TRUTH.COM

DAUGHTER: There should be a pill you can take to make love go away.

MOTHER: Why would you want to make love go away? It's hard enough to find it in the first place.

*smooches...hoping you find love every day in every thing*
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and all that other bullshit...

(dialogue is taken from the remake of the film The Women starring Meg Ryan)

More Jaded Facts For Your Case Files

I'm feeling generous; here are some more facts about yours truly, in case you were DYING to get to know me better:

1- I'm not a picky eater, but if you put eggplant or salmon on my plate I will fight your face and go on a hunger strike. My grandmother used to cook eggplant and force me to eat it even though the texture reminded me of phlegm. The trauma of it all remains with me always.

2- I abuse every bit of power ever placed in my hands; because of this I've agreed (with The Voices) to never run for any kind of office. If you put me in charge I will be mean and rude and make everyone working for me cry or feel true fear.

3- I looked up my name on iTunes (I also google my name often) and found these songs. Yes, I'm super-vain like that. And look, they're both love songs, because everybody loves me and I'm so loveable men are moved to create songs about me telling me of their love :)





4- During a consultation with someone I sought alternative treatment from, I admitted out loud that I stay up late at night because I'm not ready to accept the reality of the next day, especially if I haven't done anything productive. It's like "Oh look, nothing from the TO DO list is done. You can't go to bed until you do these things because tomorrow you won't have time." Next thing you know it's 3AM and all I've done is watched clips of those hens fighting on "The View."

5- Much to my chagrin, I'm very in tune with my body, and I know the millisecond it's not going to feel well. I can also feel almost every aspect of my reproductive cycle, especially when I'm ovulating from my right side. And let me tell you, it's quite painful. It's also scary as hell; reminds me too much of my own mortality. But on the plus side, if I ever want another baby, I know to wait until I'm ovulating from the left side a.k.a the non-retarded ovary/fallopian tube.

*smooches...wondering what will be left to say in my memoir*
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oh who am I kidding; I leave so much out I could fill TWO memoirs! now tell me 5 things about you :)

Tears Of A Clown

Here's another post where I remind you that I suffer from (seasonal, situational, PMS-related, etc) depression. Where I wake up thinking "UGH. Another day." and then feel guilty because so many others didn't get this gift. Where I crumble in the face of every thing (and every one) for which (and whom) I'm responsible, and then remind myself that people everywhere have "lots to do." Where I try to understand why I feel so shitty, and then diminish my own reality by labeling myself as hormonal or whiny or lazy.

And I understand that somewhere, a family probably just lost their home, and maybe the kids have to be sent to live with family or strangers or worse- in the alley with their parents. Somewhere, someone was diagnosed with Stage 4 something-or-other, or has to wait for someone else to die in order to get a life-saving organ transplant. Someone just lost a parent/child/spouse, and someone's HIV cocktail has stopped working. Someone just got slapped across the face for just looking at their spouse wrong, and someone was just stabbed for the $12 in their wallet. And none of those things apply to me.

But I also know that my troubles and sadness and stresses and pressures are still very real to me, and I can't keep living under the It Can Always Be Worse regime because honestly, this is already bad all on its own.

So here's another post where I come off as crying out for help but really I'm not, so I close the comments because I just wanted to get some things out of my head, and I really don't care for feedback- good or bad. This blog is my chosen form of therapy and I just want a(nother) day to cry into my pillow in peace.



If I get a(nother) tomorrow, I'll work harder to feel better.

*smooches...giving in to the tears, just today*
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and maybe tomorrow, but I haven't decided on that yet.

Some More Information On My Uterus: A Healthy Jaded Update

Let me just say, I'm not sharing all of this to gross y'all out, I promise! You just never know who is reading this stuff and if they can benefit from what's on this blog. I know I never knew a damn thing about fibroids until I had them. Never in a million years did I think anything would ever be wrong with my uterus, seeing as I've managed to get pregnant and have babies without problems (except that one time). But here I am and this is what's what.

