My face requests your assistance.

I don't wear makeup. There, I said it. Other than a teeny-tiny bit of foundation to even skin tones or cover the occasional blemish, I do not. wear. makeup.

Don't get me wrong. This is not some dramatic life choice. I have nothing against people who wear makeup and, in fact, I'm a little envious of women who can apply it so flawlessly. I am especially jealous of that perfect smokey eye.

But, as I grew up, cosmetics were never a hot topic for me. Maybe it would have kicked in sometime during high school, but I was in and out until I finally made my escape at sixteen. Skip ahead a couple years and I met The Husband. Makeup isn't on his list of priorities, either.

In fact, the few times I've had my face professionally decorated for various events, he always looks at me as if I've sprouted a second head. The toad.

So, maybe blush and eyeshadow aren't things that I really need to worry about, but I gotta say, I'm tired of feeling like the odd man out when standing amidst a group of women who get into very heated discussions about the appropriate application of makeup before leaving the house each day.

This is what I look like... every... day...



(Well, not quite like this. It's a real-time photo, peeps. I'm sitting in a dark dining room with one fluorescent light casting harsh shadows from the kitchen. I did what I could with it.)



But you get the gist of it. No eyeshadow, mascara, or eyeliner. When I've tried in the past, it's made my eyes look darker and even more possessed. I'm starting to worry that they're just too dark, my lashes too long, to handle any kind of eye makeup.



I don't know if I'd want any color on my cheeks. Apparently I blush easily. Which is odd 'cause I don't often feel embarrassed. And then people tease me and point and shout , "Ooooh, you're BLUUUSHING!!" I usually find myself looking back at them as if they sprouted a second head.



Lipstick. I can't help it. I think why bother? It's just going to come off. And rather quickly, I believe, as I'm a terrible lip-chewer. I'd rather just stick with lip gloss and chap stick. Those I have in abundance. Seriously. It's a problem. Go through my purse at any given time and you'll find at least eleven. My favorite is the Ben & Jerry's Chocolate Chip Cookie Dough flavored lip balm I picked up in Vermont two years ago. Although, most of the time I open it just to sniff it.



When I was in Palm Springs two weekends ago, I was chatting with a friend during one of the softball games. She's one of those genuinely nice people and, after talking to her, I always think I should surround myself with more people like her. Then the next sarcastic comment flies out of my mouth and the moment passes.

She was playing catcher and flirting with the umpire when he asked her out to dinner. She's telling me this and we're both pointing and giggling over how cute he is and she says, "But I really didn't want to worry about doing my makeup tonight." She sighed rather dramatically and I wanted to grab her by the shoulders and shake her.

So, don't do it!, I wanted to shout, but even though I never received my copy of the Official Cosmetic Rule Book, I know that most women feel the same way: makeup is necessary. And saying otherwise would make me seem like a fresh-off-the-farm country bumpkin.

Sadly, my idea of getting dressed up before leaving the house is BRUSHING MY HAIR.

I need help, otherwise I may end up leaving the house looking... like this...

Does this post make me look fat?

I knew I was feeling better when the need to start baking became undeniable. I finally couldn't stop myself. I made two batches of Pumpkin Fudge and these incredible Cinnamon Chocolate Brownies. Seriously delish. Then I ate enough to send myself into a diabetic coma and swore off sweets for good.

Yeah. Right.

Then, as I began putting this post together, I remembered a couple of other recipes I had tried weeks ago, but never shared. Blame the funk. (Actually, blame my piss-poor photos.) So, I figured I'd throw them all together and we could all share in one giant sugar-induced coma. You're welcome.



These... these are the Cinnamon Chocolate Brownies. I never intended to make them. It was just a recipe I stumbled across and the combination of chocolate and cinnamon grabbed my by the hiney. I couldn't shake it. THEY HAD TO BE MADE.

Seriously, one of the best brownies I've ever made or eaten. Their consistency alone made me want to weep. Every time I took a bite (and there were many, many bites), I would pause and think to myself this is why I bake. Once in a while, you attempt a recipe and everything turns out so perfectly that it suddenly puts everything into perspective. This is why I bake. This is why, along the journey to figure out what I want to do with my life, baking is edging out photography little by little.

Speaking of photography...



