Dr. Feelgood

Yesterday was “International Women’s Day”, so of course I made a snarky comment about celebrating in the kitchen. I don’t believe in God, or karma, or any of those things, but I woke up today feeling like a pile of poop threw up another pile of poop. I think Gloria Alred put a curse on me. I got about 3 hours of sleep total. It was awful, especially since I was laying next to my boyfriend who seemed to be having the best sleep of his life. I’m pretty sure he smiled at one point. I was miserable.

Being the independent woman I am, I woke up and dragged myself into the shower (read: I have to go to work because I don’t have a sugar daddy). Every 20 seconds or so, I had that gun-to-your-head decision: puke or poop? Absolutely awful. Somehow, I managed to get out of the house and into work. As soon as I stepped in, my coworker literally said, “Yikes. You look like you’re still asleep.” That just translates into, “You look like garbage.” Awesome.

If feeling sick wasn’t bad enough, it’s Monday, my department was just upgraded to Office 13, I have about 30 emails from 7am for varying crisises. I debated throwing my hands up, yelling “Yolo!” and walking out, but then I realized that I don’t want to go out sounding like a bro dude. So I just put my head down and worked.

Four o’clock came and I made my way out as fast as possible, which was in fact not fast at all. I did, however, drive home like a champ. I tried to psych myself out of being sick. I knew that when I got home, my boyfriend would be picking his son up to stay for the week. As soon as I walked in, I collapsed on the couch. My boyfriend realized quickly I wasn’t going to be going with him to pick up his son. I just buried myself in pillows and wanted to sleep.

While he was gone, I got a horrible case of the chills. I thought,  “a shower would make it better!” Well…if you can get the shower to work. OF COURSE, as I turn it on, there’s no water pressure. I pathetically got redressed and felt like crying. 

Shortly after, in walks my two favorite guys in the world. I tell him my shower horror story. He goes in the bathroom, investigates and determines its the shower head (and idiot user). I can hear the water still running and he tells me he’s making me a bath. Then, that sweet little boy comes over to me on the couch and says: 

“Hi Marie. I brought you a kiss because you’re sick.” 

*hands me a Hershey’s kiss*

“Thank you so much, baby! That’s really sweet.” 

“You’re welcome. Here’s another one.

*walks away* 

Then, “Marie? I really like you.” 

Those who know me know this: I have a sort of tough-ish exterior, but am actually just a pile of feelings. MAN OH MAN, did that get me. Right in the heart. I mean, almost instant waterworks. 

Not only did I have a sweetheart of a boyfriend come in and take care of me (he also made me soup), but I had his sweetheart kid just melt my heart.

It didn’t stop there. Before he went to bed, he came out to tell me goodnight. I swear, he’s trying to see if he can break me at this point. 

I might be feeling like crap, laying on the couch and being generally useless, but feeling like crap has never felt so good. 

The Gift of the Bonsai

Holidays are tough. For me, Christmas is the worst. It’s not because of the presents. I don’t have any particularly memorable Christmas dinner memories. My family is small, so we didn’t have a huge party.

What I miss the most can be summed up in this picture:

My father, keeping it kalssy on Kristmas.

My father, keeping it klassy on Kristmas.

My dad and this amazing outfit on Christmas morning. Everyone, take note. THAT is the look on Christmas. Bathrobe, white tee, no pants, pipe. If there was a shit to give, my father did not have one. He would make his instant coffee (Sanka, of course), get his pipe, and park it on the couch where he would unceremoniously unwrap ties and homemade ashtrays.

Then, my dad suddenly of a heart attack when I was 21 years old.

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A few weeks ago, my boyfriend and I were cleaning up the house. Now, when I say “cleaning up the house”, I mean cleaning all of the pieces of garbage that his stupid dog gets everywhere. I came to the area in the bedroom where his dog bed was and stopped abruptly. “Um, babe? Could you do me a favor and just grab that stuff on the floor real quick?” I asked sweetly. Thinking there must be something heavy or gross on the floor, he came around the bed and looked down. “What? What is it?” he asked, looking very confused.

If you have read this previous post of mine, you can probably see where this is going. He, however, clearly did not read that entry. Great. I gave him the quick and dirty version of why I don’t touch foam. Normally, he is a loving and compassionate man. He’s very sweet and kind to me. So, you can just imagine my horror as he proceeded to laugh hysterically, pick up the foam, and chase me with it. I’d love to tell you all that we had a really good laugh about it, but, I’m not a liar. As I was running for dear life throughout the house, hysterical, almost on the verge of tears, he shouted “NERD!!!”

