Undomestic Diva

Defeated

Because you're dying to hear more about my migraines and associated suffrage, let me just sum it up in one word: fuckityfuckfuckmotherfuckerfuckingshit.

Whew. I feel better.

Actually, I don't. I'm only one day in on the Topamax and yes, it takes four full weeks (FOUR GODDAMN WEEKS) to get up to full dose on it, but I felt worse yesterday than the day before. So, you know, I'd like to wave my white flag, roll over and just die.

Might sound extreme, but honestly, I'm just so defeated.

I'm having headache-less migraines. Supposedly. Meaning, I have vision problems (can see better than 20/20, but can't focus or concentrate on anything without causing major eye strain) which causes a very weird, uncomfortable lightheadedness that - no exaggeration - makes me feel like I'm going to lose consciousness. Like, I literally look for a place to sit down and close my eyes to relax them before my eyes roll back into my head. Which then triggers a panic attack from hell, because no one wants to hit the newsroom floor at work, you know? It's embarrassing. 

These headache-less migraines seem to be triggered by light especially - driving in the daytime, computer screen and good god, who the fuck invented florescent lighting? That's the worst. But because I rarely actually get a headache, I feel like a complete lunatic because how do you explain those symptoms as a migraine?

Oh, and did I mention I've had these "migraines" EVERY DAY SINCE OCTOBER?

And let me tell you - I've been to:

- my regular doctor

- an opthamologist (with a second opinion scheduled... for March fucking 18th because why not wait another 3 weeks to live a normal life?!)

- my neurologist

And all of them believe it's an 'atypical migraine.'

I've also had a full brain MRA, tried Fioricet, Treximet, Propranolol and now Topamax as well as cutting out caffeine... even my beloved Starbucks. (Do you know how many gasps I've had to endure in my local Starbucks store the few times I've attempted to begin a relationship with decaf?)

(P.S. Decaf - You're a bitch.)

I don't know what to do now. I feel like honestly, it's never going to end. I'm living two lives. One, where I still somehow manage to get my kids to school, ice hockey, soccer and baseball practices and meet with clients and the other where the entire time I'm driving, I pray I won't have to pull over or I'm meeting with my client and hoping it won't end abruptly when they see my eyes roll back into my head, because hey, that could be bad for business.

And frankly, I may crack little jokes here and there (like the fact that I've decided to give up migraines for Lent - and I'm not Catholic) but really? I can hardly function anymore. I give up.

So...?

**

P.P.S. Allegedly, "fuckityfuckfuckmotherfuckerfuckingshit" is not a word according to Typepad. I beg to differ.

Five and five

Five things I love right now:

1.

2. "My Private Jet" nail polish by OPI.

3. Jen Lancaster's Such a Pretty Fat

4. These guys.

5.  Eminem's big comeback with Dr. Dre. HOLLA - (NSFW)

Five things I'm OVER already:

1. Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie

2. Decaf coffee (still no leaded for me)

3. and migraines (still no luck)

4. Nayda Sulleman aka Octopussy aka Octomom

5. The women on the Real Housewives of Orange County. Good god, those women are just nasty, mean, self-centered people.

What are you loving and loathing right now?

Jack(ing around) in the Box

Forget what your mama told you, it's what's on the outside that matters most... if you're 4 or 6 years old and 'the outside' = a cardboard box.

Never mind the TV, the boys spent an entire day having fun with this big box on the front lawn. I mean hours-o-fun.Forget the expensive playset or the battery-operated PowerWheels from three Christmases ago, this brown box of nothing in particular was the best gift ever.

(I was taking some video of them flip-floppin' around on the grass in the box when the footage went from "oh isn't this cute?" to "oh shit, no he didn't!" It gets good around 1:15.)

Boxing Day from Undomestic Diva on Vimeo.

After the blow-out, the box became a castle, a sort of life-size hamster wheel they rolled themselves around in and then a slide...

These boys, let me tell you, often make me long for the days that I can barely remember; when fun was a cardboard box and a little imagination and no one cared about grass stains or dirt under your nails.

What's in a name?

So a bunch of us were Twittering the other night and ZoeyJane asked what our porn name would be. You take the name of your first pet + the name of the street you grew up on and there you have it.

I shit you not, my porn name would be: Harry Marco.

Now that's just embarrassing.

So I asked Candy Ass what his would be. And, oh my god, his is even worse: He-Man Sanchez.

Jesus, between the two of us? We are clearly two sexy bitches.

So, what's yours?

At the park (Or some other title that's more catchy)

I was a "good" mom yesterday. We played at the park before baseball practice. Send my trophy to my billing address, please.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

   

   

 

Ring... Ring... Ring...

Hi, you've reached UD's answering machine. She can't come to the phone right now because she's high on Azithromycin and snorting Astelin like nobody's business. Leave a message at the beep in the comments section.

Beeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeep.

Mediocrity

To tell you I started my freshman year with the single worst haircut of my life is to foreshadow my entire high school career.

True, other girls had it worse. I wasn't the ugliest, but I wasn't pretty enough to be noticed either. I wasn't popular, but plenty of people knew who I was. I had a good time, but I wasn't the good time.

You could find me in vintage thrift store clothes and espadrilles rather than the knee-highs and pleated plaid skirts all the "it" girls were wearing at the time. I preferred chipped nail polish on my short nails rather than freshly applied acrylics with a French manicure. My so-called eclectic style ironically made me fade into the background while the others, clearly following a trend, somehow stood out.

To say my averageness didn't bother me is nothing but a lie. Of course, I didn't care to be an "it" girl, but I also had a hard time accepting myself as simply ordinary. Everyone craves the attention of others better than them at some point.  

