A Post About Someone Else's Uterus

So, some of you may check out my cousin Deanna's  blog. Dee kind of rocks my socks when it comes to her own personal crusade to save our environment.  She's been getting a ton of press about it and her blog readership is off the hook. Well. Especially when compared to mine. (HI FOUR PEOPLE WHO READ THIS! I LOVE YOU!)

Anyway, Deanna wrote a post on her blog about Tampax providing African girls with free menstrual products for their periods.  She wondered aloud (errr...on the internet...) if this would end up doing more harm than good. What about the waste to the environment, particularly in poverty-stricken areas where the common way of disposing of garbage is to burn it? Also, is Tampax making like McDonald's and marketing their products to young people who will grow to depend on them in the future?

Dee writes it about it more eloquently than me.  Suffice it to say, one small blog post turned into Goods 4 Girls, a website devoted to gathering hand-sewn pads to send to girls in need.  I'm so impressed with the response to this website and the rapid pace at which it has taken off.  I'm also kind of feeling like a lazy person since Deanna is out saving the world and I am sitting on my couch, moaning about a stomach virus. I suck.

I do have to wonder what it would be like to be a young girl without access to every day resources for something as basic as dealing with my period.  I use a Diva Cup and can sit in the bathtub and eat chocolate.  These girls are using banana leaves and missing school.

I think they win the sympathy case here.

Either way, y'all (ALL FOUR OF YOU! HEY-YO!) should check out the website, donate if you can and spread the word on YOUR fabulous blogs so we can help some young girls who desperately need it! 

Universe, Why So Cruel? (Part 2)

So, I posted this: Stomach Virus Extravaganza Bonanza 2008.

I spent Monday, dying on the couch, a slow painful but elegant death.

And then on Tuesday I dragged myself to an audition (WHAT? WHY?) and to work (WHO? HUH?) even though I was not yet eating anything except saltines. Tuesday evening I watched Teen Tournament Jeopardy which I never ever did before. Those damn kids are smarter than me. I threw crackers at the television.

On Wednesday, I got my period.

I know, I know. This blog has gone from somewhat entertaining to downright horrendously graphic and menstrual-centered. I DO NOT KNOW WHY. But it's important and relevant to the story so if you don't like it, go find something else to read while you're pretending to do actual work at your pretend job.

So, it is known, to those close to me, that my period has the ability to severely cramp my style. HAAAAAAAAAAA CRAMP! Around the time I was 16, I had my first "episode", an "episode" which would repeat randomly, without warning from then on. It involves me going white as a sheet, collapsing on the floor, vomiting into the nearest toilet, and moaning in agony on a bathroom floor while knives stab my lower back and a giant repeatedly slams my abdomen with his giant workboot. (Just go with me on this, it is my own interpretation and my own pain and if my giant wears workboots, why do you care?)

After numerous tests at the Special Doctor, the conclusion was that I was simply, "Very Sensitive To Hormones."

"What does this mean, doctor?" I asked my gynecologist, with as much dignity as I could muster.

"It means that you are forever at the mercy of your uterus," she said and cackled maniacally, a grating sound that echoed down the hospital corridor.

No, I'm kidding.

It doesn't really mean anything except my periods suck. Hard.

It also, recently, began to mean this. Let's give a shout out to period-induced depression, y'all!

So, basically, what's awesome about me is that not only do I get really bad PMS for two weeks prior to my period, which involves stereotypical crying at Pampers commercials, eating as much sugar as I can find and then falling into a dark deep depression, when my period actually arrives, if I'm still alive and haven't thrown myself off the Triborough Bridge, I experience one of the following:

A) extreme pain, collapse, vomit, fever, screaming in agony on the bathroom floor, inhibiting daily activity of any kind

or

B) the giant slamming his workboot into my abdomen but me, able to grimace in pain and make my way through the day only slightly dizzy and breathing heavily

The problem is, until it hits, I NEVER KNOW WHICH IT'S GOING TO BE. I could be fine! I could be...not fine!

Guess which one happened on Wednesday?

You be right.

So, let's do an equation okay? 'Cuz my dad is a math teacher and he would appreciate it.

