You Bring Out The Breast In Me

I've never had any of the side effects - good or bad - that a lot of women get while on birth control. No psychotic mood swings (at least any more than usual), no obvious weight gain, no weird sensitivity issues, and, perhaps saddest of all, no boob growth. Until now.

I've been on the same pill since June now, and initially had no side effects; but when they slightly changed the chemical makeup of the pill in October, I put on an un-losable 5 pounds, and then - by the grace of the God I don't particularly believe in - I got boobs. In a stunning miracle, I went from having the chest of an 11 year-old boy, to having the chest of an 11 year-old girl. The middle school boys are going to love me. 

Dramatic Reenactment

For the first time in my sad, waifish life, I can fill out my A cups. Gone are the days of a guy reaching for a grab only to realize that my bra cup sinks inward! Gone are the days of having to use chicken cutlets for even a hint of cleavage! Gone are the days of padded bras! And while they really hurt, and feel like someone's been driving an 18-wheeler over them constantly, I'm so proud of my girls. Now that I can actually see them.

You Know You Love Me

I have a lot of embarrassing guilty pleasures, but at the moment I'm harboring one that I swore I would never, ever take part in. Kind of like Ugg boots, Supernatural and wearing leggings, but as we all know, now I practically live in Ugg boots and leggings (and often at the same time!) and now I watch Supernatural religiously, so maybe this shouldn't be as big of a surprise as it's going to be. 

Anyway, it all began back in... I have no idea exactly when, but it was sometime in 2008 I believe. That was when I was living in DC, and spending every day at Kristyn and Becca's because I'm incapable of spending long periods of time on my own. We had a Wednesday night ritual of ANTM and Project Runway, and since they were on at 8 and 10 respectively, we had a gap at 9pm that needed to be filled. Enter, Gossip Girl. 

This was not what my group of friends in high school looked like

It seemed like a good idea at the time; it was a show with a lot of pretty people, lots of dramatic plots and insanity, lots of fashion and new trends, and, best of all, lots and lots and lots of money. A recipe for success! But then we watched the first episode, and I zoned out after 10 minutes, and afterwards we all discussed just how awful the acting was, and the fact that none of us could remember what had happened, and maybe we'd just stick to stuffing our faces from 9-10pm and not watch anything on tv.

But then, like most bad habits, GG began slowly clawing it's way back into my life. First it was the fashion, the undeniably amazing fashion. Pictures were popping up in every tabloid, and even in some newspapers, and my god the clothes! The clothes! The accessories! The shoes! It was mayhem. I've come a long way with my own sense of fashion, and GG appeals to me in two main ways now: 

1) They have some gorgeous, timeless outfits, and

2) They have some of the best ugly-chic ensembles I've ever seen

My god, the ugliness is beautiful

For those of you that aren't aware, I love ugly-chic. The more questionable, the better. There's something amazing about it, especially if it's overly garish or faux fur lined. Delicious! (But not Bedazzled - I have my limits.) So GG started growing on me.  And then there were the boys, because Chace Crawford, gay or not (have we ever figured this out?) is delicious looking, and I want all of them. Even Chuck Bass and his rapist voice. "I'm Chuck Bass." Yes you are, now take me to bed.

So I started watching an episode here and there, and wondering what was going on, and if there was anyway to go back in time, leave Hull High, and go off to a posh private school in the Upper West Side. Totally plausible. Anyway, I got the first season on DVD for Christmas, and I've been in a fashion/drama/boy coma ever since. And it's embarrassing because I'm old now, but oh well. I accept myself.

Although my friend Becca doesn't, per a conversation we're currently in the middle of:

Becca: you are very talented

Chelsea: i do have some mad skills

Chelsea: although right now im wasting them writing a blog entry about gossip girl

Chelsea: which i can't stop watching

Becca: i thought you had more taste than that

Now, all of that aside, I have a real point to make here, and it all centers around the Serena-Blair Drama. Or, shall I say, the issue of Frenemies. 

I know, I know, it's such a retarded word, but there's a reason it's become a part of our everyday vocabulary (like MILF, which  I had to explain to my father the other day.) There's something about girls that just fosters the entire concept of frenemies; we're jealous, we're insane, we're prone to syncing cycles and menstruating at the same damn time, and so on. And we love love love competition and drama and the spotlight, no matter how much we might claim otherwise. Therefore it makes sense that a lot of girls will bounce back and forth between being friends and enemies, and often have no idea where they stand with one another at any given time. Or where they even want to stand with each other.

A larger portion of my past than I'd care to admit has been full of the drama of frenemies, and being back home - really being back home for the first time in over 5 years - tends to bring that mindset back. I find myself being more skittish and hesistant than normal, never really knowing where I stand with people. I think I've discovered a lot about myself since I was in high school, and while I know how I feel about the past, I'm never sure how other people feel, and where I stand with them. 