I think, although I haven't tried it (yet), you could easily omit the cinnamon if you're not a fan. Also, I didn't use the ganache in the original recipe. But the addition of more chocolate couldn't possibly be a bad thing. Right? Once I tasted the brownies on their own, I didn't want to mess with them anymore. Okay, that's not true. I never stopped eating them long enough to add the ganache. Okay, that's not true either. I slurped the ganache up through a straw and died. The end.



This is Caramel Chocolate Shortbread. Which really isn't a name at all. It's just a list. Clever, right?



I love shortbread. I love the buttery, crumbly sweetness of it. The caramel on the other hand, while delicious, wasn't cooked long enough and was much too soft. Add a hard layer of chocolate and try to bite down. The caramel comes oozing out the sides and all over your hand. Do not fret. This will not detract from your enjoyment. Promise.



Believe it or not, I'm not a big fan of dark chocolate and even less of bittersweet chocolate. I was afraid to use it in this recipe, however I'm so glad I did. The sweetness of the caramel cuts the bitterness of the chocolate perfectly.


{ By the way, these are what I was referring to by "piss-poor photos." But I have to stop remaking things just to take pictures. It's wasteful and detrimental to my hips, damn it. }

Moving on.

I've never met a banana bread I didn't like. However, I've never met one that I wanted to roll around on the floor with, either. Until now. I love banana bread. Truly. I don't make it too often, because, well, I consume it all much too quickly, feel guilty for days, and swear off the stuff for good. But I will take a few guilt-ridden moments for this one.



And, surprise! It's my boyfriend's recipe. I'm telling you: the man's a genius. However, I added the crumb topping 'cause it sounded to good to resist, so maybe I'm a genius, too. Hot damn, I could have eaten the topping by itself with a spoon in one sitting.

I love this banana bread. It was so perfectly moist (confession: I hate the word "moist") and sweet and buttery. (And please note: when I say something is "perfectly sweet and buttery," I do not mean it was ultra sweet and buttery, but that it was a perfect balance of the two.)



When The Husband came home from Palm Springs last Sunday, he came back with three leftover bananas. (I swear I nearly dropped dead 'cause the boy does not. eat. fruit.) When I saw them, I immediately asked if I could have them to make banana bread. It's all I've been able to think about as they sit there on my kitchen counter becoming more overripe everyday.

Except I'm kind of afraid to make them again. I have a bad habit of overindulging. No, really.



Okay, this may be the eight millionth chocolate chip cookie recipe I've shared, but they just keep getting better. Just when I thought I'd found my favorite to end all recipes... I try another and get swept away.



Another of Alton's recipes. This one uses a different method (muffin vs. creaming) and I can't help myself. I have an insatiable desire to try every chocolate chip cookie recipe ever. Okay, not really, but I can't promise this will be my last.

I remember growing up, my mom once told me that she never used salt in cookie recipes. She said it was unnecessary. Mom, SHAME ON YOU. Salt is absolutely 100% necessary and worth it. The combination of sweet and salty, especially in this recipe, is magical. MAGICAL! Who doesn't love a good sweet and salty combo? Throw chocolate chips into the mix with a soft, chewy center... I'm in heaven. HEAVEN!

Suddenly I feel the need to use a lot of capital letters and exclamation points. It must be the sugar.



I think I may have unknowingly saved the best for last. Pumpkin Fudge. It's one of those things I always look for when I find myself in a specialty candy shop. Do they sell fresh fudge? IS THERE PUMPKIN???



Love, love, love pumpkin fudge. When I realized it was Fall, I immediately started fantasizing about pumpkin. I love pumpkin sweets and I'll probably bombard you with recipes for the next few months. I just hope our weather soon begins reflecting the season, because damn it's been hot lately.

Here are the complete recipes:
Cinnamon Chocolate Brownies
Chocolate Caramel Shortbread
Banana Bread
Chocolate Chip Cookies
Pumpkin Fudge

Go forth. Bake. Let's all be fat and happy together, okay?

It might be the death of him.

In case you live under a rock, football season is well under way.

And that reminds me. Remember the gift? The one that I never revealed after making you guess what it might be? It was a jersey. A Tom Brady jersey. I had grand plans for taking a picture, but never got around to it. I’m sorry. (By the way, Alias Mother, I’m thinking you need to start trusting your instincts.)

Now let’s all pause for a moment to appreciate the beauty that is Tom Brady.



He makes me want to be a sports photographer. Except that I’m afraid of huge football players crashing into me. I have terrible reflexes and when something comes barreling at me, I freeze with a horrified look on my face and brace for impact. Seriously. Throw a ball at my head. I won’t duck.

