Category Archives: My Home

Growing our garden

My Dad always said his dream was to live off the fat of the land. Well, look pops!
Our garden is coming in nicely; carrots, melons, brussel sprouts, cucumbers, onions, garlic, spinach, beets, peppers and zucchini! I am planning on making baby food and freezing it so when the kid is ready there will be fresh food for him, grown from our own garden. You can fill up ice-cube trays with the pureed veggies, freeze them and then store the cubes in plastic bags. Pop one out whenever you need one and it’s just the right amount. I plan on losing all this damn weight with fresh vegetables as well. A month-long juice cleanse without spending a fortune on organic vegetables at the store. Now I just need to figure out how to grow fat-free greek yogurt and I will never have to buy groceries again.

 

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Filed under I am Pregnant, Memories of Dad, My Home

Tantrum

Did I just have a tantrum? On the kitchen floor, splayed out like a dying cow. My attempt at retrieving a pan from the corner cupboard that mysteriously descends into a fucking abyss beneath my kitchen floor resulted in my stooping, bending, crawling, reaching, laying flat on the floor, arms outstretched, curses flying like a hormonal fire storm and all to no fucking avail. I feel helpless, weak, debilitated and condemned to this awkward cumbersome body forever. My frustration spilled out of me, sweat and tears pouring from my face, my screams reaching into the abyss of lost saucepans and soup spoons. My dogs watched on, confused and unwilling to offer any assistance. I surrender. Fuck that pan, I didn’t want to cook dinner any damn ways.

Sitting cross-legged on the floor, wiping tear soaked strands of hair from my face I regain my composure or at least something close to it. At seven and a half months pregnant I am getting very close to my breaking point of uncomfortablity. Two more months, my fucking god. Eight more weeks of wobbling around on aching feet, getting stuck on the couch and having to pathetically ask for help like an invalid and rolling around on the kitchen floor, sweating and cursing myself into a tear-stained mess. Fifty six more days of pissing every ten minutes, regurgitating my own bile every time I lean forward, losing my breath after climbing five or more stairs and avoiding mirrors for fear of spontaneous screams of horror.

Maybe having the occasional tantrum will prepare me for dealing with a little one having a tantrum. I have dealt with tantrum prone children before and I always used the “ignore them and they will eventually shut the fuck up” approach. I have a feeling that this approach won’t work quite as well with my own child. It’s easy to ignore a child that isn’t yours, their kicks and screams a mere annoyance. If I were to witness such an outburst from my own child I would most definitely act in a more caring manner, kind of like the way that I should react to my own personal tantrums. A few weeks ago my therapist told me that I need to “be nicer to myself”. I laughed. She didn’t. I told her, “I guess I can give it a try”.

Does shopping count as “being nice to myself”? If so, then I have succeeded. Actually, it does count because I once again confronted my dreaded nemesis, the dressing room. I made my way through a tangled mess of sundresses and pantsuits at The Burlington Coat Factory. That store should be called One Big Ghetto Ass Mess. But I always find good deals there so I brave the disaster of disorganization. I entered the dressing room with trepidation and an armful of brightly colored maxi dresses. I disrobed and stifled the screams, the curses and the tears. In my underwear and heels I held my head high and slipped on a pink paisley dress of the finest polyester that $14.99 can buy. My round stomach was framed nicely by the whimsical design and my ass although huge appeared to take on an almost acceptable shape. My mandatory hour a day of yoga and pilates have done something after all. Wait! Am I being nice? In a dressing room? What the fuck!? Something is going on here, but instead of questioning it, analyzing it and tearing it apart I decide to get the fuck out before I turn on myself. No need for an eyeliner touch up this time, a first for sure.