Anyway, Serena and Blair's friendship reminds me a lot of one that took up most of my time and effort through high school and most of college, so watching it sometimes seems a little surreal. Well, sure, we didn't have thousands upon thousands upon thousands of dollars to waste on our wardrobe, and mommy and daddy never had drivers in limos taking us to school, and I don't think I ever wandered down to The Plaza Hotel on my lunch break to swill a few martinis, but the basic points are still the same. It's the same struggles, the same issues, the same jealousy and uncertainty and confusion and all of that good stuff. 

I have no idea where I'm going with this post, other than to point out some similarities between my life and Gossip Girl. Minus all the money. I really can't stress that enough. Can I have some please? I guess it's just that watching the show, and watching it from the point of view of all parties involved, it just makes me think of some of the events that have happened in my life, and some of the things I've done (and, in turn, had done to me.) A lot of it never made sense at the time, and some of it still doesn't - and probably never will - but it's interesting. Makes you think of the What Ifs or the If I Knew or the I Should've and so on. Sure, we can't change the past, but as I'm often reminded, we also can't stop dwelling on it. 

xoxo

Gimme, Gimme More

I'm not sure if it's because we're Jewish (although I'd assume that's the stem of it - you can take the Jew out of the Promised Land, but you can't take the cheapskate out of the Jew) but my family has this overwhelming urge to buy everything - especially in bulk - that we assume we'll need at some point in our lives. My mother isn't as bad, but my grandfather and I could've outfitted a thousand fall-out shelters, just in case of some kind of nuclear war or zombie uprising or what-have-you. 

My grandfather's house had a massive closet (which probably could've fit a twin size bed and a dresser, considering there were like 4 armoires in it to begin with) on the second floor, and we used to call it the Toilet Paper Room; which, of course, it was dubbed due to the fact that he had enough toilet paper stored in there to last through the end of times, and probably them some after that. Whenever toilet paper went so much as one cent on sale, my grandfather bought every available package and whisked it home, arranging it lovingly in piles and gloating to himself about how he'd never run out of toilet paper, unlike that nosy sonofa Morty down on K Street. He did the same thing with tissue paper. And towels. And sweaters. And shoes. And furniture. And so on, and so forth. After he passed away, my mother found four tuxedoes in his closet. Four. I don't even know anyone that owns one tuxedo, let alone four. I guess he wanted extras in hand, just in case he ruined one at the Oscars and needed another in a quick fix for a marriage. 

Unsurprisingly, I've inherited the Thrifty Gene (to put it nicely) and while I luckily don't have the money to spend it at whim, I still find myself pressed against the tv screen, nose touching the glass, nearly salivating over the money-saving, space-saving, sanity-saving wonder products that are constantly splashed over us. Just today I almost buckled and bought some WonderHangers, because let's face it, don't we all need more room in our closets? I know I do.

And just look at the deals! All of those Wonder Hangers, plus four Bend A Hangers, and two... Ultra Bright Lights. Whatever those are. But all of that, for the price of just the Wonder Hangers! (Never mind the fact that the entire deal costs only that $9, not anywhere near $50, and they just word it so you think you're getting a deal, but man is it tempting, even when you know you're being suckered.) I imagined all of the amazing things I could do with more space in my closet. Like hanging more clothes!

But what I've really been hankering over lately has been the amazing ShamWow, which is just too incredible to pass up on. Seriously, who doesn't want a.... towel? that can wash your car, your body, your dog, your sidewalk, your trash, your lawn, your Old Ironsides, and then some? And can do it all without being rinsed off once! I want to stock up on them just in case of any industrial sized spills. Just to be at the ready. 

And, that ridiculous actor aside ("...it's German, and you always know the Germans make good products!" Well, I guess I'll give them Volkswagens and genocide) the demonstrations and pictures are just too tempting. I mean, they show the ShamWow picking up wine! Red wine, for god's sake! And they're drying off a dog, and everyone knows you can't resist a cute dog in an ad - it's a guaranteed hook, line, and sinker. 

And, seriously, as I write this, I've watched an ad for Snuggies, and an ad for the Point 'n Paint, and I want them both. I could totally paint my ceiling with this, and I could do it all bundled up in my Snuggie, because it's a blanket. With arms. Brilliant. 

Merry Christmukwanzakah!

I found it fascinating that this year, all three of the major "holiday season" holidays managed to fall in the same week: Hanukkah began on Sunday night/Monday, Christmas is today, and Kwanzaa begins tomorrow. There's also Boxing Day tomorrow, which, contrary to what I'd always assumed, isn't a day in which everyone in the UK puts on boxing gloves and beats the shit out of each other, but rather a holiday stemming from an old tradition, where the wealthy families would eat their Christmas dinner, and then the next day, box up all the left overs and give it to their house staff. I guess it's a nice idea, sharing and all, but I'd be kind of pissed off if I worked my ass off for my wealthy employers, and the only thing they did for the holidays was to give me their half-eaten left overs. The day after the holiday. But, as my mother always says, beggars can't be choosers.