I went to see my new primary care physician, Dr. Amazing, and she was able to break shit down for me in the most awesome of ways. I think I love her, but it's too soon to tell.

Anyway, she pulled up the medical records I brought over from the Devil's OB/GYN Office and began to paint a picture of what's going on in my nether regions. First, my uterus measures 14 x 10 x 8.7 cm. There are currently THREE fibroids claiming Squatter's Rights in there: a subserosal fibroid measuring 6.1 x 5.8 x 5.7 cm; an intramural to submucosal fibroid measuring 1.1 x 1 x .9 cm; and a subserosal fibroid measuring 1.9 cm. Below is a diagram of what all that means.

In case your math is fuzzy, one of the fibroids is damn-near half the size of my uterus. HALF THE SIZE. Just chillin', taking up room and tormenting my life. Allegedly. One of these bad boys is pressing on my bladder, causing me to have to use the bathroom not even 20 minutes after having something to drink. I also suspect one is pressing on my large intestine, but I won't go into detail as to why.

So after realizing all of this for the first time, and being assured that these are benign tumors that could very well be left alone, Dr. Amazing discussed the different surgical options at my disposal, should I opt to go that route. There's a hysterectomy, myomectomy, uterine artery embolization (the three she discussed with me briefly), and myolysis and MRI-guided ultrasound surgery (the two she did not discuss with me or shrugged off as experimental). She then referred me to a surgeon so that I can truly understand the risks and benefits of any of these procedures or of leaving shit alone until menopause (apparently these suckers will just become a non-issue and die off once my period stops harassing my life).

Y'all know I'm anti-surgery at all costs BUT it doesn't hurt to meet with this surgeon and see what she has to say. I made an appointment for the 23rd and in the meantime have armed myself with three books:

• Fibroids: The Complete Guide to Taking Charge of Your Physical, Emotional, and Sexual Well-being by Johanna Skilling (Side Note: K saw this book and was 100% disgusted at me worrying about my 'sexual well-being' LOL!)
• What Your Doctor May Not Tell You About Fibroids by Scott C. Goodwin, Michael Broder and David Drum
• It's a Sistah Thing: A Guide to Understanding and Dealing with Fibroids for Black Women by Monique R. Brown

I cannot go into this blind; doctors--even Dr. Amazing--can be too scissor-happy sometimes. Before I make any final decisions I need to know all the facts science can provide at this time.

Please feel free to share any experiences you or your loved ones have had with this. It all helps!

*smooches...gearing up for the long haul*
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there's a light at the end of this tunnel, right?

Insurance Won't Cover What I Need: A Healthy Jaded Post

Normally these updates deal with my fitness journey, include a photo of my ever-expanding jelly-belly and list whatever Challenge Of The Week I'm involved in to get a better body. Today, however, I'm discussing my journey to get right on the inside.

So we already know my uterus and surrounding lady parts are acting a fool (you can read about that here); it's annoying and sad and annoying. Yes, annoying TWICE. What's worse is that the alternative treatments I want and need (you know, as opposed to letting some butcher get all up in my nether parts and remove perfectly good organs) is not covered by insurance. Namely, the services of a naturopathic doctor.

In case you're not hip to the latest in new-agey lingo, the American Association of Naturopathic Physicians defines their beliefs and members as such:

"Naturopathic medicine is based on the belief that the human body has an innate healing ability. Naturopathic doctors (NDs) teach their patients to use diet, exercise, lifestyle changes and cutting edge natural therapies to enhance their bodies’ ability to ward off and combat disease."

This is right up my alley.

But when I finally found an ND that I thought would be perfect (given reviews, etc), I find out that she, and other NDs in New York, are not covered by medical insurance. BY LAW. Because they aren't allowed a medical license. What the fuck, Cuomo?? Why not?!?! (Click HERE to sign a petition to change all this.)

