Hey all...it has just struck me that in blog terms, mine is the equivalent of being on Seasonale, that birth control pill where you only get your period 4 times a year. Like, oh yeah, I'm just living my life, and oh, hey, it's time to set our clocks forward, get that quad-annual flow, and write a blog entry. Seriously, though, I am horrible at updating this.

So, there has been a mixed bag of happenings, lately. For one thing, my dog died. I found out that she had cancer - a tumor in her lung - and a mere 3 weeks later, she was dead. Her timing was insane; she had been growing weaker and weaker, and I was struggling with the reality that she should probably be euthanized, for the sake of being humane. I knew that she shouldn't hang around and suffer for too long, but being the one to make that call, was a tough burden, for me. I finally had made up my mind; I was going to take her in on a Monday afternoon. Up until Sunday night, I was lying in bed, sleepless, wondering whether I was doing the right thing. When I woke up Monday morning, she had made the decision, for me. She passed away, around 9 AM. Something ruptured, in her lung, and she hemorrhaged very quickly. It was tremendously sad, for me, but I honestly don't think that she felt much pain or suffered long, when she did go.

I have been mostly moping around, trying to deal with my dog's death. The night that she died, I decided I was going to make cookie dough. I am not particularly a huge fan of cookies, themselves, but nothing drowns sorrows or stamps out PMS/relationship woes/general displeasure, like cookie dough. Knowing, in advance, that I didn't plan to bake the dough, but rather consume it raw, I decided to leave out the raw egg. I figured that a case of salmonella poisoning would not improve my day. However, the lack of egg was leaving my cookie dough on the dry side. Proving that necessity is, in fact, the mother of invention, a new creation was born, that night - a little thing I like to call "drunk dough." Who needs eggs, when you have rum? The result was a delicious dough, which was at least 30 proof. It's amazing. You get to enjoy your dough, whilst getting tipsy, and you know when you've had enough, as soon as you slur your speech. It's awesome. Next time I experience a personal tragedy, I'll have the sense enough to bypass professional counseling, and go straight for the booze cookie dough.

Anyway, the week ended on a slight upswing (just ever so slight, but I'll take that, over a poke in the eye). I got to see my mom (it had been a while), did some shopping, got my nose pierced (this is like the 5th time I've had it pierced, but it's fun, nonetheless), ate at an awesome tapas restaurant, with some old friends I hadn't seen in years, and saw some good movies. One of the movies was My Sister's Keeper. You'd think a movie, about someone dying of cancer, wouldn't be the BEST choice for me, right now, but it was actually amazing and somehow comforting. Then I saw this awesome little indie movie, called Fat Girls. It was this awesome story about being different, in a small town, and it was a story that I really related with. It starred an actress named Ashley Fink, who is newish to the acting biz, but is really talented and funny. I look forward to seeing her in some more stuff (hopefully soon). Seeing actresses, like her, and like Gabourey Sidibe, makes me realize that while it would be a huge obstacle, to be a fat woman AND a successful actor, it's no longer a total impossibility.

From about the time that I was a little kid, I wanted to act. From the time that I was cast as Marta Von Trapp, in the Morrison, IL, Community Theatre's 1993 production of The Sound of Music,  I knew that I had a knack for acting (and singing), and that I really liked it. I actually begged my mom to move me to Hollywood and let me try to be a professional actor, and of course she said no. I remember being about 8 years old, and begging her, and her telling me that I could do it when I grew up, but not when I was a kid. I can still remember trying to explain to her that success, for grown up actresses, was based in large part on looks and sex appeal, whereas, with kids, that precocious chubby cheeked child, could be successful, and that therefore, I should try to be a child actor, rather than waiting. In hindsight, my argument was so good, that I probably should have scrapped that acting aspirations, altogether, and become a trial lawyer, instead. Regardless, my mom didn't agree, to my demands, and I remained a no-name.