Learning that Boxing Day wasn't an exciting Europe-wide sporting day, in which one could take out all of their aggressions from the stress of the holiday season, was kind of like finding out there was no Santa or no Easter Bunny (although, to be perfectly honest, the idea of a giant rabbit breaking into the house scared me far more than the idea of a jolly fat man wedging himself down a chimney - or, through my stove, as I assumed he did, given that we didn't have a chimney.) It's sort of disheartening.

But what's more disheartening (and embarrassing) is that it was just last year that I learned that Kwanzaa was not a magical, mystical holiday that was centuries old and deeply rooted in African culture. I assumed it was the yin to our yang, the African equivalent of Christmas or Hanukkah. Whenever stores actually carried Kwanzaa regalia and decorations, they always seemed so colorful and so fascinating, and I assumed it was something poignant and deeply interesting. 

And then, of course, I find out that it was created by some guy in the 60's, pretty much on a whim. I mean sure, the whim was an honestly genuine and sincere one, but it kind of takes the fun away when someone just up and announces that they're starting a new holiday. It takes a lot of the magic out of it, especially for those of us in our twenties who still get embarrassingly excited about the holidays, and who still allow their parents to trail chocolates from the christmas tree to their beds and nod and smile when said parents get that sad look of hope in their eyes, claiming that the elves left them there. It's okay, dad. I know.

But creating holidays aside (which is an interesting idea, and one that I would quite like to investigate in the future) there's still that magic in the air when it comes to this time of the year, and I do enjoy embracing it whole heartedly. Especially with spiced rum and a splash of hot cider. Merry Christmukwanzakah, everyone!

Snapshots of Snow Days

I'm totally snowed in right now, and it's amazing. And since there are some people that have only lived in obscenely warm, snow-free places (I'm talking to you, Andrea) here are some pictures!

From outside the kitchen window

From the side window in my mum's room

And from my side bedroom window

Jazz approves of the weather by mimicking rigor mortis and napping on the couch

28 Days (of Christmas) Later

So my friend Kristyn was bit (yes, bit) at work the other day, by a particularly overzealous student at the school she works at, and I'm rather concerned that she's going to turn into a zombie. I'm pretty much an expert on the subject (in the event of an uprising, I've seen all of the relevant zombie movies and have read The Zombie Survival Guide front-to-back on several occassions) but I think maybe all of you should take a look at this bite and bruise and let me know what you think. Just in case. 

And the bite mark at the center of it is conveniently pointed out by the lovely arrow I drew in Paint. God, I'm a genius.

Brilliant Quote

"If 7 million men suffered unbearable pain with sex and exercise and were offered pregnancy, castration or hormones as treatment, Endo[metriosis] would be a national emergency to which we would transfer the defense budget to find a cure." - Nancy Petersen, RN, ERC Advisor

In related news, the past two days I've felt a bit better, even with my period returning for something like the 8th consecutive week. (Guys who read this blog, aren't you just so excited to hear me go into lovely detail like that?) I was even able to attempt a few sit ups without feeling the urge to carve all of my reproductive organs out. I'm not getting optimistic with the diet yet, as it's only been, I believe, 16 days, but it's nice to feel a bit of hope.

We're planning wheat/soy/dairy-free meals for the holidays, and so far it's not going too badly. We're having turkey (no more brisket, which is terribly disappointing, but at least I can eat poultry) with potatoes, yams, lots of green sides, rice-flour based gravy, and a gluten/soy-free cake, which I'm very excited to attempt to bake. I really need to learn to cook, seeing as a lot of my food now needs to be personally prepared, and since I've always wanted to cook (and get over my irrational fear of ovens) I'm looking forward to it.

In-FUN-mmation!

The best thing about having endometriosis (besides cysts bursting, extreme dieting, and psychotic mood swings on medically-induced menopause) is the inflammation. Some days, it doesn't matter if I only eat 100 calories and do 1000 sit ups (not that I can do sit ups right now, thanks to the pain factor), my stomach will be puffy as a motherfucker. And not only does it make me look fat, it also really hurts. 

The whole idea of this diet I'm on is to eventually get rid of the inflammation, and a lot of the pain. If I lower my estrogen levels, and cut out ingredients that promote inflammation and mesh poorly with estrogen, then I should find a better degree of pain relief. Now, I know this will take awhile to work, which is why I'm not going to make any decisions about varying from the strict diet until my sixth month mark, but I really didn't think I'd be in worse pain right after beginning it. Since I'm no longer putting my own personal toxins into my body, one would think there might be a marginal show of relief. Apparently not.

