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.