Good morning, sunshine...
I've never been a morning person, but as long as I get a good night's sleep and have time to drink a half pot of coffee, I usually find mornings pleasant enough. Especially this time of year, when I keep the windows open all night because the weather is (finally) turning cool-ish and I start drinking my coffee hot again. This morning, however, was not one of those mornings.

It's been a really long week. My nerves are shot. I fought the deadlines, and the deadlines won. I haven't been sleeping well. I'm cranky. So I was sitting at my desk in the sunroom, blinds open so I can watch the sun come up, drinking coffee and trying to figure out why my Earthlink DSL was down for the third morning in a row when I heard a little bird singing in a tree outside. I actually stopped what I was doing, turned around, and said, "shut the f*ck up." To the bird. I cursed a happy, singing, little birdie.

Charming.

Someone...
...skipped her doctor's appointment this morning for no good reason (unless you consider I'm sick and f*cking tired of being stuck with needles a good reason?).

...is planning a trip to Savannah to get another tattoo, even though you can still see the shadow of the one she's been getting lasered off for the past 3 years.

...woke up at 5am this morning because she is working on an essay and couldn't sleep unless she wrote it down...and then didn't go back to bed.

...is a little cranky because there is a THREE-POUND box of See's Chocolates on the table at work that she can't eat.

I must share...
my note from The Universe today. If you're not getting notes from The Universe, you're not as cool as I am.

Even though you can't physically see a tree growing, Kelly Love, doesn't mean it's not. Right? Same with the world spinning? Gravity clinging?

So next time the masses are huddled at your feet, pining about dreams they claim are not coming true, you might remind them of this.

Everyday you get closer.

Yo! Ho! Ho!
The Universe

I don't even care about my own problems...

Ever have one of those days months when it feels like you're a magnet for total strangers who want to overshare? I used to just let it happen, wait until it was over, and then take it out on someone else. I finally realized that people take as much as you allow them, so now I opt for candor over phony civility. I'm honest because: a) it comes back on you when you're not (once you tell someone "it's OK" when they overshare, you can't go back and tell them to stop) and b) it saves me a LOT of time having to listen to things that don't concern me. The only time it's OK to share your Deepest Darkest is in therapy. And maybe in a 12-step meeting if it's your turn to talk.

The key word here is "stranger." I would never set these limits with friends. I have shared some of the scariest and saddest things in my life with my friends, and vice versa. I realize there are some people who bond quickly. I think those people are mentally unstable. Real friendships take time, and you can't create them through the emotional equivalent of projectile vomiting.

It's not OK to tell someone you've met twice (briefly) that your husband is a secret cross-dresser. It's not OK to tell someone you're speaking to for the first time over the phone that you can't have children because your lady parts are upside-down. It's not OK to drop the "I was molested" bombshell at a cocktail party. And it's definitely not OK to describe any sexual act not allowed on late-night cable, even if it's between two people who aren't you, even if it happened in prison.

People get pissed off when you tell them the truth. Saying things like "I'm really not comfortable hearing this" and "I don't think that's appropriate" make me sound like an uptight bitch. I'm really an open-minded bitch. I try to be more subtle, and cut it with humor, like, "that's a little much for me to think about before noon" or "I have a rule: No Vagina Talk. Do you mind?" If they still don't get it, I'll go with the more serious, "I'm not comfortable talking about private things" or "this might be appropriate if I was your shrink...but I'm not."

Regardless, I don't want to hear about it. It doesn't mean I don't care. I care very much that bad things happen to people. I just don't want them thrown at me like poison darts. I write, yes, but when I can barely summon up the courage to tell my story, why would you think I'd want to tell yours?

In person, I can read people better. They get hacked off because I don't want to hear about their most recent herpes outbreak, I walk away. On the phone, I say what I have to say, then sit back and wait for the response.

Here's the one I dream about: "Thank you for your honesty. I appreciate you taking the time to establish personal boundaries. I am not very smart and therefore cannot recognize when I am being inappropriate."

Here's what I get: [Silence...silence...silence...] "Why do you have to be so mean? Mean people suck [sob]. I was just trying to tell you about my [insert unfortunate incident here] because I thought you'd care [sniff]."

Here's what I'll take instead of never being able to get the last 15 minutes of my life back: "Bitch." [click..dial tone].

Right on, sister.

I used to think...
people who followed fad diets like Atkins and South Beach were sheep. Now that I have been eating no sugar/low carb myself (sans the grease-laden meat products the good dead Dr. Atkins recommended), my disdain has matured into full-blown contempt.

Admittedly, I'm proud that I have endured this punishment for the past four-almost-five months, but I haven't been pleasant about it. When I catch myself going into way too much detail talking to people about what I eat (they ask), the sound of my own voice makes me want to check myself into a treatment center and take my meals intravenously.

How do people live like this? If I eat one more chicken breast, I'm going to get mad chicken disease. I can't stomach another green vegetable. Salad is my enemy. I have nightmares about being trapped like a piece of fruit suspended in sugar-free jello. I worry about what consuming a pound or more of Splenda a week is doing to my body.

I miss Three Musketeer bars. I miss Jelly Bellies (don't even suggest the sugar free version; they taste like shiny crap nuggets). And don't get me started on how much I miss a frosty-cold vodka martini.

Before I piss the universe off, let me add how grateful I am to be healthy and to have the option of getting well by changing my eating habits. Not everyone is so fortunate. I just wish I could find something I love as much as I once loved the chocolate pudding at Hominy Grill...or Maker's Mark...or coconut shrimp. Because no-sugar-added ice cream doesn't even come close.