Archives For My Suburban Present

 

pain abyss - Copy

*Warning: Written while on pain meds

I rarely get sick. When I do, it’s always to such an extreme.

I don’t get colds. I have nervous breakdowns.

 

I haven’t needed dental work since I was pregnant with Little Dude. He was sucking all the calcium out of my body, along with essential macronutrients and my life force and sanity. I loathed being pregnant.

My tooth started hurting a while ago (a week? a month? Thank you, Vicodin for eroding my sense of time) and I ignored it. That’s my medical strategy. Denial.

But it got worse. Every time I chewed food on the right side I felt like I was being electrocuted through my gums. I was forced to see a dentist.

God, I hate dentists. What a shitty job that must be. Everyone dreads you.

Despite how far we’ve come in medicine, dentistry is fucking medieval. The only advancement we’ve really had is sanitation. Essentially, you still have some guy standing over you with a pair of pliers in your mouth and a foot on your stomach, pulling at your teeth. Barbaric.

 

The dentist said my wisdom tooth was impacted and pushing through my gums. AND that I needed a root canal in the tooth next to it.

Double Pain Whammy. The next thing I knew he sent in Dr. Josef Mengele, the ‘Angel of Death’ endodontist, to reenact the torture scene in “Marathon Man.

He drilled into my face, which is always awesome. That unmistakable high pitched whir, the smell of decay, bits of teeth flying everywhere like exploded shrapnel. It felt like a tiny grenade had exploded in my face.

And then he had to stop because the wisdom tooth was in the way.

The dentist office tried to get the extraction approved quickly but my insurance company was being a dick. The bottom line is always the bottom line. It doesn’t matter that there’s an infant alien with claws scratching its way out of my jaw and ripping it to pieces.

The dentist gave me antibiotic and pain meds. I’m on 10 mg Vicodin which he leaned down to tell me was “the good stuff.”

Hate to tell you Doc, but the good stuff would be an eight ball of cocaine and a bottle of Jack.

Did everyone have as druggie of a past as I did, or am I just more honest about it because I’m anonymous? I was a cocaine cowgirl during the years I bartended (and had other nighttime jobs) in New York. Last call is at 4 am. After work, I’d go to after hours clubs, the ones that operated from 4 am to noon. I would stay out until 8 in the morning, then go home to take a bath and sleep all day.

I was a vampire before it was fashionable.  A vampire with a trickle of white powdered snot running down an upper lip too numb to feel it. How attractive.

 

The stupid insurance finally approved the extraction and I’m scheduled for Monday.  I am in for a world of pain. As it is, every time the air passes over those two teeth I feel like I got punched in the face.

 

We interrupt this blog post to show you a REALLY COOL nail polish color. I actually love seeing this color dance across my keyboard…

 

FullSizeRender

 

Did I just say ‘dance across the keyboard’? Jesus these drugs are pretty good after all.

 

My kid went to his first boy/girl dance last night – the fifth grade social. Most of the boys didn’t ask any girls because the girls just wanted to go with their friends. Just as well. Little Dude will be wading thorough that sewer soon enough.

This one kid in his class is a real oddball. He picks his nose and eats it, so he’s shunned- although I’m happy to report that Little Dude is always nice to him. The Nose Picker decided to ask THE most popular girl in the fifth grade to the dance – a girl who, my own son has told me, is a super bitch to all the other kids as befitting her status as Most Popular (He didn’t use the word bitch but you get the idea).

He asked her KNOWING she would turn him down, and when she did, he recited an original poem referencing Batman.

My kid thought it was bizarre, but I think it’s SO cool. The Nose Picker has balls of steel. Maybe he’s getting certain booger nutrients that enables him to break free of social constraints.

Sometimes, you have to risk rejection. And then recite an original poem featuring Batman.

 

When I went to pick him up I didn’t plan to get out of the car. I had on Victoria Secret boxer shorts and no shoes. The school is just down the street.