It was a setback I wasn't prepared for. I had to cancel the appointment I made because it was just too costly and sought out a highly-praised MD in Chinatown that boasts the use of "holistic treatments" for patients. Thankfully, after I found this magical Chinese doctor, the ND wrote me back and offered me a lower fee on a sliding scale. HOT DIGGITY DOG!! Clearly, there are still amazing and generous people in this world. This ND knows nothing about me except that some evil OB/GYN is threatening my uterus and she wants to help.

So now I have an appointment with the ND and then next month I see the MD. All three of us will come up with a comprehensive solution to this annoying (times three!) problem of mine...and then in ten years I can start enjoy (NOT) menopause in peace!

*smooches...learning more about red tape than I ever wanted to*
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thank goodness the issue isn't more serious...damn HMO!

My Vagina (Uterine, Actually) Monologues

Am I still a woman without all the parts that biologically make me a woman?

This is the question that has been plaguing me since last week when I left my gynecologist's office, right after she said the word "hysterectomy" to me. I'm only 37 and she was so quick to snatch my uterus out of my life.

Let me backtrack.

A few years ago I was told I had three very small non-cancerous fibroids growing in my uterus. No big deal, it happens to a lot of women and we just needed to keep an eye on them. This year's exam made my doctor say, "You uterus seems enlarged," words I did not want to hear. I knew those words would end in surgery and a loss of my reproductive abilities, something I'm too young to deal with.

I guess what made it worse- besides the self-deprecating thoughts of being useless and possibly undesirable because of a missing part that signifies ones mortality and old age- is the cold and callous way in which the doctor, excuse me, RN, delivered the news (plus the fact that there's a cyst on my ovary, "But those come and go so no need to worry about that just yet"), as if she had better things to do and I was in the way of those better things. As if my uterus and all the psychological repercussions attached to losing said uterus didn't matter.

Well it does matter, to me. Maybe I don't really want more kids or maybe I do. What if I'm with someone who has never had kids? What future family can I offer him? What if I don't want to lay on a table and put my life in a surgeon's hands? I've had surgery before and it didn't go so well.

And then thinking of that messy ordeal reminded me of all (well, the two) pregnancies I had that I so cavalierly discarded and walked away from without remorse. My latent Catholic tendencies couldn't help but think this was my punishment.

I don't know, I'm rambling at this point. All I know is that for a week now I've been walking around rubbing the area on my tummy where the fibroid is growing out of control, making me look three months pregnant, and feeling sad. K is going off to college next year and N is following in her footsteps faster than I care to think about. Maybe I didn't want any more babies but maybe I do. And I suppose I was prepared to lose my uterus to menopause but this...this just doesn't seem fair.

You'll excuse me if I tend to be a bit more attitudinal these days than usual. I'm trying my best not to fall apart.



*smooches...still pondering what to do next*
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but shout out to Cathi who really talked me down off the ledge about this whole thing and gave me some really good and practical and loving advice; it helps to have a friend who has studied medicine. love you girl!

When Life Tests You

This morning I forced myself out of bed at 7am to shower and prep for work. I wanted to get in super early and knock out a few assignments that are best completed when the office is empty. To cut back on prep time I decided to take with me a protein shake for breakfast and an apple with almond butter for a snack. I lovingly mixed coconut water, a banana and a scoop of vanilla whey protein in my mini-blender and told myself, "Drink it when you get in while you're finishing the exhibition labels."

I woke the babies up, gave instructions for the day, told them I loved them and walked out the door at 7:45am ready to make Wednesday great.

Life, however, had other plans.

When I stepped out of the subway I felt a drop of something fall on my leg but I ignored it and continued walking along 7th Avenue. The the bus came and I decided to hop on, only to feel a great big drop of something wet when I placed my bag on my lap and sat down. Yeah, you guessed it- my entire bottle of breakfast shake had overturned and spilled out onto my belongings in my bag and was leaking out the bottom.

