Sure, she had a smart mouth, broke the occasional rule, and was prone to emotional outbursts and displays of temper. She sometimes suffered an inability to accept a perceived injustice, and working so hard at being a good girl gave her a sense of entitlement. She had her resentment squirreled away in a savings account, to be retained as righteous indignation when she had her heart set on something that never materialized. Cath could be quite a handful in those moments, and her Mama likened her to a girl from a nursery rhyme:

There once was a girl with a curl, right in the middle of her forehead. When she was good, she was very, very good, and when she was bad, she was horrid.

Cath’s parents were trying to teach her that life isn’t fair. They wanted her to learn to accept defeat gracefully, and to treat others well. She had to learn that one does the right thing for their own satisfaction, and not to gain favor or reward.

Somewhere, most likely at the intersection of life isn’t fair and you reap what you sow in the world, she misinterpreted the meaning behind the message.

Being a good girl means meeting others’ expectations, but you have no right to your own expectations. If you get what you want, it’s because you’re a good girl, and if you don’t get what you want, too bad- good girls are grateful for what they have.

Aren’t you grateful for everything we’ve given you?

For the next thirteen years of my life, I was a bad girl. Cat started drinking, sneaking cigarettes, doing drugs, going out with older guys, skipping school, speeding and generally doing whatever she wanted, fuck allwhat you thought of it. Her Daddy cured her of that her sixteenth year- he taught her that appearing to be a good girl was what counted, and that she could be as bad as she wanted if she didn’t get caught. He showed her that following the little rules made it easier to break the big ones.

Cat picked that up quickly, and she excelled at acting like a good girl and being a bad girl when no one was looking. She met a man who prided himself on that very same thing, and they fell in love. They were very happy most of the time; save his occasional failure to meet her expectations.

When she threw a fit, he gently explained to her that she wanted too much from him, more than anyone deserved, probably because her Daddy hit her and her Mama was closer to her sister. It was okay, though, because he loved her even though she was bad for being angry when he was cold or disrespectful.

Would I be here if I didn’t really love you? You’re just crazy. The way you depend on me is bad; I can’t be your everything. You need a life of your own.

She knew he was right, she was always bad that way, wanting more than she deserved, not merely gracefully accepting what she was given in exchange for being a good girl. He was right, she was bad, and she was so very grateful that he loved her anyway. So what if he was bad sometimes too, if he made her feel bad, it was her fault, for not just loving him anyway, for putting up with her. She loved him too well to expect the same in return.

Ever so slowly, she built a life of her own. Cat snagged an incredible professional opportunity, she made friends, she even started college. They bought a cute little house in the middle of nowhere, and she started to believe that her life might turn out better than she ever dreamed.

Once again, she had a great deal of responsibility for her age. At twenty-six, she was a wife, a homeowner, the Controller of a multi-million dollar company, and a student. All of these roles required suppressing that bad little girl. She was constantly belittled and criticized for her passion, intensity, honesty, and the clumsy new way she stood up for herself.

That’s when I became a verybadcat. The blog was first; verybadcat needed a place safe from criticism to start writing again, to tell the stories no one wanted told, a container for her badness. All those pieces and parts of her that were not honored and accepted off the page. Her deepest fears, darkest secrets, secret dreams and wishes. She was astounded to find that she developed a following, that people who didn’t know the good girl loved verybadcat. Twitter allowed her to communicate with those folks in real time.

Her life was finally full and fruitful, she gained confidence, which was just what the wasbund always said he wanted. Unfortunately, what seemed ideal in theory lost luster in practice; the career, the social life, the night classes and homework, and all of that fucking around on the Internet took time and attention away from him. She wasn’t content to sit on the shelf till he was inclined to take her down and dust her off. At that same time, his full and fruitful life began the agonizing process of unraveling.

The addition of financial stress and marital discord to her already demanding life left her with no room to move. Anything she wanted for herself: time, energy, recognition, space, respect, and especially love or money, she had to steal from the life she built. The guilt of resenting all of the pressure was crushing. Everything was a secret.