I’ve been working most Sundays as of late and I have mixed feelings about this. During past football seasons, I’d sit on the sofa, close to The Husband, and read or flip open the laptop while having to occasionally appear interested in whatever play had my husband bouncing off the walls. I can’t tell you how many times I’ve heard “Honey, look!” just to glance at the television to watch a group of giants in various colors running all willy-nilly over a field.

On the one hand… sports? Meh.

On the other hand, his excitement is contagious and sometimes football really is exhilarating.

On the third hand, I admit I’m kind of happy to be at work while he goes a little insane watching his team go three and oh to start the season. He invites a couple of guys over, they drink beer and bump chests to their hearts content.

Yesterday, his Vikings played an exciting game. I caught the last two minutes while I was on lunch and even I got caught up in the excitement and anxiety. Although, the anxiety stems more from what I may have to deal with when I get home if they lose.

This morning, The Husband forwarded me an e-mail written by a friend of his. I may have to ask said friend to become a guest blogger, because this made me laugh.

Cast of characters
Jon – my husband, lifelong Vikings fan
Aram – a friend, lifelong 49ers fan

In case you don't know, Jon has the 40 yard dash time of a gazelle. Let me paint you a little picture from a first-hand account:

San Francisco scores their touchdown to go ahead in the 4th quarter. At this point, Jon is not happy, not happy at all, but the man has faith as text messages begin rolling in from either a, San Francisco fans or b, haters.

So, the Vikes get the ball and Jon thinks he has a chance. But then they’re forced to punt and S.F. gets the ball back with a few minutes left. Of course, knowing the game, Jon realizes he has three time-outs and if he can just get a three and out, he has a chance. It may be slim, but it’s Brett Favre, damnit!

Meanwhile, he is receiving some weird text messages from Aram regarding how football strategy works (trying a field goal from their own 45? Really?) which were so far off I thought Aram may have been watching Rugby or Cricket. Seriously, I couldn’t make this stuff up.

So, the Niner’s do go three and out and Jon’s eyes light up like a menorah on Hanukah even though he only has 1:47 left on the clock and he’s on his own 30 yard line.

This is where the text messages really get fun, as some people start telling him to “lose with dignity” and such things. (Play all sixty minutes, then talk. Seriously, eating crow blows ass.)

In the meantime, Favre is putting together the drive of any Minnesota fan’s life. (Seriously, Tavaris or Sage would never have pulled it off.)

As the clock runs down, I see the hope in Jon’s eyes beginning to fade until Favre pulls off the tightest “freakin’ laser beam” of a pass I’ve ever seen to the back of the end zone (except maybe Big Ben’s in the Super Bowl last year) and it’s caught for the game winner.

As this happens, Jon doesn’t say a word… He remains resilient to accept what may have just happened, he’s stoic, and quiet as a baby sleeping on his mother’s chest after a serious breast feeding session.

But this, my friends, was the calm before the storm… or Hurricane, shall I say? He gets so quiet as it goes under review. As he watches the replay I can see the heart rate accelerate and the excitement grow back into his eyes (the crazy man stare) and I prepare myself for the spectacle I am about to witness.

The referee comes onto the field: “After further review, the call on the field stands. Touchdown”

This is where Jon goes full speed from his living room into his bedroom and back again in less than 2.7 seconds. As he comes back around the corner he sees me and all I can think is oh, shit… this may hurt. I get dive-bombed on the couch. A cell phone goes flying across the room, bounces off a couch and nails a cat. There’s purple and gold flying everywhere and my hand is beginning to bleed from high fives. At which point I begin to wonder… if Jon is this happy, how the hell does Aram feel?

Honestly, half of it is like trying to read a another language. But I do know this: football season is stressful, exciting, and sometimes dangerous. But better him than me.

The one that makes mine go ape shit.

Our "kids" are relatively easy going until this one shows up. Then, as they're all hyped up and pacing back and forth in front of the window, he plops down in the shady patch of our front patio and stares back as if he knows they once were outdoor cats and now he's going to taunt them with the fact that he still is, and they're not. Neener neener neener.

A few things I learned this weekend.

One. I scare easily and I’m incredibly paranoid, which I already knew. However, when the two combine, I find it nearly impossible to get into bed by myself without the following items within easy reach:

1. Lighter and candles
2. Flashlight and extra batteries
3. The home phone and my cell phone
4. A knife
5. I’m not even kidding
6. ‘Cause if I’m going down, I’m taking someone down with me
7. Or, at least causing enough damage that they’re caught
8. Bastards

Two. The decision to leave the bedroom door open or closed before you go to bed alone takes exactly twelve minutes.