Over the past few years, I've played around with online support groups, because I don't know anyone (besides a cousin in Philadelphia) that has endo, and it's nice to connect with people my own age that are going through the same thing. Unfortunately, the online support group message boards might actually just be the most depressing things ever. The people are very nice and very helpful, but the overwhelming tone on the boards is one of confusion and frustration. It seems everyone's tackling the same problems, and yet only a very, very small number of people actually find relief or are able to live a completely normal life.

It's rare that I think of myself as someone with a chronic condition, or someone dealing with chronic pain, but when it does hit, it's a very unpleasant sensation. And, given that I'm prone to dwelling and throwing pity parties when I finally let myself get into one of those moods, it's not pretty. And, since I'm in a mood at the moment, I should probably get off the internet before I further shove my foot in my mouth.

THE HAIRCUT

This is a terrible picture of me because not only am I wasted, but I've been walking around in the blustery wind and my formerly-cute new haircut has become frizzy and puffy as all hell... BUT it shows how damn short the new 'do is! And this is us "sticking it up a notch." Just so you know.

Banged in High Heels

Last night, my friends and I went on an adventure to Boston, in which the following events occurred:

1) We almost ran over an 8 year old brandishing a gun

2) Our fabulously gay, asian waiter was in love with our friend Rob

3) We missed out on all the packies being open, so we had to take $7.88 nips from the fridge in the hotel room we rented

4) We went to The Liquor Store (a club, not a packie) and danced on stripper poles

5) Habeeb and friends tried to Divide and Conquer 

6) Josh was mistaken for a pimp

7) We watched something called Banged in High Heels - which is exactly what it sounds like

I've seen some hilarious porn in my day (Xena, Porn Warrior Princess, anyone?) but nothing could compare to the disaster that was "BHH". When it comes down to it, this is what we discerned from the movie:

A) Sex sounds like horses trotting briskly on cobblestones

B) Women always wear drag queen heels to bed

C) Landing Strips, when left unattended, become Autobahns 

D) Seabiscuit wears what I wore to prom (i.e. a fishnet dress)

E) Women, while copulating, resemble massive arachnids

All-in-all, it was a very wholesome, wondrous evening. Now if only I could sober up (and stop drinking, because I've had 3 caramel apple martinis tonight, and considering I'm running on 3 hours sleep and had wayyyy too much to drink last night, I should probably attempt to control myself.)

Wisful for the Weather

Let's take a quick look at the current temperatures for my hometown, shall we?

Brisk and freezing! Although better than yesterday's midday average of 27 degrees, wherein it felt like 11 degrees. Nothing says "Holidays!" better than freezing to death when attempt to take the dog for a walk.

Now let's take a look at the temperature of West Hollywood, where I just left:

Not only is it significantly warmer, it actually feels like the actual temperature, rather than feeling 20 degrees colder because of the bone-chilling winds and arctic freezing.

And now here's San Diego, where my bitches are off for a few days of fun, relaxation, and quality time at the zoo:

That's just fucking cruel.


But I have to admit, I kind of am enjoying the weather today, mostly because it means I can wear lots of cute layers and look very homeless-chic, a la Lindsay Lohan. I always knew she'd be good for something.

Hi, I'm Alive

Hooray! It's always a pleasure to wake up to another day. I was wondering if that was even going to be possible, seeing as I had to (somewhat) willingly give up every delicious treat and indulgence and form of sustenance that I've spent the last 23 years cramming down my gullet, but so far, so good. 

It doesn't really help that wheat is in about 90% of products, though, and that soy is in about 99% of products, so finding that 1% without either ingredient has become somewhat of a challenge. I've turned it into a game that's called Find The Edible Food! although it could also be called We're Gonna Spent $200 for 5 Items at Trader Joe's Because The Healthy Fancy Food Costs an Arm and a Leg. I think it's rather catchy, at the least. 

At the moment I've been eating mostly salmon on an array of things: salads, spinach, rice, etc. and a lot of turkey, seeing as my family goes turkey crazy around Thanksgiving and cooks them for weeks afterwards. And I realized that there's an amazing invention called Rice Milk, which means I can eat my (gluten and soy free) cereal in the morning! That was really bumming me out, seeing as both regular milk and soy milk are out of the question, so hooray for minor victories. And, really, the gluten free rice puffs taste (and crackle!) just like Rice Crispies, so at least I can enjoy being 5 years old again in the mornings. 

We'll see how it goes after the initial intrigue wears off.

You Can't Spell "Diet" Without "Die"

So I've tried many a bizarre diet in my day, but never because I needed to diet; sure there were points where I thought I could stand to lose a few pounds, so I cut back on all the crap I usually eat and tried to focus on a healthier regime, but I always fell off the wagon and went back to stuffing my face full of candy bars and fast food dinners. It'd be horrifying if it wasn't so delicious. 