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Is That Mud On Your Face?

I’m not sure what it is about me, but I have this uncanny power to have complete strangers tell me the weirdest, most personal details of their lives within minutes of meeting them. I know this sounds like an exaggeration, but I promise you it’s true. There’s the time I was getting a pedicure and the woman pretty much told me that she was human trafficked here from Vietnam. Or the time that I was in TJ Maxx with a friend and a woman blocked our path and demanded our opinion on some crappy things she was buying. This small traffic stop resulted in a 15 minute conversation about how she is living with her ex husband, whom she hates, but loves his money. I don’t know what it is about me, but I just bring it out in people. It’s actually not a bad thing; it’s great for me because it gives me awesome stories. However, there is a time and place for a story, and when I’m laying on a table getting a facial, it’s not the time to talk about your bowel habits.

About seven years ago, I was talking to a friend about pampering myself for my birthday. I had never done it before, and I was thinking it would be really fun to do something I normally wouldn’t do. My friend recommended this woman who she went to frequently for facials. She raved about her, told me how relaxing the whole experience was. There would be candles, aromatherapy, soft music, and someone picking all the blackheads out of my face. This sounded divine; I was in. I called and she did, in fact, have my birthday open for an appointment. I couldn’t wait!

My birthday is in January, and in New England, it’s one of the worst months of the year. The temperature is frigid, days are long, gray and covered in dirty snow. Everyone is pissed off at how much money they spent over the holidays. I am no exception to this, which is why I try to make my birthday a little special. I was super excited the day of my appointment. I walked in and felt the serenity wash over me. I’m not a hippie by any stretch of the imagination, but I could understand why people spend money on this stuff.

My winter jacket was removed, a cup of herbal tea placed into my hand, and I was whisked off to my own private room. Or, I should say, private cave. I was instructed to put on a terry cloth wrap and lay down on the heated (!!) table. Let’s just say I maaaaay have disrobed before the door even closed. All nestled in, listening to the weirdly hypnotic sounds of New Age music, the esthetician came back into the room and got to work. First came the inspection of the skin, which was included picking and squeezing of various areas. I’m not going to lie, that’s not too pleasant. Then came the humidifier, making it kind of difficult to breathe. Ok, this was not going as swimmingly as I was expecting, but I carried on. After several minutes of sitting in a mix of humid air and sweat, she began applying the most glorious mud mask in the world. I could feel the rejuvenation beginning! While this was happening, we had some small chit-chat. She told me where she’s from, how she got started in this business, talked about her kids. Then, abruptly, she stopped. It was kind of weird, but then again, I was half-naked with mud on my face listening to Anya, so who am I to judge? I heard the door open and close, then nothing. I guess she left the room.

Now, I’m relaxing. This was what I had envisioned! In fact, in my heightened state of relaxation, I started to snooze. It wasn’t until I had been laying there for about twenty minutes with no interaction that I started to wonder if something might be wrong. The mud on my face had transformed from a silky, creamy moisturizer to a dry, cement-like mask. I lifted the cover off my eye and took a peek around; the room was empty. Hmmm. I couldn’t hear anyone outside of the room either. At this point, I’m getting a little worried. Where the fuck did this lady go? How long do I lay like this? Am I supposed to wash this off?? WHAT ARE THE RULES?!?!!

Thankfully, my panicky internal screams must have been heard because the esthetician came back into the room. She rushed over to me, apologizing profusely for taking so long. Obviously, I wasn’t going to let her know how freaked out I was, so I simply replied, “Oh! I didn’t even notice you were gone!”

“Oh, I’m so glad you’re ok with that. I’m really embarrassed I left so suddenly, but it was an emergency.”

Ok. Now I’m intrigued.

“Everything ok?” I asked.

“Well, not really. I have really bad IBS and it just hit me really hard” she calmly stated as she proceeded to TOUCH MY FACE WITH HER BARE HANDS.

“IBS?” I asked.

“Oh, yeah, Irritable Bowl Syndrome. I get really, really bad diarrhea.”

Check, please.

Any sense of relaxation was now gone. I reverted back to my stiff, knotty state of hyper-awareness. Not only did she NOT stop talking about it, but she proceeded to tell me about how bad it is and what her triggers are. Apparently, she ate something she shouldn’t have the night before and, “Boy! Was she paying for it!” I think what really put me over the edge was her stating, “I had to flush three times. I was so afraid you would hear it!”

