The other day, a friend sent me a text. In the last year, this friend has had some turmoil: she had to leave the job that she loved to take one that paid enough to live on (but is "sucking out my soul") and had some, as she put it, "Cliche bullshit" in her personal life. On top of that, we both turned 40. Her text read: "How do you know if you're having a midlife crisis? It's easy with men: young woman, fast car...Maybe I'm just depressed." And that got me to thinking. Me being me, I've pretty much been in "mid-life crisis mode" since I was 24. But that's another blog. How do women have a genuine MLC? Let's start with the easy answers: facelifts, boob jobs, suddenly mad that our husbands sit on the couch watching football instead of doing spontaneous romantic things, wearing low-cut shirts (that are steadily more low-cut as our cleavage travels south), that sort of thing. But really, what's going on? And are we allowed? I've been 40 for almost a year now. At the time it happened, I really hadn't thought much about it other than acknowledging the fact that it truly was no longer going to be acceptable for me to do some things, like wear a bikini or hog the dance floor at the club where they are apparently letting in younger and younger people (they keep looking younger and younger to me, anyway). Probably shouldn't do 5 Jager shots in a night and not expect repercussions. I should probably start excising the word "Fuck" from my everyday conversations. I would have to gain some, ahem, mature decorum. Ok; no biggie. I can do those things. Then I realized that in pictures, I suddenly look different. Like, DIFFERENT different. I'm all puffy in the eye area and OHMYGOD, are those jowls? Why do I look like I weigh 160 pounds? Oh, right, because I do. My nose has always been of the non-petite type, but it seems to have taken on a new curve and is sagging. MY NOSE IS SAGGING. That's almost worse than my boobs sagging, because there is no socially acceptable nose bra. And overnight, my waist went inside-out. And my butt flattened, apparently under the weight of the flanks it is hefting around. The schema in my brain labeled "What I Look Like" was incongruous with what I was seeing. And I've never considered myself to be a beauty, but I was no slouch, I thought. What do I do now? Freak out? Go low-cut? Get a cub? Or go the other way and stop coloring my hair, buy high-waisted big-pocketed acid-washed jeans and wear them with big polo shirts and trainers? How do I have a physical mid-life crisis? I'm 40 in a society that doesn't like women who look 40. Oh, sure; there are all kinds of role models that we can look at and say "See? Over 40 can still be lovely." And it can be, but I don't have a couple hundred grand sitting around for Botox and implants and laser contouring and personal trainers who will come to my house and make me cry and vomit. So, is there a place for us who are reluctantly aging gracefully? Part 2 will most likely deal with the non-shallow part of all of this: Who am I now? But right now, I need a nap. And a martini.

I TOLD you I was sick.

(I could say something flip like "that'll be my epitaph", haha. But it's just not funny right now.)
So, I haven't been feeling well. For about 2 or 3 years. It started with a rolling, oogy feeling in my tummy accompanied by a pain in my upper right abdomen. I went to my regular FP doctor, Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy, whom I love. He always listens and is very definitive with his diagnoses.
"It's your gall bladder. Let's get an ultrasound."
It wasn't my gall bladder. Just to be sure, he ordered a Hydroscan, which is an hours-long ordeal with much fasting beforehand and then having to lie very still in a scanner while gall-bladder-contracting-stuff is pumped into your veins.
Nothing.
The pain went away for a while.
Then it came back. This time Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy scheduled an endoscopy with a gastroenterologist friend of his. I talked to Dr. GI for about 2 minutes before he taped an O-ring in my mouth (making me feel ludicrously like a blow-up doll), knocked me out and stuck a camera down my gullet. While he was in there, he took pictures and nicked a chunk of my duodenum for a trophy.
Nothing.
It took 3 months to get in to see this gastroenterologist for a follow-up office visit. When I did, he joked that maybe I was faking it. Haha.
I went on a gluten-free diet and decided to shut the hell up about it for a year. I would be fine. I would make myself be fine.
Then I started having increasingly crazy PMS. For 2 weeks of every month, I would be exhausted, brain-dead, moody like you wouldn't believe, and felt like I had a pair of molten-lead bowling balls strapped to my chest. Then I would be okay for 2 weeks, would apologize to my family for being a bitch and to everyone else for being a flake, and would try to get caught up.
And the pain came back, bigger, more widespread and I kind of wanted to throw up a lot. I called Dr. GI. He ordered a full abdominal CAT scan. Right before this scan, I spent an AWESOME weekend water-skiing and wake surfing with some wonderful friends in a lake surrounded by cows. I might have swallowed some water. I know some water got into at least 2 orifices when I wrecked spectacularly while slalom skiing. It was brilliant. Then I came home, had the scan (fasting for a day, drinking a gallon of barium and then lying very still in a big machine again), and the next day started barfing and...well...the other thing that goes with barfing, only the other end. Ahem. Called Dr. SpeedyArmyGuy, who chewed me out for swallowing lake water and diagnosed me with giardia. Between talking with him and a friend of mine whose father is a GI doc, we started to think that maybe I had had a chronic giardia infection all along. Okay! A diagnosis! A treatment! Yes! Dr. GI did not take the news well and basically told me not to call his office anymore. Well, okay, I guess. Now I can move on and focus on this fucking PMS.
In the midst of the gut stuff, I had timidly asked my Gyno doc, twice at annual exams, if she could maybe check my ovaries, just to make sure that everything down there was okay and wasn't contributing to this gut stuff and the PMS. She said they felt fine. And if I wasn't going to take birth control pills, she couldn't help me. The pills made the PMS worse, I told her. She sighed and told me I was fine, it was nothing to do with anything down there and she wasn't going to test my ovaries because false positives are common and just not something she wanted to deal with. I was fine.