Her precarious financial position was a secret from her employer, because admitting that you are cold and hungry at night isn’t a good idea when you hold a key financial position in an organization. Her professional success threatened and intimidated her chronically unemployed husband. Her friends almost knew how bad things were, but she alternated venting between wholly separate social circles to keep the depth and breadth of misery a secret too. Most everything was a secret from her family.

She was two people then. Catherine did the payroll, and verybadcat kited personal checks to get to work the week before payday. Catherine made good grades and enjoyed being back at school, but sometimes verybadcat just let everyone think she was in class, so she could have her brain to herself for a few hours. Catherine felt badly about leaving her husband home alone with no food or heat for decadent business dinners, but verybadcat snickered over it after a few cocktails.

This arrangement worked beautifully until both girls went alone for a secret long weekend in Ohio to mourn her last living grandparent, followed shortly by a week in Atlanta to help her baby sister bury her first love and witness with abject horror the effects of chemotherapy on her previously strong and healthy mother. All of that mortality shattered the illusion that there was room in one life for two girls- because she had felt the precious fleeting nature of this life, and because it occurred to her that the collision of all of those secrets would have made her own funeral apocalyptic.

They both decided that Catherine would stay and verybadcat had to go, since Catherine was a good girl and verybadcat was selfish and shameful.

It didn’t work out that way. One after another, the expectations Catherine had to meet fell away, and more people came to know both girls. Suddenly, verybadcat found herself single and starting a business. Catherine couldn’t let go. She needed more than ever to prove she was a good girl, but for the first time in her entire life, there was no one there to define what that meant.

Picking up where her experience left off, she made a list that included just about anything that made her too happy. Surely she didn’t deserve those things; every mistake, every failure, every rejection, every missed opportunity was proof that she was just a broken piece of trash that snuck her way into a place in the world far beyond her worth. Catherine ran behind verybadcat with a clipboard, counting up demerits and doling out punishments in the form of deprivation. She labored tirelessly to atone for verybadcat’s constant self-indulgence.

On Friday morning, Catherine filled a page with evidence of unworthiness easily before noon. She couldn’t get to the punishment, though, because verybadcat was solving her problems by helping beloved friends solve their problems, who in turn made her own solutions better. Catherine tried to calculate the cost of the love and support she was receiving, and fretted about the total deprivation required to even it out.

She had almost finished cleaning out the kitchen cabinets Friday night when it hit her.

There are no more secrets. There are no more outside expectations. The people who love me the most are the people who know me the best. The world, this world, my world finally needs me in whole. There is no good girl, no bad girl, no Catherine, and certainly no verybadcat. There is just me, in all my flawed perfection, essential to the whole and lacking nothing essential.

Just like the integral cat.

Choose to be better, not bitter. Leave the losses, failures and mistakes of the past behind; you aren’t the girl who suffered those heartaches. You’re the girl that learned from them and triumphed. Keep that without clinging to the haunting details of your pain.

Realize that looking too far down the road is just a sneaky way of looking over your shoulder. Live by your beliefs and values in the present and take heart- this is all you can and should do for tomorrow.

Honor your intuition. It isn’t paranoia, though it might feel that way when you obsess and over-think things. Let your feelings prompt the question instead of trying to answer it on your own.

Value your creative life as much as you value your business life, in recognition that they both provide sustenance necessary for your survival.  Money spent for travel has the highest return on investment of any discretionary purchase, high enough to warrant liberation from the discretionary column.

Stop continuing the work of people who want you to feel small and undeserving to serve their own needs and fears. No, seriously, stop. Because you know damn well they try to trick you into playing small and low out of sheer terror for who you might become. You’re a force of nature. Memorize the affection and appreciation in peoples’ faces when they’ve said this to you, and own it, already.

Understand that punishing yourself for receiving is the exact opposite of humility; guilt holds no more virtue than entitlement.