Three. The decision to leave the bedroom door open is the wrong one, especially when you have a cat that meows repeatedly in the middle of the night for no reason at all except to HEAR HIS OWN VOICE. You’ll still get up to check the apartment every time he cries. Because what if?

Four. Getting from Orange County to Palm Springs and back again WITHOUT HITTING TRAFFIC will make you feel like a rock star.

Five. Surprising your husband and watching him play in a softball tournament while sitting in 105-degree heat will leave you feeling hot and sticky and uncomfortable and totally deserving of the Wife of the Year award.

Six. Gatorade is not that good. Unless it’s 105 degrees.

Seven. You can make a killing selling ice cream to people watching a softball tournament in 105 degrees.

Eight. 105 degrees.

Nine. Asking your sister to spend the night with you will seem like a good idea until a. you stay up too late watching scary movies and b. spend the few hours you have to sleep waking up to said sister grinding her teeth all night.

Ten. The sound of someone grinding their teeth in their sleep is a lot louder than you’d expect.

The end.

You’ll either be totally disgusted… or totally impressed.

Because who else would have time to blog after all… this?

I find it a little surprising that I’ve only just mentioned that I love television and yet I’ve never actually gone into detail about it. Well, since I’ve gotten some recent inquiries about it, here you go. In all it’s horrific glory.

I watch a lot of TV. I admit it. I watch even more since the wonderful invention of the DVR.



The Real Housewives of Orange County. At the top of my “bad TV” list. I started watching this ‘cause, well, hometown and all. Then I got sucked into the drama. Don’t care too much for Atlanta or New York, but I love the Real Housewives of New Jersey, too.



Top Chef. It feeds (get it?) my inner wannabe foodie. What these people do is art. I’m not even kidding. It’s a beautiful thing to watch. Also, I love to listen to the way they describe each dish. It’s like another language. And the quick fires? Always give me a panic attack. But in a good way.



Friday Night Lights. I blame The Husband for this one. He started watching it because, hello, it’s about FOOTBALL. Enough said. But I love the characters. Especially Coach Taylor.



90210. He’s going to kill me for saying this, but The Husband is responsible for this one, too. Okay, it has to be said. My husband still watches reruns of the old 90210. I know. So, when the new one started, guess who tuned in? Okay, I was slightly interested in seeing it, too. But the new season just started and I swear I had no intention of watching it. Of course, that was in the middle of some serious PMS and I was over it. Along with many other things. Except then The Husband started watching it while I was sitting next to him, READING, and, well, hooked again. Another perfect example of “bad TV.”



Family Guy. Enough said.



True Blood. This is the first time I’ve ever liked a show more than the book. And, fair warning, spoilers ahead.

In the book, Bill is away from Sookie when she gets attacked by Rene because he, what, runs for city council??? That was the most ridiculous thing ever. In the show, he gets called away to stand trial for killing Long Shadow. That’s right. Instead of Eric, it’s Bill who steps in and kills Long Shadow when he attacks Sookie. Which, in my opnion, is way better.

And when she gets attacked by Rene, Bill does try to protect her, but it’s daytime and, well, vamps don’t so sunshine, so he basically disintegrates before he reaches her, which was kinda anticlimactic and depressing, but it’s all good, ‘cause, later, Sookie rescues him. So, tit for tat, I guess.

(I really hope someone has read the book and/or watched the show to know what the hell I’m talking about.)



Weeds. Love, love, love this show. Um, when did Mary Louise Parker get so effing hot? And Kevin Nealon? I admit it. I didn’t know much about him, but thought he was a total douche in the World’s Funniest Commercials, but now? I LOVE HIM. He and Justin Kirk are hilarious.



The Bachelor/Bachelorette. Can we please have a moment of silence for the fact that I have to wait until next year for the new season? This is the perfect example of what The Husband would call “bad TV,” and yet I sucker him into watching it with me every week.



The Office. Oh, come on, Toby rocks.



The Biggest Loser. This show inspires the hell out of me. I think its way too long, especially when they get further into the season and have fewer contestants… I mean, two hours? Is that necessary every week? But I love it and try to watch it because it really does make me want to be healthier and, let’s get real, after a diet of mostly candy, I could use all the inspiration I can get. If I were to go on this show, I’d be one of those people to choose Jillian as my trainer and then totally regret it later on.



