Vigorous Anonymity

Archive for July 2009

I’m equal parts excited and terrified at the same time.  Next year, Blogher will be in my neck of the woods.

Excited is easy to understand.  It’s that feeling you get when you know you’re going to be around interesting women and lots of alcohol.  I’m squirmy just thinking about it.

But the terror?  Just as real…

I don’t consider myself a real “blogger” like the rest of you.  I’ve been at it a long time, but never with any real commitment…I get bored with myself and flit away to something else more interesting, and then just as quickly flit back and expect you all to roll with my tides.  I’m very lunar that way.

So who’s going to know me…li’l ole me…at Blogher ’10?  No one, that’s who.  And I have always been the girl who feels left out.  Hell, my 30th high school reunion is this year and I’m on the fence because I’m still not sure those 30 year old high school cliques will have faded.  Can I realy walk up to Lynn Bobo and say hello?  Nah…I don’t think I can.  Just as I will never be able to walk up to The Bloggess and say hello to her either.

So I’m not sure how I feel about this.  I don’t want to be the one who sat home that weekend instead of going to the party all the kids in the neighborhood were invited to, quietly eating microwave popcorn and diet coke and watching Breakfast Club for the 52nd time.  And I don’t want to go and feel like I don’t belong.

Story of my life.

Last night, Ingrid said, “Cheryl [her friend] said she tried to get on your blog last night but you put a password up!”

And I said, yes.  Yes I did.

“WHY?”

“Because I don’t want your friends reading my blog, I thought that would be obvious.”  I didn’t add that I’m a little annoyed that because of you and your friends, I had to give up something that was important to me, but I’ll manage.  OK, make that a lot annoyed.

And then she said, “Good, I don’t want them reading it either.”

And like a fool, I said, “I started a new one somewhere where you and your friends will never find it!”

And she laughed and said, “How do you know the people reading your blog all along haven’t been my friends?”

And that left me a little icky.  Are you?  Are you all just Ingrid’s friends, here disguising your sweet young nubile bodies in post-baby fat, and middle-aged spread?  Say it isn’t so.

Yesterday, Damn Girl and I were discussing health care reform in the company kitchen.  (Yes, seriously.)  She and I are both avid Obama supporters, drowning amid a sea of conservative Obama-haters, and I am not using the term hate loosely here.  The devisiveness is rather sickening, but marked by terms like “Your President” instead of our President and “Mr. Obama” instead of  President Obama (which really pisses me off, and is something I’ve caught the mainstream media doing a lot).  Anyway, we were discussing health care reform in the kitchen.

It occurred to me as we were speaking that one of the reasons health care reform isn’t happening is because it’s about women and children.  Let’s face it, up until recently, if a child was sick it’s mother stayed home from work and took care of it, while Dad went to his office.  That was the status quo for decades, until more and more women became equal participators to the family income and hold bigger and better jobs.

There was no incentive thirty years ago to make healthcare available to mothers and their children.  They weren’t productive members of society.  So who really cared.  At least, that’s how I see it.  It’s sort of like breast cancer research.  Since men weren’t getting it (often) there was no urgency to cure it.

But I didn’t realize how close to the mark I was when I said that.  Today, I read this article in Salon.com.  If President Obama’s plan goes through, there is some explosive conversation about whether or not abortions will have to be covered.  And I can hear the cry and hew in Washington about that, all the way over here in NJ.

So there’s a huge crux of the issue.  If we offer healthcare to all, will we have to stipulate that it covers everything but the dreaded abortion?  Or will people in this country finally have to suck it up and admit they can’t force people to have children they don’t want or can’t take care of  in the name of an imaginary being.

Sorry if that was a little harsh or insensitive.  I’m sure some of you disagree with me (all 5 of you that are now reading ::snort::).  But hey, it’s my blog.

Have I mentioned my gynecologist was recently featured in a well-known reality show?  I can’t tell you which one, because I’m here, in hiding, and that would be too much info to give out, but the guy who views my snatch has also viewed the snatches of a couple of very wealthy females.  Who live in the New York Metropolitan area.

