The other day, someone asked me what I did over the weekend. After thinking long and hard (TWSS), I realized holy fuck. I had bacon on three separate occasions within 24 hours (on a burger, straight from the frying pan & sans eggs, and in my mac and cheese). I continued to think long and hard about whether to actually share this feat. Would it be worse to plead forgetfulness to hide my shame (“Oh, yeah, this weekend? I think I took a nap…or something?”) or proudly parade my inadvertent Bacon Fest 2011? Decisions decisions…

During the 20SB Summit, I found myself joking A LOT about being “grandfathered-in” to the community. Joking. But utterly serious. I belong dammit. Don’t you question me, you young whipper-snappers! Never mind that the term “grandfathered-in” bespeaks all things crotchety and old.

I now live in fear of the kidney stone redux that the Internet tells me I am 95% likely to experience in my lifetime. My fear is not so great that I will give up drinking tea or choosing soy milk however. 

I recently realized that I put my underroos on inside out. It was 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I shrugged and continued to wear them that way. I should add that this was the second time in a week I’d been bested by the challenges of wearing one’s clothing right side out. Holla!

During one of my awesomesauce insomnia bouts, I wound up googling “dog ate a silverfish now what” to find out if that’s bad. I went on to wonder if the presence (or previous presence as it were) of said silverfish on the tile floor meant that the dude and I are slobs who live in squalor. Are we “dirty people”? [BF: Yo, if you're reading this, don't answer that because we both know the answer but they don't.]

I am genuinely considering getting a red streak put into my hair later this week. Because, why not? I dye my hair brunette as it is, have for years, but am thinking it could use a little something. Like a streak of fire engine red! I mean, if you can’t dye a red streak into your hair at 31, when can you? #RedStreakFTW!

This conversation happened at work the other day…. Emo: “I can’t believe I showered for this.” Me: “Don’t worry; I didn’t.” And scene.

What can I say? This is what it’s come to….I’m clearly living The Dream. And my thirties? All they’re cracked up to be. Obviously.

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For real. It was that bad.

Alone and scared, I was up for five hours on the floor of my tiny bathroom that night. I was nauseous and sweating in places I didn’t even know could sweat. If I weren’t in such pain, the no sleep thing alone would have made me homicidal. Ultimately, I toughed it out and went to my doctor the next morning where I got a prescription and optimistically thought I’d feel better by the next day.

Nope! I couldn’t even stay at work that afternoon. And that night, I woke up and again debated a trip to the emergency room. The following morning-  three days into this new mystery illness- I was twisting and turning, unable to find any position for comfort while trying to rest on the couch at home when I suddenly overheard on the TV: “Imagine being pregnant for 60 years…it’s true and it happened in China. Coming up next.”

Ummm….weird medical sci-fi shit? Sold! 

This is also precisely when my mind- in its severly ILLNESS-CLOUDED AND SLEEP DEPRIVED state- began to question Google’s results for “extreme side pain.”

Sixty years…holy hell…how horrible…what does that even mean…seriously, that doesn’t even make any sense…damn I have to pee again…but I already tried…again…I wish I could sleep…but seriously, maybe I’m pregnant…or was and and, like, didn’t know it…yeah, maybe that’s what’s going on…ugh…what the hell.

By the time the show came back from commercial and the premise of the 60 year pregnancy was explained, I was doing leg lifts, actual leg lifts, in an attempt to “work out whatever kink” I may have somehow gotten my lower back into. Then, as I contorted my body into painful angles such as laying flat on my back and standing up straight, I learned that the poor woman being chronicled on the show actually knew she was pregnant all those years ago, but when her baby “went to sleep” before being born, she just went on with her life. Okay…

Pondering the likelihood of my own odd medical state, I took a break from stretching and moved onto lunges, alternating reps with guzzling water from a jug in an effort to combat the UN-FUCKING-CEASING urge to pee and my inability to successfully do so. Too much? Just wait.

By the end of the TV show, I had placed a call into my doctor and was laying in bed on my stomach sans pillow, phone in hand. When they finally called me back HOURS LATER, I was told to get there in 40 minutes or go to the ER. Cause that’s super affordable.

So I rushed to my doctor, who in turn sent me to the hospital for a CT scan, where I was diagnosed with a kidney stone. Immediately, I felt vindicated for the pain I was in and accepted everyone’s effusive sympathy rather than the scorn I felt sure to receive for overreacting. I was given vicodin and a sieve to strain my pee (i.e. drugs and “entertainment”). I can’t tell you how many times I Googled “what does a kidney stone look like” in order to know what I should be looking for- I won’t go into the details, but suffice to say there was some other nasty stuff showing up.

