshole and has not given me a parking space in the eight years I have lived in this building (and been a model tenant, I might add), so I have to park my car at my cousin’s house a few miles away from me when I go on vacation. Her neighborhood has no parking restrictions. So I gather up my luggage, load my car and drive to her house. Then, because it is completely unfair to ask a friend for a ride to the airport at 5:30 in the morning, I wait.

I wait for the shuttle to take me to the airport. While I wait, I eat a single granola bar that was probably worth about 90 calories. I burned that loading my suitcase in the car and then having anxiety about the shuttle not being able to find me in my cousin’s completely non-gridded neighborhood.

The airport at six in the morning was busier than I expected, but because it was mostly business travelers, I got through security pretty quick and then had WAY TOO MUCH TIME on my hands before my plane arrived. Interesting, though…..no restaurants were open and, frankly, since I don’t usually wake up until after my plane was scheduled to take off, I wasn’t really hungry.

So I sat with my People Magazine and texted my friend in Boston as the families with screaming children filed into the gate. This was when it dawned on me: I’m going to Disneyworld. Holy crap, my flight and the next five days of my life will be filled with caterwauling, shrieking children....and that’s in addition to my brothers and the Spazz!

(For those of you who have read my previous post about my difficulty traveling with others, you’ll be pleased to know that the Spazz, the Golden Child and the Thinker all came in a few days after I did. I got to travel alone. And, as you’ll soon find out, it was not all rainbows and unicorns.)

Cut to a perfectly situated aisle seat on Virgin America Airlines. I can order things to eat on the screen in front of me! I can pick my music, watch television, and even annoy a perfect stranger 10 rows in front of me if I so choose (I’m sure you know that I didn’t…..if I don’t want to talk to my seatmate in person, I certainly don’t want to text him or her through a seatback for 5 hours), all while techno music plays in the background.

Since it was breakfast time, I figured I’d order their special oatmeal and an orange juice, which is a perfectly reasonable breakfast. Eventually, the food came around and I was quite pleased with the oatmeal flavored with cinnamon and dried blueberries. The flight attendants got a bit mixed up and gave me two orange juices, which I didn’t want, but drank anyway so I could clear my tray (since it takes forever for them to bring the trash bags).

I fell asleep, which I needed, since I really did only get two hours of sleep the night before. I’m not sure how long I slept, but I woke up and felt like it was 150 degrees on that plane. I am never hot on a plane. I will travel to Phoenix in the middle of summer with a sweatshirt and blanket because of how cold it is on a plane. So I knew something was terribly wrong.

I figured the air conditioning was on the fritz.

I was wrong.

Soon, I started feeling like my stomach was rejecting something, and it felt like whatever that was, it wanted to go south, so I hightailed it to the bathroom (NOW you see why I need an aisle seat?). I made it just in time for the southern expulsion, but fully did not expect the northern spew. And this is where it gets graphic.

Because the northern exit process was unexpected, I didn’t have time to think about the safest route, so I aimed for the toilet. Bear in mind, I was already sitting on it. And I’m sure you recall that I AM IN AN AIRPLANE BATHROOM. So basically, I barfed on myself. In an airplane bathroom. On my shirt, on my pants, on my underwear, and in my hair. I was covered in upchuck.

I spent so much time in that bathroom they should have just assigned it to me as a seat. After the evil, poisonous Virgin America flight food made it out of my body in every direction it could possibly go, I then had to begin the process of cleaning up. If it’s hard to poo and vomit in a tiny bathroom, it’s near impossible to clean it up.

I stank.

I approached a flight attendant and told him an abbreviated version of my ordeal. I had two objectives in mind: (1) My duty to warn other passengers of the potentially life-threatening food on the flight and (2) my duty to find another seat in an unfilled row so as not to disturb my fellow passengers.

The flight attendant denied that the food was rotten in any way, but he at least sat me closer to the front in a row with one other passenger. Unfortunately, he didn’t tell her why and she was sitting in the middle. I didn’t realize that at first, so I didn’t say anything and then, when I figured that out, I just felt it was too late to say anything at all. This poor woman spent the rest of the flight not surrounded by squealing children but sitting next to the creature from the Bog of Eternal Stench.

The upside? They let me use the First Class bathroom after that.