From the dressing room to the kitchen floor, small strides and hard falls. I’ll get up, eventually and with a fair amount of huffing and grunting. I will reapply my makeup as many times as I need to. I will close my eyes and pretend that two months have passed, that I am holding my child in my arms rather than lugging him around in my gut. I will be calm. I will also probably throw a few more tantrums before this is over and it’s perfectly fucking alright. It’s also perfectly fucking alright to be a little bit nice to myself every once in a while.

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A kick in the face

Today I am reminded that I am an alcoholic, that I am a bulimic, that I am very fucking far from cured of any of the self-destructive behaviors that I am so undeniably addicted to. I can walk around with my rotundly pregnant belly and want a drink just as badly as the drunkard falling over in his seat on the bus. I can feel my baby squirming around inside of me and want to binge on junk food for hours just for the sake of purging, the wonderful empty high of bulimia. I can imagine holding my Son in a few months as vividly and yearningly as I can imagine smoking an entire pack of cigarettes in one afternoon.

Annoyance, simple everyday annoyance brings this shit on. Not life shattering events, not horrific news of some tragedy, not a fight amongst lovers or friends, not even slightly more complicated feelings like anger or stress, just plain old annoyance.

I had an appointment today, I contemplated not going, I always do, and I always go. I seem to have a busy calendar as of late with appointments at the Doctor, the Dentist, the Therapist (sort of, not really an actual therapist.) You see, when you go to the OB/GYN and are honest about your shit they will refer you to a counselor type person to assist you through your pregnancy. The woman I was assigned to happened to be an addiction and eating disorder specialist, so she will obviously know everything there is to know about me. It actually isn’t all that bad. I talk incessantly and answer questions before she can ask them and leave her pretty much speechless except to schedule our next appointment.

The annoyance began on my walk to the train station. The sun was absolutely blinding, the wind blowing my hair into my face, wisps sticking to my lip gloss slathered mouth. My feet already blistered, begin to throb within minutes. I don’t want to be outside today, the traffic too loud, the streets too crowded. Waiting for the train, I shift my increasing weight from foot to foot and try to avoid eye contact with some creepy asshole staring at me. Already I am done with this day. I want to escape, I want to scream, I want to fall down on the ground and throw a tantrum like a child.

Trudging my way up the long ass hill to the Hospital I almost take off my heels because who gives a fuck anymore, barefoot and pregnant, embrace it.

My annoyance turns me into an uppity ass bitch, click clacking in my heels down the hospital halls. What a scene I am, in my dress and coat, my bouffant and my eyebrows. I heave my bright red leather luggage I haul around as my purse, up and onto the reception desk, rummaging for my ID.

“Yes, I am her, can’t you tell? Are there others?”

Losing track of what’s real I want only to sit and write, to ignore the day that surrounds me, engulfs me.

The hour goes by in the usual fashion, my prattling on about healthy meal consumption and yes, of course I intend on attending meetings more regularly.

I leave and face the harsh assault of sunlight, traffic and obnoxious ass people crowding around me on the train.

Why did I leave the house today?

Hauling my ass home, completely aggravated with every living thing from the green grass and bright flowers to the singing birds in the trees. I don’t even wave back to the friendly neighbor who chirps hello from her porch, I just want to go home and crawl into bed. No, what I really want is to go home, open a bottle of wine and light a cigarette. My brain doesn’t give a shit that I am pregnant, it wants what it wants and it is screaming it loud and clear.

Well fuck you brain, fuck you Regina, you selfish goddamn brat. You don’t get what you want anymore.

Home. I write. I eat frozen yogurt. I watch my dogs play. I take a nap. I am ok.

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, Ana, Mia and other Bitches, Fashionably Unreasonable, Feels like Sunday, I am Pregnant, My Home, Something that happened

To Do: OCD the fuck out

I had a plan. When you have OCD, plans are important and they must be adhered to. So, I make my plans, I write them down, the smallest detail accounted for.

I have been trying to refrain from writing down what I plan on eating and then what I actually eat, a hobby of mine for the past 20 years. This whole eating disordered life that I lead is being stifled momentarily for the sake of the kid inside me making a goddamn fuss at the moment.

