I am an addict. And I have hit rock bottom.

My addiction has made me sick, weakened me to a place where I can barely function. For so long I refused to address the true underlying cause of my illness, instead just managing the symptoms. Overmedicating for temporary relief but returning to my state of dysfunction because the high was so good, so tasty. I have few vices. I deserve this.

My addiction is wheat and sugar. I know you just laughed a little. You’re used to me being funny so it’s okay. But I’m not joking. Somehow, somewhere, my body went into hyper speed attack mode and the resulting imbalance has left me with almost debilitating sinusitis and asthma. I have no sense of smell, possibly a blessing with three sons. But also, no sweet scent memories of my last infant. I rarely sleep the night through without waking up sneezing and wheezing and coughing. I am constantly clearing my throat, blowing my nose and huffing on an inhaler. I spend my mornings with a hacking cough, clearing my lungs as if I am a carton-a-day smoker with pneumonia. I am in a state of chronic illness.

I have tried every internet potion, vitamin concoction and nasal inhalant and rinse. I have had sinus surgery. I have even swabbed my nose with Kimchi juice. Seriously. Because I read internet testimonials that promised a cure. Just to avoid giving up tuna melts on bagels, pasta with meat sauce, nightly ice cream sundaes, and yes, probably my elixir of goodness, bourbon.

I went about two weeks without the white stuff. Flour and sugar, come on. And there was marked improvement. I was sleeping a full 8 hours, waking up without black circles under my eyes. I was able to breathe through my nose and I no longer produced copious amount of mucous and phlegm. My sense of smell seemed to be lurking there somewhere but wasn’t quite back. It was definite progress. So I started adding things back in.

Wait, I can’t bullshit you. That sounds like I had half a piece of toast. I actually consumed 7 beignets covered in powdered sugar in one sitting, a hot dog, burgers, pizza, Coca-Cola, tons of pasta, heaping helpings of lasagna and several consecutive days of after-dinner sundaes (Trader Joe’s Vanilla Ice Cream with Hershey’s new 5 ingredient chocolate sauce. Trust me on this.) culminating with easily half a bottle of bourbon at an Oscar party, all over the course of a week.

And I am so sick. Again.

Here’s the rub. I may have been a casual partaker of illicit substances at times in my life. I can take it or leave it. Even with my love of the all things brown and distilled, I can easily go weeks without having the desire to imbibe. But with savory carbohydrates and cold sweet icy desserts, I have no moderation switch. My inner voice says it’s a reward I’ve earned. I don’t do anything “bad” so I’m allowed this outlet. And my metabolism has condoned the excess. I don’t mean to brag but it’s all still the right size in the right place, no matter what I eat. Let’s face it. I’m relatively vain so if my eating habits had made me fat, I would have certainly been more motivated to curb my piggyness.

But I am so tired of suffering and not recovering. I am not exaggerating when I tell you how truly miserable I feel. All the time. Imagine having your worst cold. For eight years. And not knowing if you would ever be healthy again. It’s exhausting and depressing.

So I’m coming out to you to hold me accountable while I hop back on the wagon. Be my sponsor and feel free to comment with your own vices. I’m here for you. Also, I take tremendous pleasure in the suffering of others. Not really. Just don’t leave me hanging out here alone in the Forest of Truth.

I’ve missed you. So sorry for the radio silence. But I was completely derailed by losing my blog journal.

I was on a flight home from New York and wrote two entries. They weren’t final drafts by any stretch of the imagination but they were thoughts out of my head and on paper.

I remember standing up to deplane and seeing my pencil still in the seat pocket and thinking that was strange. Clearly not strange enough to recheck if I’d squirreled away anything else. I was tired and couldn’t wait to get off the stale Influenza Incubator. Especially because I was in a panic, legitimately so, having not made time to get a flu shot yet this year. The year of the pandemic. At least my kids would make a killing with a GoFundMe campaign.

And I was sick of my seat-mates. I was sandwiched in the middle because I made my arrangements last minute and because I was too cheap to “upgrade” my seat. Why the fuck should I pay Delta more money to sit in a seat that still doesn’t have enough legroom for my gargantuan 5 foot body?

The strange woman on the aisle appeared to be on a self guided tour of the US, party of one. I couldn’t read the Japanese on her phone but the Hollywood Walk of Fame is fairly recognizable. Clearly the snack pack food was a novelty. It required close up examination and tiny nibbles to decipher. I’m certain you have salt and sugar in your country. Just eat the fucking crackers and chocolate squares. And she refused to get up when our row companion had to pee…4 times. So I had to straddle 26D. At least I had the opportunity to experiment with front or rear facing. For the record, one is no less awkward than the other but each is deserving of a tip.