Of COURSE when I got there all the doting moms were parked and going inside to retrieve their kid. Is it bad or good that no one said a word to me about my bare feet and boxers?

 

Now I have to cancel my date tonight, because the last thing I want is something in my mouth.

Get your minds out of the gutter. By ‘something,’ I mean penis.

 

I’m worried that after I have both the wisdom tooth out and the root canal after that I will be DYING IN PAIN and unable to write anything for a really long time and you’ll all just forget about me.

Don’t forget about me. Wow, opiates make me needy.

I’m just here, floating on a cloud of Vicodin, trying to figure out which draft I should work on.

I’m going to list a few of them here. I’d love it if you told me in the comments which one you think I should write?

1. How to Shoplift

2. In Which I Admit to Being a Grateful Dead Fan

4. Things I Found in My House

5. Patty Hearst and the Symbionese Liberation Army

6. The Grinch Who Stole Mother’s Day

7. That Time I was In a Cult

8. Greetings From the Pain Abyss     Oopsie! Not that one! That’s this post.

 

I don’t even know if anyone will read this. I don’t usually publish on the weekends. I guess I’m about to find out, right?

And now I must go eat something. That’s one of the benefits of being a grown up. I can eat melted ice cream for lunch and NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

signature

 

 

Is there anything more painful than a toothache? I’m really a baby, aren’t I?
Should I go back and proofread this post?
Talk to me. I’m listening.

Yoga Class, Deconstructed

February 5, 2015 — 115 Comments

Yoga_at_a_Gym 9

 

It had been six weeks since I’d been able to breathe, six weeks since the blow to my chest had left my heart charleyhorsed with leftover ache and my lungs restricted. I was living the emotional equivalent of that hackneyed action movie scene, the one where the heroine has been underwater far too long. Just when you think she’s going to die she slashes through the surface and grabs air in big lusty gulps.

I was drowning in several different versions of the truth, all of them weighing me down like kettlebells tied to my ankles.

I had neglected my yoga practice for months. My once limber body had gone stiff, the way Skittle colored Play Doh starts out with the best intentions and gradually dries up, never living up to its full potential.

It dessicates, morphing into the humorless version of itself. Hard, but incredibly easy to crack.

I wished I was doing anything else except a practice whose apparel has become literally the butt of endless online stories. I resent seeing people everywhere refer to “leggings” as “yoga pants.” Those aren’t “driving gloves” unless you regularly wrap them around a steering wheel.

Yoga was not meant to be fashion and if you’ve never worn those pants while doing an inversion, just refer to them as leggings and I can end this paragraph a little less exasperated.

So I went to a Saturday afternoon yoga class; not just any yoga, but hot yoga, which, for the uninitiated, means doing advanced poses in a sauna. A room heated to 104 degrees, with humidity at 40%. I dread it. But I’m convinced it’s the only way to flush out the toxins that have been doing the Foxtrot through my bloodstream since those poison darts leapt off the computer screen and took aim at my heart.

And I’m clinging fiercely to the idea that I’ll have a yoga-induced spiritual epiphany that explains why I choose relationships which reinforce just how little I think I deserve.

Or at least lose a few pounds.

After the teacher chants and instructs us to leave all our earthly possessions at the door, we begin in downward dog, or in my case, sweaty dog panting from heat.

The teacher leads us in a series of sun salutations that get progressively faster and more complicated and I get in touch with why the phrase “hot as hell” was coined. I played yogi slip n slide in my own perspiration and I mull over the possibility that the organs of my body can actually become steamed.

I look at myself in the mirror, a vain counter-yogic move, and in triangle pose notice the cute guy behind me staring at my ass. I’ve noticed him noticing me before; I’ve heard people chat with him and his name is either Don or Jon; it’s hard to be certain in a room constantly waterlogged in sweaty acoustics.

Today, though, I obsess over the sweat droplets that have come together for an impromptu party in my ass crack and wonder if he can see them through the stretched-to-within-an-inch-of-its-life Lycra that covers my butt. And after I shower and dress and check my phone, he’s still lingering around the front of the yoga center. Which can only mean that he’s waiting for ME.