I made my plans for the day, stupid shit, daily life shit, nothing special, really not worth writing down at all. Then a bunch of assholes decided to fuck up my day. For any normal person the unexpected arrival of Gas and Electric repair men needing access to the yard would be a temporary interference. But it wasn’t written down, it was not part of the plan.

My dogs vocalize my discontentment, making the unwelcome intruders uneasy, as they should be. After exactly 25 minutes, they are gone. Fucking finally, maybe now I can resume my day. Next on my ridiculously mundane list, write something.

Interrupted again by the rare ringing of my phone. I have gone days without hearing the obnoxious ring of a telephone, one amazing benefit of having very few friends.

Fucking seriously? Another repair man is coming over to replace our stove. Well, it will be nice to have a functioning kitchen again. The oven has been broken for well over a year and the stove exploded about 4 months ago. Luckily I don’t cook much and having one more excuse not to eat is a blessing to any eating disordered girl. However, I have grown tired of heating my tea in the microwave, it tastes different, it really does. And I quite enjoy the sound of a kettle on a stove, a whole pot of something yummy and calorie free!

I have about 3 hours until the next disruption. I could use the time wisely and finish the items on my list or I can let my OCD take over, get nothing done and say fuck it to the entire day.

Fuck it wins because the list simply does not make sense anymore. I will try again tomorrow, there are always more lists, OCD certainly isn’t going anywhere and apparently neither am I.

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Filed under Ana, Mia and other Bitches, My Home, Something that happened

This fire needs some vodka

I used to fantasize about walking down the street naked while the world burned down around me. This idea began during the Summer of 2003 while wildfires spread across Southern California.

Day and night the sound of sirens penetrated every thought and non stop news coverage dominated television. Most people rushed home from work, if they still had a home to rush to. Normal activity ceased and everyone switched into survival mode; securing their belongings in vehicles ready to leave the second they were given the command from the police and fireman that seemed to be securing and patrolling every square foot of San Diego. Every square foot that is except for anywhere near my neighborhood and I could see the fucking flames from my front door!

Where were the firetrucks? Where were the emergency broadcast warnings alerting my neighborhood to evacuate? And why was I the only one concerned about the situation? My neighbors were acting as if it were a normal Wednesday afternoon, one neighbor was even mowing his lawn. Burning leaves were blowing down the street and Bob was sitting atop his riding lawnmower with a bandanna wrapped around his face to keep out the hot ash that thickened the air to a sickening degree. Bob was a cranky WWII veteran and a silly fire was not going to interfere with his plans, Wednesday was lawn mowing day motherfuckers and that was that.

I however was not nearly as calm. I was simply too confused to take any action at all. I had no car to pack and I was at a total loss of what was important enough to pack anyways. So I sat in my living room with my dogs and stared at the house full of belongings I had accumulated over my 23 years. Shit, it was all shit. I didn’t care about any of it, not enough to save from a fire. I began to think how it might be nice actually, to be rid of it all. I had my dogs, fuck the rest.

So, I made a drink, a tumbler full of vodka and black cherry soda. I wandered around outside, the thick smoke filling my lungs and burning my eyes. Ash fell like snow, decorating my hair and clothes. I raised my face to the sky and stuck out my tongue, tasting the burnt remains of a tree, a home or maybe even a dog left tied to a tree, abandoned in the haste of retreat.

I watched the flames lick the murky blackening sky, the sun setting somewhere in the muted horizon. My mood relaxed with the approach of evening and the start of my second tumbler of cheap vodka. It was then that I realized that Bob and I were not so different after all, he had his rituals which kept him secure and so did I. Everything seemed fine once I was comfortably intoxicated, nighttime was vodka drinking time and that was that motherfuckers.