IF Laura had a stomach virus with inexplicable lower back pain that continued for days + her period arrives and causes even greater lower back pain plus abdominal pain THEN, she will go to work on Wednesday at 9 am, go downstairs to the Duane Reade at 9:04 am, purchase two heating pads, stick one on her stomach and one on her back (1 + 1 = 2), silently cry in agony at her desk, e-mail her boss at 11 AM to tell her she's leaving for the day and spend the rest of the day sitting on the couch and/or walking around the apartment breathing through clenched teeth asking her roommate to murder her already.

Thing is: I have prescription pain medication from my doctor in my cabinet.

I have never taken this medication because I do not like taking medication. Also, this medication expired in September of 2007. I can't stop staring at how weird "medication" looks because I just typed it five times. ANYWAY.

That's right. I'm that girl. I'm the crunchy granola weirdo that believes that this cramping is somehow the natural way of my body and that taking pain medication interferes with that. I kind of think my body is prepping me for childbirth and that the pain is meant to be endured. To take my Crazy further, in a sick, sick masochistic way, I try to see how long I can go without taking even a Motrin. Usually, I can last all day. I don't think I've taken anything, even an aspirin in almost a year. I honestly can't remember.

Except Wednesday? I needed the meds. Mama needed the happy pills, was crying out for some relief, ANY RELIEF but the PROBLEM was that the stomach virus killed my insides and left me nauseated forever. I couldn't take any medication because I couldn't bring myself to eat anything. After all, pain killers + empty stomach = more nausea. Have I painted an accurate pitiful picture here? I mean, do we all agree that I'm out of my mind?

Good. Because my mom was all, ARE YOU INSANE TAKE THE PILLS WOMAN OR I WILL KILL YOU.

But I couldn't. I just couldn't eat anything.

So I made it through the day, medication-less, crying and nauseated and doubled over from the waist down with heating pads stuck to my body when I wasn't in the bathtub, counting the spots of mildew on the shower curtain. But the next day was easier. And yesterday, Friday, I had a full day of eating solid foods including a bagel with tofu creamcheese and it could've been the best thing I've ever eaten. And my uterus calmed down, as she always does, that ol' battle axe.

That damn lower back pain only subsided a day or so ago and I'm pretty sure the only reason is because I no longer have my kidneys inside my body. Or at least, they aren't where they are supposed to be. I think this is okay, especially because kidneys don't really do anything important and also, I don't have medical insurance which is always comforting.

So, there you go. I think I'm done with uterus talk for at least six months on this blog.

You're welcome.

Universe, Why So Cruel?

I have off from work today.  I had planned on taking full advantage of such a day--an audition or two, a voice lesson, grocery shopping, laundry, the gym, possibly the farmer's market since it's in the upper 50's today. A DAY OFF!! An opportunity to get a ton of things done without missing work to do so.  A day to myself! Do you know that before last Tuesday, February 12th, my last day off without plans with friends or seeing a show or taking a class or working, my last day off was January 6th?

Can you say FULL SCHEDULE? (Overachiever, what what!!)

So today!! A free Monday!! So much to do! All by myself!

Naturally, you know what happened right?

Lindsay and James invited me over for dinner last night.  I showed up at 4:30 or so and by 5:30, I started to feel a little...off.  My head had been pounding the day before and it came back with a vengeance which is very odd because I never ever get headaches.  I ate a few bites of pasta and had a slice of bread and then the thought of food started making my stomach turn.  James felt my forehead and confirmed what I already knew, that I was burning up and about to die.

I drove home in the rain and ended up curled on the bathroom floor until my roommate came home. 

"Gatorade," I croaked. "I'm dying a slow painful death."  My intestines were wound into knots and causing sharp shooting pains all throughout my body.

"I'M ON IT!" shouted the roommate and disappeared to the store.  And if I wasn't ready to drown myself in the bathtub, I would have kissed him.

The persistent nausea continued without any relief, if you know what I mean.  I can handle vomiting.  I can't handle FEELING like I'm going to vomit. For hours.

Eventually around 11:00, my stomach surrendered to the pale blue porcelain god that lives in my bathroom.

And continued to surrender once an hour, throughout the course of the night.  12:30, 1:30, 2:30, 3:30 and by 4:30, I was spent.

And so, here I am on the couch.  Missed auditions.  Missed everything.  My head is still throbbing and my lower back is severely cramping up, which Alayna also suffered from when she contracted this mysterious 12 Hours Of Hell last week.  I put a heating pad on it but I'm still pretty sure my kidneys have exploded and are floating around inside me.  Imminent death is very likely.