Heroes. When this show started, The Husband got sucked in. I tried to keep up, but if you miss even eight seconds, you’re lost forever. I quickly stopped watching. Then, one day after the first season had ended, the SciFi channel was playing a marathon and I watched all 21 episodes back to back. Then, when the second season started, I watched religiously while The Husband lost all interest. Now I let my DVR accumulate episodes until I finally sit down and watch ‘em all. I always think it’d be easier to just delete them and quit watching, but I can’t bring myself to actually do it.



Entourage. The male equivalent of Sex and the City. God, I miss Sex and the City. Sigh. This show is all about dudes which really means it’s all about T&A.; But it’s funny and you gotta love Jeremy Piven. He’s so angry. I like it.



America’s Next Top Model. Also known as The Show The Husband Refuses To Watch. I can’t help myself. I love the photography.



The Vampire Diaries. The jury is still out on this one. I wasn’t entirely thrilled with the pi
lot and I thought Stephan, while totally cute, was way too trying to be Edward. Although, at this point, I think every book, movie, and television show that happens to have vampires is trying to be Twilight. So… take my opinion with a grain of salt.

(By the way… I have no idea what it means to “take it with a grain of salt.”)



House. My most Favorite. Show. Ever. I love Dr. House. And I don’t know and I don’t care what it says about me to love a character who is clearly not a nice person. To say the least. He’s freaking hot and I want to be his patient.

Hugh Laurie is pretty awesome, too. I would totally let him be my famous friend.

Dexter isn’t listed due to the fact that it was late and I had to go to bed (where, instead of sleeping, I booted up the laptop and watched another episode courtesy of Netflix).

My Boys isn’t listed ‘cause I forgot about it. Even though this last season kinda sucked, I’m sure I’ll watch it again next Summer.

Seventeen hours of TV. I guess it’s a good thing they don’t all air during the same time.

I wouldn't even know how to go about it anyway.

I spent some time tonight (exactly thirty-eight seconds) thinking about clicking "delete" on my last post. But then I thought why bother? Chances are you can still find it and read it and ponder all the secretive reasons I had for taking it down. And, the fact is, I don't really want to delete it. I just want to clarify.

(Of course, I say that now on the day I'm starting to feel almost normal. Almost.)

I am not going to kill my husband. (Feel better?) In fact, the urge to do so wasn't nearly as strong as say... the urge to just leave. To just get up and walk out on my marriage.

Not to keep quoting from the book and all, but...

Increased activity on the right side of the deep limbic system if often associated with sadness, emotional withdrawal, anxiety, and repressed negative emotion. ...right-side overactivitiy is more an internal problem."

In other words, the last two weeks of my life. Internal. Meaning I've been incredibly quiet while obsessing about every little reason why we couldn't stay together. Which is really a horrible way to spend even a fraction of a minute of your life.

Take a moment and imagine your spouse. (If applicable.) You love him or her, right? A lot? (At least, I hope so.) Now think about what it'd be like to wake up one morning feeling as if you'd burst into tears if they so much as touched you. Imagine what it'd be like to hear them coming through the front door after work and your first thought is please, not now. Or what it'd feel like to have your whole body go painfully rigid with refusal at a casual request to go somewhere. Imagine what it'd be like to break down and sob as you begin to dress because you feel too awful saying no again.

It's intensely painful. Even when you're mad and sad and frustrated and convinced that it's over... it's still a horrible feeling. One that eats at you until all that gnawing guilt is just one more emotion you can add to the rapidly building list while your world appears to be crumbling around you.

And, eventually, the only thing you can do is cry to keep from screaming or, worse, acting on all those horrible thoughts.

Yes, everything is magnified. All those little irritations that I never paid attention to before now make my skin crawl until I want to lock myself away in dark corner. I can't help that. His flip-flips really do make me irrationally angry.

But all I can do at this point is try to recognize the problem and think positively. This isn't going to last. We will find a solution. I won't feel like this forever.

And I'm not going to kill my husband.

Promise.

68 days should go by pretty fast. RIGHT?!

This extended trailer aired on the MTV VMAs. And I almost cried. And then I got the incredible urge to REREAD THE BOOKS. So, I asked The Husband to please take them and hide them. Because the last time I reread them? I started to feel like this. And, even though I know that one has nothing to do with the other, I can't help it. I'm afraid.