Five days after my ordeal began, I was pain-free at last and no longer “panning for gold.” I can hardly convey the absolute elation I felt when I passed that damn thing except to say I wanted to celebrate with champagne. I felt actual pride in myself for toughing it out and successfully passing a sizable stone. Coral-like and spiky (“agony” in the picture above is a dead ringer), I placed it in a plastic snack bag and studied it (I was asked by the doctor to save it just in case they needed to analyze it- apparently I’m now 75% more likely to get another one!). Sadly, while it seemed massive at first,  I swear the ornery bastard has steadily shrunk ever since.  

For such a small thing, it proved incredibly costly. All told, my kidney stone set me back $897 after insurance (which luckily covered the other $2687 due), as well as three of my five sick days. Given that it is now one of the most expensive things I own, I keep it on my microwave. A physically and financially painful daily reminder to drink more water.

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You suck. I hate you. Also, you are a selfish and inconsiderate fuckwad. That’s right, fuckwad. You make me so angry that I invent new words in moments of utter seething as a result of your selfishness and inconsideracies. See? Another fake word.

As much as I’ve obviously enjoyed being forced to sleep around your nocturnal activities; your earlier move-in-week propensities for dropping heavy boxes above my bed at 11:30 p.m., your inclination for some truly perplexing heavy walking (you’re not heavy at all so it is a god damned mystery of epic proportion how exactly you’re able to make what appears to be 150-175 lbs. make so much noise as you dig your heels into every fucking last carpet fiber…seriously, are your heels bleeding?),  your frenzied nightly trips (no less than 23 in a sixteen minute span!) to the kitchen and back as though the fucking thing was on fire- yes, as much as I’ve enjoyed every last bit of it all, I HAVE HAD ENOUGH. Chill the fuck out, kid.

In the early days, you were Geppetto, akin to your fellow wood-working character who wanted nothing more than a “real boy” for a son instead of the sorry substitute he fashioned out of wood at night. You wanted nothing more than to build your janky ass particle board bedroom furniture above my head as midnight approached. Wanted nothing more than to hang those damn pictures because oh my god how could you possibly sleep without those pictures on the wall beside you? Now, you are Heavy Walker Texas Ranger- witty nomenclature that can be attributed to my boyfriend who, without sharing in my sleeplessness thanks to you, joins me in solidarity and hate as he does in all things because he’s a veritable font of snarkiness too. Anyway…

I sincerely cannot understand how you carry on night after night without regard for any of your neighbors. Have you never lived in an apartment before? Do you not know the apartment dweller code of conduct? Are you a fucking moron?

In an attempt to avoid another psychotic-seeming visit to inform you of your asshattery, I wear SHOOTING RANGE quality ear plugs, have changed my alarm clock’s sleep sounds from Summer Evening Crickets to Thunderstorm Rumble in an attempt to drown out and acclimate myself to your regular booming, and make a concerted effort to be asleep well before you arrive home between 10:30 and 11:30 each night.

Except today you threw me a curve. You went out and whooped it up and didn’t come home until 3:14 a.m. Congratulations! Even though I was blissfully asleep for a few hours, I was of course concerned when you didn’t come home on time. But then luckily you barreled up the communal stairs that you destroyed when you moved in, slammed your door with laudable assertion and fortitude, and told those squeaky old floorboards who’s the boss.

Speaking of, have you ever heard of The Tony Danza? I’m considering a less misogynistic variation whereby I renege on the rest of it and simply punch you in the back of the head. Kind of makes me feel bad for Tony Danza though. I mean, your suckiness just made me invoke his name in the worst way possible and what the hell did Tony Danza ever do to you? Anyway, so you’re the king of your own shit-sty. How awesome for you. Have I mentioned that I hate you?

On the other hand, I suppose I should be thanking you for giving me the wherewithal to write this post. I have of late felt detached from writing and most everything actually, but you seem to have brought out a level of bitchiness in me that must find an outlet. Also, I just remembered I have a spare cupcake from Molly’s in the fridge, and lets be honest, eating a cupcake at 5:13 in the morning is a kickass way to start the day. That’s right, start the day. You know, because I’d be getting up for work in 37 minutes anyway. Yeah, so thanks for that.

Sincerely (wishing you would shut the fuck up),

Your Sleep-deprived Downstairs Neighbor

P.S. Things are about to get passive agressive (early morning slamming of doors, dresser drawers, and creaky windows; pots and pans mayhaps; blaring of NPR’s Morning Edition; excessive hair dryer usage; shoes flung at the ceiling; I don’t know, we’ll just have to wait and see). I know, I’m excited too!