Keep a balance between your need for solitude and your tendency to hide behind it. Go out into the world before the walls start to close in on you at home.

Absolve yourself for failing to forgive those who’ve betrayed you. Accept as your penance: not begrudging them the compassion of others.

Remember that all love is a gift, and that any time you are working to earn it instead of honor it, something is very, very wrong.

When a man asks you to see only him, take the opportunity to share your expectations. Explain what commitment means to you, because most people do not comprehend it on the same level. Do not allow yourself to be put on the shelf one. more. time. by someone who isn’t capable of sticking around. Let the challenge of winning you over become the first they face in the relationship, so you can make an educated decision.

Just so we’re clear: if they are anything else than willing, capable and utterly devoted, your decision should be to get back out on the dance floor and enjoy yourself. You’ve lived on crumbs for far too long. You know in your heart you’re happier on your own than with someone who settles for a pale rendition of partnership.

Wear high heels and avoid men who are uncomfortable with a level gaze. You’ll save yourself a lot of time and irritation.

Stop excluding your own body from the awe and regard you have for the rest of nature, and always tend to it with at least the loving care you show your pets and plants. Sleep when you’re tired. Eat. Play. Be strong and healthy. See yourself through the eyes of others when the mirror is too unkind. Throw the fucking scale out. Throw. it. out. Do your pants fit? There you go, no scale necessary. If you really want a number to obsess over, test your blood sugar. Yeah, I thought so.

Make more time for your people. They miss you. So you hate the phone. Text. Write. Visit. Send cookies. Do whatever makes you happy, so long as it demonstrates how much they mean to you. Do this often and at regular intervals.

There are two things in this world that provide both security and freedom. One is love, the other is money. Be a good steward of both and you’ll find contentment.

Resist the lure of cattiness and drama. Time and energy are too precious to waste on anyone that provokes it.

You’re an entrepreneur now, and that means that the work/life balance is a murky shade of gray. This a huge change from corporate life. It’s also the very reason that you want so very much to succeed at this. Work is life, and life is work. The right work does more than earn a living. It makes a life. The marriage of these two functions is the summit of self-actualization. A touch of altitude sickness is perfectly normal, but don’t let it overtake you. Just breathe, be present, and keep climbing.

It wouldn’t hurt you to ask for help once in awhile. I’m just saying. It only means that you are sweet and smart enough to surround yourself with people who shore up your weaknesses. Just like using Google Maps on your phone, it keeps you from heading in the wrong direction needlessly.

Ya’ll, I have not had toast since Vegas. Seriously. My toaster met its violent and disgusting end (that I will not divulge here) while I was gone, and I was devastated. I love toast. Toast and eggs, peanut butter toast, hell, when I make a ham sandwich or a tunafish sandwich, or egg salad, I prefer toast. So you can imagine that this was a travesty of unmeasurable proportion, and ending the crisis by purchasing a toaster oven was akin to the end of a war or economic depression.

All I wanted in the whole world was brinner. Two eggs over medium with toast.

At some point in this adventure, I realized that I inadvertently threw my butter out with old leftovers. (which is probably why people don’t reuse their butter containers for leftovers, especially people who sometimes neglect their leftovers to the point that they will not even open the container to make a decision about cleaning or pitching it…)

I went to the store. For butter, and maybe some Nutella, and various breads to toast in my toaster oven.

Of course I found myself standing in the only open cashier lane (they had all the self checkouts closed, which should be illegal), behind a couple in their forties with approximately 42000000 tons of groceries.

As I watched the cashier ring up their order, horror washed over me.

Six apples. A bunch of bananas. One cantaloupe. One whole pineapple. Two steaks. Four loaves of honey wheat bread.

That, lovers, is a complete list of the fresh food in the cart.

The other 380000000 tons, the bulk of the $300 they spent was packaged food.