Everything was soaked: my manuscript; files I'd brought home from work; my dayplanner; Post-It Notes where I'd written semi-important dates and information; MY USB DRIVE WITH DIGITAL COPIES OF EVERYTHING I'VE EVER WRITTEN; and my already almost dying iPod mini. Soaked. And reeking of banana and vanilla. And sticky beyond belief. It wasn't even 9am.

HELLO, WEDNESDAY!

Once in the office, I cleaned up as best I could and asked K to bring me a new bag later on. And even though I could feel my cramps kicking in (oh yes, my period had just arrived as I desperately tried to wipe all the traces of banana from my USB drive!), I popped two Advil (which I never do but felt it was necessary today) and was ready to start my day.

When the office manager arrived and said she was going to the cafe to get breakfast I said, "You know what? Me, too. My breakfast was ruined and I deserve a sinful treat." Downstairs at the counter I asked simply: egg and cheese on wheat toast, no butter. As the guy began to write down the simplest of orders I should have known this wasn't going to go well. Turns out he was the only one there this morning, taking orders, taking money and cooking, too.

He mixed my order up with someone else's and when she brought it back he tried to hand that manhandled sandwich to me. Insert the stankest of cramps-induced side eyes here. After all was said and done, I had been waiting nearly 30minutes for a simple sandwich that I hope and pray he didn't rub on his ass crack or spit in.

It was now 10:30am and I was late for creative review. This was how my day began.

But as I'm typing up this crazy-yet-docile diatribe for all of you to have a good laugh at the Jaded NYer with sticky hands and a distinct banana smell, the sun is shining through my office window and I have a lunch date with Irene and my babies.

What's a little spilled shake when you're alive and employed and loved?

*smooches...looking at the silver lining*
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of course I would not be this chipper if my USB drive had not survived the ordeal. nosireeBOB; this would be an entirely different post, for sure.

The Spiral.

I've been meaning to write this post since 2006. However, every time I sat down to write it I told myself it was too much.  

Your readers don't need to know ever single detail about every single misfiring of every single neuron in your brain, Raquel. 

This is going to garner a lot of unsolicited advice. 

They're going to send Bellevue right to your door, stop playing!

But, this is the year I've chosen to be fearless, so here goes.

It usually starts immediately after a string of really great days: my hair is behaving, my belly isn't protruding and the plumbing in my bathroom is running smoothly (no, seriously, this house has the worst pipes ever. It must be a gazillion years old. And that's not a metaphor; I literally have to call my landlord every three months because a shower turns into a flood in 2.7 seconds. But anyway...). I'll have a seat and think, Life is great!

Then it gets out of control:

Well it's great except for A. Yeah, if A were all straightened out, life would be great. Oh and B, too. That is something I've been meaning to take care of for years. What's taking me so long? UGH and I forgot to take care of C like I said I would this week. Dammit, my entire TO DO list went to hell and it's already Thursday so there's no time to catch up. And I need to handle D right away. I'm running out of time on that and if I don't fix it the repercussions will ruin everything. Whatever, everything is ruined anyway. I'm so fucking lazy and stupid! Why didn't I just take care of this shit earlier?

And then I get online, not to take care of business but rather to distract myself from all the thoughts that won't shut up. But what the internet does is accentuate all the people who have seemingly better lives than I do and that makes it worse.

They have their shit together, why don't you? Y'all are the same age and that person over there is way younger than you and they have it together. What the fuck is wrong with you? I swear you're a waste of skin sometimes. I'm so over you!

That leads to my old friend Binging. And Sloth. And I sink into a hole so deep but it's comfortable there. I know this place well. My ass groove is still cemented in the couch down there. It's hard to breathe and it's foggy and I can't really see the doorway that leads out, and that part is a little scary, but it's comfortable. It's cold and it makes me feel numb and apathetic and I find it hard to care about anything, even my own children, but it's comfortable.

