Miami Vices

February 6, 2011

I’d like to send sloppy, wet-nosed thanks to you readers who’ve sent words of love, encouragement and concern the past few months. Your thoughts and well-wishes remind me just how big-hearted this Blogosphere can be. Truly.

Some of you have asked me how I’m doing on “the feelings front” and how 30 Days of  Torture Le Regime worked out and if I was able to enjoy our long weekend in Florida. These questions aren’t the easiest to answer. Answers require honesty and a showing of the vulnerable underbelly, which is hard. Answers also require an admission on my part that I’m still flailing around and that on many levels, I don’t know jack. Admissions like that suck. I’m an enthusiastic member of the Got-It-Covered, Thanks! club.

But I put it out there, didn’t I?  I’m the over-inflated windbag who aired her dirty laundry in this space, right?

And I know, deep down, that I don’t gotta tell you nothin’.  But given your generosity and extended hands, I feel like you deserve a little better.

Maybe some second-tier souvenirs instead of the 99-cent suckers in the bucket next to the cash register.  But only second-tier, because even though you deserve the t-shirt, I’ve only got enough in my wallet for the keychain. Somehow, I know you’ll understand.

I’ll start with a bang. A bang so big that you’re going to shake your head and say, “Kitch gave up liquor for a month but she’s swapped it out for LSD, because this shiz ain’t real.”  Drumroll please… The T Family did not have the usual (and now simply expected) Vacation in a Petri Dish. We spent an entire four days, in a foreign place, in rollicking good health. I know.

I’ll admit that I stacked the deck a bit by keeping Miss M. home from school several days before we left.  Criticize all you want, sticklers for education! I am unashamed. The child is in pre-kindergarten (the official Homeland of Germs) and is adamantly unconvinced of the benefits of hand-washing. She is also now the proud owner of the world’s most contaminated Pillow Pet.

M. dragged that sucker across the floor of every parking lot and terminal escalator she could find; no matter how viciously I snapped at her, she was undeterred.  The second we got home, PillowBunnyLovey had a hot date with a vat of OxyClean and Clorox. In other news, the day we got home, HackBoogeyman arrived for another an extended stay.

Despite the reappearance of HB in our house, my verdict for the Florida mini-vacation: Success.

Okay, now that I’ve gotten the easy part of the equation out of the way, I’ll move on to murkier waters.

A few reflections on 30 Days of Le Regime:

~The first week was rotten. The vigorous (!) exercise got on my nerves almost immediately. On Day 4, I said to my husband en-route to the gym, “F^#k clean living. Clean living sucks. Who cares what my mood needs? My ass needs a day on the couch with The Real Housewives of Beverly Hills and some Chardonnay.”  Day 4 was kind of a bitter day. It was one of plenty.

~exercise, even vigorous (!) exercise, does not show benefit in the Backside Department for a while. In the age of immediate gratification, this blows.

~on Le Regime, something as innocent as a lunch with your husband can turn into strange territory. Especially holiday lunch at a favorite Italian bistro–the one with the a-ma-zing wine list. You know that scene in Finding Nemo when Bruce, the fish-craving shark, gets his first whiff of Dory’s blood? Just gotta say: Yo, Bruce. I feel you, man.

~Veggies get old, but not as old as fruit. Winter fruit bites. In an act of severe winter fruit burnout, I actually tried apricots again. I also made up with oatmeal, who I broke up with over a year ago. Verdict: apricots still give me heebie jeebies–it’s a texture issue. As for oatmeal, I still say: it’s glorified gruel.

~Gobs of healthy vegetables, fruits and grains give you gobs of…noisy air. Which is why, if you embark on Le Regime, I suggest a pre-emptive strike: clear your social calendar for 30 days. You will be grateful.

~You will not die. Sometimes you will be happy about this. Other times, not so much.

~You will not, as hoped, look immediately and decidedly better in the morning (the 90-year old hooker still lives, breathes, and stares back at me in the mirror).

~Nor will you jump out of bed, perky as Kelly Ripa, ready to start the first day of the rest of your life. *Cue the Cymbalta commercial that I loathe*–Depression hurts. Well, it does. You feel like you’re on the losing end of a fistfight. Or maybe that’s the exercise talking. I dunno. I tried massage, I tried hot soaks in bubbles, I tried Ibuprofen, I tried stretching–zip. I’m just marrow-deep sore right now, period.  I guess I’m moving on to the acceptance stage.

~Something I cannot accept? Sober hanky-panky. Am I some kind of freak? Am I the only girl who can’t shake her moneymaker without some shaking of a cocktail first? Full Disclosure: this has everything to do with me, not the hunky man on the other side of the bed. He’s just fine–even finer, if possible, after 30 days of all that exercise.

…because look at him, right? I am a lucky, lucky duck, am I not? AND he took my grumpy butt to Florida.

Thus…it’s me.  All me.  And I hate it that it’s me. I almost can’t even type this, I’m so embarrassed. I can’t relax, I can’t get out of my head, I can’t quit thinking, “Something. is. wrong. with. me.”  I’m as cuddly right now as a pit viper.

Something needs to bring the frisky back to this girl, because I feel out-of-whack and clumsy. If anyone touches me, I nearly jump out of my skin–I’m like one of those neurotic, twitchy small dogs. It sucks.

Verdict: Unsure.

After 30+ days, I think I’m doing better. I can drive past a cliff now without immediately wanting to pull a lemming. This is an improvement.

I’m going to keep plugging and, for the most part, keep Le Regime going. Hopefully, the discipline will carry me through the gray days of February. I’m going to give it a shot. Except when those sheets need burning up. Then I’ll indulge in a different kind of shot. Hey, in those cases, it’s medicinal, right? A little Boudoir First Aid? We Nervous Nellies aren’t above a little outside help.

Nervous Nellie Cocktail

serves one fidgety trainwreck

1 1/2 ounces mandarin vodka, such as Stoli or Absolut

3 ounces cranberry or Pom/cherry juice

1-2 tablespoons agave nectar

2 slices fresh orange

splash of soda water

lime wedge, for garnish

In the bottom of a cocktail shaker, mash orange slices with agave nectar until muddled. Add vodka and cranberry juice. Fill shaker with ice and shake vigorously until very cold. Pour over ice in a glass and top with a splash of soda.

{ 9 comments… read them below or add one }

Allison @ Alli n Son February 12, 2011 at 5:39 pm

I somehow missed your original post. :(. But I’m glad that things are going better for you. Sending you hugs.


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