Yes.

I was fine.

Or not. But I decided, again, to just shut up. Maybe I was fine. Maybe I was faking it and didn't even know I was faking it. Maybe I was just that much of an attention whore.

Yes. I was fine.

Flash forward to March of this year. Everything started getting worse. The pain, the PMS. I read up on bioidentical hormones, found a (very expensive, non-insurance covered) Women's Health CNM. She made me spit into a handful of vials, sent them off for testing and then declared I was almost maybe peri-menopausal. It was something. So she gave me some (also very expensive) progesterone pills and cream and I dutifully used it.
I also saw a new GI doc, who was and is flummoxed and determined but decided to start by clearing my whole system and re-biotizing it. Great. I felt okay for 2 weeks. Then not. Really really not.
A month ago I got a postcard, randomly, for an ObGyn clinic specializing in "pelvic problems". I needed an annual poking and prodding and wasn't going back to the bitch who made me feel bad for asking if she could help me, so I scheduled an appointment.

Have you ever met one of those people who just...listens? And cares? And validates you, even when you come to them defensive and exhausted and at the end of a rapidly fraying rope? Yeah. He got it. He did the poking and prodding, then told me he would do every test that he thought might, at least, rule out anything wrong down there.
I cried. In front of him.

(Any men reading this might want to skip the next few paragraphs. Just sayin')

So yesterday I saw him in his ultrasound and super-poking lab office. He cranked open my uterus and poked it. That does NOT feel pleasant. At all. Then he wheeled over an ultrasound machine with a wand that he actually put an actual condom on. After I swallowed my humiliation and we giggled about it, he turned on the ultrasound and...started taking pictures of my inside. It took exactly 2 seconds before he said,
"Wow. Well, there you go. There's your problem."
On the screen was a big black ball. The size of a baseball. 700 cubic centimeters. (That's more than half a liter. A water bottle.)

I have a cyst on my ovary that would make a decent water balloon. It's making everything hurt just by being where it isn't supposed to be, and fucking up my hormones enough that my gut is discombobulated and my PMS is crazy.
I cried, again, in front of him. That insane laughing cry that just blasts out and you can't stop it. He hugged me. And I cried some more.

Because after 2 years of being sick, having my mental state and honesty questioned, tens of thousands of dollars in unnecessary and uncomfortable and humiliating tests, being an emotional wreck and a physical noodle, it's going to be over.

He's taking it out on Tuesday. With a robot!

And then I'll be fine.

Yep.

Fine.

Update and Explanation on the Saga of the Drama with the Excitement on Gregson Street, Part II

Sara is my best friend. Like my BEST best friend. She's that friend that gets me and likes me anyway and isn't afraid to tell me what to do. We used to be stay-at-home moms together but now our kids are in school all day, they go to different schools, and she went back to work (Huh. I seem to be the only one that no longer has an actual child at home all day who hasn't returned to the real world. Weird.). Thursday is her day off. So, Thursday is also my day off. Day off from what? Doesn't matter, really. What matters is that every Thursday I am lucky enough to be able to sit in my living room and have a drink and talk with my best friend. And when we talk, it's AWESOME. We could totally solve all the world's problems.

