Perhaps you’ve noticed that I’m looking sort of bony these days.
I’m usually a pretty slender person. Solid, but slender.
I started dropping weight and didn’t even notice. Of course, there were signs: The funeral back in December. My black dress that normally looks stunning on me just hung there, a sad sack of cloth on a frame. The fact that my pants weren’t fitting – I thought it was just cheap detergent. It really hit me when I went to buy new pants. I grabbed my usual size and put them on. Nope, no way. The pants were hanging off me. Grabbed a smaller size. Put those on. Nope. So here I am, ten pounds lighter than my normal, wearing tiny pants that are way smaller than anything I’ve ever worn and rocking a fiercely sharp clavicle, while mourning the loss of my South Africa boobs. (I ate so much custard to grow them!)

Now before you cry “eating disorder!”, let me explain.

I’m still within what the CDC considers a healthy weight range. [That is totally stretching the truth. My body mass index (BMI) is hovering at around 18.5, the very bottom edge of “healthy.” But it still counts!] I went in last week and my doctor told me not to lose any more weight. (As I type this, there is a quarter pounder in my hand. Gross, but effective.)

So why all of this weight loss?

In September, I had my yearly performance review at work. My only negative was “focus,” but in our meeting, my boss jokingly told me that he was sure that the only thing that would ever fix that was medication. But a larger raise was out of the question based on the lack of focus affecting my work. This really hit home for me, obviously. (My boss in high school used to tell me that I had the attention span of a golden retriever, so this “focus” issue is not a new thing.)

I decided to talk to my doctor about it. It was an oddly confrontational meeting. I underwent two horrible days of testing with a psychologist who looks exactly like Tobias Funke from Arrested Development. When I see him, it’s seriously very hard for me not to throw out Tobias quotes.

The testing was lame, but the psychologist is hilarious and amazing. As it turns out, I have zero learning disabilities (they include that in testing to rule everything out), am at or slightly above average at math (this is the scariest part of that – if I’m average, how bad can it get?), have insanely awesome phonemic awareness, and am a classic case of combined-type ADHD.

The ADHD diagnosis did not come as a shock, although I’m now wondering how I ever managed to get anything accomplished before.

So we began the time-honored tradition of messing around with medication. Let me tell you a few things: Ritalin is the scariest thing ever. Probably worse than meth. Actually, no. I just did a quick search for meth billboards and they’re very clear that meth is so much scarier than Ritalin. Sort of. Anyway, I took it for like three weeks, I think. Horrid. My resting heart rate was 120 beats per minute. I was super cracked out and jumpy. All very attractive qualities, I assure you.

So we switched. I’m very happy with my new meds, but I am learning that I seriously hate dealing with  UnitedHealthcare more than anything. They’re a bunch of dicks who sit in a room laughing about the problems of the people who pay them insane amounts of  money only to have nothing covered. They’ve denied my coverage for my meds because I’m over 18, because they don’t want me to get generic, and so on down their list of excuses. So I’m paying out of pocket. And silently cursing them while I wait to re-file my claim.

The side effects of the new meds are relatively few, except for the pesky eating problem. It hurts me to eat. I have little to no interest in food. So I’ve been trying to creative about getting calories. I’m working on it. I spoke to a friend who was also late-in-life (ha) diagnosed with ADHD and she said that after a little while, it’ll be easier. It’s starting to be a little bit better. Last night, I was starving. All I wanted was Indian food. So I went and got some and it was perfect. (The leftovers are languishing in the backseat of my car. Gross. I should probably do something about that.)

The benefits far outweigh the negatives. I am so much more productive and focused at work. It feels good. I’m working harder and accomplishing tasks. Also, I’m making lists. Legitimate, color-coded, categorized lists. It’s crazy and awesome. I keep a calender now. I’m still disorganized as all hell, but we’re working on that. Baby steps

Source for this image linked here

There are those moments when everything is sailing along and then all of sudden, it’s like the entire world begins to crumble, just enough to knock you off balance but not enough to really count as a legitimate disaster.

That’s where we’re at right now.