Frozen pizzas. Frozen enchiladas. Precooked pot roast. Frozen tv dinners- Salisbury steak. Two frozen lasagnas. A few cans of green beans, a few cans of corn. Boxes and cans- frozen, precooked, prepackaged, canned EVERYTHING. The only fresh meal that could be made from $300 worth of groceries were those steaks.

I’m no angel. I love Taco Bell. I eat Doritos. I buy the precooked chicken strips for my salads because protein is good for me, but the point of eating salad is not having to cook.

I try, though. I’ve switched to organic milk, because it tastes better and I swear I feel better for it. When I eat out, I support our local independent places, because the food and the service is better and it’s better for my community and usually better for me. I stay away from most boxes, mixes, pre-made and prepackaged food. Frozen pizza has a permanent home in my freezer, but I only have it about once a pay period. Sure, I buy canned veggies. IN FEBRUARY. You can’t fucking sneeze without hitting a produce stand or a tailgate market here, and hell, even the grocery store features fresh local produce during the growing season.

Here’s the sad part. I’m single. That makes it a little harder to plan meals, to cook meals without producing a lot of wasted leftovers, to find the right portions to buy so that I can use something up before it spoils while still having enough variety in my diet. This bitch has a hungry man to feed, to eat her dinners, to finish off the pan of mac and cheese before it grows a fur coat in the fridge, and she’s MICROWAVING HIS DINNER? FROZEN ENCHILADAS? HOW HARD IS IT TO COOK A FEW CHICKEN BREASTS, SHRED THEM, WRAP THEM IN TORTILLAS WITH REFRIED BEANS AND CHEESE AND BAKE THEM?

It just kind of amazed me that they live that way.

It also reminded me that I could have even better judgment about what kind of food I spend my money on, bring into my home and put into my body. Yes, it was that perfect combination of superiority and disgusted amazement that motivates me to claim even more superiority and disgusted amazement the next time. You know?

Resolutions are easily made and easily broken. I’ve gone down that road before, and this year, the only resolution-type thing I’ve got is getting up on time. Mostly because it just got way out of control last year.

Goals, however, are another matter, and I’ve given mine a lot of thought. I’m on the right path- most of these are obvious and unchanged. Keep working on my degree (long term), get into Western Carolina University (short term). Keep my job (short term) and continue to position myself via my performance and shrewd politics for a steady upward path in my company (long term). Keep writing (short term), while dreaming and planning for the time in my life when I can pursue more opportunities in it (long term). Have as much fun as possible (short term), while keeping my eyes and heart open to a future with someone (way long term).

My only hard and fast goal for this year is to apply for admission and be accepted to Western Carolina University for the fall term. First, I must conquer my x = death, pestilence and famine issues. Second, I must summon transcripts and certificates from three or four different places. Third, I believe I have to write an essay. Fourth, I’m pretty sure there’s a strip search and a urine sample required. It is quite the undertaking, and as luck would have it, my only class for the spring term is French, and it’s a campus/internet hybrid. Here’s to hoping that scoring A’s in Intermediate Accounting and Entrepreneurship assured that my GPA meets their requirements, which if memory serves is 3.5 or better.

Execution has become a problem for me in the past year, and I’ve grown so very tired of putting out fires and flying by the seat of my pants.

My theme for 2010: Be Good to Yourself.

Not in that have another piece of cake, you really can afford that purchase, you deserve a mental health day type of way.

More like getting enough sleep, having enough fun, eating higher quality food, making a point of being active without torturing myself about it, doing what I’m supposed to when I’m supposed to so I’m not so stressed out waiting for something to slip through the cracks.

I’ve survived, and now it’s time to thrive.

Don’t you think?

If I had a magic wand, I would move a week of my vacation time during the holidays to next week. I would spend the next ten days in complete and utter solitude. At home. With the dog.

The exhaustion that I’m suffering right now seems endless. I can’t hardly keep my eyes open, even after a full night’s sleep. I could sleep for a week, I think, before I felt better.