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“Let me just pull up your account…..I see you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Yup…same one I’ve had for the past nine months.”

“Right. Well, due to an increase in operating costs, I’m sure you can understand, we’ve had to raise our prices ever so slightly. I do see that, as a special thank you from us, you’ll receive HBO for the next six months for free.”

“Yeah, I’ve had that for free for the past nine months too. What if I just trade you HBO for my $10 back each month?”

“Are you unhappy with your services?”

“No, I guess not. I just don’t know what value I’m getting for $10 more a month.”

“We’ve recently enhanced our Internet speed….”

“Really? It’s working the same as before….”

“Well, if you want to upgrade to our…”

“No, I don’t want to upgrade. I just don’t see how I’m better off.”

“We can look at other SIMILARLY-PRICED-IF-NOT-MORE-EXPENSIVE packages if you…”

“No. You know what? No. Maybe just don’t acquire a network on its last lap around the drain (sorry 30 Rock, I still heart you) and stop hiring Don Draper to do your commercial voice-overs. Maybe then you wouldn’t have to raise prices.”

“……….”

“Well, not you. You know what I mean. Hey, are you still there?”

“Yes.”

“Anyway. So, $10 more a month?

“Yes.”

“GREAT.”

How the conversation really went….

“Hi, I’m calling because I keep getting cryptic calls from this number and want to know why.”

“Let me just check your information………..right. We’re just calling as a courtesy to verify your service disconnection request.”

“My what?”

“Service disconnection.”

“Ah, no. I didn’t request that. Don’t do that. No.”

“Okay, well, that’s why we have these sorts of calls! Hehehehehehehe…”

“Yeah, but you didn’t even leave a message or anything. Also, why am I even being called about this?”

“With computers these days you just never can tell. Somebody pushes the wrong button here and it comes out wrong there and….you know how it is. Anyway, I do see that you have our SUPER-DOUBLE-WHATEVER-WE-WANT-TO-REBRAND-OURSELVES-TO-COVER-OUR-INCREASE-IN-PRICES package.”

“Um, yeah. Just to be clear, I’d like to keep it. Again, do not disconnect anything.”

“Right. I also see that while your rate will be only $10 more a month, you’ll also receive HBO for six months for free as a special thank you from us.”

“Yes. Great. Already get it, but okay. Thank you.”

“Is there anything else I can do for you today?”

“No. Just don’t get rid of anything.”

“Got it. Thank you for calling OVERPRICED-REBRANDED-COMPANY-THAT-JUST-PUT-ONE-OVER-ON-YOUR-JANKY-ASS.”

“Yeah, okay, thanks. Bye.………wait, what? Ten dollars more? Hello? Hello? Ah, hell.”

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There is of course the typical and to be expected mourning that the “trip of a lifetime,” which went smashingly, is now over. And there is of course the realization that I actually miss my boyfriend now that we’re back in our 12-16 hour workday routines, wherein we’re often too worn out at the end of the day to do anything except retreat to our separate couches in our subsequent separate residences. Who knew that spending eight days in the “snug” (although we were upgraded!) quarters of a cruise ship stateroom would go so well or would in fact prove (though I can only speak for myself here) to be a catalyst for a greater sense of companionship- even if (comically) one breakfast conversation turned to the theoretical merits of one form of melon over another? Sigh…

While those reasons are each valid and currently coursing through my reflective mind each day, I am instead writing today to admit that one picture (out of over, holy Nikon, a whopping 1000) has given me pause and disappointment. It’s a bit embarrassing to admit, and I only do so in an admission to you now because I feel too ashamed to admit it to those who know me offline. But, before I admit what about this picture has me feeling this way, I want to assure you- especially you kind and thoughtful readers who do in fact know me- that there is absolutely no need for you to argue against or try to soothe my poopy feelings. Please, sincerely please, feel no necessity to try to make me feel better or tell me I’m mistaken.

So, with all that said, the picture in question is one of my boyfriend and I on my birthday. That night was also a formal night, which means I was one happy birthday girl to be wearing a fancy dress. But, because the cruise et. al wound up costing double the amount of the bonus check that was intended to fund it, I opted not to buy a new dress. Instead, I wore the white and black BCBG dress that I’ve only been able to wear once before and years ago at that. Before we left for our vacation, I tried it on and found that it still- though barely- fit and that (hooray!) the strapless top actually fit even better (I would still classify them as “booblets” however). Unwittingly, I packed the dress in anticipation of the perfect trip and birthday.

When the time came to don the dress, I did so without any concern for how it would photograph. I wore the dress all night through an impeccable five course dinner ending in chocolate soufflé, through a champagne toast with the ship’s captain, through after dinner drinks while listening to the (Titanic-like) string quartet. I didn’t want to take my fancy dress off. I didn’t want my special day to end. We took a picture to capture the memory.