Work is the busiest that it’s ever been. I’ve got pressing projects and deadlines looming over my shoulders, and simply not enough time to get anything and everything done.

Life is the same. I’m struggling to find the contentment that settled over everything at the beginning of the year. I want to re-engage it and channel my nervous energy into something productive, but I’m currently unable to get a handle on anything. And so I’m panicky, anxious, stressed, and edgy. I’m quite a joy to be around these days.

I’m hoping that a good dose of trivia tonight and some serious Jacob time tomorrow evening will produce a semblance of calm that will propel me through the week.

Millions of Americans oppose SOPA and PIPA because these bills would censor the Internet and slow economic growth in the U.S.

Maybe you’ve read some of the, ahem, literature written by Tucker Max. He’s a relatively unattractive Duke Law graduate who went on to have lots of sex with women, get obscenely drunk, and then publish a book or two. One of those books, called I Hope They Serve Beer in Hell, was made into a movie that manages to make it onto every single “Worst Movies of All Time” list that I’ve ever read (which is more than five but less than fifteen, for perspective).

The book was funny. It was crude. But the last story offended me beyond words. I can’t explain why, but I felt a sort of repulsion I’ve never felt before.

[I read his book during college. I lent Mr. Johnson the book to take on vacation with him. He ended up giving to some man he met on the beach, so he bought me a new copy. Whenever I think about Tucker Max, I think of Mr. Johnson on a beach somewhere giving some dude a book and then I wonder where the book is now. It makes me laugh every time.]

The problem with his incessant douchebaggery? He’s intelligent. That gives him a leg up on the general population, so to speak.

So, what do I do when I see that he’s accepting applications for a research assistant?
First, flashback to Charlie Sheen’s intern contest. I entered as a joke and made it to round 3.
Second, apply.
Here’s the full posting. I do not anticipate making it to the next round, but my slight success (top 250 out of 80,000 ain’t bad, baby) with the Sheen thing compelled me. Why not?

Research assistant gig with Tucker Max

“Your file is now officially COMPLETE!”

I read it.
And then I read it again.
The twisting started somewhere below my stomach and it fanned up and out, the smile spreading into the furthest corners of my face.
I’ll know in a month.
I worked like a madman on my resume and statement of intent. The resume has been reworded, reworked, retooled. But that statement of intent is a work of art. My soul lives in that statement. I kept asking Maddie, who oversaw my futile first attempts, how to make it zestier. I’m hoping that the program faculty and admissions committee recognize that my letter is the culmination of so many of my life experiences.
And suddenly, I’m terrified. All of these nervous knots are building up inside of me, partially excitement, partially the dread of the “ding” of my phone announcing the arrival of a decision. Acceptance. Denial. My fate hangs in their hands. (Not really, but you get the idea.) There may be an interview. Should there be an interview, there may be an acceptance. And then a first day of school. And then….this could be it. This could be what defines me for the rest of forever.
“What do you do?” someone will ask, as they so often do.
“I’m a sex therapist,” I’ll say, straight-faced.
“No seriously,” they’ll say.
“Oh I’m serious.”
It’ll be good.
Unless, of course, it’s not. And then the “What do you do?” question will be answered with tears and fleeing. Or I will become the best legal software marketer that ever lived. Either that or the CIA will finally hire me as a spy. (Doubtful. My secret keeping abilities are on par with my cooking skills. Low.) There are options, I just like the first one best.

Keep your fingers crossed!!

***
During this process, I got a second set of transcripts from Loyola to be sure that I had sent the correct material and realized that they gave me a third minor. I had planned on having it, but wasn’t sure if I’d met the requirements for it – by the end, there was so much overlapping of credits that I had no idea what was going on. Nothing says liberal arts like: English, Sociology, and Women’s Studies and Gender Studies.

***
I got a phone call last night from a woman looking to contract out her social media and SEO work. Val, my old manager, had given her my information. We have a meeting next week. I’m thrilled! I had just had a conversation with Dad last week about how I wasn’t planning on doing any freelancing this year, but I guess I spoke too soon. Maybe. She’s a local author of children’s books. Awesome.