As someone who has stood on the very edge of sanity and looked over the ledge, I can tell you that while I’m okay in the sense that I’m not a danger to myself or other people, I am losing my mind.

There’s a paranoia welling inside me. I take things the worst way possible. When people speak to me, I question their motives. I question their loyalty and allegiance. When I don’t hear from someone, they’re ignoring me, they don’t care anymore, they don’t want me bothering them. When I do hear from someone, I feel pressured. I hate the constant stream of panic and frustration I’m dealing with right now, and I hate exposing people to it. I don’t want to spend all of my free time completely alone, but I fear companionship. I fear making a fool of myself, I fear being talked about behind my back, I’m afraid of becoming- no, I’m afraid that I’ve already become that person, that girl, the subject of irritation and pity and duty.

The slightest imposition, say, my boss expecting me to do my job, or a coworker needing some information, or a two minute chore for my second job- these things make me seethe with resentment and I’m overwhelmed by the pressure to perform and not let this ordeal affect my performance. I don’t want to go to school, and I don’t want to do my homework, and I don’t want to read my textbooks.

So the only thing that gives me comfort right now, that brings me a sense of calm and well-being, is retreating. Hiding from my life, its pressures and demands. Giving up on my social life in hopes that my attachment to people will fade, so that everything can end quietly and be easy for everyone and I can avoid the humiliation and drama that will come from figuring out that people are rolling their eyes at me and hoping I don’t show up to parties and not telling me about events on purpose.

If I have to calm my Mom down one more time, I’m going to quit taking her calls. I know she’s worried, and I know that she’s going to rightfully react with anger when she feels I’ve been wronged, but her energy is AWFUL, HORRIBLE and TOXIC (see, it runs in the family! i just have the sense to see and admit it), and I. CAN’T. HANDLE. IT.

People want to know what’s going on, and I want to tell them, but I get tired of relaying the same awful information over and over and over again, and I want them to want to know, but I find myself wishing that there was just some way to make them know without having to talk about it ALL THE TIME.

I’ve grown to hate talking on the phone. I wish that people would just come see me, come sit on the porch and have a drink and talk about what color I should paint the living room and whether or not we’ll have a lot of snow this winter and what are you doing for the long weekend. My house is pretty far out from town, though, and people don’t come out. A few people come out sometimes, but for the most part, I don’t have company.

So, if you’ll excuse me, I’m going to finish these entries and call my HR rep and see if I can’t plan a retreat, before I end up in a straitjacket in the psych ward.

I love this line from an old Eagles song. It reminds me that the only limitations we really have are the ones we give ourselves. A good natured kick in the ass is almost never a bad thing, you know?

Life has been hard, and I let it drag me down. We all do that sometimes, the current is just too strong, and we are too tired to resist it. Swept downstream, through rapids, banging against rocks. The only way to stop it is to hang on to whatever you can find, as tightly as you can, until you can muster the strength to get out of the water and rest on the bank. I can’t live on the bank, though. It’s a nice place to catch your breath, eat a sandwich maybe, but it’s no place to live.

So then it comes time to find a place to get back into the water. Build a new boat, or patch the one you’ve got. Try to read the water and pick the line you want to run. That’s where I’m at. I’m in an eddy behind some big rocks, surveying what’s downstream and planning my next dance with the current.

I think that the time has come for me to conquer some demons. A few of them have been around far too long, simply because sometimes I’m just to scared to let myself feel the outline of that key in my pocket. The key to the chains I wear, out of some sort of twisted self protection, to ensure that I don’t become too successful or happy.

If I knew why I did this, why any of us lock ourselves up and weigh ourselves down with doubt and fear and shame, I’d never have to work another day of my life as a beancounter.

What I do know is that it’s time to get back in the river.