So anyway…he called me back last night.  I’ve been going to him for 19 years, as of yesterday.  The reason I know that is the date is, he delivered Ingrid, who celebrated her 19th birthday yesterday, and before I gave birth to her I had never met him before.  He was hired a week before I went into labor and I hadn’t gotten a chance to meet him yet.  Trial by fire, I guess.

Anyway, Dr. Celebrity listens to my tale of woe and says, yeah, maybe the birth control pills were a bad idea.  To which I reply, especially when you consider I’ve had my tubes tied already.  I’m every married man’s dream!

So he took those away, but that leaves me with that left sided pain – enter Vicoprofen.  Ibuprofen + vicoden.  Hey if it’s good enough for Gregory House it’s good enough for me.  I’m pretty sure I’m not going to be able to type after I take one, let alone solve medical mysteries, but I’ll cross that bridge in exactly 2 weeks.

Then I explained the problem with the moods.  And how I basically had no one left in life who was actually speaking to me.  And he replied, “Well at least you’ll be able to catch up on your reading now.”  He’s a card.

In the end, he gave me something called Sarafem.  Which turns out to be Prozac.  I’m a little a-skeered of Prozac, but I’ll give it a try.  I’m only supposed to take it when I’m feeling anxious.  So the 30 day prescription he gave me should be gone by Sunday.

Over the last 5 or 6 months (maybe longer, and I was oblivious, who really knows) I’ve been having some “womenz problemz”.  Just a couple little things, but after several months of it, even I in my oblivion started to notice a pattern, and it gave me…pause.

I’ve always had a problem with mittelschmerz (no that’s not a character on I Love Lucy).  If you don’t feel like clicking the link (and I never do) it’s pain when you ovulate, so it comes mid-cycle and it can be intermittent or it can happen every month.  Like I said, I’ve always had it, but I only have it on my left side, so when my right ovary would do the work I’d be pain-free.  Unfortunately, my right ovary doesn’t seem to be functioning at all anymore, because every month for the last 6 months I’ve been in agony.  Agony, I tell ya!

It shouldn’t be this painful – it’s supposed to be like cramping, but this is actual stab-you-in-the-gut kind of pain and it takes my breath away.  Not to mention I just had most of a colon removed to STOP left sided abdominal pain, this is really a kick in the pants.  So to speak.  Shouldn’t there be a limit to the indignities?

Added to that pain is the mood swings.  Oh my…the mood swings.  For about 2 days before I get my period I am incapable of being around people.  I need to be locked in a barn until the full moon wanes so I don’t bite people and turn them into werewolves.  I’m hideous.

So last month I went to the gyno for my annual, and we discussed these things.  Once before, he’d tried to put me on birth control pills for the mittelschmerz.  The only way to fix it is to stop the ovulation.  I resisted…that was just after my surgery and I really didn’t want to start up with that too.  So I ignored it until it got really bad.

This time when he recommended the pills, I knew it was coming and I said ok.  And then I talked to him about the mood swings and how very very bad they were, and he said the bc pills might help with that.  And then he looked me in the eye and said, “But they might also make them worse.”

Really?  And you’re ok with that, I wanted to ask.  But I didn’t.  I just took the recommended pills home with me and started taking them on the appropriate day and then…to quote a friend…Oh Mah Holy Hell.

The good news is, there was no ovarian pain this month.  The bad news?  I don’t think there is a single living person who is still speaking to me.  I have alienated my best friend, I have SCREAMED at my daughter for not putting away the Intuition razor, I have sobbed in front of my son because he wanted me to take him to a friend’s house and I was uncomfortable with the decision, and I almost picked up my purse and walked out of the office.  For good.  About two hours ago.

My husband is the only one who has been spared, and I think that’s because he stopped talking to me several months ago.  Harvard.  ’68.

