kdiddy.org

So! Last Friday, I had my MRI. It was not bad at all. The only questionable part was when I was in the tiny waiting room with the other patients and someone who, I think, had taken sedation was coming out of her MRI and having a rough time coming to. She notified everyone of this by SCREAMING BLOODY MURDER. “NO! NO! NO! WHERE ARE YOU TAKING ME? WHAT ARE YOU DOING TO ME?” The other to-be-MRIed patients and I shot our heads up (gingerly, in my case) from our 1998 issues of Redbook and peered, frightened, down the hall. It was not the most reassuring sound for an MRI n00b like me. The nurses saw us getting ready to lose our shit and started shushing the woman and quickly got her out of earshot.

The MRI itself was fine. I was in the tube for about 20 minutes and didn’t really experience any feelings of claustrophobia or anxiety. The noise didn’t really bother me, either. I guess all of these years of listening to pounding dance music were good for something. After that was over, I set about the rest of my Christmas activities.

I know I say this every year, but our tree this year was the best.

It didn’t look that huge at the lot, but once we got it set up and the branches had a chance to settle, we realized that we had a gorgeous, wonderfully fragrant, evergreen beast. It bears repeating:

Christmas itself was awesome, if exhausting. I love the shit out of Christmas.

So, Tuesday I called the get the results of my MRI, which ended up being a bit of an ordeal. My doctor was at a different office than where my results were and would need to call me back later. But the office where my results were closed early. This was particularly upsetting, since the nurse had told me, “Yeah, you definitely have something going on there.” In the hours during which I had plenty of opportunity to obsess over what this meant, I had pretty much written my will because “something going on” had become flesh-eating alien brain tumor in my mind.

We had to go to PetSmart that night because the kitty litter situation in our house had gone all wrong, with both cats completely saturating the litter in their box and then revolting against us. One pooped on the floor, another puked. It was anarchy. So we were in the middle of spending a somewhat absurd amount of money on a second litter box, a 42 pound bag of litter, and other stuff and I was scrunching up my face at the wet cat food when my doctor called.

He said stuff about C5 and C6 and whatnot and then told me what was the problem: a herniated disc. As he was giving me the information for the neurosurgeon that he recommended, I interrupted him and said, “I have to have surgery?” My doctor was certain that I do, but I’m hoping that neurosurgeon will want to try something else first. Getting my neck cut open and whatnot is rather freaky and I’m not a fan of having surgery whatsoever.

So. That’s what’s going on. Thankfully, I’m not in constant pain. I only notice it when I make an effort to correct my posture from my Nosferatu stance, and I can definitely feel something hitting a nerve all the way down my arm. And my fingers and arm are still numb and tingly, but I haven’t really lost any function in them.

Stupid broken kdiddy.

So my neck woes haven’t exactly improved. The muscle relaxers and painkillers that I got from MedExpress did indeed help, only to reveal that I still had a great deal of tightness in my neck and this really cool new feature where my left arm and my left thumb and index finger were kind of numb. I called MedExpress and explained what was going on in a please-let-it-be-nothing, “That’s okay, though, right? Loss of feeling? Right?” nonchalance and they explained slowly that this was a cause for concern. They made me call my doctor, my doctor ordered me to go get X-rayed, and this morning I met with my doctor.

I had the unique experience of explaining that I did this to myself in my sleep, though I’m now realizing just how embarrassing that is and need to get a better story. “Oh, you know, I was on safari and had to tackle a lion. Yeah, my neck hurts but I messed that lion UP!” But, no, 33 is apparently the age where you just spontaneously injure yourself. Which I guess is why the cashier at CVS, after surveying my haul of Aleve, heating pad, and Ben-Gay, suggested that I get a Craftmatic adjustable bed. (She’s buried in my yard now.)

The X-rays showed that my vertebrae were slightly out of whack, most likely due to me stiffly holding my neck at a weird angle for two weeks, and were pushing on a nerve which was causing the numbness. I need to get an MRI done to make sure I haven’t completely mucked things up and in the meantime I get to take steroids to reduce the inflammation. “The steroids will make you hyper, and hungry, and…angry,” she explained. Sweet! I can’t wait to tear downstairs on Christmas morning and bite the tree in half. Here’s what I’ll be wearing:

"HULK MAKE TRADITIONAL CHRISTMAS MORNING BREAKFAST OF PANCAKES AND BACON! HO HO HO!"