And he is. Don/Jon approaches me and suggests coffee at the Dunkin Donuts next door and I go. I go because it’s a lazy Saturday afternoon in January, and because my kid is with his father; and because I’m high from having pushed my body to its limits and from fresh blood flow;  I go because I like Don/Jon’s puppy doggish exuberance and his obvious pursuit of me – but mostly, I go because I love coffee.

I really love coffee.

My caffeine addiction is the only one I have that hasn’t pushed my dreams off a cliff. I’ve never risked my life for coffee. Not that I wouldn’t; it’s just that one doesn’t have to cruise questionable neighborhoods to procure coffee.

Up close and away from the curtain of steam that blurs everything in the room, Don/Jon is really cute. Lithe, sinewy yoga body aside, he has great hair, a sexy smile and  a killer sense of humor.

I’m not typically attracted to men who do yoga. Every downward douche I’ve ever seen in a yoga class has ended up hooking up with one of the women in the class. It’s why they GO. But I like the idea that I accepted his invitation; that I’m not so jaded that I can’t still occasionally surprise myself.

Coffee talk stretches into late afternoon and I’m surprised to see that its getting dark out. And surprised even more when Don/Jon asks if I’d like to try a Mexican restaurant near his house that he says makes the freshest Pico de gallo this side of Guadalajara. And killer Margaritas, although I don’t really drink.

But I did that evening.

Tequila augments my natural flirtiness and my insecurities are alcohol soluble. I feel attractive because I can feel that he feels attracted to ME. Which is less like an Escher painting than it sounds.

I get tipsy, which shuts off some of the noise in my brain but turns on other noise. We bond over our love for movies, and music, and Breaking Bad, which he talks me into watching at his house.

We end up back at his townhouse, where he makes us more Margaritas and now I am drunk. He has an enormous cozy plush grey couch which looks like a big blimpy manatee, and I sink into the Netflix imprint his butt left in the corner cushion.

Predictably, he starts to kiss me and I haven’t decided how attracted I am to him. But I’m drunk and cozy and sunk into his manatee couch, and at the moment I’d rather kiss him back then push my tequilla-drenched ass into the frosty night.

I hate the cold.

We have 20 minutes of nondescript sex and afterwards he winds around me like a broken slinky.  And I’m thinking I’d like to leave before the sweat dries. Which makes me sound like a sport-fucking man-eater, but it’s really just a way I avoid feeling anything for anyone, and has a high success rate.

I often fantasize about creating an actuarial model using statistics to determine the probability of various romantic risks based on the engagement or avoidance of certain behaviors, and the emotional consequences of those risks. Assign value to certain behaviors and develop mathematical models to evaluate the future romantic implications of, say, performing various sex acts. Or cuddling after. Leaving, or staying the night.

I stay. I don’t want to come off like bitch. I’m anything but a bitch.

I just play one on the Internet.

He falls asleep and I lay there with his arm draped across me, heavy as a fallen tree limb and I stare at the ceiling and write this blog post in my head.

Until about 6:00 am, when dawn’s first light streaks across the sky and I noiselessly hurry to leave, like a vampire in reverse. I get dressed and gather my things and tip toe out, leaving him asleep.

I feel like a ninja escaping into the bruise-colored dawn. I make a clean getaway

I think about him one more time as I pull into my driveway; just once more so I can leave him outside and that’s when it occurs to me, I never found out if his name is Don or Jon. Which bothers me less than the fact that I’m going to have to find a new yoga studio.

 

I don’t have any specific questions. I’m just glad you’re here.
Talk to me.   I’m listening.

Record 3 edited

Released in 1963. I did NOT make up this post title. I wish I had.

 

When we said the SisterWives blog was Unashamed. Uncensored. Unafraid.

We meant it.

I’m finally telling the story of why my marriage ended. It’s not a pretty story. But it has to be told.