In my short stint thus far in the Blogosphere, I've come to realize that high school never left us. Sure, we grew up and morphed somewhat; my hair grew back and I slimmed down. But rather than becoming different, grown-up people who somehow changed over time, we just became more sophisticated versions of our old selves.

In the big bad world called the Internet, there are still cliques and the popular bloggers, writers who stand out from the crowd and a million or more of the rest of us who go unnoticed; who on occasion are stumbled upon by random passerbyers who may stop and stay for a while, but eventually move on to something bigger and better.

It's sobering to find that the acrid lessons we learned in high school - not the math or biology or grammar (OK, fine. Grammar, yes.) - but the schooling we got in amity and self-esteem are still pertinent in the adult world. 

This, I guess, is the grown-up version of falling for the popular guy who will never love you back, not because you're not worthy, but because you just aren't extraordinary.

As I blindly steer through the obscurity of the blogging world, navigating wirelessly through a world that very barely existed when I was in high school, I find myself the same girl, with the bad haircut, in a sea of a million others just like me  and it's crushing.

Feedback

Me: "Who's the best mommy ever?"

Big T: "You mommy! You mommy!"

E-man: "You are mom."

L-Dub: "Well, you're the best motherfucker ever!"

Me: "OK... Good. Q and A time is officially over. Carry on."

Defining "wild"

This weekend, I...

-- Had dinner with the parents

-- which included a FUN! conversation about this post. NOT AWKWARD AT ALL.

 

-- Started taking propranolol (a beta blocker) to get rid of my migraines

-- and therefore quit quitting coffee (YAY!!)

-- and ended up with the worst migraine ever

-- and had to quit quitting quitting coffee, so yeah, I'm off The Good Stuff again [sobs]

-- Took up drinking water

(It took me an entire day, but I managed to drink one whole glass of water! Yay me!)

(Not sure if I should mention that my "whole glass of water" was actually water in a Starbucks travel mug because, shiz, I needed to not know it was water.)

-- Caught Candy Ass' dread Man Cold/flu/The Plague by Valentine's night

-- which Candy Ass was ever-so-sensitive about, reminding me that he has been sick for SIX WEEKS!

(Honey, babe, sweetie, listen here: If you've been sick for six weeks, you've either a) got something really wrong with you and need to see a doctor or b) YOU'RE MILKING IT, ASSHOLE.)

-- May have possibly talked to my doctor twice (including Valentine's night)

-- called three local pharmacies

-- and consulted two drug-interaction websites to see if I could take Fioricet for my migraine withthe propranolol

-- and subsequently realized that my fear of mixing prescription drugs would make me, like, the worst druggie ever

-- Took full advantage of Time Warner Cable's 1-cent Valentine's Weekend Pay-Per-Views

-- including "Bridget Jones" when the selection got tough. I paid too much.

-- Wrote nightly updates to Tamara in Georgia on everything (read: nothing) she missed while she was super busy having house guests and couldn't talk to me.

An excerpt:

From: undomesticdiva
Subject: Day 2 Since U Been Gone
To: tamaraingeorgia

Yes, I'm still using Kelly Clarkson's song as my subject line - what of it?

I sit here writing you this update, wet and sticky from my shower because I made the bad decision to dry off with one of the defective towels I mistakenly bought from Target.

 

Seriously, what kind of towel coddles the drops of water on my back rather than soak them up?

 

In other news, it's my first day on the propranolol or however the fuck you spell it. NOT WORKING. Very depressed. Depressed to the point of lunacy, but I don't have to tell you that - you are, after all, reading this email. I've decided that either a) I need glasses and the ophthalmologist WAS WRONG or b) I've got some sort of blood clot that's blocking oxygen to my brain and I will be dead by morning.

 

I vote for neither.

 

Also, if aeroplanes don't stop falling from the sky, I will never register for BlogHer.

 

XOXO,

M.

(This is normal, right?)

-- Defeated, bought a pound of Starbuck's DecafEspresso beans

-- Watched E!'s Top 20 Best and Worst Plastic Surgery Stories

-- and talked myself out of new boobies after seeing that Lion lady. Yikes.

-- Dropped a frozen roast on my foot

(See, I try to be all culinary and shit, and THIS is what happens.)

-- Was in bed by 9:00 PM again Sunday (Wild, this one!)

What did you do this weekend?

Coffee, interrupted*

If you've read my tweets, lord knows you know I've gone off the deep-end since quitting the [whisper] C-O-F-F-E-E. It's bad.

Sure, you might have been like, Oh she's feeling 'stabby,' hahahaha, that's funny. But no. No, it's not. I feel like I could straight up stab someone without feeling a smidge bit remorseful and no coffee-lovin' jury this side of the goddamn Mississippi would convict my ass. And not only would I get off scott-free, but I'd set a new precedent and they'd name it "the percolatory defense" in my honor.

(To call me a bitch right now would be to mitigate the gravity of the situation. Think PMS to the eleventy-billionth power. There ain't enough Midol in the world to make me "relax.")

At this point, Candy Ass would love nothing more than to hear me whine about a debilitating migraine 'cause this 'no coffee' thing is making me a tad bit unfriendly.

And by a tad bit unfriendly, I do mean thou shall do whatever I meant to say which is sometimes different than what I actually said, so help me god if you can't figure that out for yourself.

Amen.

:::

*God help you if you even dare mention my post title being a play-on-words for that homewrecker of an actress' movie. I will jump through this computer screen and layeth the smackdowneth. Or something slightly less violent. Team Aniston.