Molly Millennial with the weak bladder was on the window. She was thoughtfully engaged in a business plan for her olive oil business. She was enthusiastically attempting to convince her audience, venture capital I’m guessing, that she and her partners fulfilled the critical void of helping pretentious assholes like her determine the perfect olive oil for their palate. It’s a real website. Yes I looked it up. And she’ll probably get $100 million in funding, enough to buy antibiotics for her recurrent UTI until she learns to pee after sex, while I’m here being a non-writer because I’m sulking about my lost journal.

Which brings me back to my point. It’s not that those blogs were going to knock your socks off or anything, but in my feeble mind, they were supposed to be the next two.

I’ve tried everything. I went back to LAX and spoke to the baggage claim lost and found. They were so unhelpful I’m not convinced they aren’t just passengers that couldn’t find their flight to Des Moines. I emailed some central clearing house for lost items. A lovely man, Robert, and I have been corresponding. He is quite sympathetic but he may just be a Russian bot with comforting AI.

So this is me ripping the band aid off and starting again. I hope you’re still along for the ride. Maybe make me feel better and tell me what has derailed you from untold riches and world-renowned fame.

I consider myself well-read, well-informed and current on the issues facing our society. I’m sensitive to the plight of the disenfranchised. I’m woke, as the young folk say.

But I have been living in an echo chamber; believing that while I may have an occasional debate over economic issues or foreign affairs, most people around me in my comfortable liberal LA neighborhood have similar social views to me. Well I was wrong.

I picked up my son, Aidan, and three of his friends from school. My 17 year old son, Riley, was along for the ride. All of them had a half-day and I was putting in my time as nice/cool mom, springing for In N Out Burger. On the way, Aidan’s friend, we’ll call him Dumbass to protect the innocent, struck up a conversation with Riley. Dumbass had seen Riley when he and his father and uncle had dined at Riley’s employment.

Dumbass felt the need to explain which man was NOT his father and then floated some comment about his uncle being “special”. Aidan started laughing so there was no way I was letting that go without an explanation. “What’s so special about him?”

You should know Dumbass has a distinctive yet hauntingly familiar speech pattern. I can’t wait until his friends discover Beavis and Butthead. This kid is toast. In this case, I will fully support the bullying that ensues.

There was an inordinate amount of uhs, grunts and wells. I thought maybe the uncle was intellectually challenged so my blood was starting to boil. But when he finally spit it out, “He’s a homosexual”, I felt the ends of my hair ignite. Riley was sitting in the front seat and I heard him mutter under his breath, “ohhh shit”. He knows me well. Ding Ding.

Here’s a sampling of our exchanges:
Me: What’s special about that?
Dumbass: Well, uh, duh, um the bible says it’s wrong?
He actually phrased it as a question. “Son, there ain’t no draft no more.” “There was one?”

Me: Is your uncle a good person? A kind person? Is he loving towards you and your brothers?
Dumbass: Uh, duh, well, um, yeah.
Me: Then why do you care who he’s fucking?
I brought out the big guns. And I’m not sorry. I wanted him to feel embarrassed. Trust me when I tell you that Dumbass’ mom does not drop the f bomb. Pretty sure she doesn’t do the f bomb either.

Me: You understand that people are born with a genetic map that dictates who they find attractive.
Dumbass: Huh?
Me: Gay people are born gay.
Riley: Not all girls.
Me: Stop watching porn.
Me: You know there’s some evidence that homosexuality can be an inherited gene.
Dumbass: Wait, no. My brothers and I aren’t gay.
Me: But one or more of your children may be. None of my children have red hair but I’m pretty confident one of my grandchildren will be a redhead.
Now I’m starting to worry that Dumbass and his brothers are being subjected to conversion therapy.

Dumbass: I know people are homosexuals but I just don’t want to be friends with them.
Me: Why?
Dumbass: It’s disgusting.
Me: So when you meet someone, you’re not wondering if they are smart or interesting or funny. The first thing you want to know is who they have sex with? Do you think that’s appropriate information for you to have?
Dumbass: Duh, um, well no.

The friends got in on the act.
Friend 1: So if we’re still friends when we’re like 35 and I decide to turn gay, we won’t be friends anymore even though we’ve been friends for like 20 years?
Me: You don’t turn gay, but good effort.