Sometimes the only way out is to be forced out by an outside force: a threat from Cablevision that my service will be shut if I don't pay this bill or a note home that N missed an assignment- surely a sign that I'm a bad homemaker and mother, respectively. But sometimes something inside makes me snap out of it. It's like only one of The Voices wants me to be happy but she's been kidnapped by the others and every time this happens it takes her longer and longer to escape. She breaks through somehow and gets me to feel something, anything, and she's so loud and powerful that I cannot ignore her.

You have to do something or you're going to die here. And it's just not our time.

So then I come out of it and begin the task of assessing the Katrina-like damage left in the wake of my Spiral. I put together a plan for how to fix it all and become overwhelmed because there's so much to repair.  
How can I do this all? I'm only one person. Why can't I do this? I need so much help!

Who's going to help you? There is no one. You made this mess. You have to fix it. Stop burdening people with your shit. How old are you, still looking for bailouts?

That Voice is particularly hard to argue with because she's right. I'm almost 37, still looking for someone else to fix me. And that's when I realize my "strong Voice" has been abducted, again, so soon, and now even she can't help me. So I'm half in and half out of the hole, knowing that I have this list of things that must be done but lacking the courage and strength to put on my big girl drawlz. Eventually, she'll escape again, and in that window of freedom I'll make more lists and maybe even get a few things done, but how long until then?

I don't know what I'll do if she never makes it back.

*smooches...hoping I didn't scare you off*
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listen, this is just my reality. that's what you come here for, right? Also, Bellevue is spelled incorrectly in my tags and it's driving me even crazier that there isn't an easy solution to fix it. It's all I can think about and it's keeping me up at night. Welcome to my brain.

Re-Learning How To Eat: A Healthy Jaded Update

So, you're all familiar with my food issues, right? (If not, click here for a summary of it.) Well those issues are harder to fix than a motherfucker! Just when I think I've licked them, BAM! It's PMS Week and I'm plotting ways to break into McDonald's at 3:00AM to make myself a trough of fries. The only reason I haven't executed my most awesome B&E plan is because I'm afraid of going to jail. I'm too pretty for jail. Not even my PMS is strong enough to make me risk my freedom!

But I digress...

When I have these weak moments I get serious bouts of disappointment and depression weighing heavily on my mind. And that leads to dangerous conversations with The Voices: OK, Raquel. You just ate a salami and cheese sandwich at 2AM and that's not good, in particular because you don't eat pork and you're supposed to be weaning off bread and dairy! What's going to happen is this- after your bowels are done punishing you for ingesting all of those nitrites and by-products, you will not be allowed to eat anything but grilled chicken, veggies and salad. That's it! Nothing else for you! YOU'VE BEEN A BAD GIRL AND I HATE YOU I WISH YOU WERE DEAD YOU'RE RUINING MY LIFE WHY DO YOU SABOTAGE ALL OF MY EFFORTS I'M DOING THIS FOR US WHY DO YOU HATE ME?!?!

And then I proceed to make another salami and cheese sandwich, along with some chips and possible a frozen waffle or two. Clearly this is Reason Number One And Only why I should go to bed earlier- if for nothing else (rest? who needs rest? rest is for suckers!) I need to be in bed before 11PM to curb my eating.

The problem here is my emotions are so tied to food, and it's been this way forever, so it's a hard habit to break. I suppose I can, on some level, understand drug addicts. I know that devouring a box of Reese's Pieces a day is killing me slow. But I'm not armed with the mechanism to find an alternate way to appease my anxiety. Not just yet. I'm looking for it, trust me, but it continues to be a struggle.

I suppose the only thing to do at this point is re-train my emotional and physical self to deal with food responsibly: eat only when hungry; have a reasonable portion; stick to fresh, nutritious whole foods. But I've yet to become the kind of person that can dive into a new lifestyle 100% without looking back and sampling the naughty bits. Especially because those naughty bits tend to trigger memories that comfort me.

Then, of course, once I slip my Catholic Guilt acts up and I'm compelled to pray a rosary for my intestines.

My poor, poor intestines. May god have mercy on their soul.

