A Tale Too Dumb for The Twilight Zone

I wear glasses. I have since I was about 10 years old. Yeah, I was one of those dorky kids that got called "Four-Eyes." Don't get me wrong, I wasn't dorky because I wore glasses. I was dorky because I was a dork. The glasses just made it easier for the mean kids to settle on a nickname. 

In high school I switched to contact lenses, which wasn't the transformative moment that movies and TV would have us believe ("Why, Molly, if you'd just take off those glasses and let your hair down, you'd be beautiful." Not how it works outside of "The Brady Bunch" and softcore porn.) But it did make me feel a bit better about myself, which led to having a smidge more self-confidence, which helped me find my own personal style, which...you get the picture. True beauty, like flatulence, comes from within.

Just ask Marilyn, who I'm told was a fan
of beans.

Fast-forward to the present day. I gave up on contacts years ago because lenses to correct my astigmatic eyeballs would be hella expensive and also I'm too lazy to take care of them properly (the lenses, not the eyeballs...although probably them, as well). So I wear glasses every day. And I don't like my current frames. I mean, I really don't like them. They resemble the glasses Michael Douglas wore in "Falling Down," and I don't know why I thought that was a good look for a middle-aged woman.

My crew cut looks better, tho.

I had different frames a few years back. I hated those, too. Guys, I'm so bad at making decisions. I'll try on 30 pairs of glasses at the store, second- and third- and eighteenth-guess myself, and ultimately go with something that feels safe and unremarkable...and doesn't suit me at all.

This, by the way, bodes SO WELL for me trying to buy a home.

"OMG, it's perfect." - my dumb ass, probably

But the frames I had before all of those...I loved them. I really, really loved them. When I look at photos of me in those glasses, I look so good. And not just because those photos are almost 10 years old. I'm probably less cute now than I was 10 years ago, but not that much less cute. 

That's my story, and I'm sticking to it.

For quite a while I've wished I could take those frames back to the store, get new lenses put in, and be happy. But I can't. Because I lost them.

I don't throw old glasses away. I'm a pack rat. I still have 3.5" floppy disks and external hard drives that don't work with any computer manufactured in this century. Don't get me started on mixtapes that I lack a device to play them on (on which to play them...skip it) and that by now would probably sound like lo-fi whale calls if I did. 

And are as fragile as my ego, to boot.

Yet I somehow managed to lose these remarkable frames. Oh, I've searched for them. Every time I stumble across an eyeglass case - in a desk drawer, a closet, a random box of memorabilia - I check it out. It'll be an old pair of mine, or an old pair of Precocious Daughter's, but never THE ONES. They're just gone...

...is what I thought until a few days ago.

One end of my kitchen island is home to a random assemblage of stuff. It's not a trash heap of impenetrable layers. I can see everything, and if there's something there I actually need, I can put my hands on it right away. I do mostly ignore it on a daily basis, because I'm good at things like that.

A few days ago I was tidying up a bit, and my eye fell on a glasses case sitting among the random items on my island. I've seen it before. I've opened it before, hoping my lost frames were inside. Which they were not. They abso-fucking-lutely were not, any of the times I looked.

Except a few days ago, they were.

Now, I'm a fan of "glitch in the matrix" stories that proliferate on the internet. They're good for a shiver down the spine, like reading a ghost story or kicking a heavy object in the middle of the night (bookmark that for future post, btw). But I don't really believe they actually happen, or that they can't be easily explained away.

So the glasses were undoubtedly there the whole time, and I didn't check the case because I assumed I had checked it previously. That's all. 

But they weren't. They just weren't.

Look, it's far easier to believe that my resident ghost slipped them in when I wasn't looking, or that the very fabric of reality unraveled just enough to allow their passage between alternate planes of existence, than to admit that I'm as foolish and addled as I feel after making my discovery.

Me, now.

To whatever spirit or force or cluster of fried brain cells returned my old glasses to me...thank you. This makes me happy. 

If you wanted to return my youth, my 26-inch waist, or my unblemished liver, I'd be OK with that, too.

Browbeaten

 For those who don't know, I'm in menopause.