Oh, and then there’s the migraines.  Did I mention the migraines?  3 in 3 weeks.  2 in one weekend.  One that lasted 3 days.  And the last one (just this Saturday) was so bad I spent an absolutely glorious Saturday in a darkened room, crying silently into a pillow.

So instead of 2 days of being bitchy and moody, I’m now just like that all the time.  I cried all weekend.  ALL WEEKEND.  And sitting at my desk a little while ago I started doing it again.  I can’t go on like this, this is ridiculous.

So I stopped taking the pills on Saturday, and of course I got my period…little spotty thing, but whatever.  I have called the doctor to ask him just what the fuck he was thinking.  He has not returned my calls.  It’s possible I might have thrown a pipe bomb at his house in my sleep one night, so that could be the reason.

Menopause.  Yeah, this is fun.

Last night, we had the annual summer outing for our department at work.  There are 15 of us in the department, and we’re pretty isolated from the rest of the company.  Legal Departments are often like that.  Plus nobody really gets our jokes.

My boss and I are even more isolated because we don’t work in the main office with the other 13 people.  I email and phone them several times a week, but I don’t see them all the time, I don’t have lunch with them, I don’t stand at the “water cooler” and discuss last night’s Real Housewives.  So these outings are kind of odd for me.  My boss used to work out of their office and knows them all pretty well, so he fits right back in, but for me, I’ll always be the step-child.

That said, I’m still more fun than any of them put together, so they tolerate me better than they would if I were a bitch.

Last night’s endeavor involved miniature golf and a barbecue.  Here is a list of the ways in which I was able to embarrass myself in the scant few hours we were together:

  • When I left the building, it was absolutely pouring (surprise!) and I was soaked from head to toe by the time I got to my car.  When I arrived, 90 minutes later, at the miniature golf place (traffic) I was still very damp, and it wasn’t until an hour later that I realized all my mascara had moved from my eye lashes to my cheeks.
  • There was wine.  Copious amounts of wine.  When we started golfing, I had a full glass in my hands, so I just brought it along with me.  (I wasn’t the only one, so don’t judge.)  But when I finished it, I didn’t want to carry it with me any more so I chucked it behind me on to the nice soft grassy area, assuming someone would clean it up later, only I managed to hit the 1-inch thick metal light pole, and shattered the wine glass into a thousand pieces.  Loudly.
  • Out of the 15 of us golfing, I was the only one who lost her ball in the water.  My score remains incomplete.
  • When we were done, all the women headed to the bathroom (of course).  I was there first, and when I walked in, the…aroma…of an anonymous toilet user was thick in the air.  I was just there to continue to wipe the mascara off my face, so I just took a shallow breath and then went to the sink.  And then a co-worker walked in, took a breath, stood stock still and looked at me.  “It was here when I got here,” I quickly disclaimed, and she nervously looked away and went in a stall.  Then another co-worker came in, and did the same thing.  “It was here when I got here!”  Same reaction.  That happened four times.  Finally, I gave up and blamed the chili at lunch.
  • The table we were eating at was long and rectangular, with seats at each head.  The only chair available when I got there was on the side that was wedged up against the wall.  The two seats at each head had a wall behind them too, and I looked at my boss’s boss, who is a thin man, and excused myself.  He shuffled his chair in an inch, and I laughed.  I explained that while I would dearly love to be able to squeeze in behind him, that was not a possibility, and would he mind getting up so I could get around him.  Which he graciously did, but I was nervous and started to wiggle behind him just as he was getting up and we had a weird body-brush incident which we both ignored and then my jeans got caught on his chair and I upended the entire thing.

So that all happened.  Can’t wait to see what gets planned for next year.



  • None
  • TheQueen: Yeah, perhaps next year suggest you ALL just skip the adult gifts and focus on the little ones. I'm sure you won't miss it!
  • kristabella: Yay! You're back!
  • Shania Ring: Out of all of that, the only thing in my head is 20?!? Twenty? I remember a little boy in middle school when I first started reading you. Are you SURE