I was slightly disappointed that they didn’t give me any kind of neck brace. I was really hoping to perfect my impression of Joan Cusack in Sixteen Candles.

I also went ahead and took her offer of a Percocet prescription because it makes a dandy eggnog. I am currently on EIGHT different medications for various ailments and I told Tracey last night that my purse now sounds like Paul Abdul’s with all of those pills rattling around.

Every once in awhile, I wake up to find that I’ve slept in such a way that I’ve caused my neck to spasm. It sucks, especially since it happens at least once a year. I spend the next two days or so moving very stiffly until it works itself out and I get my full range of motion back. Last week, I woke up to a slightly stiff neck that gradually got worse over the day. The next day it was pretty bad, but I figured I needed to just grit my teeth like every other time.

Fast forward to today, and I’m still dealing with my painfully stiff neck. For over a week, it’s been like this, on a frustrating cycle of loosening up somewhat during the day only to revert to its ickiness during the night. Getting out of bed in the morning is excruciating (I mean, more so than usual). I’ve adopted a posture and gait not unlike Nosferatu’s.

Me, heading upstairs to seduce the husband. Oddly, I was unsuccessful.

I kept working out on my usual schedule this week, finding some relief in yoga and Pilates during all of the stretching and floorwork. But during yesterday’s Pilates class I realized that going there was a mistake. I had to lie on my mat for at half of the 30-minute class and found myself tearing up from pain and frustration. I went to see Fat Beckett with Gayle last night and felt fairly good during that and our dinner date beforehand. (During dinner, we came up with a HEE-LAAAAR-EEE-US viral-video-to-be that I sincerely hope we can bring to life. The word “dupa” features prominently.) I put my heating pad on it for a little while before bed, but woke up this morning in possibly even more pain than ever.

I realized that I needed to quit waiting for it to get better on its own and headed to Med Express during lunch. They had mercy on me and gave me some prescription Aleve and some kind of pain medicine that makes me reeeeeeally drowsy. Hold on, gotta take a quick nap.

The baby’s friend wasn’t actually wearing aviators. I added those to protect his privacy and ensure that I’m exploiting only my child. If that kid’s parents want to exploit him, they’re on their own. I can’t do everything for everyone.

Something (else) that my kid might eventually hate me for is conceiving him in March, causing him to be born in December. He hasn’t yet made it evident if he is at all bitter about this, but I’ve heard from plenty of people that having a birthday in December sucks. Apparently people experience their birthdays getting kind of swallowed up by Christmas, which I think makes Jesus, like, the most annoying first-born sibling ever, getting all of the attention and stuff.

From my perspective, my kid’s birthday falls in the midst of one of the busiest times of the year. There are lots of parties and events to attend, plus the irresistible urge to just DO stuff, like clean and decorate the house and go on baking rampages. When he was born, I ventured out of the house for the first time when he was about two weeks old to go Christmas shopping. I tell you that Hunter S. Thompson, with all of his fear and loathing, would not have been able to handle the experience of a Bed Bath & Beyond in December after popping Percocet for a few weeks and existing in a weird twilight of breast milk and interrupted naps. I nearly had a psychotic break. Also, I got people like the shittiest Christmas gifts ever. I think my mom got a picture frame and my dad got a handkerchief or something. The husband got a Kendrell Bell jersey, which was cool at the time, but quickly became a dud when Bell got injured 830 times and then fell off of the face of the earth.

Anyway…what was I talking about? Oh, yes, my kid’s birthday. If it fell during a less hectic time of year, I would be able to focus more time and energy on it. But as it stands, I’ve outsourced his birthday party almost every year. That way, he gets to have a special day and I don’t collapse in the corner crying. High fives all around. As a result, he’s had some really cool birthday parties at movie theaters, roller rinks, and museums.