I don't know why it's called menopause, by the way. It's meno-full-fucking-stop. My monthly flow isn't coming back, you guys. Neither is my youth, vitality, or natural lubrication.

I still have a sex drive, but the road is permanently closed, if you know what I mean.

The detour is DEATH, ha ha!

Anyway, I've experienced a particular physical side effect of menopause that no one ever told me about. Female Drunkards of a certain age, tell me if this is a thing for you, too.

I've lost my eyebrows.

I mean, they're not gone. No one broke in and stole them. They didn't fall off my face and get mixed with the dust bunnies under the sofa, never to be seen again because I don't know the last time I vacuumed under the sofa.

It's just that, apparently, whatever hormones are responsible for producing and maintaining those little strips of hair over my eyes have dried up along with those that used to make me bleed out of my hoohah every 28 days or so. Because my eyebrows, never actually lush to begin with, now resemble that streak of sticky soda you once spilled on the floor and didn't realize you hadn't cleaned up properly until it began to attract stray cat hairs and crumbs and look like something out of a petri dish growing in the doorway.

Or Minty, the Candy Cane That Fell on the Ground

We've all done that, right?

I think the last time I regularly went around without drawing in my eyebrows was back in the 90s. It's not that they looked great even way back then, but I was young enough and cute enough that I didn't care. Also, carefully groomed brows didn't fit in with the borderline hippie-chick aesthetic I was attempting to rock in those days.

But for years  I've had to enhance my eyebrows years to avoid looking like some kind of alien, or Florida Senator Rick Scott. Which I realize is redundant.

Gah. He doesn't even have the menopause excuse like I do.

And once I hit the menopause milestone, my already quite light and quite thin eyebrows simply gave up the ghost. I didn't stop growing hair in other places: not under my arms, or on my legs, or around my lonesome funhouse. In fact, I strongly suspect that most of the hair that no longer thrives above my eyes is trying to take up residence on my upper lip, where an old-lady mustache keeps threatening to sprout. 

But my eyebrows are sad, people. They consist of, like, 16 colorless strands that peter out to bare skin as they approach the outer corners of my eyes.  I used to have to tweeze them on a regular basis to maintain their shape and size. Hell, I even used to carefully shave them. They now sell cool little battery-operated gizmos that will give your eyebrows a precision trim. But old-school me just took my double-blade Lady Bic razor and scraped away at the delicate skin above my eyes, you know, in the name of beauty. If that's not a metaphor for GenX, I don't know what is.

We all wanted to be Molly Ringwald on the outside, 
but we were all Ally Sheedy on the inside.

Anyway, nowadays I carefully apply brown makeup to my eyebrows as part of my morning routine. It's not easy, because honestly I can barely see the skimpy hairs I'm attempting to darken and define. One of these days, if I'm not careful, I'm going to end up looking like Gloria Swanson in Sunset Boulevard. 

Bring on that close-up, yo.

But you know what? That's OK. Of all the quirky physical changes that come with menopause (I didn't think it was possible to lose muscle mass in places where I never had muscles to begin with, for example), sparse eyebrows are among the least likely to constantly remind me that I'm advancing rapidly through middle age. Unlike, say, the jelly roll that has taken up permanent residence around my waist.

So...gals and guys, what physical symptoms of aging have taken you by surprise?

I'm All About Purple...Unless You're Not

Today's poll question for you guys:

Should I put a streak of purple in my hair?

Artist's rendering.

Wait, let me contextualize that for everybody.

Should I - a middle-aged single mom who is already fairly goofy looking and even more fairly insecure about her looks - put a purple streak in my hair?

I love purple. My glasses are purple. My phone case is purple. Many of my favorite items of clothing are purple. My car, Benedict Cumberhatch, would be purple if he were offered in that color. My bedspread is purple, my shower curtain is purple, and I'm currently wearing a purple bra.

And as far as almost everyone reading this
knows, my boobs look just like these.

My point is -

Guys, stop looking at the breasts. Focus.