But in my quest to get my ovaries to stop being little bitches and let me get on with my life, my doctor and mother and I discussed starting a real diet - nay, a complete lifestyle change - cutting out certain foods that apparently are comparable to poison for me. And since it's EVERYTHING I eat, I've been poisoning myself for some time now. Take a look at my list of What Not to Eat:

- Wheat (or What Chelsea Survives Off Of) : this includes breads, cakes and pasta products, all based on wheat

- Red Meat (bye, steak)

- Refined and Concentrated Carbohydrates: bread, flour, cakes made from refined flour

- Alcohol (sorry, if I have to cut out everything I eat, you better believe I'm keeping my alcohol)

- Caffeine (this will be the death of me)

- Chocolate (this just keeps getting worse and worse, doesn't it?)

- Dairy: including all milk and cheese

- Fried Foods: including margarine and hydronated fats

- Soy and Soy Protein Products (although I can have tamari, whatever that is, in small amounts)

- Tinned and Frozen Packaged Goods

- Additives and Preservatives

Okay so... every day I would drink 2-3 caffeinated coffees with soy milk, and then I usually drank 4-7 Coke Zeros (which is disgusting, I know), I started my mornings off with wheat cereal and milk (or a wheat bagel if I was working in the morning), I ate wheat all throughout the day, I ate chocolate like it was going out of style, and so on and so forth. So pretty much EVERYTHING I ate was everything I SHOULDN'T be eating. 

Most of the foods promote inflammation and boost estrogen levels, and even though I happen to be female, with the endometriosis, I'm supposed to have as little estrogen in my body as humanly possible. (Sometimes I really wonder how I wasn't born a male.) So as of yesterday, I embarked on my brand new Lifestyle, and... it's going to take some time getting used to. I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but EVERYTHING in the goddamn grocery store has wheat and/or soy (in copious quantities) and unless I want to live solely off chicken, fish, beans and vegetables, I'm going to have to either get better at finding endo-friendly foods, or do all of my shopping at Trader Joe's. Thank god they finally have one on the South Shore. 

I'm Thankful for You, Vitas

There are many things that I'm thankful for, this holiday season. There's being home with my family, there's the multitude of Thanksgiving feasts, there's the drinking binges with old friends, there's the sight of my now-toothless (but no longer purple) dog, and there's the wonder and awe of Vitas: the Soprano with the heart of gold from Russia. Unless you're a 19 year-old male who enjoys getting really baked and watching ridiculous videos on YouTube (like my brother) you're probably not aware of the wonder that is Vitas - and far be it from me to hold you in suspense any longer:

They claim he's just a Soprano and not a Castrato, but I'll let you be the judge. Personally, I don't think it's possible for any man with a full set of manly bits to hit notes that high, but I suppose stranger things have happened. Like Russia actually embracing this guy and loving his music. 

Last Day in LA :(

Oh my god, I can't believe this is my last day in LA for months :( I can't even think about it, so I'm going to post some pictures from this last crazy ass, amazing week instead:

YOU GIRLS ARE AMAZING <3

Tomorrow's Weather Outlook

Los Angeles:

Boston:

Oh Shit.

Nothing Like Warm Milk to Relax

After stressing so badly about my move out, I can officially say it's over and done! Somehow, every last piece of crap that was taking over my apartment has been packed and shipped (or given away to my friends, in a Very Jewish Christmas style) and I can finally breathe again. Seriously, I was so insane I thought I was going to have a heart attack. And so did my friends, apparently, because they surprised me with a spa treatment at Burke Williams!

For those of you not in LA, Burke Williams is a ridiculously amazing spa in Hollywood, where celebrities and rich people (so: not me) frequent. But the girls surprised me with a milk bath treatment and a calming detox wrap, and holy shit, I haven't been that relaxed since I was in elementary school.  At first I didn't believe them when they told me to sign in, and then I started getting all teary eyed like I've been prone to doing lately, and then I finally got my shit together and went and enjoyed an hour of ridiculously luxurious pampering; I nearly spilled off the table afterwards, I was so boneless.

I don't know how the hell I'm possibly going to survive leaving my friends, even though I know I'll see them in January, and at the latest again in March (fingers fucking crossed.) It's surreal to think that I'm going back to Boston on Monday (Monday!) and that they'll be 3,000 miles away. And of course that makes me teary eyed yet again, because apparently 23 years of surpressing my emotions mean they hit me all at once like a freaking tsunami. But they'll visit in January, hopefully, and they won't die of hypothermia, hopefully, so it gives me something to look forward to. And of course there's New Year and I get to see all of my amazing college friends, so things really could be a hell of a lot worse. 

Packing Sucks

For some strange reason, I used to very much enjoy packing. I was terrible at it, mind you, fretting about things getting wrinkled or broken or somehow shifting unappealing during travel (why, you ask? because I'm insane) but I liked it - it signaled change and adventure and excitement. So I assumed that when I started packing for my move back east, it'd be yet another OCD-riddled excursion in fleeting glee.