Looking at that picture now, the only one it turns out in which the two of us appear in full view in our formal night fanciness, it would appear as though taken (it wasn’t) with a wide angle lens. I’ve NEVER been someone who says “I look fat” or asks the like. In fact, I feel guilty saying anything negative about my body because it gets thrown back at me by people who weigh more. Notwithstanding all of that, it cannot be helped that the picture is…not good. So while I may refuse to say I’m fat even after gaining 12 pounds in the last year, I can’t deny that the picture and the dress I’m wearing in it do me no favors. I may not be fat, but I certainly look fat. And my heart sinks with the admission. There, I’ve said it.

The picture is embarrassing and I don’t want to share it with anyone. But I fully anticipate friends and family asking, “Where’s The Birthday picture? Where’s formal night?” Do I shrug and pretend it never existed? The truth is, I wanted my “30th Birthday Picture” to be the one I could always point to and say, “There…that’s me on my 30th and it was absolutely special.” Instead, The Picture nearly brings me to tears.

I realize that I sound ridiculous, I do. And I realize that after the picture was taken I went on to spend the next seven days taking many other pictures that turned out spectacularly. But the thing is, even though I wasn’t bothered at all by turning 30, I’m bothered by the picture that very clearly shows the decline of my figure since I was formerly photographed in the same dress at the same angle when I was 27. Three years: who knew that three years without change in eating patterns or lifestyle would produce such an effect? I’ve simply gotten older…and more “filled out” (I write with a scrunched nose).

Ultimately, I know I can’t let myself focus on this picture or how it makes me feel inside. I hope to expel all my yucky feelings here and have done with it. I know in all the other pictures I look happy and healthy and older but not fatter or uglier. And I know that none of my friends or family would, if I showed them, look at that picture and think, let alone say, “She’s really let herself go.”

So, the lesson here? Get a new dress and/or a new camera, but most importantly, a new perspective. Because what matters most is not the picture that didn’t turn out so well, but the fortunate memories created that it unfortunately neglected to capture.

The reality I’m facing is that I’m now 30 and I weigh more than I did when I was 27. I’m one dress size and pant size bigger. I guess you could say I’m more “womanly.” And, whereas I’ve managed to grow into and even celebrate my age, the time has come for me to grow into accepting my new shape as well.

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My new neighbor/roommie moved in the first weekend of May and it didn’t take long (all of three nights) for me to introduce myself in the bitchiest manner possible. At approximately 11:27 p.m. on a Monday night, he thought it was a good time to move boxes from the living room into his bedroom, dropping them on the floor above my bed each time. Later, he put a hammer to use. A hammer.

After 30 minutes and more than a few “Ah, hell no’s,”  I threw the covers back and sprung into action. I’m going to lay down the law now before months or a whole year goes by. I’ve lived here five years and I’m entitled to throw my weight around. Or, at least that’s what I told myself as I scrubbed the night-time mask off my face in a fury of angst, shoved my feet into my slippers, and barged upstairs where I banged on his door like a hell-bent census worker.

On the other side of the door, I heard a scramble take place between the bedroom and the living room where some hitherto unheard country “music” bullshit was quieted. Moments later, the door opened, showing the perp’s identity. A mangy, skinny, baby-faced 22-24 year old hobbit. YOU’RE the one making all that noise, I instantly thought. Instead, what I said was something along the lines of…

“I’m your downstairs neighbor and I realize you just moved in and probably have a lot of unpacking to do and whatnot, but whatever it is that you’re doing right now above my bedroom is loud and just…no. You have to stop. Maybe do it during the day, or I don’t know, before 11 o’clock at night.”

I tried, I really tried. I wanted to sound just scary enough to be taken seriously but also not completely off my rocker. In retrospect, I’m sure the threadless t-shirt I was sporting reinforced my intent more than my words. It was a gift.

This is not me. In case you were uncertain....

After a wide-eyed initial apology and just as I was about to return to my den of haterade, he says, “Can I ask you something? [dramatic pause] Is it really that loud?”

I’m going to be honest: with that, my mouth fell open. “You’re building furniture above my bedroom at 11:30 at night. Yeah, it’s that loud.”

I didn’t wait for him to respond further. I marched downstairs and went back to bed. After another 10 minutes of noise, he finally quieted down. The next morning, I awoke proud and empowered. Take that, world! But by Wednesday, he was at it again. He came home after 11 p.m. with a slam of the door and swiftly returned to his “construction zone.” The boxes must have been emptied and the furniture built, but dammit, he still had his hammer. I can only imagine that the thought process, or lack thereof, ran along the lines of: “Have hammer. Have walls. Must. Hang. Objects.”