My point is, I'm 48 years old. I've pretty much reached a place where I can treat my physical presence as some kind of cosmic joke, to which I can provide whatever avant garde, baroque punchline I please. In other words, nobody can convince me that I'm one iota more or less attractive than I believe I am. Because I just don't care how you think I look, as long as I'm OK with how I think I look.

Can you dig it?

I legit find her so beautiful.

So if I get a notion to put a purple streak in my standard fluffy chin-length mom-bob, whose business is it, really, but my own?

Other than everyone who has to look at me.

But do I give a flip, as long as I can look at myself and think, "That is a BITCHING purple streak. Yaaasss, queen"?

I think that's how the kids talk. But I don't really care.

Because bein' purple, like bein' green, is beautiful.

Anyway. There is a bottle of purple hair dye on my bathroom vanity. And it would take me only a few minutes to introduce a righteous streak of purple into my standard suburban-mom hairstyle.

It's not permanent. It's just hair. And I really, really like purple.

Oh, other considerations are Precocious Daughter's opinion, my semi-conservative engineering firm employer, and my own ability to withstand looks from strangers (which typically freak me the fuck out).

That's the mix, Drunkards.

Do I apply the purple streak?

Or do I leave it to other, way more cool women/moms/bloggers?

If enough of you care to answer, her or on Facebook or on Twitter, I'll go with the majority.

I mean, why not?

Remember, the issue confronting us is this: Chuck Baudelaire - Purple Streak or Hell No?

Thanks for weighing in.

*psst...purple*

This Happened (For Real, You Guys)

So Drummer Boy is coming over later.

He said he was going to drum for a little while (DUH), then get something to eat, then come over.

I messaged him and said I was going to take a shower and put on my jammies before he arrived.

WHAT.

So...We are adults, you know?

We've been, um, intimate.

We've spent nights together and awoken in the same bed.

He's seen me, literally and figuratively, at my most unadorned and unmade and - let's face it - ugly.

Yet I had a freaking near-breakdown when I realized I had informed my boyfriend that I was going to be sans makeup and supportive undergarments when he arrived at my home.

You guys, I am totally a feminist. I believe that all women who believe they're beautiful are, in fact, beautiful.

Except when it comes to, you know, me.

...

Oh.

Oh, you guys.

Drummer Boy is here. He's eating a sandwich.

I just said to him, "I'm not wearing any makeup."

And he answered:

"Neither am I."

OH.

I wish you all a millionth of what I've found with this man. Seriously.

I'm in love. I hope each of you can say the same.

<3 p="">

If That Thing Fits

I bought three pairs of really cute shoes recently, and I haven't worn any of them.

Not these, but how freaking adorable are they?

I don't think I deserve to wear the shoes I bought.

How goddamn pathetic is that?

I ordered all three pairs online, and each time I thought, "I can't wait to wear those." But when they arrived, and I unboxed them and beheld them in all their totally-living-up-to-expectations-of-greatness-ness, I had but one thought:

"I can't wait until I feel good enough to wear those."

That of course begs the question: Why do I not feel good enough to wear cute shoes?

Bitches, allow me to present this episode of "Dinosaur Comics" to explain
how I'm using the phrase "begging the question" correctly. Bitches.

I don't feel I deserve to wear insanely cute shoes.

I don't know exactly why I feel this way. After all, I'm not just Working Mom, I'm Single Mom, Dating Mom, and Trying Not to Be a Complete Fucking Disgrace to Her Daughter Mom.

That should count for something, right?

Am I Wonder Woman? Oh, shut up.

Here's what I am: a newly single mom who has enough nerve to order super-cute shoes from the Internet when she's feeling alone and saucy. But maybe not so brave as to actually wear said super-cute shoes when they arrive. And maybe just keeps wearing her increasingly sad and worn mall-bought shoes because they are safe and sensible.

So even though my closet contains:

Black-and-white polka-dot pumps with kitten faces on them...

and

Off-white patent peep-toe shoes adorned with peacock-feather designs...

and

Pink suede lace-up pumps made for swing dancing...

don't expect to me see me rocking them any time soon.

Not until I convince myself I deserve them.

Do I deserve them?