The night turned silent, firetrucks never came, the police now only patrolling the richer neighborhoods to the north. Those within the highest tax brackets received the most attention. We were left to fend for ourselves, garden hoses and water pails if you were determined to save what little you had.

I waited in silence for the onslaught of flames, for the wind to bring the fire down upon my head like a rainstorm. I wanted to strip naked, arms outstretched in acceptance, welcoming the destruction.

The fire stopped short of my street by about half a mile.

Within a week things seemed to have returned to normal except for the endless sweeping and cleaning of ash that covered every comprehensible surface, not just outside but inside the house as well. More than a year later I was still sweeping ash out from behind my washing machine.

Everyone had returned to work, the terrifying sleepless vacation was over. I was at one of the many Cafes I have worked at over the years and I was telling my co-worker Suzanne about my revelation that I had during my drunken night watching the fire approach my home. I described the scenario in detail, the end of the world fire storm surrounding me as I walked naked down the street. “Completely naked?” she asked. “Well, I was on my period so I guess I would have been wearing a tampon string.”

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Filed under Alcoholism and other Assholes, My Home, Something that happened, Uncategorized

Spring cleaning for Summer’s arrival

Only two families had lived in our house before we moved in three years ago. And now that we are expecting our first child we are truly becoming the third family to call this house our home. I fell in love with the house the minute I saw it. I want to live every moment of my life in this home and eventually die here and I am pretty sure that I won’t be the first to have succumbed within these walls.

The house was built in 1943 by a Lutheran family that also built a church a few blocks away. I met one of the Grandson’s (now a Grandfather himself) of this family who happened to be in the neighborhood when he stopped by to see the house. I allowed him to walk around the house and take a few pictures while he shared his boyhood memories with me. I appreciate these moments with strangers more than I can ever express.

When we moved in there was still some remaining belongings in the garage from the former Family and I just couldn’t stop myself, I snooped. There were documents from the Family business dating back to the Fifties, High School pictures, baby pictures and unopened mail from the Eighties secured with deteriorating rubber bands. We arranged a day and time for one of the Family members to pick up the remaining boxes. I secretly kept two items; a High School Senior portrait of a beautiful young woman taken in the early Seventies and a v-neck, striped arm retro style t-shirt with a screen printing of a pudgy baby boy with big blue eyes. When the man came to pick up the boxes I recognized him as the boy on the shirt and when he spoke of his late Mother I knew she must be the woman in the picture. Judging from his dismissive nature concerning the belongings I doubted that he would miss the items I had commandeered for the sake of memories, regardless of whose they officially were.

I don’t know the correct terms for all the gorgeous details of the house, I don’t know how to describe the style of the architecture or even what the square footage might be. I just know that I love my house. Walking into my home feels like slipping on a dress that fits perfectly, instantly slimming and accentuating every curve just right. It has that same sort of effect on my soul, calming and soothing me.

With the upcoming addition to our Family, I can no longer ignore the growing list of necessary repairs that I have been putting off. The first order of business is of course, the bathroom. Yesterday we removed the decades old floral wall paper. For the next few weeks we will be working on the tile, both installing new tile and scraping the paint from the old tile. Yes, I said paint. For some ridiculousness reason someone slathered white paint on the gorgeous aqua green tile, repeatedly. Thankfully the original pepto pink tub, sink and toilet remain. Nothing says “welcome to the shitter” better than a pink toilet! I can’t believe I have waited so long to begin this restoration process to bring the bathroom back to its original unique beauty.

As layers of yellowed and aged wall paper curled and fell to my feet, the crowded bathroom room clouded with steam and sweat dripping into my eyes, I caught glimpses of what had been and what may come; the thousands of mornings that began in this room, the thoughts one only dares think in the privacy behind a locked bathroom door, every tear shed in the bathtub and every drop of blood shed into the sink.

I like the idea of revealing the old to bring in the new, like trying on a beautiful vintage gown to find it fits perfectly or simply walking into my home every day.

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