I was wrong. 

I've been shuffling around the apartment, irritably folding clothes, shoving DVDs into boxes, and putting every home accessory I have on my kitchen counters, so I can see what crap of mine my friends might want for their own apartments. And it's exhausting. Granted, I'm still in Crippled Mode, so it makes packing somewhat more difficult, but I'm far more mobile than I usually am after an explosion - this time, I just don't want to pack. I want to pull a Barbara Eden, cross my arms and nod my head, and instantly have all of my belongings arrive in Boston. I don't mind if they're strewn about in messy heaps, as long as they get there without me having to put any effort into packing and shipping them. Is it really too much to ask? 

So we'll see. I'm taking a break, but I know I need to actually get my shit together and get the majority of my apartment packed up today. If all goes according to plan, I'm moving out Thursday night, so I need the apartment empty and ready to go, and I need all my shit either already shipped out via UPS, or neatly packed and waiting to go on the plane. And seeing as we're going out for a going away dinner tonight, and I think I'm going to attempt working tomorrow night, I'm a little short on time. So I'll get to it soon. Very soon. Just after this stand up special on Comedy Central is over.

En-d'oh-metriosis

So it's no secret that I have a particularly petulant uterus and ovaries; when I was 20, they decided it might be fun to start forming cysts, you know, just for the hell of it, and then decided it'd be even cooler if said cysts started rupturing, because I've always had a secret hankering for bed rest and copious amounts of narcotics.

For those of you that aren't entirely sure just what the hell endometriosis is, let me preface this by saying that whenever I explain it to someone for the first time, I start off by saying, "it's really gross." Because it kind of is, and if you're a chick you'll wince and hold your pelvic region in sympathy, but if you're a guy, you'll probably run away screaming. Which is probably for the best, seeing as you're facing off with a chick who's uterus is currently using her insides for a punching bag, and anything you say or do can and will be used against you once the pain meds wear off and the claws come out.

Anyway.

Here's the basic gist: 

For normal ladies, when we charmingly go "on the rag", the lining of our uterus adorably sloughs off and comes out of our vaginas, along with all the other blood and goop and good stuff. It's awesome, I promise. So yeah, for normal chicks, this is a normal occurrence, and everyone's happy. Sort of.

For abnormal, endometrios-riddled chicks (and, in actuality, we're more common than most people realize) that awesome endometrial tissue still attractively sloughs off; but instead of being flushed out with the rest of the awesomeness, it decides it's quite comfortable where it is, and wants to set up camp. In other words, the tissue runs amok throughout the pelvic and abdominal regions, and sticks to things like ovaries, uteri (not that we have more than one uterus, but you get the point) and, in my case, nerve endings. It can cause infertility if it causes scar tissue to firm on your reproductive organs, and in fact, is the number one cause of infertility among women. Charming, no?

So I've been very lucky in the sense that it hasn't attacked my organs, and instead likes to stick to nerve endings and cause excruciating pain. But I can still spawn, if I so choose, and I'd much rather say "I chose not to unleash miniature Chelseas on the world" than "My organs are as hideously twisted and destroyed as Joan Rivers face, and thus I have no say in whether my hellish offspring will walk the earth." You know?

Continuing on in our supremely educational voyage, another side effect of endometriosis are ovarian cysts. They're called chocolate cysts, and not because they're full of delicious sugary goodness, but because they're full of old blood so they look brown. Sexy! And sometimes these cysts love to piss you the fuck off and derail all your immediate plans and rupture spectacularly, kind of like the volcanoes in the Discovery Channel documentaries I've been watching recently.

Mount Vulvasuvius

That's... kind of too fitting, and it's making me a little uncomfortable, so I'm just going to keep forging on so I don't have to look at the picture anymore. It's making my uterus sore. So anyway, yes, cysts sometimes burst, and it's spectacularly painful (as would any eruption in your pelvic area be, I would imagine, what with all the internal bleeding and all that fun stuff) and you go from up and mobile to hunched and crippled in under a minute flat. So best case scenario, you're mysteriously lounging about on a comfortable chaise lounge in the ER of a local hospital, so when it bursts you're able to be ushered right into a hospital bed. Worst case scenario, you're in 3 inch heels and a tight skirt, and you're on the clock at the restaurant you work in, and you pull a table out and it causes a cyst to rupture and then you're kind of fucked. Which is exactly what happened to me on Saturday night! 

So yeah, long story short(ish) the cyst burst, I started hobbling, and I went back to Danee's apartment with her. I didn't want to go to the hospital because the pain wasn't as cripplingly intense as it's been the past couple of times this has happened, but by Sunday morning I was feeling worse, so I knew I had to go. I was afraid I had a massive cyst just waiting to burst, and I knew that with my luck, it'd burst on Monday when I got to the airport, or something equally as frustrating, so I decided to suck it up and go to the hospital. Specifically, to Cedars-Sinai. 