Last Thursday was Dirty Martini Thursday. (We generally pick a different cocktail every week. Recipes and suggestions gladly accepted). We were meeting at my house at high noon and the plan was that Sara would distract me with the awesome talking while I made fresh salsa. It's tedious, with all of the chopping. Right before noon, my dachshund started barking out in the yard. Not wanting to be the rude neighbor who lets their dogs just barkbarkbarkbarkbark, I stuck my head out the front door and hissed, "Wiener! Knock it offffff......" and then I choked. Because walking up the street past my house (along the cross bar of the T that I live on) were about a half dozen police officers, some in uniform, a couple in windbreakers that said SHERIFF on the back, one in a shirt and tie. All with their guns drawn. As they approached...wait for it...Creepy Gary's house, they trained their sights on his front door. Three of them ducked behind his car parked in the driveway. Two went to the porch to pound on the front door. One scampered one more house up the street and covered the front door with a big-ass rifle from behind a light pole. I decided there was something serious going down and called the dogs inside. And got Sara's ass on the phone.
"Where are you?" (I whispered so as not to tip Gary off that there were cops outside his house).
"I'm almost there! Sorry!"
"K, when you get here, park in front and then RUN to the side door. Hurry! There's cops surrounding my neighbor's house!" (I was yelling now, realizing that Gary couldn't hear me from way over here. That and the cops were knocking really loudly on his door and yelling for him to come out and it was very exciting). "Duck and cover! Hurry!"
"What the hell's going on?"
"I don't know, but it's some serious shit!"
I had no idea how serious it would get.

Sara pulled up and parked crookedly, almost like a movie-car stop. She scurried inside and she and I watched the half-dozen police officers give up trying to get someone to come out of Gary's house. They stood down, signaled to each other and then commenced closing the streets of the T. No one could get in, or out. So we poured a couple of extra dirty 'tinis and settled ourselves in my dining room so we could see out the big front windows and I could chop salsa. A while later, three enormous motorhomes and a bevy of cop cars flooded the bottom of the T. "Mobile Command Unit" said one motorhome. One was painted black. From that one, what looked like Army guys came flooding out. They positioned themselves in scary sniper-type places including the roof of a garage and behind some hedges. After about an hour, there was a small flurry of excitement, and the Army guys surrounded someone on the sidewalk. It was *dun dun dun* Creepy Gary himself. Looking scared and weak and like a crazy pedophile who has been in a stand-off with the cops should look. Wild-grizzled-hair-and-beard crazy. He's a cliche, really. They handcuff him and hustle him off toward the command center.

So we thought at that point it might be over. Wrong! Information about what was going on started trickling in from friends calling and texting. Apparently, Creepy Gary's latest boy toy was in a peck of trouble. He'd killed a young woman that morning; his girlfriend. And was now holed up in Creepy Gary's house with an unknown quantity of guns. Yep. These are the people Creepy Gary is bringing to this sweet quiet neighborhood.

Now I was getting worried. It was almost time to start thinking about children that would need to be picked up from school and there was no indication that the police were going to let Sara or I leave. Not that we wanted to, really, it was just getting interesting. So we made arrangements for our respective children, poured another drink and decided to watch more. But first we went out to the back yard for a minute. You know, for some fresh air.
I live on a corner. So my back yard is exposed to the cross-bar of the T of streets. The up-down part of the T starts at my front yard. This visual will help, trust me.
So Sara and I are in the back yard and can't really see what's going on, but we figure since my house is between us and Creepy Gary's house we're safe. As we're chatting about our current situation, I look up just in time to see a line of Army guys (turns out, they're SWAT team. I didn't know they wear camo) at my front gate. My front gate is locked with a carabiner to keep dogs in and small children out, and the lead SWAT guy can't get it open what with all the big-ass guns he's holding. So--BAM--he kicks in the gate and the whole team just files through my front yard, along the side, through the back yard and out the back gate. Would have been really sexy had I not just about peed myself. As they passed us one of them yelled at us to get inside and into the basement. Really? Yeah...No. We're not about to miss this action. But we nod and thank them for being awesome. Then we run back inside and duck down to watch through the front door and big front window.
Another hour or so goes by. There are little flurries of activity. Someone brings the SWAT guys hunkered around Gary's car a drink. Various official people go by my house, ducking behind Sara's car and using it as a shield which doesn't make Sara happy. A K-9 officer hunkers down behind of her car too. My dogs decide to bark at him, at which point I have to remind them that that dog has a JOB and they should just pipe down. My husband calls for an update and is righteously pissed that they cops kicked in our gate. Were they going to fix it? Pay for it? What the hell?
I gently reminded him that his beloved wife was trapped in the house surrounded by an alarmingly large arsenal of guns and nobody knew how much deadly weaponry was at the house across the street, potentially being tended by a wack-job who had already committed murder today.
"They just better fix our gate."
I feel cherished. Really.
(To give him credit, he called right back and apologized and said he loves me and hoped everything would be okay).