Last week, I had my first full physical as an adult. This, of course, included a routine pelvic and pap, which I’ve been doing for at least 15 years now. Faint-hearted freaders, go ahead and click elsewhere now………

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Okay. I’m sitting in the stirrups, sporting one of those super fashionable gowns that opens in the front, and the doctor is starting the pelvic exam. For the uninitiated, that’s where he puts a finger or two inside you and then uses his other hand to press on your abdomen so he can feel your ovaries or some sick thing. He pauses in the middle of this exercise- hand in place- to have the following conversation.

Doc:  Where are you at in your cycle? When was the first day of your last period?

VBC: Um, about 14 days ago, give or take a day.

Doc: Oh, okay. That explains it then, you’re mid-cycle.  You have excellent cervical mucus!

VBC:  ~beaming proudly, until she stops beaming to express her displeasure as the doctor attempts to cram his entire fist inside her~

Doc:  Is that uncomfortable?

VBC:   Yeah, I don’t even let my husband do that, and you didn’t tell me I had pretty eyes or take me to dinner or anything. So I’m not real happy at the moment. Is there some other horrible intrusion you’ll need to perform today?

Doc:    Sure, do you want a rectal exam? You don’t need one, but if you wanted one..

VBC:   Um, no thank you. Well, at least I have something to be grateful for.

He finishes the pelvic and pap, comes around to the side of the exam table, takes off his gloves, and smiles.

Doc:   Everything looks great. Beautiful cervix, ovaries look good, and your uterus is tipped  perfectly. So we will have to wait on the pap, but so far, you’re in great shape.

VBC:   Um, thanks. Great news!

Doc:  ~offers his hand~ It was very nice to meet you, VBC. Take care, and call me if you need anything.

VBC:  ~shakes hand while realizing that perhaps this is a little formal, considering~ Nice to meet you too. Thanks.

How weird is that? Fifteen years worth of pap smears, and this is the first I’ve heard any compliments on my lady parts.  Weirder still, I’m proud! Proud of my excellent cervical mucus and perfectly tipped uterus. Why, my secret garden is a specimen, a shining beacon of reproductive possibility, a tribute to both form and function. I just thought you’d want to know.

• New friends, and waking up to Facebook messages from them.
• Old friends, and the kind of chats that you can only get over a stiff drink. Or three.
• Lemonade
• Vodka
• Lecturing MH about staying up all night playing computer games.
• Getting lectured about my Facebook addiction relative to my homework dedication.
• Being tucked in to bed by a 23 lb. orange tabby cat.
• Sweet bloggy friends who tell me not to worry my pretty head about Chicago roomies.
• Seeds coming to life in the garden (lettuces, spinaches) and in my herb bed!
• Budding Irises
• Skirt weather! (tomorrow)
• MH feeding Adicus his very own pancake, and watching Adicus look at in drooly disbelief. “My very own pancake?!”
• The smell of my perfume on my skin (forgot it when I went to Atlanta), though my supply is dangerously low, and this is not a item accommodated by my current budget. ~sniffle~
• Hugs.
• Reading blogs!
• A certain husband going to the dump tomorrow, to clear out the basement so we can clear the office into the basement, so we can clean the office, so I can work out in there! (I guess MH will want to do stuff in there too, but I’m not super concerned about that…)
• Starbucks gift cards and errands that require me to be within reasonable distance of said Starbucks.
• Walmart gift cards that fund the purchase of broccoli transplants and other garden goodies…
• Decent income prospects for MH. (Cross everything and hold your breath, please! )
• Of course, last but never least, YOU.

What are your little things?

I’ve been going through this nearly every month since the tender age of eleven or twelve, and yet, it still takes me awhile to catch on.  Why is that?

Day One:   I want to eat bad stuff. Like peanut butter eggs and hostess cupcakes and fried anything and chocolate chips straight out of the bag, and would it be really rude to drink the clarified butter when I’ve finished my lobster? Yes? Okay, I’ll wait till my boss uses the restroom. Why am I craving all this bad, horrible stuff? Why can’t I put the fork down?