*smooches...dreaming of deep-fried things*
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you know the kind that's cooked in week-old grease? Mmmmm, delicious!

What It's Like To Be A Violent Pacifist

I know what you're thinking- "Jaded, Violent Pacifist is a blatant contradiction!" But let me explain.

Deep inside of me is an anger so fierce I'm almost certain that, if left unchecked, I could murder someone with my bare hands and go on about my day as if nothing out of the ordinary happened. I know that this anger resides here, so I enlist the help of The Voices to suppress it. It's actually the only thing all of us agree on: The Anger must never be unleashed!

I do things like exercise (boxing is AWESOME for quelling The Anger, as are the martial arts) or dive into a funny show or movie or read a good Stephen King novel in order to stay on the right side of the law and it always works. Want me to not kill you? Hand me a copy of "'Salem's Lot" and we'll be cool.

This revelation stems from a quick conversation I had with a co-worker in which I admitted that I don't argue. Ever. If someone raises their voice to me I always STFU and walk away. My standard answer as to why I don't argue used to be "Because it's pointless." The truth is, yelling awakens The Anger, and The Anger will fashion a weapon out of whatever is nearby and slit your throat. Plain and simple.

If I've ever hung up on you or given you the silent treatment or simply removed you from my life, you should be thanking me. I did it because had I not, The Anger would have taken your life. Your entire life. And then sat down to a plate of Pop Tarts to watch old episodes of "Calliou" on Netflix.

See, I don't like violence. Really I don't. Gory scenes in movies repulse me, I loathe watching a boxing match (I enjoy the class for the sake of exercise, but the sport is quite unsavory to me) and those 'girl fight' videos running wild in these internets make me so sad. I hate that we need a military and that said military is all over the place having to shoot at people. I hate that my family in DR has to employ any number of security measures, including sitting on the porch with a shotgun, in order to prevent home invasions. I hate that this country is OK with condemning someone to die - DIE - at the hands of the state and using my tax dollars to do it. I loathe every minute of all that shit!

So I suppose I became a pacifist in response to The Anger. It's everything I never want to be yet there it is, inside of me. Waiting for you to push the wrong motherfucking button.

*smooches...preferring cotton candy to corpses*
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and I don't even LIKE cotton candy, but whatever it takes to avoid that orange jumpsuit, right?

What It's Like To Suffer From Dysmenorrhea

It's not an uncommon diagnosis. In fact, dare I say, it's a catch-all term for the myriad of symptoms associated with menstruating- from severe cramping to back-aches, nausea and in some, depression.

Yours truly is lucky enough to have all of these symptoms every month, along with breast tenderness, weird food cravings, bloating, excessive thirst, fatigue, migraines and just for kick, sometimes even acne likes to join the party. Let me give you an exclusive sneak peek into the life of someone who has dysmenorrhea.

It all begins two weeks before my period is due: I start to feel a bit bloated and my cravings for salty foods shifts into overdrive. I want to eat things like chicken fingers, fries, potato chips and lunch meat, the latter craving being super annoying given that I don't even LIKE or EAT lunch meat. Just the thought of all those nitrites in my body...BLECH!

My mood starts to shift, too. I begin to say and do mean things just because. I can't really control it, it just escapes me before I have a chance to catch it and bury it away. People's feelings usually end up getting hurt. Phones are hurled across the room. Babies are punished. Tantrums are thrown. I become increasingly annoyed with everyone and everything, and the slightest bump in the road will reduce me to angry tears in 2.5 nanoseconds. Then my face starts to break out, which just makes things awesomer!

In the week leading up to Doomsday, the bloat is super obvious and the skin breakouts have me super depressed and not wanting to leave my house. Then comes the headaches- random and out of nowhere- that threaten to shut my whole life down. THEN, as if I haven't suffered enough, I get really, truly, absolutely depressed. I mean 100% struggling to find the strength to keep going. I don't want to do anything, talk to anyone or even breathe.