And finally, it was okay. The SWAT team brought out their door-basher-inner and some shield thingies and put on gas-masks. Oo! It's about to go down! They holler on the bullhorn for whomever is in the house to either answer the phone or come out or they're coming in. After some noises and more flurry, they're wrestling with someone on the front lawn. Five of them are dragging him away, right past my house to the command center.

He looks about 15. He's crying and looks like he's the one who peed his pants.

He's a boy. A lost sad boy who killed a girl and holed up with a crazy perv and nearly got himself shot by a sniper.

And it's over. The SWAT guys high-five each other, the cops in plain clothes pat each other on the back. Sara and I hug and laugh nervously and she leaves to get her kid. Cars being held back flood into the T. We neighbors gather in small groups and discuss.

And, to my utter indignant astonishment, Creepy Gary shuffles up the street. Free to go.

Part 3 soon. Must go do real world type stuff.

Update and Explanation on the Saga of the Drama with the Excitement on Gregson Street

Whew. Okay. So.
We moved to this neighborhood when the Girl was 2. Mostly because she was getting to the age of wanting to make friends and we lived in Crack Central and I didn't really want her having playdates at the meth house. We didn't have a lot of money, but we managed to get a sweet teensy cottage bungalow in an old neighborhood on the east side not far from the city. It's a neighborhood that was mostly planted during and after WWII, and many of the houses still contain widows and widowers who have lived here since they bought their first house as newlyweds just after the Big War or their children who grew up loving this neighborhood. Neat yards, trimmed bushes, picket fences, a few odd additions. But lovely. And quiet. And no hookers walking past the house. Nor crying toddlers wandering through whose moms have passed out at noon. It's a small-yet-nice-house neighborhood full of people who love it here.

You know how there's always the ONE house? That one with crap all over the yard, needs paint and new awnings, weedy used-to-be-flowerbeds, either a rental or an inheritance? Yeah, we have one of those. His name is Gary. Bonus that he's a creepy fifty-something year old single man who has Hoarding Disorder. And likes little boys a little too much. He lives across the street from me. (Sort of. If you need a visual to enjoy this story, I live on the corner of a "T". My house is at the top of the up-down part of the T. Gary's hovel is across the street, on what would be the cross bar of the T. Clear? All righty then).
There have always been rumors about Gary. Even someone who doesn't cotton to rumors has to admit that there are just too many stories about Gary to ignore the feeling that we should all keep our kids away from his lawn. And maybe our dogs too.
Gary "rescues" young men with criminal pasts from homeless shelters and jail. He brings them to his house and gives them a place to stay (assuming they can clear a spot amid the piles of stuff in his house, that is). That's all I know for sure. I sure wouldn't want to be accused of slander by writing that we're all pretty positive that he buys them drugs in exchange for sex. Nope. But I have seen him and his creepy friends standing around the front yard and then one or more young men scurry from his house to the bus stop. But I'm sure it was all...innocent. And helpful. And Morally Upstanding. I'm sure his medal from the mayor is in the mail. Is there a sarcasm font yet?
Somehow, he has managed to get away with it. The cops know about him. He has a rap sheet, but doesn't appear on the sex offender list. We've had the U.S. Marshall on our doorstep showing us 'Wanted' posters and asking if we've "seen this man" at Gary's house. It's always a picture of a defiant young man, dark skinned, thin. But Gary is smart in that disgusting slimy way; he knows the line between legal and illegal and he skates it well. He knows the technicalities and he exploits them whenever attention is called to him. (When I confronted him Friday after the whole Saga of Drama with the Excitement, his only response was to make sure I knew that the boy in question is 23 years old. That was all). So we all live with Gary and his drug addicted boy-toys. And hate him. I feel sorry for the boys, but only to a point. They still make their own choices and choose to be there.