Now, I've grown to be skeptical of hospitals, mainly because I've found that they're lying bitches that are out to destroy any last shreds of sanity and patience that you might be desperately clinging to. When my last two cysts burst, I had the extreme misfortune of having to go to the GW University Hospital. Keep in mind that this hospital is touted as the place to go in DC - presidents and senior officials are rushed there in their time of need, and anyone even remotely related to the GW community will happily cram down your throat just how amazing and attentive and top-notch the hospital is. Only problem? They're full of shit.

I've had THE most horrific experiences at the GW Hospital, including the time when they said the cyst was actually my appendix and it was rupturing and I had to have surgery immediately or I could die and then... they stuck me in a STORAGE CLOSET FOR 2 HOURS AND FORGOT ABOUT ME. So, you know, had it actually been my appendix, I would no longer be of this world, and wouldn't be able to regale you with tales of my fucked up womanly bits. And that, my friends, would be a travesty of the worst sorts.

In addition to being shoved in dark crevices, the doctors were fucking assholes, talked down to me like I was retarded (one male doctor told me obviously I was full of shit and had to be admitted, because women are 100% mobile and can walk with ease minutes after cysts rupture and since I was still hobbling, I was clearly hiding something - um, not sure where you got your degree, buddy, but I'm pretty sure your misogynistic ass failed Female Anatomy 101) or oggled my fruitbasket during a pelvic exam to the point where I had to scream at the intern to get the fuck out of the room and to stop staring at my vagina like it held all the answers to the universe. Good god, man, I just had an eruption down there, it's not like I'm propping my legs up on the stirrups to invite you to come and take a dip in the pool. Oh, and all of my trips? 12+ hours. And that was made up of 1 hour of doctor-interaction, and 11 hours of being ignored.

Seriously, I'd rather just grab a rusty saw, bite down on a belt, and carve out

 my reproductive organs than have to go back to the GW Hospital

But at Cedars? Oh god, it was like hospital heaven! Rather than being shoved in a wheelchair and left for 45 minutes while I screamed and sobbed in pain and the other ER visitors begged them to take me back because they thought I was dying (thanks again, GW!), I waited all of 10 minutes before being ushered into an actual bed - an actual bed! In a room! Not in a hallway or a storage closet! Or next to a guy tripping his ass off on HGB who then commenced projectile vomiting! (More thanks, GW!) The doctor saw me within the first minute of being brought back, and rather than telling me I was stupid or lying, actually, you know, listened to me and promptly ordered appropriate tests. And, for anyone that's ever had a CT scan and had to drink the disgusting contrast that goes along with it, you'll appreciate this - they put lemonade crystal lite into the contrast to make it taste better. Crystal Lite! Now if that's not that extra caring touch, I seriously don't know what is. I know it sounds retarded, but I got a little teary eyed when they told me that. I've had so many bad fucking experiences, that a little touch of kindness like that almost made me lose it. Course I was a hormonal mess, but I'm trying to not ruin the authenticity and Hallmark Cardness of the moment. 

So, I was in and out in 6 HOURS! 6! Half the time (at least!) of my other visits! And I was lucky enough that Andrea, Danee, and Breanna spent shifts watching over my crippled ass, and then all came over later for a night of - prepare yourself - McDonalds, Pizza Hut chocolate dunkers, BLT's popovers, petite fours, and Pinkberry. Oh god, the madness. And right now, I don't care if I'm fat, because I'm puffy as a motherfucker, so screw it. Bring on the carbs!

Another Day...

...another ruptured cyst. More to follow when I'm not in pain/fat/drunk.

(Although I must note that Cedars-Sinai is the nicest hospital in the world. Seriously.)

A Haunting

Good idea: Having a complete day off and deciding to recharge and veg out on the couch all day, catching up on tv.

Bad idea: Watching a Discovery Channel marathon of 'A Haunting' alone in your apartment, knowing you're going to be alone in the dark until daylight mercifully comes back the following morning.

(Equally Bad Idea: Hiring the lame actors from who've been out of work since Rescue 911 went off the air, and assuming your audience will believe that these people can actually act.)

Monster!

There's something that I'm not allowed to have, so I like to sneak it when no one's looking, or I'm alone, or I'm 3,000 miles across the country. And that something is an energy drink. Particularly Monster Lo-Carb Energy Drinks.

I went through this... phase, where I was drinking 2-3 of them a day, and it wasn't pretty. I ended up being so jittery that people thought I was on speed, and I lost about 10 pounds (which, for me, means I ended up looking like a starving third world adolescent) and I'm pretty sure my heart started skipping beats, but I was so out of my mind with energy at the time that I can't be 100% certain. 