Please join me here to read about it.

 

I’ve been wanting to tell all of you, that you are an amazing group of loyal friends. I want to bake each and everyone of you a batch of Christmas cookies this year. (Impractical, so I won’t. But it’s the thought that counts.)

Thank you for showing me so much support. I know it sounds cliched. But I truly feel blessed to have you all in my life.

I’m closing comments here, so you’ll comment on the SisterWives blog.

 

Namaste,

Samara xo

 

 

bullies

 

Today I’m guest blogging for the amazing Laura Lord.

Have you read her blog, History of A Woman?

It’s incredible stuff.

 

Laura is presenting a series which discusses some of the ways in which women fall short at empowering one another, and how we can change that.

When she asked me to be part of the series, I jumped at the chance to tell you about,

The Kindergarten Mom Mafia.

 

So, click here to read about the REAL bullies at school –

the MOM BULLIES. 

Comments are closed so you can comment over at Laura’s blog.

And while you’re there, check out the rest of her blog!

 

shocked woman

 

 

Why exactly does a MAN become a gynecologist?

I don’t particular care to confabulate with a member of the opposite sex about my bajingo.

Unless it’s sexytime, and he’s digging in like a Pilgrim at Thanksgiving.

 

Thanksgiving-Beefcake

Is that an apple in your hand, or are you just happy to see me?

 

It can’t be that they want a lifetime supply of the fuzzy taco.

Just liken it to a being a dentist. Now imagine how many funky, dirty, diseased teeth you look at in a week.

Eww, right?

 

I prefer to see a woman gynecologist.

However, when I moved to New Jersey, the only one female gynecologist recommended to me had the bedside manner of Irma Grese.

(infamous product of the Nazi’s “Final Solution,” this Auschwitz camp guard was known for her sadistic dedication to her line of work.)

See? I KNOW stuff.

Playful looking gal, yes?

Playful looking gal, yes?

 

I ended up with a male gynecologist.

 

My blog is not to provide you with an exegesis of my romantic life because ITS NONE OF YOUR BUSINESS.

HOWEVER.

 

After a recent encounter with someone which may or may not have involved intercourse,

He may or not have been a tad more…comprehensive than I was used to.

 

 

I’m not going to brag that I have a super tight vag or anything. Let’s just say, I’m built very small in general.

 

OKAY.

I can launch a ping pong ball out of my Enchilada of Love and hit a target at twenty paces.

 

spideyquote

I understand this, and I utilize it wisely.

 

 

I had an emergency C-section after breaking the hospital record for the longest labor ever.

So, I never had a baby stretch my brake pads to accommodate a 14 inch-diameter. But I’ve seen films of it. Where mommy’s taint looks like an exploding purple eggplant and her anus resembles a small bagel.

I’m sure that probably loosens a gal right up.

 

*THIS MAY OR MAY NOT BE AN EXCERPT FROM MY RECENT DATE:

 

Him: Jesus, this is like putting my dick in a pencil sharpener!

Me: Ow. Ow. Owww. OWWWWW.

 

Yeah. He’s not high on my list of men to spend time with. As a matter of fact, I doubt I’ll ever see him again unless there is a trip to the jewelry store involved he takes me to a lovely dinner first.

 

A few days later, when it still felt like a Pikachu was slinging electricity at my Republic of Labia, I made an appointment to see the gynecologist.

 

When I arrived, I was informed that Dr. Norwich was called away to deliver a baby, and that I would be seeing Dr. Patterson.

I like Dr. Norwich, aside from the fact that he and the Ex were watching the Victoria Secret Lingerie Special on the delivery room television. While I was practically dylng in labor and they were shooting me up with Pitocin, otherwise known as Liquid Hell.

My Ex says this never happened, that I was delirious with pain I KNOW WHAT I SAW MOTHERFUCKER.

 

I don’t know any Dr. Patterson. They told me I could come back another time, but just then a Pikacu aimed a hot pocket right at my snake ranch, so I agreed to see the new guy.