Your feedback is totally welcome.

And if I decide to wear any of my adorable shoes, I'll post pictures of my gnarly feet wearing amazing shoes. I promise.

Go.

I'll Take Shallow Joy Over Deep Despair...Pretty Manicure Edition

Thanks to my friend and loyal Drunkard Riley's Mom, I have purple sparkly fingernails.

Actually, way sparklier in person.

That's not nearly as erotic as it sounds, though.

Riley's Mom just hosted an online sales party for a certain brand of nail wraps.

I'm not going to give the name, because this isn't like a sponsored post or anything. But you could probably Google "nail wraps online party" and get pretty to close to it.

If you had, like, mad sleuthin' skills.

Anyway, she invited me through Facebook, and after initial trepidation that this might be an in-home party that would require me to actually leave the house and socialize with people, I joined the group because all I had to do was click "Join," and I felt totally able to do that.

I really had no intention of going further than that. I wanted to support Riley's Mom because she has been totally supportive of me. But as you know if you visit here often, I'm going through a lot of shite and money is very tight and the last thing I needed to do was to splurge on, of all things, nail wraps.

But then I realized that this product actually solves two real problems in my life: The fact that I cannot fathom paying people to touch my hands, and the fact that I'm absolutely terrible at applying nail polish.

NOT MY HAND.
But kinda representative, yeah.

And there were so many pretty pictures of fingernails decked out in colors and patterns and images and themes. I devoutly wished to have those fingernails, no matter how impossible that seemed. It was like being in middle school all over again.

So I did what I do when I'm faced with a conundrum. I began researching.

I read up on this company and its product. I watched the how-to videos. I read the testimonials. I explored the website.

And I finally decided: For a fairly minimal investment, I could try something new, risk-free, in my own home, that at the very least would provide a momentary distraction from my problems and, if it actually worked the way it claimed, could make me feel pretty and happy, and God knows when I last felt either of those things.

Quite a pretty frog, actually.

So I placed an order. Nothing fancy, nothing elaborate. One sheet of sparkle fingernails, and one sheet of solid-color fingernails. I felt I was supporting my friend Riley's Mom without going overboard or taking food out of Precocious Daughter's mouth.

I have to admit, when my nail wraps arrived in the mail today, I was surprised at how excited I felt.

Still, I didn't really believe I could successfully give myself a manicure with them. Because of, you know, the fact that I'm terrible at applying nail polish. And also the fact that when I'm stressed, my fingernails tend to break, and about six of them broke this week.

Yeah, I said "broke."

I decided to try to apply a single wrap and see how it went. If it was a disaster - if I screwed it up, if it looked horrible, if it stressed me out - I would put the rest of my order in a drawer and chalk it up to to least having participated in a friend's event, albeit one that didn't benefit me in any way.

None of that happened. I was so pleased with how my pinky finger looked wrapped in sparkly purple (what else did you think I was going to get?) that I ended up doing an entire manicure - my fingers in sparkly purple, my thumbs in deep shiny indigo.

It didn't turn out perfectly, but it turned out really, really well. Like, I felt happy well. Like, I ran a couple of errands immediately afterwards and was surprised I didn't get pulled over because I kept sneaking peeks at how amazing my fingernails looked.

You're right, these are lovely wraps.

I shouldn't be this affected by something as shallow as a nice manicure, should I?

Except, you know, when your entire life is in upheaval and every day brings a new hurdle to clear and you're wondering how you can possibly make it to the next stage of your life without falling flat on your face...when all of that is going on, maybe all you need is one simple, inconsequential thing to let you focus on the future and what's important.

Maybe feeling pretty because I have sparkly purple fingernails is more important in the scheme of things than I imagined.

I have purple sparkly fingernails, you guys.

Put on some Pink Floyd and think about that, you guys.

I love them.

And I love you.

And this is NOT a sponsored post. Although I would totally do one, if asked.

I support doing what makes you happy 1,000%.

Body Parts, What-If Edition

What if you had a Wonka-esque golden ticket that you could exchange for the perfect body part of you choice?

Yep, just like in Willy Wonka. Exactly the hell that.