Also, I was really, really annoying.

So my friends stepped in and told me that, under no circumstance, was I ever allowed anywhere near Monster Lo-Carb energy drinks again - on risk of imminent death. But I love them so much because they do give me a whallop of energy, and for someone that has as high of a caffeine tolerance as I do, it's sort of like Christmas morning every time I hear the crisp sound of the tab opening the can. I suppose I'm like an alcoholic, only with heart palpitations, rather than liver damage. Hmm. 

I've been trying to cut down on my caffeine intake, as I was back up to 2-3 coffees a day, as well as 4-7 Coke Zeros a day (yay, Aspartame poisoning) but today it was like I went into a trance; I was coming out of the Subway with dinner, and the next thing I knew, I had a Monster in one hand, and a receipt in the other, because I'm that asshole that pays for a $2 purchase with a debit card. Or I assume I am, seeing as I had some sort of energy drink blackout. 

Sometimes I wonder why I do the things I do, especially knowing that my friends would be pointing out that I promised I wouldn't do said activity anymore, and don't I remember what happened the last time I had 3 energy drinks within an hour of each other, and why do I persist in being such a pain in the ass? But now that no one's here to lecture me or point out that I'm breaking a rule, it's like I'm 5 years old again, greedily sucking down my sugary prize and gloating about how no one can stop me. It's probably a good thing I didn't buy more, because I'd probably binge on them, just because I could, and then end up dying, surrounded by a pile of empty Monster cans, officially becoming the saddest person on the planet. Or the former saddest person on the planet. 

(More) New Beginnings

Okay, so, here's the deal. Once upon a time I had a charming little blog called The Snark DC, which was my first forray into the wonderful world of blogspot.com. Then I moved to LA, and a blog with the term "DC" in it was no longer applicable, so I created LA Celebutard, which I thought was particularly amusing, seeing as it was sort of like the celebutard (never mind that it should be a masculine "le" not a feminine "la") as well as Los Angeles Celebutard. But then I made yet another major move, and realized that maybe I should drop the kitschy location-based names, and just pick something kitschy and versatile. Something I could update and stay on-top of, regardless of where the hell I was at any given moment. And thus Meshugeh was born.

And while technically I haven't headed back to Boston yet, god only knows which direction my life will go in again, so I thought it was smartest to go with something that I wouldn't have to potentially change every 6-12 months. And, somewhere, my Jewish grandparents are smiling down at my choice of a blog name. Or perhaps rolling fits in their graves, but that's a risk I'm willing to take. Sorry, papa. 

So in twelve days - November 24th, to be exact - I move from LA, where the temperature is projected to be 80 degrees:

To Boston, where the projected temperate is somewhere around -100 degrees:
Alright, maybe I'm lying; it's only supposed to be -70 degrees. And as anyone knows, after living in LA from June-November and experiencing something like 150 days of 80+ degree weather, with literally only 2 actual rainfalls (one of which lasted all of 5 minutes), it might take some adjusting, going back to a place with actual seasons. Because a drop from 80 to 79 is not, despite what some out west might say, a seasonal change. 

But I have to admit I've been craving a change of seasons. I love summer as much as the next person - in fact, I've spent the past 21 years (basically since I was capable of speaking) bitching about how much I hated the winter and how strong my desire was to flee to Southern California in order to rid myself of it entirely - but this whole endless summer thing is trying the very last of my patience. I need seasons, I need a change, I need some kind of signal that one chapter of my life has ended, and the next is beginning. That's my fancy BA in English talking, right there. 

But it's going to be harder to leave LA than I thought. Not particularly because it's a nice place - because it's not. And not particularly because I see myself here longterm - because I don't. But because I've carved out a happy little niche for myself here, and because I've made a few incredible, amazing friends, and the thought of leaving them even short-term makes me show more emotion than perhaps I have in years. Those of you that know me know that I'm not a crier, but I've spent the better part of the last week in a perpetual state of 'sniffly-and-teary-eyed' and it's throwing me off all the more. But then look at these hot bitches - can you blame me?

I've always had a lot of acquaintances, but oftentimes I find it hard to find real friends, people that I really connect with and really trust and really feel comfortable with. Despite my amazing college and high school experiences, there's only a handful of people I'd really consider true friends, and, frankly, I didn't think I'd gain anymore coming to LA; god only knows how fake most of the people are out here. But I shocked myself by making a couple of great ones, and even though we've only known each other for 6 months, it feels like a lifetime. Saying goodbye to them, no matter how temporary, is the hardest thing I've had to do in a long time. And that's saying something, considering the insanity that has been my entire time out west. 

So the next 12 days are going to be one big mashup of sadness, mayhem, excitement, and insanity. And the very real possibility of me gaining 20+ pounds, as we embark on the comfort eating binge to end all comfort eating binges.