The one where I use the word "period" a lot and it has nothing to dowith punctuation.

I used to think I had been spared the ordeal of God's little accident PMS (except for one major case of cramps when I was fourteen that was so awful I had to lie down on the floor of a ladies room in Las Vegas... or vomit), except it turns out that I got the kind that makes you want to LEAVE YOUR HUSBAND.

Last night I finally saw our therapist. I told her about The Funk and how, for the last two weeks, every time my husband moves I want to kill him. How every time he puts on those flip-flops I want to fucking commit murder. Or if he so much as dares to look at me wrong or, God forbid, smile, that I will be sent away for a very long time for the awful things I might do to him.

Then she called Twilight soft porn and recommended a book which basically means that I paid her $75 to make me feel bad about myself and Dr. Amen $17 to actually diagnose my problem. (Yes, Amen as in thank God I don't have to worry about prison time now.)

There's a quiz in the book. It says that if you score five or more symptoms with a 3 or higher, there's a high likelihood of deep limbic problems. Out of twenty symptoms, I scored a 3 or higher to fourteen of them. Then I read the chapter on PMS and it was as if I was reading a book about my life.

These are from the book:

On three separate occasions, Michelle, a thirty-five-year-old nurse, left her husband. Each time she left him within the ten days before the onset of her menstrual period. The third time her irritability, anger, and irrational behavior escalated to the point where she attacked him with a knife over a minor disagreement. The next morning, her husband was on the phone to my office. When I first met Michelle, it was several days after her menstrual period had started and things had significantly settled down. The severe temper outbursts were usually over by the third day after her period started. In my office, she appeared to be a gentle, soft-spoken woman. It was hard for me to imagine that this woman had only days before gone after her husband with a carving knife.

A friend's wife has a fairly severe case of PMS. He tells me that during the first week of her cycle, she looks at him with love and affection, and almost anything he does seems to be right. She is more loving and affectionate. Ten days before her period, things are dramatically different. She doesn't want to be touched. She "has a different look," which he describes as a combination of a scowl and a "don't mess with me" look. Little he does is right. She emotionally colors most events in a negative way. Then, a few days after her cycle starts, she's back to being more positive, loving, and affectionate.

I have seen two PMS patterns, clinically and on SPECT, that respond to different treatments. One pattern is focal increased deep limbic activity that correlates with cyclic mood changes. Hotter activity on the left side of the deep limbic system is often associated with anger, irritability, and expressed negative emotion. Increased activity on the right side of the deep limbic system if often associated with sadness, emotional withdrawal, anxiety, and repressed negative emotion. Left-side abnormalities are more a problem for people with whom the woman interacts (because of her outwardly directed anger and irritability), which right-side overactivitiy is more an internal problem.

(I feel obligated to point out that if you're at all interested in the scientific explanations of the Deep Limbic System and how the brain is affected, you can read more here. I don't want to bore you with two much at once.) (I can hear you saying "too late," don't think I can't.)

You might be wondering at this point (if you're still reading, that is) why I didn't catch the connection sooner. Because I've been irregular my entire life. It isn't uncommon for me to go two or three or even four months without having a period.

And how I experience PMS is always different, too. Sometimes my boobs get so effing sore that I refuse to hug The Husband. Sometimes I get incredibly bloated. Sometimes I have an uncontrollable urge to eat the house. And it lasts anywhere from a day to two weeks.

The anger and irritability and the feeling of wanting to walk out on my marriage isn't always present, but I can see now that the times I've experienced those feelings in the past have been times when I've been about to start my period. Like now? My boobs got sore and I started imagining a divorce at the exact same time.

It has not been easy living like this. I've been going back and forth between thinking this is it. I hate him. I need to leave... To thinking this can't be normal. People don't just suddenly hate their spouse. And when I say "suddenly," I mean one day I was in love and happy... and the next day I couldn't stand to be in the same room with him.

It feels great to finally understand the cause. Unfortunately, I have yet to start my period, my therapist (who thinks Twilight is SOFT PORN, did I mention that yet?) and I are just starting to discuss options for treatment, and I still feel like maybe someone should lock away all sharp objects before I succumb to using them.

Let's just say it's a good idea The Husband went to play golf today.

She sat like this for so long, I couldn't not take a picture.

My cats are strange.

Because you people don't know nearly enough about me.

I am frustrated that I’m having to rely on a meme for blog content. (Not that there's anything wrong with a good meme, but...)