What would you exchange your ticket for?

Sorry. For what would you exchange your ticket?

Whatever. Also, please leave my head.

For me? Would it be my gravity-prone breasts? My shorter-than-average legs? My undefined cheekbones?

Nope.

It would be my feet.

Caveat: These are not my feet.

Sure, I could wish for firm, gravity-defying breasts. But I've never, ever had those, so what's the point? I could wish for Mona Lisa-esque facial features, but again...why? I'm resigned to my face, really.

I could wish to be five inches taller, 40 pounds lighter, or just generally leaner and sinewy-er than I am. 

But no.

However, if I had pretty feet, I might actually feel a sense of accomplishment.

No corns, no rough spots, no misshapen pinky-nails.

I couldn't take a decent picture of my pinky toes,
but trust me, they are cloven, as per the Biblical
description of evil.

Anyway, I feel that my miscreant pinky toenails may be holding me back from achieving true love. So I would definitely turn them in for more normal-looking feet if I had the chance.

That's just me.

What about you?

What if you could cash in one current bodily feature for another that was more perfect in aspect? What would it be?

This should be interesting.

Not Sponsored by the Perfume Industry

Today my Sunday newspaper came with about a jillion perfume samples. Yes, I still subscribe to the newspaper.

I'm cool that way.

At this time of year the paper is thick with ads for Christmas gift-giving. Perfume is a popular choice, because it's overpriced and serves no practical purpose, which I guess is how people say "I love you"?

Actually, I don't dislike perfume. It's just that I have so many other products, all trying so very hard to smell nice, that I can't see adding one more to my person that doesn't even serve any other purpose except to be fragrant. At least my scented lotion keeps me from having snake-skin.

No offense to snakes, but this is not a good look for me.

Anyway, two large department store chains (that sound like "Schmillard's" and "Schmacy's") had ads that were more like mini-magazines stuffed with perfume strips. If I suffered from sensitivity to scent, I would be pissed at Schmillard's and Schmacy's for subjecting me to such misery. But I don't, and I love perfume samples. So I thought I'd review some of them, in case you're in the market for expensive toilet water this holiday season.

First up is J'Adore by Dior. Back when I wore perfume on a semi-regular basis, my favorite was Dior's Dolce Vita. But this is not that. J'Adore is kind of a generically sweet scent - eh. Plus it has those weird commercials with Charlize Theron being all glowy. And Schmillard's wants me to fork over fifty bucks for a small bottle of shower gel that smells like it. Next.

Not saying Photoshop is involved here, but skin doesn't do that.

Then there's Si by Giorgio Armani. This has "deep blackcurrant nectar, airy florals and musky blond wood." It's not unpleasant, but it sort of reminds me of a higher-end version of the potpourri air freshener that my grandma used to have in her bathroom. In a romantic situation, I don't want my partner or myself to make that particular association. Sorry, Armani.

Moving on, we come to My Burberry. This is supposed to smell like "a London garden after the rain." It does smell flowery. Really, really flowery. Like the floral department in a grocery store. That's...not a good thing. Especially not a $40 an ounce. I'd rather smell like the rotisserie chicken stand, tbh.

This is what drives a man wild.

Michael Kors has three different samples on one page. That's smart: Throw it at the wall and see what sticks, Michael Kors. OK, there's Glam Jasmine. This smells like lawn clippings. There's Sporty Citrus. Oooh, I like this one very much, although it doesn't smell sporty or citrus-y. I would probably call this Zippity Swish, which is why they don't let me name perfumes. Finally, there's Sexy Amber. Wow, that's an unfortunate name, because to me it smells just like baby lotion. Good job, Michael Kors. Maybe Zippity Swish isn't so bad, after all.

Hey, I just noticed that Schmacy's ad features a lot of the same samples as Schmillard's. Well, that's silly. Let's see, here's one: Modern Muse, by Estee Lauder. This smells like...perfume. I guess. This may be the most generic thing ever. Buy this for someone who has only read about perfume in books. There's also something called Modern Muse Chic. Which makes me sincerely appreciate the generic quality of original Modern Muse. Good grief, this smells like sadness and aching.