I continued to act in school and community theater, all the way through high school. It began to get disheartening, though. I knew I was really talented, but I was always cast as something really stupid, because they cast the prettiest, skinniest girl, in the lead. I remember doing a musical theater production of Alice in Wonderland, and literally being cast as a tree and a dodo bird. I asked the director why he had bothered to cast me, at all, and he said that he needed my vocal strength, to fill the chorus and back up the weaker singers, who were all cast in the lead roles. Meanwhile, "Alice" was cast, based on the fact that she fit an existing costume. Of course, the lead actress was relatively sure that her flatulence was the carbon copy of rose water, and that little bluebirds and woodland creatures might, at any moment, gather around her, as if she was Snow White herself, just to hear her enchantingly melodic voice. It was all so nauseating to see how insanely sizist, everyone was. In the end, I just gave up on my acting dreams.

Today, though, things are starting to change. I don't know that everyone is always fully on board with the idea of diversity, for diversity's sake, but regardless, the chicklet-toothed, perfectly proportioned, WASP family, is no longer the only one, portrayed in television, movies, and advertising. Target has Asian moms, in its ads, and Cheerios has black ones. Pretty soon, someone is going to have fat ones. I mean, come on, a quarter of the people IN this country are fat people; it's sort of impossible to pretend that a lot of them aren't the ones buying your products. But fat women can do more than advertise lap-band surgery or Jenny Craig; we could do a whole lot more. Independent movies are gaining a real market share, especially due to viral video and social networking. More than ever before, it is now possible to do your own thing, and still be seen and heard. Those no-budget movies can become hugely successful, too...I'm totally willing to be the next Gabourey Sidibe. Seriously!

So, I wanted to move to California, anyway...why NOT be an actress. I'll proudly be America's NEW "Fat Actress"; I'm way less neurotic and whiny, than Kirstie Alley. I'm ready for America to embrace me - and lucky for America, there's more than enough of me, to go around!  ;)

I have a really bad habit of neglecting this blog. It has been several weeks since I have written anything, and so much has happened. So so much...

It seems that the more certain I am, of things, the more wrong I am. So, I will not speculate, but from my end, things don't seem so great, right now, on the relationship front.

I am going to move to California. I have been saying this, contemplating it, "planning" it, for a long time now, but there was always something holding me back. I always thought that telling Josh that I was going to go, that I could not bare to be here, for one more minute, was going to change his mind, and make him realize that I was serious about the changes I needed to make, but it never seemed to do much good. Finally, I just decided I couldn't take it anymore, and either I was going to set the precedent and do it for myself, or it was never going to get done. So, the plan is to be gone by May, at the latest. I am still taking some classes. Most of them are online, but one meets on campus, once a week. I have to take my schedule into consideration, but as soon as classes are over, I plan to be gone.

Over the last couple of years, I have had the fortune to be busy enough, with my various responsibilities and commitments, to ignore the voice in my head...the one which tells me that I am not happy - not really. It popped up, every now and then, but I ignored it, disregarded its warnings, and fired back with my retorts, trying to delude myself into thinking that you always have to struggle and overcome, to achieve your goals. That nothing good can be earned without going through a little pain. I guess there was a little more of that Protestant ethic, ingrained into me, than I realized. Subconsciously, I was buying into the idea that my suffering, today, would bring reward, later. I have waited, though, and I have not found the happiness I was seeking, not with my career, my education, my living situation, or my personal life. There has always been some pressing outside commitment, keeping me from doing what I needed to do, for myself. There was no time to work out, no time to take an occasional nap, and never time to write. The characters, in my still unwritten novel, have been bouncing around for years, knocking on the inside of my skull, making me constantly aware of their presence. Why am I not writing their stories down? Why have I wasted my time on a $12 an hour job that I hated, just to keep doggy paddling through life?