I'm a housewife. I'm not going to deny that there could be a chance that my inherent nosiness and writer's imagination may have...exaggerated...what I think is going on over there. I also won't deny that I've looked into how much trouble I would get into if I planted a sign on his front yard that reads: "Warning: Pedophile on Premises." The one time Gary saunter/shuffled over and tried to make friends with me over my fence, I made sure that Phoebe the Great Dane kept barking at him and let him know that she hates people (a lie; she's a marshmallow). I wouldn't let him in the yard. I've told my daughter and her friends to never, EVER talk to him or anyone at his house. EVER. I've let everyone who moves onto the streets of the T know who the Creepy Guy is. Sometimes I felt bad; was I rumor-mongering? Spreading nasty stories for shits-and-giggles because I am, after all, a bored housewife? Hmmmmmm.....

Sorry, gotta go have dinner with that wonderful man I live with. He smoked stuff all day on a grill-thingy for me. I opened a bottle of good wine. Will continue Part deux tomorrow. Or, you know, whenever.

Help an Up-on-her-luck housewife for charity? Please?

I am a lucky person. If the world is, indeed, separated into the Haves and the Have-nots I am fortunate enough to consider my self squarely in the first category.

I'm married to a wonderful hard-working man who gets up unimaginably early and spends ten-plus hours every day at a stressful job that I don't completely understand. He's handsome and a great dad to boot. I have a smart, beautiful, healthy daughter who only drives me bonkers 48% of the time. I have supportive caring parents who are generous with their time and love. I have awesome friends who (mostly) aren't embarrassed to hang out with me. I live in a sturdy, albeit small, house that has heat and clean water and a pantry full of food and wine. I have dogs who are always happy to see me (until I kick their lazy bums off the couch, anyway). I have a car that takes me wherever I want to go. I'm healthy.

Yep; I've got it pretty good. I really can't complain. (Although, if you know me, you know I somehow manage to anyway. I'm working on that.)

Being a fortunate person, I feel like it's my responsibility to give back. To help others. In that spirit, I've volunteered (sort of) for a few different charitable events coming up. Unfortunately, I've somehow managed to volunteer in ways that put me in the position of having to do the one thing I hate the most: Asking for money. It makes me squirm and I'm not even really sure why. It probably has to do with the little bit of low self-esteem I've got going on; I'm always afraid people won't think I'm worthy of their hard-earned money. I also do not like being told "No" but do not have the cajones to persist. Having not had a lot of money in the past, I feel bad putting others in the position of unwillingly giving money they may not be able to spare. Even though this money is not for me and will be going to causes much greater than my little self...I dunno. I just suck at asking people for money. I'd much rather just sneak into my daughter's classroom and help the teacher a few hours a week. I'd rather go to the adult literacy center and teach people to read. I'd rather go to the Humane Society and clean kennels for animals who have known evil people and abandonment.

But that's not what I'm doing at the moment. I'm asking for money. Specifically, I'm asking YOU for money. Or stuff. If you can spare even a few (tax-deductible) bucks for a good cause, please read on:

Accidental Volunteer Position #1:

Junior Achievement. The wonderful husband works for the Evil Empire. The Evil Empire does a TON of good, honest charity work. More than most people would ever believe. The hubby put together a team to participate in the Junior Achievement Bowl-a-thon to raise money for JA Utah. The money raised will go to help kids who are not as fortunate as our daughter get a better education. If you'd like to help me out (Um, this happens tomorrow. I've raised exactly zero dollars. I was supposed to raise $200.), please click the link below:
Help Me Support JA of Utah

If you're nice, I'll post videos of me bowling. Now that is worth $20 and a laugh, right?