I believed the stomach issues were done with since I have kept down half the bottle of gatorade and some water.  However, I turned on the television and Rachael Ray was on ABC.  Since we don't have cable and since I didn't want to watch the news, I left her on because, I don't know, I wanted to add to my misery.

She was making Swedish meatballs out of beef and veal, sautéed in a gravy made of butter, beef stock and chicken stock with a scoop of grape jelly and sour cream.  To soften up the meatballs, she mixed the meat with bread that was soaked in milk.  She fried them in the "gravy" and poured it over egg noodles.

And after viewing this and listening to her grating voice for well over twenty minutes, my vegan stomach ruptured along with my kidneys and I have about three seconds left to live.

Dying alone on your day off sucks. 

Melting

I had reached a point where I had forgotten why being in a relationship was a good thing.

I know, right?

In all the chick flick movies and in real life I suppose, women are always whining about how they can never find a man and how life will be great when they do find a man and blah blah, you complete me, Tom Cruise.

But dates happened and relationships developed and then fell apart and I was always "not committing enough" and "never fully there" and tears were shed and sobs were choked back and I ended up alone listening to too much Damien Rice.  Eventually, something in me shifted, a perspective I guess?  I stopped looking at men as my answer and as necessary to my happiness. Mostly because they were mainly contributing to my misery instead. I was alone.  And I survived.  And it was unbelievable and it made me feel strong. 

This was important because I didn't start dating until rather late and so when I did, I bounced from relationship to relationship with barely anytime in between.  I grieved the last relationship while in a new one.  And let me tell you, kids, THAT NEVER WORKS.  Unless you are J-lo.  So. I WAS ALONE! AND PROUD! AND LIVIN' IT UP!! 

But things got fuzzy then because along those same lines of "I don't need a man to make me happy", I stopped looking at men as something good.  I went from being sustainable on my own to questioning dating someone ever again.  Complacent to cynical.  I started wondering why on earth people dated in the first place. (I asked my therapist this point blank and he said, "For companionship, for fun, for sex." I found this inadequate at the time so I just blinked a few times.)  But the fact that I had asked the question to begin with --WHY DO PEOPLE EVEN DATE?!?!? This I think, is somewhat extreme and sad since I think it makes me sound jaded and hard, neither of which I'd like to be.

Over the past few months and maybe even years, the thought of being in a relationship was synonymous with being "stuck" with someone, with having someone to answer to, with having someone to cramp my style and get in my way and make a mess of things.  (Welcome to Laura's Brain, 1% Girl, 99% 35 Year Old Manhattan Bachelor.)  Men were not only seen as a hindrance and a cause for heartbreak, they were now being seen as completely avoidable and unnecessary for all time.

Girls being in relationships started to annoy me, not because I was jealous but because I didn't get it.  And this is so ironic because I just blogged about how I always think the best of my ex's and remember only the good times.  I guess when I'm reminiscing and feeling lonely, I do think of all the happy times.  But thinking about the future, I always think of the crap.

My apathy scared me.

My spinster "Why even BOTHER?" freaked me the hell out. (Why even bother, Laura!? Really?? Did you forget all about the tongue-kissing and having someone to take to a movie?! UGH! CYNIC!)

I was starting to feel as if maybe I did have a cold black frozen heart that was impenetrable. Maybe my ex was right when he told me I would never settle down enough to have a baby.  Would never have the capacity to open up and let myself fall. I tried to justify this. Hey!  Maybe there was a medical answer, maybe I was missing the "in love" chemicals! I just DON'T HAVE THEM.  Maybe I really was an embittered, disaffected girl incapable of loving anyone at all.

And then last week, I saw an engaged couple at an audition and they were talking to a mutual friend.

"What are you guys up to?" the friend asked the couple.

"Well," said the man, indicating his fiancée, "She has to go to work now and I'm going to stick around here for a bit."

And as he was talking, he was behind her, helping her get into her coat, holding it up for her arms to slide into the sleeves, adjusting the collar in the back.

And I felt a pang in my heart, an ice cube melting.

Why do people even date!?!?

And suddenly I remembered.

The Entry Where I Type The World "Dumplings" 847 Times

I was out for Thai food with Margot last night and I got into an argument with the waitress.

This is not a good enough story for a whole blog entry but I'm lacking in creativity lately.  It's not that entertaining but if you're really bored at work, read on.