This year, we kind of blindly decided on an arcade called Games N’At. We had intended on checking the place out first, but about a month ago I realized that we needed to just go for it, lest we end up with nothing to do. Let me tell you, if you have any kind of party coming up, kid’s birthday, adult birthday, holiday party, whatever, consider going there. It’s fantastic.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but inside there are all of these rooms with every kind of video game you could possibly want to play, everything from air hockey and skeeball to XBoxes and old school Pac Man and Dig Dug. I had told my grandparents not to come because they would probably find it too loud and crazy, but the big party room that we were in (one of two) was quiet and relaxing, with a fireplace and a nice big TV to watch if you needed a break. The kids were able to pick what they wanted to eat…basic party fare; pizza, nachos, chicken nuggets…nothing gourmet but on occasions like these I CARE NOT. Parents got to eat, too, which was awesome. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve nearly passed out at a birthday party because the food is only for the kids. The staff also provided candy bags, so all I had to do was bring cake, which was fine because the baby always has me make him cupcakes anyway. The kids each got free tokens for the games that dispense redemption tickets, but we got a few extra because they had double-booked the party room. Another party was slightly overlapping ours, which really wasn’t even an issue, but the owner was so apologetic about it, which was really nice of her. For three hours and all of that service and amenities, the total was about $180. I guess that’s generally kind of expensive, but I felt that it was a total steal.

I also have to talk about the cupcakes that I made. The baby always asks for chocolate mint cupcakes and for the past few years I used a recipe that I didn’t particularly like. Then, one of my favorite food bloggers, Annie’s Eats, posted a recipe for some fancier mint chocolate cupcakes just a few weeks ago. The moist cake with the mint ganache filling and the mint Swiss meringue buttercream was so much better than my previous iterations. But, as my mom pointed out, were kind of wasted on the kids. I had braced myself for this and thought I would be cool with it, but had to bite my tongue when one of the guests promptly scraped off the buttercream. “I don’t really like icing,” he explained. THAT’S NOT “ICING” YOUNG MAN! THAT’S SWISS MERINGUE BUTTERCREAM, GAWD!”

But the baby had an awesome time, which is the most important thing. I’m hoping to go back soon so that I might redeem myself on the air hockey table. The husband doled out a horrible smackdown and I had the added insult of getting laughed at because my gameplay looked like my coach had been our kitten. I got all dizzy following the puck back and forth.

I had grand plans to make this really lovely photo montage for today, but because my kid is SO OLD, he was born before digital cameras were really A Thing and was several years old before they were cheap enough for us to afford one. So, the montage requires a great deal of scanning. I’m not saying it’s not happening at all, but it’s going to be delayed.

My son is 10 years old today. That is blowing my mind in every possible way.

Last night, I put him to bed and told him that I would see him when he was a 10-year-old. He grinned as he snuggled down into his blankets with his beloved stuffed dog and the little alligator baby toy that we had unearthed. I lingered for a second, staring at the top of his head, and wished for a second that I could keep tomorrow from coming. Not because I grieve for time lost or the fact that my child is getting older, but because I wanted just a little more time with him as a little boy.

I can’t seem to recap the past year of his life in terms of milestones and achievements. Things like “started to play saxophone” jumble up in my brain with “laughed for the first time” because it all seems like it has happened in an instant. When he was born and when the nurse first showed him to me, everything stopped. I think I’ve been existing mostly in that moment ever since, face to tiny face, staring into the greatest love of my life while everything continued around us. So while he has grown and changed and become this wonderful little person, I’m still there, seeing his face for the first time.

I’m not, by nature, a violent person. At least I don’t think so. I used to describe myself as having a short temper. But I think that was a combination of two things: my admittedly bad habit of getting irritated too easily and my tendency in my earlier days to bother having an opinion or caring about stuff that wasn’t actually worth the effort. I’ve gotten physical a few times. One time that stands out is when I was about 10 and at a high school reunion picnic with my parents. Some kid was harassing me and the other kids I was playing with. I became furious. I pushed him. He pushed back. He won. I got gravel embedded under the skin of my palms, which hurt like hell.

Most of the time, if I’m angry about something, I’ll rant about wanting to sock someone, and maybe in the moment I do. But I know that it’s not really worth whatever consequences would follow.

My thought process was not as logical this past Friday night.

I was out to see the husband’s band and a few DJs and I was, admittedly, intoxicated. I was, however, behaving and just generally having a good time, and tweeting things like:

Just don't ask me to explain any of these.