 

I walked in to greet…

a KARATE DAD. Yes. A father who I see every week at my son’s karate school. Yes. A man who knows me as the crazy karate mom.

 

AWKWARD.

 

He asked, “Is this uncomfortable? Would you like to come back and see another doctor?”

I decided to be mature. Plus, he was cute.

DON’T JUDGE.

 

He asked me why I was there, and I really didn’t want to give a KARATE DAD details about my sex life. I just alluded to the fact that I felt some pain, and wanted to make sure I was okay.

 

He proceeded with the examination.

So, now this karate dad is essentially finger banging me, and asking me questions at the same time.

 

While in me, (Jesus that sounds strange, even to ME) he said,

“The problem is, your vaginal opening is extremely tight.”

Well done, Captain Obvious!

“Well, I’ve always been built small.”

 

While still rummaging around in my lady business, he said,

You need to buy a dildo.”

 

Let’s marinate in that, shall we?

 

 

You know those cartoons where the character gets hit in the head with a frying pan, and their head temporarily takes the shape of a frying pan?

My head did that.

FRYING PAN TOM 7

 

I shook my head hard, and its regular shape came back.

 

“Buy a DILDO?

That’s your PROFESSIONAL MEDICAL ADVICE?!!

Buy a DILDO?!”

 

“Yes.”

 

I asked, “Since this is medical, will insurance cover it?”

I was kidding. Sort of. He answered me seriously.

 

“Well, actually, there are vaginal dilators sold by medical companies, but not all insurance plans…”

 

Oh, geez.

With my newly fucktified Obamacare plan, do you really think a dildo’s gonna be covered? If I had a surfeit of spare time, it would probably make for a whimsical afternoon on the phone.

 

dr-obama-obamacare-sucks-political-poster-1269127184

 

He pulled out (sounds really weird again), snapped off his rubber gloves, and said,

“Yep. Use it or lose it.”

 

Wait, what?

“Excuse me? Did you just say, use it or lose it?”

 

I searched the examining room for cameras, because surely I was being Punk’d.

 

“Yes.”

 

I decided I was going to fuck with him. Just because.

“Where do I get a dildo?”

Now, I KNOW where to buy sexy toys. I have to go on a 30 mile odyssey to procure them, because there are no local dildo stores. As a matter of fact, on my last pilgrimage to the sex toy store, my guy (yes, I have a “guy.” DON’T JUDGE) totally upsold me.

I wanted a standard garden variety vibrator, and he sold me a ridiculously over priced Power Tool with 10 speeds that hula hoops, glows in the dark, operates under water, sorts my laundry and files my taxes.

 

I only asked the doc because I wanted to see if HE knew where to buy them.

He said, “there are shops…” and he just kind of trailed off.

He TOTALLY knows where to buy them. Pfffft.

 

 

I told all my friends what had happened. Here are some of the responses I got:

1. Pics or it didn’t happen.

2. Can I help? (insert stupid winky emoticon here).

3. The dildo might help to get your juices flowing but if all else fails just have sex only with men with smaller penises. (Seriously? On PURPOSE?).

4. It doesn’t make sense, dumbass. It hurts to put a dick in it, so his advice is to put a fake dick in it instead?

5. If you studied Kamasutra, you will understand that there are three types of Vaginas; the Elephant (wide), the deer (moderate) and the rabbit (tiny). You are a rabbit.
Embrace the rabbit. (ignore this person; they’re vegan)

6. Sheabutter, giirrlll! It can conquer poverty. (my friends are very strange)

7. Look at the bright side. At least you haven’t blown out your vagina like most women your age. (I am no longer speaking to this “friend“)

 

This is not the first time someone has told me to go fuck myself.

It’s just never been… medically advised.

 

 

What’s the strangest medical advice you’ve ever received?
Does this doctor sound like a quack?
Have you ever had a completely awkward doctor visit?
What’s your favorite adult toy?
Talk to me. I’m listening.