I think I’ve been eating too much candy as of late. Sadly, this, too, does not provide blog content.

I have a serious problem watching too much television lately. First True Blood, then Weeds, now Dead Like Me… and next? Six Feet Under.

I wish I was more extroverted.

I hate the telephone. Except for text messages.

I miss Edward.

I fear that I'll finally decide to hold a blog contest and no one will participate.

I hear people talking all around me as they answer phones and the same questions we hear all. Day. Long.

I smell what the Rock is cooking.

I crave potatoes. It’s a problem. I mean, it’s better than candy, but still… every night, more potatoes. I dice ‘em up and sauté ‘em in a little oil and garlic salt until they’re crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. Effing yumm.

I search for blog contest ideas, but can’t come up with anything that anyone hasn’t already done before.

I wonder if my pants will ever feel loose again.

I regret eating so much candy.

I love candy.

I ache after eating too many hot tamales.

I am not very creative or I’d come up with a better answer.

I believe in moderation. I swear. Just... not lately.

I dance if a gun is held to my head.

I sing very loudly, and very poorly, along with the radio while I’m alone in my car.

I cry when I’m angry. And during sad commercials. And sometimes when I don’t get my way. And, recently, during My Sister’s Keeper ‘cause, holy crap, that was a sad movie.

I fight the temptation to read Twilight again.

I win what? Was there a contest?

I lose my mind when I have to explain something more than twice.

I never lose my temper. (Hahahahaha. Haha. Ha.)

I always triple check the locks before I go to bed.

I confuse easily.

I listen to the TV. Constantly. It’s on in the background while I’m cooking, cleaning, on the internet. At all times except while I’m reading. Sometimes I’ll turn it off and think how nice and then wonder why I leave it on all the time.

I can usually be found at home. It’s where I’m happiest. At home reading, watching TV, baking, whatever. If it was an option, I’d never leave home.

I am scared of all insects. And mass murderers. And roller-coasters that take you upside down. And that I might still not know what I want out of life when I turn thirty.

I need solitude. And a lot of it. And yet, being around people keeps my energy up. I don’t get it.

I am happy about the upcoming fall season. Both the actual season and the television season.

I imagine what I’d do if I won the lottery. I never actually play.

I tag everyone. That's right.

I wouldn't normally write about my dreams, but this one was about BLOGGERS.

Last night, I dreamt that Marchelle hosted a party for a group of bloggers. Everyone was supposed to bring something, except I didn’t read the invitation thoroughly so I arrived empty-handed and didn’t realize my mistake until people started preparing plates of food for themselves and OH MY GOD, I didn’t bring anything!

I was greeted by a nice woman wearing a big smile who asked my name and, after I replied with “Stephanie,” she looked at my curiously and I thought, oh, my blog name. I told her and she reacted as if I was a celebrity come to grace these lowly homebodies with my presence. It totally made me uncomfortable because who am I and, hello, I forgot to bring food.

I asked about her blog and then felt guilty because I clearly remembered having commented a couple of times, but hadn’t been back in months. So, apparently I’ve been neglecting everybody.

I left shortly after eating (OTHER PEOPLE’S FOOD) and don’t remember much else except that my hair was wet as if I’d taken a shower and I was rushing to attend a wedding, but I couldn’t find the freeway. Somehow I found myself back in front of Marchelle’s house, which was now located IN THE GHETTO, and found my sister’s best friend hyperventilating on the front porch surrounded by paramedics.

I wonder what it all means.

Smoking. And the grim reaper.

This commercial scares me.

[Update June 5, 2016: There used to be a scary smoking commercial here. Pretend it still is. For my sake.]

I've never smoked a cigarette in my life. Not one single puff. Although, I've inhaled enough second-hand smoke that claiming to have "never smoked a cigarette in my life" seems somehow misleading.

My step-dad smoked (smokes) two packs a day. I remember us driving home one night and he had to have a cigarette so bad that he rolled down all the windows, turned up the heat full blast, and lit up. The extreme combination of varying temperatures and cigarette smoke left quite a lasting impression. I don't remember where we were, where we had been, or what we had done... but I will always remember that drive.

My beautiful older sister got caught up in drugs when she was a teenager. One night she stole my mom's car and was thrown into a rehabilitation center. The next morning, as she spoke to my mom over the phone and I waited anxiously nearby, she said she didn't want to talk to me. She was too embarrassed.

She called me ten minutes later.