At one point, however, some guy who was not holding himself together, stumbled through the crowd and was dragging another inebriate, who was dragging a bar stool. This choo-choo train of fail ran right into me, knocking me down and trampling me a bit. My memory of this event is fuzzy, but my sister-in-law tells me that I stood up and thrust two middle fingers in the air. I then approached the guy who ran into me and talked to him for a bit in what I’m sure was an enlightening conversation. I then removed his glasses, set them on the table next to him, and slapped him across the face.

Photographers were on hand to capture my self-image

There was no retaliation on his part or on the part of his companions. Probably because I was nice enough to spare his glasses. I wear glasses. I know they’re expensive. If I had a slap coming, I would want to make sure my glasses wouldn’t get bent.

I’m really thankful that it didn’t escalate. Obviously because I wouldn’t want to test out whether or not I had any actual fighting skills but also because people starting fights at bars is so cliche and trashy. But I’m mostly just really…impressed? surprised? with myself that I got up the guts to do such a thing when the situation really called for it.

That said, I’m pretty sure I’m hanging up my gloves.

I did something kind of dumb a few weeks ago. As I mentioned the other day, I got a new iPhone. I initially went to buy it after having brunch with Laurie, Kim, and Jessica. I walked into the Apple Store with a small list of questions having to do with the fact that my laptop was from several OSes ago and could no longer support newer versions of iTunes and therefore could not update newer versions of iOS. This wasn’t a huge problem, since iPhones now have cloud storage, but the only thing to consider was that I would have trouble transferring images and contacts and stuff from old phone to new.

If you’ve been to an Apple Store, you know that everyone who is working there during your visit (all 50 of them), are extremely friendly and personable and have drunk enough of the Apple Kool-Aid that they’re JUST SO HAPPY FOR YOU THAT YOU’RE BUYING AN APPLE PRODUCT. The college student that I ended up oddly attached to was nice and kind and seemed to genuinely like me. And I’m not sure what happened, but I eventually heard myself saying, “I’ll take a MacBook Pro, please.”

The next 20 or so minutes were a blur of credit cards and rebates and Cloud set ups. I walked out of the store with a new laptop and a free-after-rebate printer in my hands. And I was pretty happy about my purchases until the fumes from the store wore off. Then I began to wonder if I’d acted foolishly.

I did want a new a laptop, though I wouldn’t have gone so far to claim that I needed one. But the one thing that I knew for certain was that I couldn’t afford one. I had, as I said, put it on a credit card, which wouldn’t have been the worst thing in the world if it wasn’t the credit card that had been the bane of my existence since I got it as a wee college senior. Its interest rate was too high and the balance had been circling the same embarrassingly high amount for years. I would pay a chunk off and then something would happen and I would need funds that I didn’t have and out it would come. But for the most part, I had protected it from big impulse purchases.

When I got home, however, the majority of my brain was still excited about my new toy. The husband looked at my haul, puzzled. “Uh, why did you buy that?” he asked. I didn’t have an answer besides, “I just really wanted it.”

We didn’t argue and the husband didn’t try to make me feel bad, but I quickly began to feel ashamed of myself for doing something so impulsive and selfish and financially reckless.

I kept the laptop in its box and over the next few days tried to determine whether or not I could really afford the payments that I would be making and trying to deal with the fact that I had essentially put myself back a whole year in paying down that card. Eventually, I realized what I needed to do.

On Saturday, I went to a different Apple Store than the one where I had purchased the laptop. I didn’t want to risk seeing my buddy from the big purchase. The face of the Genius who helped me fell when I told her the reason for my visit. She seemed personally hurt and sad that I would return such a wonderful thing. And I’d be lying if I said that a tiny part of me didn’t hope that there would some reason that they would say that they couldn’t accept the return, that I would be forced (or “forced”) to keep the shiny pretty thing. But eventually I walked out of there, empty-handed but with the promise of a thousand-dollar bad idea soon to be erased.

I’m thankful for my impulses, for whatever it is that tells me to go for it. Those impulses got me a partner that I can’t imagine my life without and a son who makes the world a little bit better every day. They got me a house that surely does it what it can to drive me crazy, but that I can tell is going to be a center for us and my kid and his kids for years to come. They certainly give me some headaches, like when they drive me to make major purchases without really thinking them through. But if I don’t do that sometimes, I don’t get the opportunity to remind myself that I’m pretty good about fixing my mistakes.