What can I say? With all his late-night woodworking antics and home improvement tendencies, my neighbor’s a regular “Geppetto.” Also, a real asshole.

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Once I arrived, however, I realized just how naïve that ambition was. Most of the items on my friend’s registry were nowhere to be found, and not just because baby stuff is merchandised in a way that makes zero sense. Towels and washcloths are in one place and the baby bath mat thingamajig and accessories are in another.

After going back and forth between the two aisles and finding only the powder and lotion from her registry, I figured I had three options. It was too late to buy online and have anything shipped, so I could: a) Give up, go home, and deal with it tomorrow, b) Gift card, or c) In the words of Tim Gunn, make it work.

So, I punted. I got as close as I could to what she registered for. I’d equate it to eating a Boca burger and telling yourself it’s still meat. Rather than the yellow towel set with yellow fish that she registered for; she’s getting a yellow towel set with a yellow turtle on it instead. In my head I reasoned that, Turtles swim too so that still counts, right? Of course, next to the pseudo fish- turtle towel there was an ample stock of blue and pink towel sets of what I was supposed to be buying. It mocked me. Damn blue and pink fish. Also, damn people and their refusal to find out if it’s a boy or a girl! Jerks.

Anyway, after a few more similar efforts, I managed to load up on baby lotions, powders, washcloths, towels, a duckie faucet cover, bath mat, water temperature gauge, and some contraption that keeps water out of your baby’s eyes. My arms were full, and that’s when I knew I’d made a crucial mistake. A cart! I didn’t get a cart. Shuffling about, bent backward and peering over my stash, I managed to drop every single item while on the hunt. As it turns out, not only should I not be trusted to hold babies, I should also not be trusted to hold baby accoutrements.

Eventually, I found an empty adrift cart and dropped the items down, which is precisely when some 16 and Pregnant episode contestant came out of the woodwork and yelled at me like I was stealing her car or her monies or something. Embarrassed, I feigned cart loss…. “Oh, you mean this one isn’t mine? Hmmmm….silly me. It must have wandered away. Ah ha ha ha ha…” Abort, abort, abort!

Undeterred by my failed cart ganking, I set out to find a better option and was much more successful and stealthlike the second time around. With both hands now free and flipping through the registry one last time, I steered my not-stolen-but-found cart over to the greeting card/ gift wrapping section.

Facing a wall of shiny papers and ribbons and bows and buttons and bags and just everything that a person apparently has to have in order to give a gift, I reached for the largest bag in hopes that it could hold all that I had somehow pieced together. The bag was decorated brightly with a colorful animal…a dinosaur or buffalo or something- I don’t know, it could have been a caterpillar even, I didn’t really look. The thing is, the bag refused to refold once I nixed it. And that’s when all manner of clusterfuckery happened.

Apparently, the gift bag aisle is also an up and coming thoroughfare because as I struggled with the bag, a lady rolled her overstuffed cart- bursting with storage bins- into my ankle. Before I could react or shrivel in pain, a family of four shoved past yelling in Spanish what I can only assume was, “Quick, there’s a run on baby gifts! Get the last yellow towel set, kids! Fish or turtles, doesn’t matter! I’ll corner the gift bag market!”

And then, some hipster dude sporting the saddest facial hair since Mariah Carey’s crustache in Precious, pulled up thisclose to me. I can only assume that the pastel polk-a-dot tissue paper made him thoughtful, as he gazed with a fierceness that not even my blatant stare of disgust could tear him away. I scrunched up my forehead, crinkled my nose, raised an eye brow. Still nothing. Incredulously, I threw the bag on the floor. He walked away. Meh.

I don’t know what I hoped to accomplish by eliciting a response, but in a matter of only 30 minutes I had gone from confident, prepared, unfettered career woman supporting her friend’s life choices to befuddled, butterfingered, stupid, single girl without a clue. I was frustrated and fuming and nothing would just WORK! Baby gift shopping had broken me and I’d *maturely* decided to take it out on a colorful gift bag, which I didn’t even buy.

Admittedly, I had botched the whole thing horribly, comically even. Not only did I not go to my friend’s Baby Couples Shower, but now I couldn’t even get her a proper gift. I was weak with hunger and failure, my bangs were plastered mercilessly to my forehead, and a blister had formed on my right heel. It was then that I looked down at the forlorn, deflated dinosaur-buffalo-caterpillar-mystery animal gift bag and thought; This…this is what my life has come to.

A gift bag was never so symbolic.

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