When I finally got to visit, I hid two of my mom's cigarettes in the bottom of a bag of candy and snuck them into her. And, I admit it... it made me feel cool.

When I was fourteen, I started stealing my parents cigarettes with some harebrained idea that if they thought I was smoking, I could use their worry and concern to negotiate a plan for us all to quit.

It didn't work.

Then there's The Husband. Also a smoker. (Go figure.)

He quit right after our honeymoon. One year later, as we sat in an airport bar waiting to board our flight to Florida where we would celebrate our first anniversary, he told me he had a confession to make. He had been lying to me. He had started smoking again three months ago.

I didn't talk to him during the entire flight.

Smoking is bad, peeps. I've never done drugs either, but I'd smoke pot before a cigarette any day of the week. (I am so not endorsing drugs here, I swear.)

But trust me. Death and the silent treatment? Not worth it.

This is what happens when I impulsively stock up on veggies.

And then decide to live on candy.

The one that always gives my mother a panic attack.

I fell out of a moving vehicle once. I don't remember how old I was. Old enough to know I should have my seat belt fastened. Not old enough to realize what could happen if it wasn't and I FELL OUT OF A MOVING VEHICLE.

I don't remember what car my mom was driving at the time. The shit-brown Nova? Or the shit-brown Datsun that she could backfire on command. And let me tell you, you haven't experienced embarrassment until you've been dropped off at school by your mom in a backfiring piece of shit car.

We were leaving the mall. I was in the front seat, sans seat belt, and, as we made a right turn towards the freeway, there I went. All rolly-polly out of the passenger's side door.

I think I feel worse for the woman in the car behind us who had to slam on her breaks to avoid slamming into me. I mean, I walked away perfectly fine, just a skinned elbow to show for it. That woman, on the other hand... you know she still sees me in her sleep.

Sadly, there's no point to this story. My sister wrote about an experience she had while cutting off some nice Utahans recently which got me thinking of bad drivers. Bad drivers made me think of my mother. And, oh, remember that time I fell out of the car?

It's kind of like the circle of life... but with more cursing.

Maybe I just need an energy drink.

Most of the time, I try to keep things around here relatively lighthearted. This is not going to be one of those times. (Fair warning and all.)

I'm in a funk, peeps. Have been for the last couple of weeks. And I have no idea what's causing it or what to do about it.

I was happy. Totally, normally, happy and content. And then someone flipped a switch. At least, that's the best way I can think to describe it.

Don't get me wrong. I'm not suddenly crying into my cheerios every morning and I recognize the fact that I have nothing, nothing, to be morose about.

It just feels as if I'm walking around with ten pound weights on each shoulder. Ten pounds ain't much, I'll grant you that. It's just enough to make me want to stop and rest. (All effing day long.) Just enough to make me too tired and too sore to want to participate in anything extracurricular.

The only activities I'm interested in are reading, watching TV, and browsing the internet.

Take pictures? Not now.

Bake? Maybe later.

Everything else? Yawn.

On the other hand... watch six straight hours of True Blood? Spend two browsing YouTube? Read for four as soon as my eyes open? Those I can do. Those I'm happy to do.

Well, happy might be a stretch. Happy might take too much energy as of late.

And... I must admit... I'm especially irritable and impatient. An awesome combination while you're trying to, oh, I don't know, LIVE IN THE REAL WORLD.

I've tried baking. I hoped that doing something normal would stimulate me enough to get out of this funk. Halfway through a batch of chocolate chip cookies, I lost interest and put the dough in the fridge.

And God forbid anyone ask me to do something that might interrupt my plans of NOTHING. As soon as I start to hear a sentence or question that hints at such a thing, I start to shut down.

Go outside? Around people? But... but why??? I don't want to! Why can't you just let me stay inside and BE HAPPY!? You hate me, don't you?

I don't actually say the words out loud because I realize I might come across as, well, a crazy person... but I confess to having thought them once or twice in the last couple weeks.

I can hear you right now feeling sorry for my husband, don't think I can't. I'd feel sorry for him, too, but... too much energy and all that.

I feel like I should be able to tell myself to snap out of it, shrug it off, STOP BEING SUCH A DOWNER...

I'd rather watch a movie and have a bowl of ice cream.

It was more appropriate then.

Fifteen years ago, these were my favorites. I read them over and over and over again. I probably thought these books changed my life, too. And today I'm still choosing my reading material from the "young adult" section.