Friend 2: I wouldn’t care if one of my kids were gay. I’d love them no matter what.
Me: That’s right. That’s good parenting. You love your children unconditionally.
Aidan: (Laughing) Love is conditional in Dumbass’ house.
Wow. That is a sad and probably accurate truth. Ugh, I should be kinder to this poor kid. Afterall, this isn’t his fault. He has been programmed with this garbage. I’m thinking it’s time to back off. I’ll have at least the next 4 years of high school to turn this kid around. Also, his parents are litigating attorneys and they know where we live.

We finish lunch but I can’t let it go completely.
Me: Did you just eat cheese on top of meat?
Dumbass: Duh, uh, yeah, why?
Me: The bible says you shouldn’t have.
Cheers erupt from the peanut gallery.

 

Disclaimer: I am 2 bourbons and a large margarita in

Disclaimer 2: I pour bourbon at home 3:1

I turned 46 years old today. It was the best birthday I can remember in a long time. I can say that now because I can actually still remember today. Tomorrow may be another story.

45 sucked ass. I made my birthday plans in July of the previous year feeling a strong pull towards a milestone birthday. I’d worked hard on my body and fitness since He Who Should Not Be Named But Kissed Lots showed up. So in an effort to prove something to myself and kick off the second half, I planned an epic ski trip. I envisioned testing my mettle on Mammoth’s treacherous backside, proving not only that I’ve still got it, but that I’ve gotten more of it than ever.

And then the fucking blizzard of the fucking century blew in. And I skied a ½ day of a four day vacation. And I drank. And I cried.

What I didn’t realize then was that 45 was actually the end of the first half. Time to retreat to the locker room for review and strategy. 46 is actually the milestone. 46 is the beginning of the second half and I’m up by a lot; a whole 46 years of life experience, good and bad (but not terrible) and I am a fucking force to be reckoned with.

46 is rad. At 45 you’re so much older than those goddam 40 year olds. But at 46! At 46, you’re so much younger than 50 year olds!

So today I had a pretty typical day but the sun was shining and I was so grateful for my health, my strength and the love in my life. I bill myself as an antisocial curmudgeon. But the truth is I just have a very discerning palate. Perhaps not my most lovable quality, but I put up a stone cold front. All of you within reach of this manifesto have worn down my edge and brought magic into my life. You have taught me things, made me laugh, challenged me to continue to grow.

Today I heard from friends all over, not acquaintances, but people that know the real raw me. And yet you are still willing to love me. You wished me a happy birthday. It came true. Thank you for your love and friendship.

It’s time to closeout with a nightcap. Bourbon #3 (9?) is calling. Cereal and school lunch for everyone tomorrow!

Winter break has come to an end and so my carefree days of making umpteen staggered breakfasts and lunches, and cleaning the dishes that go along with them, do to. I headed out to Costco on Sunday to replenish sack lunch staples and refill the after school snack drawer.

There of course was the expected crowd of rude people but am I really the only one that understands the implied, albeit unwritten, rules of Costco?

1  At my Costco, flow of traffic is counterclockwise. You enter and track right. Seriously, there’s nowhere else to go. So why are people coming at me, three lanes wide, as if I have entered a one-way street the wrong way?

2  Costco has funneled the cattle call this way through unnecessary tools, unneeded sporting equipment and enough batteries to fuel your flux capacitor in order to guarantee you lose your husband and children in the first 3 minutes. By jettisoning sample stuffing, discretionary spending personnel, you are guaranteed to cut 15 minutes off your shopping excursion. It’s actually a perk to membership.

3  The rules of the road extend to carts and aisles. Drive on the right. Do not enter the flow of traffic from an arterial offshoot without safe distance or being given the right of way. Do not EVEN try to make a left from aforementioned arterial offshoot. Are you trying to kill someone? (see Rule 1) Do not double park in front of the sample table. Frankly, with your ass, it’s more like triple parked.

But that’s not the reason for my call today.

What I was most shocked and appalled by was the number of Christmas returns on January 7^th. I’m not talking about, “Gee Johnny got a PS4 from both grandmas.” I’m taking about brightly colored lights, ornaments and strands of garlands. The return line was one after the other, a virtual parade of the ghosts of Christmas past.

My disdain and disgust quickly melted into astonished admiration. While my attic is crammed with dusty boxes of half broken ornaments and malfunctioning light strands, these evil geniuses are essentially renting fresh decorations annually, for free. To look the Costco clerk in the eye and ask for a refund 12 days after Christmas, knowing full well Costco demands no explanation and enforces no expiration. The glittering balls on these people!