It is my time to move on. The only absolute responsibility that I cannot and will not shake, is my children. They are still the most important thing, and as long as they are ok, then I am doing what I need to be doing, for others. But, for me, nothing has been done correctly. The past cannot be rewritten, but we have far more control over our futures, than we do over our pasts. Yet, I have spent so much more time dwelling on the wish to have a do-over of my yesterdays, than actually making sure that my tomorrows go down without a hitch.  No longer.  The last decade was about pleasing others, and trying to find my place in the world, based upon how others felt about me, and where they thought I belonged. That doesn't matter anymore. I am shedding the fear. I have a place in this world, and I know where it is. I have felt it, and I will not apologize any longer, for my needs; I am moving on.

So, I've been sick lately. Every time I eat, I am, almost instantly, insanely ill. While you'd think this is just a phenomenal way to diet, it's actually a huge pain. I can't stop eating, forever. Eventually, hunger gets to me, and even something as innocuous as oatmeal, does me in. Eventually, it got to a point, where I felt that I had no choice but to give in, and visit the doctor. Several thousands of dollars later, I have a diagnosis; it turns out that when people have called me "lazy" and "dysfunctional," all these years, they were just talking about my gallbladder. My gallbladder barely functions, at all, and when it attempts to do something, it mostly just spasms, without rhythm or purpose (does the gallbladder have any direct link, to dancing abilities? Note to self: google this).

This knowledge was ascertained, following a series of fun tests. My favorite was called a HIDA scan. It was really great fun. It's not like a rare operation, or anything; it's a simple nuclear medicine procedure, so lots of people get them. On the other hand, lots of people, in the world, eat horse, and I really wouldn't recommend that, either. During a HIDA scan, you must lie perfectly still, while a radioactive tracer, which is administered via IV, makes its way through your body. This takes about an hour and a half, and you have to lie really, really still, the whole time. Other than my back hurting, from the uncomfortably hard surface on which I was lying, this part wasn't so bad. I mostly entertained myself by counting, in French, and also by trying to decide if being radioactive, felt any differently from my normal state of being (sorry to disappoint; it doesn't). Turns out, you don't get any superpowers, from being radioactive; you just can't breast feed. Major bummer. The second part of the test measures your gallbladder's function. This is done by administering a drug, which causes the gallbladder to empty. As it turns out, if you become violently ill, with the acute sensation of being stabbed in the abdomen, with an ice pick, and this results in your uncontrollable vomiting of bile, onto the floor of the exam room, there is a relatively good chance that there is something wrong with you.

So, yes, readers, my sad little gallbladder, will be no more, in the near future. It had a short but honest life. It fought fatty foods, courageously, but alas, its little light just burned too brightly, and it could not go on forever. In death, it will be shown the highest honor, which can be bestowed upon a fallen comrade-in-bile; it shall be ceremoniously (and laparoscopically) removed, and incinerated as medical waste. Gallbladder, we tearfully solute you. Godspeed.

I am now realizing that my slightly altered state, is probably more apparent, than I realize, at this time. I was prescribed something, for the pain: a great little controlled substance, known as Dilaudid. Apparently, it is a narcotic. Hmm, interesting. When you take it, your eyes can't focus, but who needs uncompromised visual acuity, when you're having so much fun! Pretty much everything, so far, is more fun, on Dilaudid. Granted, there are a select few things, which I have not yet tried. The operation of heavy machinery, seems to be frowned upon, but then again, I don't tend to operate a lot of heavy machinery, anyway, so I would make neither an ideal variable, nor control. Side note: why do all medications, which might have side effects of these natures, seem to target the operation of a forklift, specifically, when sharing their myriad warnings? Lunesta, Ambien, or any of the good stuff...they always go after the forklift drivers. Are there really that many depressed, badly pained, and insomniac forklift drivers, out there? Just wondering.

So, after next week, I should be about 1 pound (and $5,000) lighter, and have 4 fresh new scars, to show for my ordeal. Damn, more scars? Seems like there are just more and more cards, stacked against me, in this bikini modeling dream.

P.S. - Does any of what I've just written, make sense, to anyone who is NOT on heavy narcotics right now? Let me know.