I did not say another word for the rest of the session. I was afraid if I opened my mouth I would barf. Every time I felt the mud mask applied to my face post-revelation, I wanted to dry heave. I endured another forty-five minutes of torture before it finally stopped. I felt dirty. I wanted to go home, take a shower to forget what had just happened. I hurriedly put my clothes back on and practically threw my money at the woman as I headed for the door.

“Would you like to schedule another appointment?” she asked.

“Oh, sure, yeah, umm, let me just get my book……”

I just walked out the door, never looking back.





What To Expect When You’re Not Expecting

Hey! Guess what?? My blog just turned one today! Let us all sit back and bask in the glory of this.

Ok, we’re done now. Let’s not make this weird, ok?

Speaking of turning one, I’ve had a lot of friends whose kids are having first birthdays lately. That means a lot of cute invites to parties, trying to figure out who needs what, which kids hates Thomas the Train, who loves him, can this kid play with plastic toys? Are his parents going to have real cake or some gluten free shit? Can I eat peanuts at this party?? It can all be very daunting.

While I love that most, if not all, of my friends have kids, I can’t but help feel like the walls are closing in on me as each year ticks by. (I’ll spare you the imagery that just popped into my head when I typed the former sentence). Slowly, I’ve become the one, if not only, woman in my group that doesn’t have a child. It’s been happening for a few years now. At first, I hardly noticed. In fact, for a very long period in my life, I was adamant against having kids. I didn’t feel like it was something that I needed in my life. Both my ex and I were on the same page; we would just have dogs and it would be the same thing.

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Everyone Freak Out!!

As I was getting ready for work this morning, I happened to hear a snippet from the Today show that there is a man in Texas that has a confirmed case of Ebola. The report went further to say that this unidentified man came into contact with about a handful of people, but health officials are contacting upwards of 100 people who may or may not have had contact with this dude. Of COURSE, reactionary news kicks in and they immediately start broadcasting these “what if” scenarios out on the airwaves. It always infuriates me when these stories hit because these “reporters” bring on a medical professional to get the “facts”, but then essentially back them into a corner, only allowing them to provide a WORST CASE (!!!!!!) scenario. Like, Armageddon shit. I feel bad for these poor doctors/medical people. Things can get very awkward and defensive, and they try their hardest to wrangle the rabid news hounds back into reality.

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It’s Oh So Quiet……..

Let me start this post by offering my humblest, sincerest apologies for my absence. It’s been a while, I know. I’m sure you’ve all be wondering, “What happened to this wonderful, enlightening, insightful blog?? How can I go about my life without reading the nonsense that Marie puts out there??? WHERE WILL I HEAR ABOUT EMBARRASSING TAMPON STORIES?!?!!?!?” Well…….I don’t have a very good excuse, guys. I’d like to say I’ve been waaaaaaaaaaaaay too busy to write, but that would be a lie. I won’t delude myself with that excuse. Sure, work is busy. So what? I don’t run a Fortune 500 company. I don’t have any kids, so I’m definitely not running off to soccer practice, PTA meetings, or weird play dates that require me to sit awkwardly facing another mom, sipping room temperature white wine, nibbling on stale Melba toast and American cheese (it was on sale; brie can be so EXPENSIVE!), barley having the energy to feign interest in the discussion of, “OMG!! I CAN’T wait for the new season of The Good Wife!” No, friends, I don’t have any of those excuses. I have been lazy, and, frankly, not too inspired. I decided today that I’m going to write about just that.

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I Think You Lost Something.

Summer is in full swing, which means I get to see all of your lovely beach pictures while I rot away at my desk. Really, it’s ok. I’m not mad at the fact that I chose a shitty path in life which relegates me to sitting in a 8×8 cube 8 hours a day. Why would I have picked a profession that would allow me the freedom of having the summers off’? That would be ridiculous.  Nay, I prefer the just above annoying buzz of fluorescent lights any day. You guys don’t know what you’re missing.

As I sit here and rage-scroll through Facebook, it reminds me of a time when I, too, was fun and fancy free, letting lose in the sand. It was a simpler time, a time when my only concern was what tape I was going to bring with me to the sandy shores of Narragansett Bay. Did I want to listen to a full album, or perhaps a mix tape? Maybe both, depending on how long I was going to be there. This was also a time when sunblock was a mere suggestion. I spent nearly every summer looking like a burn victim, pouring gallons of aloe on my sun-abused skin. But it was a good time and I didn’t really mind it so much. However, the BEST beach season I can remember was when I was about 14 years old. That was the year I was allowed to ride the “beach bus” with my friends and hang out all day. Of course, this fun experience was short-lived after one of the most embarrassing things to ever happen to an adolescent girl took place in the summer of 1994.

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