Oh, and

4  Get your fat fuck of a kid out of my way because I will not be sorry when I “accidentally” bump him.

Is this cynical and cutting or forgiving and encouraging? Depends on if your inner voice is Joan  Rivers or Oprah.

I’m not one for Resolutions. They’re kind of like Yom Kippur. Realistically, who has to apologize only once a year? I practically vomit Sorry daily.

So on this New Year’s Day, instead of Resolutions bound to be broken, let’s give each other a gift. One, two, three, we’ll open it up at the same time. It’s 365 days to improve on your perfection. A clean slate today. And if you fuck up, a fresh day again tomorrow and the next.

Wishing you your best year yet for your best you yet.

Shut up, Joan.

My grandparents lived on Nob Hill in San Francisco. Not just in the ritzy neighborhood known as Nob Hill, but literally on the top of Nob Hill. Their neighbor was The Fairmont Hotel. They had two Japanese housekeepers, Jack and Emileen.

Emileen would arrive early every morning. She’d open the front hall closet and remove a crisp white pinafore with eyelet trim demarking a ruffled neck and ¾ sleeve. A la Mr. Rogers, she’d exchange her civilian outer layer for her designated uniform. Jack would arrive shortly after in slacks and a dress shirt. They never spoke. I’m not sure what his responsibilities were. I saw him wash the windows once.

A few things to note that didn’t occur to me until recently.
1) This was San Francisco and Jack and Emileen were of the age that they were probably interned as children in camps during WWII.
2) There’s no way “Jack” and “Emileen” were their given names.
3) My grandparents had two servants to maintain a one-bedroom apartment.

If this seems awkward and bizarre, you’re right. It’s a family trait. There’s a special chromosome. A whole company had to be renamed 24 and Me to identify my genetic relations. Which brings me to Hanukah dinner.

My family and I arrived for the miracle of celebrating one out of eight nights with my parents and in-laws. As we entered, my mother burst into the kitchen, threw up her arms, yelled “ta da”, and posed. In Emileen’s pinafore.

My grandparents moved from San Francisco to Los Angeles in 2003 and died almost 10 years ago. My mother packed, moved, unpacked, laundered and pressed said pinafores. How long had she been planning this performance piece? Frankly, I was disgusted. It was demeaning to the work Emileen had done and to the meticulous care she had taken in her appearance. I insisted my mother change. She obliged. Into a pink personalized chef’s coat.

And so dinner production ensued. The Pink Coat flitted about shoving chopped liver into the Guatemalan housekeepers’ (yes, there are two) mouths, while my husband and I prepared enough potato pancakes to serve the IDF. She had insisted on twelve potatoes.

Finally she declared it time to sit down and asked me to ladle the matzo ball soup. I scooped up broth and carrots. And tried again. Broth and carrots. Only. She had forgotten to take the matzo balls out of the freezer. (While they were premade, in her defense, they were homemade.)

As the rest of the family sat down at the table, my husband continued frying the remainder of the potato pancakes and I diligently defrosted matzo balls. We didn’t say a word. Jack and Emileen.

The other day, a friend shared a NYT article about a young doctor who met the love her life during residency (yay) then left her husband after he figured out he was gay (boo) to start her life over (yay) before being stricken with cancer (boo) and finally dying (boo hoo hoo). I spent about 30 seconds contemplating the tragic trajectory of this woman’s life before I made it all about me.

I have conflicting responses to reading terrible stories like this. Both begin, Holy shit I’m so lucky that [insert tragedy, loss, insurmountable challenge, terminal illness HERE] isn’t me. My first response is to chastise the insolent child in me. Yeah you’re so fucking lucky. Why can’t you be more appreciative of your [insert abundant riches of blessings HERE]. You should meditate more, journal your gratefulness, leave loving notes for your husband and children and give up sugar. Contrite, my inner brat says yes, right, definitely, tomorrow.

Then she gets uppity. Holy shit that [insert tragedy, loss, insurmountable challenge, terminal illness HERE] could be me. Is this it? What have I contributed to the planet? Why did I wait to live my best life? Why would I have been so optimistic as to think I’d have plenty of time to start a business, get an advanced degree, learn to play guitar.

I know you’re waiting for this to end with my peaceful acceptance of bountiful blessings and that, you, Dear Reader, will then absorb my sense of calm and feel reinvigorated to embrace your own present. Sorry, but I think it’s high time we kick the shit out of life before it kicks the shit out of us. Go ahead and give up sugar and show your loved ones more gratitude, but take one step forward today towards your personal “I wish I [insert dream profession, hobby, altruistic endeavor, healthy improvement HERE]. And if you’re feeling brave, share it with us!