Day Two:  I feel fat. I am five pounds heavier than I was this time last week. I have a bloat bump. None of my clothes look right. Am a cow. Surely will have to grease my ginormous hips through my office door. My face is ugly. My skin is all washed out, and my nose is wrong. My eyes are too small. My hair is gross. Why do I feel so fat and ugly?

Day Three:  I wake up irritated. Irritated with the dog. Irritated with WH (even if he’s not home- why does he leave his boxers on the bathroom counter, when is he going to cook that ground beef he thawed?! HE IS WASTING GROUND BEEF. If he lets it go bad, I will make him eat it raw.). Irritated with drivers- YOU! IN THE PRIUS! THANKS FOR PULLING OUT IN FRONT OF ME AND GOING 20 MILES PER HOUR. OBAMA HATES YOU. HE HATES PEOPLE THAT MAKE ME LATE WHEN MY BOSS IS IN TOWN. JESUS HATES YOU TOO****.  Irritated with WH for asking me to have lunch with him when he knows I can’t commit to that because my boss is here, and why would he do that, is he putting me in a position to have to choose so he can tell me later that I don’t care enough about him, that if I really loved him I would insist that my boss let me have lunch with him? Why couldn’t he just invite me tomorrow? He KNOWS I would rather have lunch with him than anyone else?! And now I feel like I missed out on something and I’m a bad wife and something has been taken away from me. Who to hate more? Boss or husband? The sound of anyone’s voice is like nails on a chalkboard.  Why are all these people being so goddamned difficult?!

Oh. Wait. Hmm. Put third patch on four days ago. Let me check… wait for it… yep! The new moon starts today. Maybe it’s me?
Now that I’ve figured it out, I will continue to be a junk food stuffing, whiny, self-depreciating bitch. I will say mean and nasty things to WH without thinking about it, and then immediately apologize, thus denying him any ability to be hurt or hold me accountable. I will cry at the drop of a hat. My stomach will start to bother me, either as a function of my hormones or as a result from all the crap I’m eating.

And then, at my utter apex of undesirable behavior, I will look over at WH, bat my eyelashes, and threaten him within an inch of his life if he doesn’t serve up the lovin’. Should he want to eat, sleep, or take care of some other need before he addresses mine, I will take it as a sign that our marriage is in trouble and that he hates me. Then, in a an hour or so, when he’s ready, I won’t have anything to do with him. I’ll tell him I don’t feel well. Let’s take a nap. We’ll take care of this later. After my nap. And we will. We will take a nap, and I will wake up bleeding.

I will then wonder why he’s such an asshole for the next week.

Even though we’ve gone through this process every month since we’ve lived together.

Don’t you wish you lived with me?

** When people have religious or political bumper stickers on their car, and they are in front of me and annoying me, I tell them that whoever they support (Obama, Jesus) hates bad drivers. It’s my special kind of road rage. I don’t really think Jesus hates them.

They’re going to look at my family history and see lots of strokes and heart disease and cancer and high blood pressure and high cholesterol and diabetes and rampant mental illness and they are going to put me through the ringer.

I don’t like being poked and prodded; I don’t like having blood drawn, I don’t like routine exams, I just generally do not like being examined, particularly while wearing a paper gown in a cold room. Also? Not looking forward to the big ol’ list of stuff they’re going to want me to cut out or cut down on. A sampling:

butter, salt, vodka, coffee, couch surfing, soft serve ice cream, red meat, pig (bacon, ham, sausage), my no water policy, and white sugar.

Those things, all in, are my wellspring of life. I shall perish without them.

Of course, I’m also afraid of what they’ll find with all of that poking and prodding. Yes, if I have a problem, I want to know so I can address it, blah, blah, whatever. I would also like to quit having nightmares about waking up one day hairless with no boobs. I’m just not ready to accept that I’m of screen-able age and that I have a family health history that dooms me to eternal arm sticking and boob smushing.

Do not want.

The upside of all of this was getting to fill out WH’s paperwork. I totally ratted him out.

Wish me luck this afternoon…