Finally, on day one of that cursed day of menstruation, the pain. No, excuse me, it should be written as such: THEEEEEE PAAAAIIIIINNNNNNNNN. It is not unlike a thousand dirty bombs going off inside my uterus in one-minute intervals. I'm actually reduced to doing my Lamaze breathing while curled up in the fetal position to get through it all. By day two it has calmed down some (I will not discuss the heavy bleeding...not even I have the stomach to really go into all that), but on day three my period is all, "YOU THINK YOU BIG TIME?! WELL YOU'RE GONNA DIE, BIG TIME!!!" and it's not lying because I do pray for death. I stare at my kitchen knives and think, "I watched all 15 seasons of ER. Surely I can remove my own uterus without a problem..."

Day four and five brings some relief and my sanity returns, even in the face of lingering nausea. I no longer want to stab things, but my back gets incredibly achy so I become annoyed with life because I can't find a comfortable position in which to sit or sleep. And then ::cue choir of angels:: day seven arrives and I'm one day away from a whole week and a half of sweet, sweet freedom from my hormones' control over my life. Birds chirp, everything seems possible, flowers smell great!

People have said to me, "Once you have kids the symptoms will stop," or "Once you get in shape/fit, you'll see that the cramps are a thing of the past." To that I say LIAR!!!!!!!!! I've had TWO kids and still, the cramps rule my world. I've been working out since March and you know what? YUP. CRAMPS. RULE. MY. WORLD.

The only way to deal with this is to accept it as a fact of life and make accommodations to keep from annihilating small villages and/or jumping off the clock tower in downtown Brooklyn. So far I've found that sleep, Netflix and homemade ginger beer from Cheryl's Global Soul help. A lot.

*smooches...in the homestretch, anticipating August's Doomsday*
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hide ya kids, hide ya fried chicken...

Still Fat, Apparently: A Healthy Jaded Update

Here we are, heavily into July, Ks Sweet 16 Beach Party right around the corner and this belly fat has plopped itself on my couch like, "Hey, bitch, bring me a sandwich!" Yes part of this has to do with what a certain fella said to me on Saturday AND it is PMS Week, but I also have a mirror that doesn't lie and clothes that still don't fit (insult to injury is watching Mari wear my clothes a helluva lot better than I do; just more evidence that I'm stuffing myself into garments of inappropriate sizes).

To that end I've been reviewing my journey so far- what has worked and what hasn't. What hasn't worked is fixing my eating and sleeping habits, which suffer under the enormous weight of my anxiety and depression. What has worked, or rather, what I've enjoyed, is Pilates, boxing and Socacize. I can't say whether or not they are working, but I enjoy those classes and feel pretty good after each session. Almost dead but pretty good. What's getting on my nerves? The injuries and (supposed? apparent?) ineffectiveness of it all.

Enter The Primal Blueprint. I came across this blog by Mark Sisson, Mark's Daily Apple, by chance and everything I read is beyond interesting and feels like where I need to be. Sisson promotes a "caveman" lifestyle and diet- for life- to maintain optimum fitness and health. Right now I'm still in the read-all-about-it stage because it's not just a matter of eating this and not that, it's a complete overhaul of how we live our lives; it challenges conventional health "facts" about nutrition and requires deep emotional transformations.

I can't say if I'm ready for all that just yet.

So I'm going to keep reading Sisson's blog and newsletter, and peruse through his book next time I'm in Barnes and Noble, because frankly THIS LIFE that I'm currently living is not giving me everything I need. And sometimes you do have to throw out the baby with the bathwater and begin again.

Especially if you're still fat and "have a lot more weight to lose" like I do ::side eye::

*smooches...wondering how many will die so that I may live*
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I'm imagining all manner of irritability from me if I undertake this lifestyle change. hide yo' kids, hide yo' wife... and yeah, I totally stole the tagline from The Vampire Diaries' subway ads LOL!