Accidental Volunteer Position #2:

Highland Park Elementary Arts Night Silent Auction Committee. Oy vey. I so did not mean to get on this committee. But here I am and I'm really trying to do what I'm supposed to do. But if one more business owner looks down their nose at me and lies to my face about getting back to me and smirking as I slink out the door, I'll...I'll...slink faster.
Ok, we're not looking for cash donations. What we are looking for is anything else. The committee wants lots of gift cards that parents can bid on. Honestly I don't get that, but ok. We also need art. Nice-looking art items that might bring in a few dollars. Big or small. Got anything? Please let me know. I'll even come pick it up from you! Etsy sellers, artists, hobbyist; this is your chance to showcase your wares! Businesses, we will pimp you out BIG TIME. Also, if you are feeling particularly philanthropic today, we really really need a Big Ticket Item to raffle off. Last year we had an iPod touch. Anyone have a spare new-in-box Wii sitting around? Yeah, something like that would be great. Thanks.

Whew. Ok. That's it for now. Seriously, if you are one of the lucky Haves and can spare any of your fortune, no matter how small, I will be forever grateful.

Thank you.

(But don't get too comfy. I have one more plea for donations to hit you with. But it's special and will get it's own blog. Or three. )

Sorry. Sorry. Oh, crap, I'm sorry.

I'll come right out and say it: I'm a flake. A huge, monstrous, ginormous fucking flake. Chances are if you ask me to do something, need me to call you, expect me to help you with something, 74% of the time you'll be shit out of luck. No matter what I've said or how bright-eyed-bushy-tailed I was when I told you I would do/call/be there.

Don't get me wrong; I'm not bragging. I'm not proud of it. Hell, I'm not even conscious of it most of the time. I agree to do something, be somewhere, maybe even write it down. Maybe you call me or text me right before to remind me of my obligation. And I have every honest intention of following through. And then I just...don't.

Maybe this wouldn't be such a bad personality flaw, really, if I just didn't offer to do stuff in the first place. Or if I didn't care what people think of me. Or if my feeble excuses and apologies really made it all better. (Why do we tell kindergarteners that "Sorry" fixes things? It doesn't. Really. Right?) But the problem is twofold:

1) I volunteer for way too many things, whether it's being on the PTA board or offering to edit someone's manuscript or help my husband fundraise so he looks good at work. I just can't say no. It started in college, really...but that's another story.

2) I'm horribly disorganized and forgetful, and I procrastinate like I invented the concept. I also don't make much of an effort to force myself to do things that make me uncomfortable, like ask people for donations to charities.

So I guess my problem is partially unconscious and partially bad behavior. Does that make it a personality disorder?

Blog Vomit

Because at some point, it aaaaallll just has to come out. Because my brain is overflowing with crap that is mucking up any creative anything that might be lurking in a dark corner of my frontal lobe.

I think I really need to get my ass in gear. Yeah. I'm sitting in my teeny house, surrounded by too many furry creatures whom I love but who also just keep making messes and wrecking my stuff. My stairwell, which I started painting 2 years ago, is in a limbo of incompletion that is starting to make me twitch. Yet I can't seem to get it done somehow. Just the thought of finding the stuff I need to finish it....ugh. Ditto starting to paint the rest of the house, which really really needs it. 6 years of dogs and people and rabbits (oh my!) means dings, scuffs, splashes, crackles, and giant splashes of red hair dye all over the bathroom door. I'm not very good at aiming the little squirty bottle at the back of my head, so the door looks like a prop for a low-budget Friday the 13th remake. But I just can't seem be be arsed to fix it.

My yard is full of junk. Junk I don't know how to get rid of. I shouldn't say yard; it's mostly confined to an out-of-sight out-of-mind covered patio behind my garage. It's there because the garage is full. The garage is full because I have that genetic predilection to not throw stuff out. Bonus: the genetic predilection of being afraid that whatever I do with it will be the wrong thing so it might as well
just...stay...right...there. Ugh.

I keep making goals. No. I keep setting goals and then not making them. Because it's just too damn easy to...not do anything different. My day is typically made up of running errands, doing something at or for the Girl's school, doing the dishes and facebook. Something has got to change. I've been saying that for...what, 5 years now? When do I really get off my proverbial and literal ass and do things?

Ugh.

People need to stop making more people. But maybe my priorities are wonky. 'Nuff said.

I need to make a copy of my car key.

My cat is deaf. It's both funny and annoying.

These extra 20 pounds just don't seem to be losing themselves.

K. I'll stop now before anyone who might accidentally read this really starts to worry. Or starts to seriously avoid me.
I'm not crazy, I'm just...distracted.