***
Carlos slept over at Kevin’s again last night. Without me. Apparently they’re buddies now. (Not jealous or anything, what?) I’m not going to lie, I woke up during the night expecting to find Carlos curled on my feet or against me. I missed the sound of his bell. I missed his grumpy yawn. I hope he behaved himself.

That reminds me to remind you of my absolute favorite Carlos story – it will also help explain where he learned some of his tricks.
When I was in Africa, Carlos lived with Jacob. Jacob bought really cheap butter one day and set it out on his counter in a dish. Throughout the week, the butter kept changing shape and eventually Jacob realized it was slowly disappearing. “This is what you get for buying cheap butter,” he thought to himself.
His friend John was at Jacob’s apartment one day when he saw the cat jump on the counter – a behavior I believe he learned while living there – and help himself to the butter.
As it turns out, it wasn’t cheap butter causing the butter shrinkage, it was the cat, who’d been sneaking bites from the stick for a week.

You can take the cat out of Chicago, but you can never take the Chicago out of the cat.

Last night was Carlos’s first (last? only?) sleepover at Kevin’s house. 

There are those moments of immense self-satisfaction – they are few and far between, although I’d love nothing more than to make them more of a constant. I’ve been having periods of intense introspection lately, and most of it is wonderful. I’m realizing that the adult that I’m shaping up to be is the kind of adult that I very much want to be. It’s exciting to become aware of my own motivations, the things that guide me. They have not changed much over the years; to love and be loved, to be independent, to be kind, to enjoy my life. But what has changed is my ability to accept. Rather than focusing so intently on the negative, I’ve been able to come into my own and embrace everything that I am. Integrity is something I find highly attractive. I think most of it is the honesty that I crave. And I’ve been fully able to appreciate that in recent months.

I’m having one of those weeks. I love everything about myself. Even my faults. They are a part of me. They will never leave. I will strive to become that perfect human being, the perfect image of who I want to become, but I know I’ll never be able to do that. And so, I’ve been focusing on enhancing the positive. Embrace. Embrace. Embrace. And it’s good. I am bluntly honest. Sometimes that gets me into trouble, but often, I think it enhances my ability to fully comprehend my experiences. Those who take the time to understand that about me learn that sometimes I’ll put my foot in my mouth, but most of the time, I’m dead-on. I trust my instincts. They’re not wrong. I am beautiful. I may not be everyone’s aesthetic cup of tea, but there’s something about me that’s sometimes stunning. I’m smart. I don’t give myself enough credit for that. I’m a space cadet – I lose everything and am disorganized and my life is a constant battle against clutter. I told Kevin the other day after I’d (not actually) lost my wallet at Costco that I sincerely hope it adds to my charm. I’m funny, at times. I’m serious at others. I’m passionate about the things that I care about. I’m a good cat mother. I’m open-minded, educated, well-traveled, and most importantly, a very unique individual. I’m also an excellent snuggler. You can ask Carlos, he’s asleep on my shoulder as I type this.

Part of it is the optimism for the future. Graduate school applications are due this week. I’m in the middle of the final editing stages of my personal statement and my resume. I’m realizing that I am going to be awesome at whatever I end up doing.

Part of it is my new relationship. I’ve done such a good job at keeping people at a distance that I forgot how wonderful it can feel to let someone in. I feel fully accepted and it makes me incredibly happy. There’s a natural feel to it. I’ve decided to stop waiting for the other shoe to drop and start really appreciating what this is becoming. It’s good. It happened in the most natural way. We’re good for each other. It is so good. (I like saying that. It sounds so, well, good.)

Part of it is work. I’m finally hitting my stride. I’ve got a handle on everything and I’m rocking it right now.

I’m just really happy. I’m really proud of myself – I’m energized. I’m excited to see what I can accomplish once I put my mind to it. It’s going to be a great year. And even during those times when it’s not, there’s still that burning light of optimism shining inside my soul. This is good.

Cancer

Degree: 0° 40′
People with the Moon in the same degree