Now we come to Donna Karan's Cashmere Mist. I can't say I love this one, but the name actually fits the scent. It's very, very soft. At the very least, it doesn't smell like all the others. I'm conflicted about Cashmere Mist. Is that a good thing for a perfume? I don't know.

Finally, there's Coco Mademoiselle by, of course, Chanel. And Chanel scores. I think every woman has her own idea of what perfume is supposed to do for her. Pretty sure this one does it for me. Oh my gosh, I want to be the woman who smells this way. And I can, for only...$115 for a quarter-ounce? Dear baby Christ. 

I can't afford to smell that good.

Looks like it's back to Bath & Body Works with me.

You know, the Cashmere Mist is starting to grow on me.

But I'd rather have a cashmere sweater. Feels better on my snake-skin.

There She Is

In my travels around the Internet, I found these pictures of Ruth Malcomson, who was crowned Miss America in 1924:

She is so beautiful, isn't she? This was the standard for beauty and poise 90 - yes, ninety - years ago.

These were her 10 rules for beauty, as published in a magazine article during  her reign:

Rise early.
Eat a hearty breakfast.
Exercise.
No alcohol.
Smoking is detrimental.
Get outdoors.
Eat a light lunch.
Eat a satisfying dinner.
Early to bed.
Sleep.

A lot of wisdom there, yes?

Ruth Malcomson Schaubel passed away in 1988. Here's a lovely obituary.

Do you think our modern standards of beauty match up to those of 1924?

Son of a Itch

I still have shingles.

Some of my symptoms have gotten much better. The extreme light sensitivity is almost gone, which is great, because I'm tired of looking like David Carradine in "Kung Fu."

Sorry if that reference flies right over your head,
grasshopper.

The fatigue has become much more intermittent and manageable. That's actually kind of a bummer; I was enjoying having a go-to reason to leave work a few hours early. On the other hand, the spells of exhaustion still occur just often enough to remind me how truly awful it is to have no energy.

imagerymajestic/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

I don't mind falling asleep at work,

but I hate nodding off at home

during "Friends" repeats.

What won't go away is the itching.

The persistent, maddening itching. Which is persistent. And maddening.

anankkml/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

No, adorable puppy, it's only cute when you do it.

I spend approximately nine hours a day scratching. I arrived at that number by making it up, but it's probably not wrong. My shingles occurred on the left side of my head, so that's where the itching is: The left half of my scalp, the left side of my forehead, and above my left eye. I now understand why the Latin word for "left" is "sinister."

stockimages/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

The left hand is evil and, apparently, goofy.

For the most part, it's simply an annoyance. When people see me scratching my head in public, they may think I have head lice or the dreaded cooties, but I don't care. Frankly, if it keeps people from approaching me, that's a benefit that somewhat offsets the irritation.  And I'm not going to not scratch. The relief is too sweet. Also, I may end up being discovered by a casting director looking for the star of his new blockbuster dandruff shampoo commercial. LET ME HAVE MY DREAM, PEOPLE.

The scalp itching isn't the worst, though. It's the itching around my eye that's getting to me. It's pretty bad.

How bad?

This morning I realized that I'm actually scratching my left eyebrow away.

My eyebrows aren't exactly full and lush in the first place. But now I'm going brow-bald on the left side. 

Sure, Whoopi can pull off this look. I'm no Whoopi.

It's ridiculous. If it keeps up, I'm going to need an eyebrow toupee, or at least a tiny backwards baseball cap to cover my hairless ridge. Will it grow back when the itching finally goes away? Or have I permanently uprooted those tender hairs, never to return?

I just don't know.

I wonder if Joan Crawford had shingles and lost an eyebrow?

'Twould explain a lot, although not the wire hangers.

Anyway, if you see a wretched creature wandering the suburbs with a patch of red skin where an eyebrow once proudly arched, it's just me. Don't look away in disgust. Give me some sympathy. And maybe an eyebrow pencil. 