Now, I waited tables for three months of my life, possibly the three most unstable months of my life where I made lots of bad decisions not the least of which was becoming a waitress in the first place.  Also, going on more than one date with a convicted felon.  But I digress.

Point is: I know what it's like to be bitched out for no reason.  One woman from my restaurant called me a terrible person in front of my manager and then left me a $3 tip on a $50 bill.  I had nightmares every night that summer and often dreamed that she was coming after me, an obese lady, waddling towards me threatening to kill me if I didn't bring her another lemonade.

People are very particular about their food and their service.  I get this.  I am too.  When I'm out to eat and probably hungry, do not mess with me or I will break you in two.  And when it comes right down to it, waiting tables SUCKS.  And therefore, I rarely get into tiffs with the waitstaff anywhere and I am always gracious. I overtip, I tidy up my place setting and I generally go out of my way to help them out whenever possible.

I've found that this always works to my advantage.  Waiters tend to be more attentive and more appreciative and sometimes, totally bend the rules for me.  This was especially true while on tour in Atlanta, Georgia where Margot and I convinced the waiter to give us silverware so we could eat our leftovers at the hotel.  The waiter was possibly one of, if not THE hottest waiter I've ever had in my entire life and we left with our bags full of silverware and also, his phone number.  

Now, onto my somewhat boring story.

I ordered my main dish plus vegetable dumplings for an appetizer.

Naturally, since the universe hates me, she brought me over a plate of chicken dumplings instead.

When she came by, I said, "Hey, I'm so sorry but I need vegetable dumplings."

"CHICKEN DUMPLINGS," she stated, pointing to my plate.

"Um. Yes. These are chicken dumplings?"

"YES."

"Okay. Well, I'd rather have vegetable dumplings. I ordered veggie dumplings."

"NO."

And here is when I kind of started a little bit.

"I'm sorry?"

"YOU SAID CHICKEN STEAMED DUMPLINGS."

Wait wait. Is she telling me I ordered incorrectly? That this is somehow my fault? Because, since I DON'T EAT MEAT, I clearly said VEGETABLE and it's not really my fault that she heard a very similar-sounding word which is, of course, chicken. I mean, yeah, okay lady, they practically RHYME.

"No," I falter a little, "I definitely said vegetable."

"No. You didn't." 

?!!!!!!?!?!?!??!?!

I look at Margot. She just gives me a "This bitch is crizazy" kind of look which has to mirror the exact look on my own face.

"I didn't?"

"YOU SAID CHICKEN."

"Um," I say, smiling through my agony, because I'm so hungry I could eat my own digits, "Can I have vegetable though?"

"YOU SAID CHICKEN."

"Are you saying I have to eat these because that's what I ordered?"

"You want to eat chicken?"

"NO. I DON'T EAT MEAT! I would never even ORDER chicken. In fact, I don't even say the word chicken on a daily basis! IT NEVER COMES OUT OF MY MOUTH!  I'd rather the chicken be removed from the table so I can have some STEAMED VEGETABLES PLEASE. I love this place and I love Thai food more than my mom so PLEASE before I run back to the kitchen and stick my head in a pot of rice, CAN YOU EXCHANGE THESE DUMPLINGS BECAUSE LAST TIME I CHECKED THAT IS KIND OF YOUR JOB AND I WILL THREATEN YOU WITH LACK OF TIP AND MAYBE THIS HERE BUTTER KNIFE SO HELP ME GOD, WOMAN."

"Steamed vegetable dumplings?"

"Yes....please."

"Ohhhhhhhhhhh," she said. And whisked away my plate.

Later on, after my meal of steamed vegetable dumplings, most likely covered in chef/waitress spittle, Margot and I beat her up and held her hostage and her punishment was to eat all the chicken steamed dumplings on her plate despite her cries of being a vegetarian and whimpers to please, spare her the agony.  Satisfied that justice had been served, Margot and I got on with our evening and had a grand old time, though no silverware was stolen and sadly, no phone numbers were given out.  It was all for the best.  If you couldn't tell by now, that waitress? I was so not into her.

Note to Self

No.More.Wine.

okthxbye,
Laura

Ode To My Blog Stats - Part Deux

I am really on the cusp of boy/men/relationship REVELATION, Y'ALL!!!!! Like, the pieces! They are coming together! And I am understanding, ohhh I am GETTING IT, I am finding MEANING in my journey and it is so poetic and real, man. But honestly, other people are writing about it better than I am. Like Laurie. And this other relatively recent gem of a recent blog find.