So, I’m on this rosacea medication and that illicit acne cream. And I guess they’re working because, as I mentioned on Twitter yesterday, I feel kind of like this:

What’s even worse is that while I was searching for an image of that guy, I came across this:

Why, internet? Why?

It’s not that I don’t love Richard Simmons. I find him to be endlessly entertaining, especially since he only seems to pop up in the oddest places in my cultural existence.

I’m just unnerved by salad being potentially wasted.

Anyway, I had a somewhat exciting weekend in that I finally got a new phone. My iPhone 3G was 3 years old and not in terrible shape, but it was pretty slow and rickety. I ventured to the Apple Store twice in the space of one week on this quest and I think that place needs to come with some kind of warning. Despite the fact that there’s a recession, there are always 100 customers in there. Though, of course, they’re probably not all buying stuff but are instead there to huff the fumes of pretty shiny things. The, admittedly wonderful and numerous, staff are all so…buddy buddy. All of the Apple Geniuses that I interacted with were so…I think “stoked” is the best word for them. They were so stoked that I was there, they were stoked that I was getting a new phone, they were just really stoked. This is truly the genius of Apple: that gentle hypnosis that convinces that anything you want to buy is totally awesome and you so totally deserve it just for being you.

Speaking of happiness-inducing things, I’m starting to think about the cookies that I’m going to bake for this holiday season. I have a really good cache of recipes, but I always want to find some new ones to try every year. My source for that the past however many years has been Martha Stewart, who used to always put out a special holiday issue. She doesn’t really seem to be doing that anymore. She has a “holiday handbook” but it’s light on recipes and heavy on crafts, which I don’t really get into at all. Martha seems to be on the forefront of the shift to digital media, as her magazines are now available for iPad and iPhone, plus she released a “Cookies” app just in time for the holiday baking season. Iiinteresting.

I’m going to get this out and then that’s all I’m going to say on the matter.

1) To the victims of Sandusky, and to victims everywhere: I’m so sorry. We always tell you to listen to adults because we’re in charge and we supposedly know what’s best for you. You’re supposed to trust us. Every single person who should have kept you safe and didn’t failed you and there’s no excuse for that. I wish there was some kind of official list of grown-ups who have sworn to look out for you, but there isn’t. So let me say this to anyone who might need to know: if someone is hurting you, you can tell me. I will make it stop. I promise.

2) To the media (I’m looking at you Fox News, though the fact that you still get called “the media” is such a joke) and anyone else with the ability to communicate: stop calling this a “sex scandal” right the hell now. A sex scandal is something naughty, something whispered about, some indiscretion between two or more people that maybe amounts to nothing more than a not-nice thing to do. A sex scandal is not illegal or wrong in every possible way. There was no sex involved here. What happened was criminal, morally reprehensible, rape, abuse, terrorizing innocents, and a systematic cover-up that is so disgusting it nauseates me almost as much as the initial violations. And scandal doesn’t really cover it. This was a disgusting, shameful failure of unbelievable proportions. Stop thinking with your ratings and REPORT WHAT HAPPENED FOR ONCE.

3) We can talk more in-depth about sports and “sports culture” later, but I really don’t think that’s a factor. People who rape children, or who cover up said rape, or who defend the people who did said covering up don’t do so because “they’re sports fans and that’s how they are.” They do such things because they are f*cked in the head and rather disgusting individuals. I know that my intense devotion to the Steelers will tempt people to draw comparisons to the actions of our quarterback. Though this isn’t quite a parallel case, I think you’ll recall that plenty of people wanted him gone, because Lombardis really don’t matter that much. I can tell you for certain, as I established above, my love of sports doesn’t suddenly erase my sense of right and wrong. If someone, especially a kid, is being hurt, and I have the power to stop that, I’m going to. I don’t care who I cheer for.

This past week was kind of ridiculous. Let’s break it down.

Me and My Maladies

I turned 33, which was also the day of Halloween. I had gone shopping for candy for trick-or-treaters the day before, which turned out to be a day of hormonal wackiness for me. Looking back, it now makes sense that I bolted out of bed at 7:30 in the morning and decided that I needed to procure candy as soon as possible. I imagine the staff at CVS saw the look in my eyes as I stomped over to the Snickers. They knew to stay out of my way. I worry sometimes that I am becoming a Roseanne episode.