Dear Mothers (yeah, there was more than one) Who Signed Up for Multiple Party Items,

First let me apologize for having a life and not seeing the teacher email with attached Sign-Up Genius for a whole 20 minutes after it was sent. You must have been panicked that the 18 or so requested items would never be covered by 25 separate families. How brave and generous of you to take on more than your fair share.

What you don’t understand is that it’s actually very rude of you and you have overstepped basic community courtesy. We all have been taught (or should have been) that you don’t show up empty handed to a party, but that’s exactly what you have forced me and roughly 5 other parents to do. Worse than that, my kid is going to be anxious and downright pissed when he finds out that we are not bringing anything to the party.

Don’t think for a second he won’t ask. He always does. He’s proud to contribute anything to his close-knit class. And he’s not going to buy my excuse that there was nothing left to sign-up for. (Except for washed, cored and sliced strawberries for 25 children. Which, by the way, fuck you. Do you have any idea how expensive strawberries are this time of year and how long it will take to wash, dry, core and slice roughly 4 pounds of strawberries?) He’s a cynical little fucker and he’s going to assume that I dropped the ball even though I never (ok, rarely) drop the ball.

What was your motivation? Did you think this would impress the teacher? I’ll tell you what she thinks. She’s been teaching for 20 years and her main goal is to turn out little people who can cooperate and work together (and exhibit good personal hygiene). Now she knows why your spawn is such a bossy know-it-all who still eats boogers.

Happy Holidays.

PS I am 100 years older than the other mothers and have made no effort to forge friendships so don’t worry, they won’t see this.

I don’t need the analysis tools I was supposed to have learned while pursuing my Finance degree to know that the proposed merger between CVS Health and Aetna is a raw deal for consumers. It gives me the same foreboding feeling many young actresses must have felt when entering a Harvey Weinstein meeting to discuss their career.

You have to look no further than the terrifying corporate-speak catch phrases that are littered amongst the press releases to feel dirty. There’s going to be “a new front door for health care in America.” CVS stores are now going to be “health hubs”. They tout the “human touch” of CVS. The Chairman of Aetna, Mark Bertolini is quoted in one Washington Post article as saying,
“We want to get closer to the community, because all health care is local,” Bertolini said. “What was going to draw people into an Aetna store? Probably not a lot. We looked for the right kind of partnership.” I hear that in Kevin Spacey’s voice.

I don’t want a drugstore to be my first stop when I need medical advice or even preventative care. I certainly don’t want to touch anything in a filthy drugstore, especially the people working there. It’s not personal. I don’t think they want to touch me either. I’m certain that when making a career choice, the prospective pharmacist thinks something like, “ I love science and medicine but I don’t want to touch the human body.” I will say however, in a sweeping generalization, that the pharmacists I’ve encountered may excel at many other things in their lives but interpersonal communication skills is not one of them.

There’s talk of nurses being available and I have the highest respect for those in the nursing profession. I think many of them are capable of doing as good if not a better job than many with the MD designation. However, while I don’t mind having a different service writer when I bring my car in for an oil change, I don’t want to see a rotating army of medical advisors. I want my doctor to remember the various infections or injuries I’ve had to help connect the dots if there’s a more significant problem.

When was the last time in capitalism history that a vertical chain resulted in benefits to a customer? It is laughable that CVS and Aetna are touting choice and cost savings as benefits to the deal. If you have Aetna insurance, can you ONLY fill at CVS? Will CVS refuse to fill other prescriptions for patients with other coverage? Will they charge you more than an Aetna customer? Will Aetna refuse to provide reimbursement to doctors for routine services that your “health hub” provides?

The Department of Justice just nixed the AT&T/Time Warner deal. Like this proposed match, AT&T and Time Warner were complimentary but not competing companies. Still, the DOJ saw the danger signs ahead if those two combined. But this DOJ may have just been doing the bidding of President Baby who thinks the media is a big meanie and that this merger would have given them a larger slice of the schoolyard. Now maybe it’s time for the republicans to start paying back the lobbying support of Big Pharma and to reward insurance companies for providing the financial strangulation of the american public as proof of Obamacare failures. Don’t be surprised if this CVS/Aetna deal slides right on through. And if it does, you can be sure there will be additional consolidations.

PAP Smear by the pharmacist? No thanks. You can pick up my DIY kit on Etsy; a bottle brush and microscope slide. You’re welcome.