Notes from Whatever Planet My Child Lives on These Days

I didn't post yesterday because of Precocious Daughter. After I left a busy day at work, I picked her up from karate at her former middle school, then drove to her high school for "meet the teachers" night, then stopped at the house just long enough for her to change out of her karate outfit, then to the mall to get her hair cut. If you're thinking I didn't mention eating dinner during all that, it's because I didn't. By the time I got home, I had been go-go-going for something like 14 hours. I was tired.

Peter Haken/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

Dog tired. Get it? (Awwwww.)

This is what I've learned: Having a kid in high school is exhausting. It's pretty damn awesome, too; I mean, PDaughter is turning into an amazing young adult before my eyes, and it's happening at a breathtaking rate. But there's a thin line between breathtaking and out of breath. She's on one side of it, and I'm on the other.

Also, and maybe right on schedule, she's becoming baffling. That's what teenagers are, right? They're frothy concoctions made of hormones, inside jokes, and drama. My kid still seems to like me as her mom, which is great, although she's not even halfway through her freshman year, so there's plenty of time for that mother-daughter sturm und drang to foment. But the sense that she's becoming separate enough from me to maybe decide whether or not she likes me as a person is growing. Baffling.

Stuart Miles/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

This, on the other hand, is pretty par for the course.

And not only that:

She's become a huge band geek. She took to marching band like a platypus to something a platypus really likes. Deviled eggs, maybe? I don't know. Anyway, for a parent, marching band is expensive, time-consuming, and involves a lot of late nights sitting in parking lots waiting for the band bus to show up. But she absolutely loves it, which means I love it, too.

Bernie Condon/FreeDigitalPhotos.net

She has a boyfriend. PDaughter has her first boyfriend. My child is somebody's girlfriend. My shit is a little freaked can you tell or what? I haven't met this boy yet. I've heard his voice (on Facetime) and seen a blurry cell-phone picture of half his face. That's all. I know she's kissed him. (Excuse me while I die for a moment...........Thank you.) Also, he's a drummer. She has a Drummer Boy. That sound you hear is the apple not falling far from the tree. Confidential to Bestest Friend: Yes, I totally reused that line from the email I sent you earlier today. It was too good not to.

Sometimes she drives me crazy. I mean, what the hell do teenagers do in the bathroom that takes so long? Did I do that when I was a teenager? Probably, but I'm pretty sure that every time PDaughter gains an annoying habit, it drives away my own memories of doing the exact same thing at her age. It's an evolutionary adaptation so that we don't murder our young.

She's beautiful. I'm not bragging on my kid. It's just a fact, and I take no credit for it. It's not just that her face is pretty, although it really, really is (especially considering the mugs on her parents): It's that there's something inside her that just shines out. She's happy and outgoing and friendly and nice, and that is so beautiful. 

Oh, and one more thing...she loves the Ramones. I'm pretty much the luckiest mom on the planet.

All About Shingles, Or As I Like to Call Them, Head Herpes

I had to log off Facebook last night because all the positive feedback about the return of the blog was embarrassing the hell out of me. I have a hard time with praise. It's not that I don't think I deserve it, it's just that I think you're all damned liars.

But thank you again from the bottom of my heart. Your words made yesterday a very special day.

And now let's talk about shingles.

Image by artur84 courtesy of FreeDigitalPhotos.net
Shingles as far as the eye can see.

Shingles is a disease that I suppose is destined to become nearly extinct in the next generation or so. You can only get it if you've had chicken pox, and except for the kids whose parents are crackpots, pretty much everyone gets vaccinated against chicken pox these days. That's probably why the pharmaceutical companies are pimping shingles so hard these days. They missed out on polio, they're not going to miss their chance to milk the shingles cow until the final moo.

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That is a terrible metaphor. Sorry, I'm a bit rusty.

Have you seen this commercial?



My experience with shingles has been exactly like that, except:

1. I'm not an old man.
2. I didn't have curl-up-in-a-fetal-position pain.
3. I didn't have a rash that looked like someone smashed a pomegranate against my stomach.
4. It didn't go away after 30 days. Or 60. And 90 isn't looking too likely.