I woke up with an extremely stiff back on Wednesday, which required me to ravage my office’s supply of ibuprofen. Also, somewhere around this time, I could not for the life of me remember if I had taken the pill that I take every morning or not. You know what that means?

It's gettin' to be pill sorter time!

On Friday night, I uttered those famous last words, “I have to go into CVS. It should only take a few minutes,” because I never learn. Yes, it should only take a few minutes, but in reality you are going to die there. After standing in line behind someone who was attempting to do something shady with a gift card, avoiding the oral projectiles of the grunting guy behind me, and getting into a surprisingly in-depth conversation about Kim Kardashian’s “marriage” with a woman I’m pretty sure was drunk, I mosied up to the counter to pick up my rosacea and acne medication. If you were wondering, “Kdiddy, how do you bring all the boys to the yard?” well, now you know. But, of course, the acne medication had been rejected by my insurance company because it required my doctor’s authorization. “Isn’t the…prescription…the…authorization?” I naively asked. No. See, because of my age (read: way too old to have acne), my doctor needed to call the insurance company and reassure them that I am not, in fact, purchasing creams and salves to sell on the street. An unintended side effect of this transaction was that I’m now seriously tempted to see if the acne cream can get me high. I mean, what are they hiding? What aren’t they telling us? I was puzzled by this, because there I was, all 33 years of me, and there was my acne. What could I be trying to get away with?

Eventually, I left, sans acne medication. I forgot to buy a pill sorter, too. Say…where are my pants?

My Kid Is Pretty Rad

Halloween itself was fine. I don’t have any pictures of the baby actually trick-or-treating because I suck, plus it was raining. I do have a picture of him about to win the prize for Most Original Costume at the Halloween parade in our neighborhood.

He was Paul McCartney, which everyone loved, though there was still some confusion over who he was supposed to be. A surprising number of people asked if he was Elvis, which was weird. There was no pompadour involved in his costume.

Those weren’t the only accolades he earned last week. Saturday, his soccer team had their playoffs. They lost, but maintained their first place record in their division.

His coach wasn’t actually about to shove a cupcake in his face. That’s just how I take pictures okay?

Later that evening, he had a piano recital in which he played “Ode to Joy.”

It was part recital/part informational lecture about Beethoven, which was mostly watching clips from Immortal Beloved. I love that movie, artistic license be damned, so this was fine with me. And I remembered that I have a pretty strong reaction to the Ninth, which makes me wonder if I’ve been subjected to some A Clockwork Orange treatment at some point in life.

I do enjoy the ultraviolence, come to think of it.

Big Night Aht

The husband and I had tickets to see Louis CK last week. I co-opted the event to be part of my birthday celebrations. We went to Morton’s the Steakhouse beforehand, which was omfgdelicious and omfgexpensive. My grandfather had given me some gift cards that someone he worked with gave him. I had initially scoffed at needing $250 at a restaurant, but, um, we still went over that. But whatever. The meal was so good that I started calling the husband, “Girl,” as in, “Giirrllll this is so good.”

Louis CK was amazing and afterward we met up with Gayle for a drink. I was especially excited about that last bit because a) Gayle, b) DRANK, and c) we went to Meat & Potatoes, which I’d been wanting to try forever. I was actually back there on Sunday for brunch with Kim, Jessica, and Laurie. It was delicious. We had Bloody Marys with bacon vodka and Laurie was kind enough to InstaGram my Irish Benedict before I stuffed it in my face.

Miscellaneous Moments of Grace

I met up with Mary for lunch yesterday. We were enjoying a beautiful day by the lunch trucks when leaves abruptly fell from the trees all at once. It was odd. Like, “And now…AUTUMN!” We chuckled at this until one leaf flew into the side of my eye with such force that it knocked me off balance and I almost fell off the picnic bench. Well played, Nature. (PS, you’re a dick.)

Leaf assaults aside, we found ourselves sharing our favorite moments from the new Beavis and Butthead. I discovered that is impossible to talk about Beavis and Butthead without giggling exactly like them.