Plus, my last entry was all sorts of sappy and whiney. And who wants to hear me drone on and on when you can go read other people's stuff? People who can actually write coherent sentences? Rock on.

So, without further ado, may I present more blog stats because I am copping out on writing a real entry and I have to get my beauty rest tonight because I'm going to the Marc Jacobs show tomorrow night. (WHAT?!) Not only that, but I am currently holding in my hand the invitation to the AFTER PARTY.

Who am I? Why is this my life?

I don't know. I ain't complainin'. It is totes totally awesome. Moving on:

Google searches that resulted in links to this website, my comments in paranthesis. (You can find the original Ode To My Blog Stats here.)

brooding poetry
are white keds okay with gauchos (NO! You should be wearing NEITHER, dude! Yikes!)
get bowels to move immediately (Amen.)
vegan time of day to take my vitamins (Dunno. Morning is good, I'd say, with breakfast.)
Gigantic tool (Yes, yes I am.)
Bacteria air in abdomen fetal position (Whaaa?)
Frontier spirit (Yee haw, cowboy!)
I lost my faith in humanity (I am so sorry!)

And my own personal favorite of this round:

Are Catholics offended by Joseph and the Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat?

I'd have to go with no on this one. I think Catholics (and the rest of us) are just offended by Andrew Lloyd Webber in general. Thoughts?

Sunday Musings

There are days, whether single or dating someone, when I miss an ex-boyfriend. I feel like a freak admitting this, however, it makes sense to me. If you spend a prolonged amount of time with someone in a very intimate way and then lose them, it's only natural that after they leave, you mourn. And I guess, if you're me, it's only natural that much, much later you still have moments of mourning. Or reminiscing. I'm not sure what you'd call it.

Sometimes, I think of them and smile. Aw, I will think, that was so cute and fun and perfect.

Sometimes, I get lost on the way home from Target in the middle of autumn because I'm crying and I can't pay attention to the street signs because you know, Target just brings out the lover in me. WAHHHHHHHH BEDSHEETS AND ELECTRONICS, I AM ALL ALONE!

Not that that ever happened to me.

Either way, these days still happen to me. I wonder if they will ever stop. I suppose not. However morbid it may be, I liken it to death. In essence, these are people who have died and I will keep them in my heart and remember them always and be grateful for the times we had, blah blah, wah wah. And when I can do that, it's nice. It makes it seem worth it. Like I have something to show for all that time and effort and the pain of the ending, even though, in a material sense, I don't have anything.

"I am having an X Day," I will announce to my roommate.

He will sigh at this point in commiseration. And then he will say, "You don't miss him. You miss the idea of him."

This is a very helpful thing to say to me because I tend to only remember the good things about all my ex's.

"I don't miss the idea! I MISS HIM! HE WAS PERFECT!" I will argue.

My roommate is never convinced and will rattle off a laundry list of all the things I used to complain about or struggle with. I somehow seem to ignore this while I'm daydreaming of all the ways I can make the relationship work again.

"But," I will protest, "Remember that time I came home and he put up blinds in my room to make it dark enough so I could get a good night's sleep? REMEMBER THAT?!"

"Laura," my roommate points out slowly, "Those blinds fell down on you while you were sleeping at 2 am. And when you broke up, you had holes in the wall for months until you spackled them up with Plaster of Paris."

"BUT IT WAS STILL SO NIIIIICE!" I will wail and lay down on the kitchen floor.

I guess it's that I prefer to remember all the times he made me dinner or drove eight hours to see me for one day or taught me how to drive stickshift in the Barnes and Noble parking lot. Maybe I just like to combine all my ex's into One Perfect Person who doesn't really exist. I think this is somewhat natural for every woman but especially so for someone like me, who is more comfortable taking the blame for things than blaming others. The reason we didn't work was because of me. They were perfect. I am imperfect. Hooray, Catholic upbringing.

Today I was having an X day. And yes, I believe that most of the time, I am indeed missing the idea of him. I am missing the idea of having someone around who will make me laugh and who will listen to me whine about being tired and who will make me a cup of tea while they hear about my day. Yes, I miss that idea. But honestly, there are some days and many nights when I don't miss the idea. I just miss him.

And I wonder if that's how it will always be.