So maybe I haven't had a textbook case of shingles. Or maybe Merck realizes that showing a relatively young, semi-cute woman who is inconvenienced but not disabled by the disease won't achieve their marketing goal of scaring the bejeezus out of elderly people with Medicare funds to burn.

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Let's blow the kids' inheritance on prescription drugs
and oxygen!

Or maybe, you know, I can't do anything the normal way, including this.

I'm a little young to get shingles (under 50). And I got them on my face and scalp, which is only the second most common location, after the torso. This is the girl who liked the second favorite Hardy Boy and the second favorite Duke brother in the 70s, after all. I believe Number 2 tries harder.

Not always successfully, but harder.

The upside of getting shingles on your head instead of your body is that you don't have to go through the hell of having clothing constantly rubbing against them. I've never in my life experienced itching like shingle-itch; I can't imagine how much worse it is when they're being touched by a shirt all day.

The downside of getting shingles on your head is that a) everyone can see your disgusting rash, and b) they get in your eye. And when they get in your eye, you have about 72 hours to start treatment before they do permanent damage.

I barely made it.

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Missed it by that much.

Hey, I thought I just had a really bad hangover because my head hurt. And then I thought I had pinkeye because my eye got all puffy and red. It turns out I'm not a qualified medical practitioner - who knew? My doctor, on the other hand, immediately diagnosed shingles, and immediately after that referred me to an ophthalmologist to check out my affected eye before "important shit starts rotting off your see-orb." (Note: I may not be remembering that quote 100% accurately.)  The doctor looked pretty concerned. The ophthalmologist (which is the hardest of all medical specialties to spell, because of course I couldn't get a disease that required a podiatrist) looked really concerned, and didn't sound all that convincing when he said we had "probably caught it in time...hopefully...we'll see...do you already own a glass eye, by any chance?"

Again, my memory may be paraphrasing. I was under a lot of stress.

By the way, shingles can totally be triggered by stress. Or an alcohol binge. Especially an alcohol binge triggered by stress.

Fun fact: Before September 1st, I was drinking upwards of 300 ounces of vodka a month. Picture a can of Coke. Now picture it filled with straight vodka instead of Coke. Now picture drinking one of those nearly every single night for months on end. And that was before I switched to tequila the last week of August.

But I digress.

Outwardly, my rash wasn't too bad. I never developed the angry lesions or oozing blisters that can come with the shingles experience. At my worst I appeared to have a moderate case of adult acne on the left side of my face. I was lucky that way.

Also, I was rarely in severe pain. I've certainly had my share of stabbing pains in and around my eye, but nothing that rises - or sinks - to the level of curling up in a ball. I know that many shingles sufferers have it much worse. Again, I'm very fortunate.

But the itching and the extreme fatigue have been pretty spirit-crushing. Especially since they've now continued for months. And although my condition has improved, I'm not all better by any means. As recently as last weekend, I spent almost the whole day in bed. I can't get a haircut until I'm sure my stylist won't have to touch the shingles on my scalp. They're still up there, according to the near-contstant need to scratch. For several weeks I've been telling people I expect to be fully recovered by Thanksgiving. At first that seemed like a ridiculously conservative projection. Now it seems ridiculously optimistic.

I have to say that even this relatively mild case of shingles has been a life-changing experience. It's one I wouldn't wish on anyone. Not even Ted Cruz. Seriously. It sucks that hard. Also, ex-football player and goofball Terry Bradshaw is the celebrity spokesperson for shingles.



If you must get a disease, Drunkards, get one with better representation.

Still, the combination of not drinking and not being awake enough to eat very much has resulted in a fairly substantial weight loss. Another 10 pounds, and I'll be 10 pounds away from only needing to lose another 10 pounds.

Actually, the last time I lost that much weight involved another medical crisis that I wouldn't wish on anyone. It'll all be in the book.

And that's my shingles story.

P.S. I forgot the other main side effect of shingles (for me, anyway): Extreme light sensitivity. In some ways this is the worst one of all. Well, in one way, which is that I've always hated wearing sunglasses. How much is one relatively young, semi-cute woman supposed to endure?