The Fallout: A Healthy Jaded Update

Exercise is good, they say, and yes, I suppose building a strong body to carry you into your twilight years is important. What they NEVER tell you is all the bullshit you encounter along the way.

Like shin splints. Know what this is? I didn't until last week, but now I have it. Awesome.

Or nausea at even the smallest morsel of greasy foods.

Or the need to buy more stuff to maintain this lifestyle, like vitamins, workout gear, Ace bandages, whey protein powder, heating pads, PAIN MEDS...the list goes on and on!

I know what I'm doing right now is better for me in the long run, but I miss the days of the Dollar Menu and couch surfing. I never thought I would but I do.

And perhaps that is the most troubling side effect of all: I thought embarking on this fitness journey would change me to my core (both literally and figuratively). I thought I'd become more pro-active about my life, more focused, more determined to succeed and make more and more positive changes in my life. But it never happened. Two months of working out and I'm still as sloppy, lazy, unfocused and unmotivated as ever. I've talked a good game but inside I don't believe any of it.

Sure, I get up to go work out, but not consistently and only because there was money involved that I didn't want to waste. And now that the injuries and extra, hidden expenses have started to creep in I'm starting to not want to do this anymore; fuck the results. That's exactly what I hear in my head-- Fuck. The. Results. I guess my endorphins are really no match whatsoever for my depression. I must have an acute case of Super Jaded Depression, the kind that eats endorphins for breakfast with a side of nails and then spits it out in your baby's face JUST TO WATCH IT CRY.

I'm not certain where I'll find myself when all my fitness vouchers are used up because it's become apparent to me that no amount of boot camp classes can change the fact that I don't really want to work hard for anything. It hurts to admit that to myself but there it is.

I don't want to do anything, ever.

*smooches...loathing this stubborn flaw*
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in the meantime, let me go schedule the hell out of myself so I can finish up with these exercise classes already and go back to my regularly scheduled failure.

and I'm closing comments because I'm really not in the mood for unsolicited advice. thanks for reading, tho. love you lots :)

"Just Because You Are...So Beautiful...": A Love Letter To Writer's Block

First, let me say that I don't know why this kid isn't more famous. Fuck the music industry if this dude doesn't have someone releasing his albums every two days. I need more Brett Dennen in my life. MORE. BRETT. DENNEN.



Now that we've gotten that out of the way...

I've been living as if all the ink in all of pens is gone because I've written nan one word of original fiction since, oh, maybe January. As if the coffers are empty, the well has run dry, the literary lights are on but no one cares to come home and tell their tales.

I suppose I've filled the reading and writing void in my life with exercise because that's what I do- when I'm avoiding one thing I become 100% obsessed and focused on something else so that I can look people in the eye and lie. "I wish I had time to write but in between boot camp and Pilates and soca class I just can't find the time anymore." That's my new schpiel.

But deep down I know it's not true, and while I'm kinda okay with not telling you everything, it's really hard to look at myself in the mirror and get away with such word vomit. Eventually I see my reflection and am repulsed. It's hideous, gory, filthy. Because it dares lie to me with the very words I gifted it.

And I'm not that person. I'm beautiful because I have this thing in me that takes the English alphabet and configures it in such a way that even I sit back and say, "Wow. Who wrote this?" But I've been too SOMETHING to do it lately.

I need a change of scenery. A change of pace. Something new to look at and experience and be a part of. I have to wake up and put on my face, the one that knows how to entice a story out of a character from a world just outside my reach. Maybe even travel back to a time when I felt I had something new to contribute to the written word.

A time when I knew the way to San Jose...



*smooches...still trying to find some balance*
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things just aren't right. it's like "right" is just there, around the corner, but every time I get close it takes off to another unreachable corner of my mind :(

36 Soon Come: How Long?

When I turned 30, I was happily separated from my husband waiting for my divorce to be final and looking forward to all of the debauchery I was going to participate in now that I was no longer tied to THAT MAN. I didn’t want a relationship, just big fun. Who knew my mind would change so drastically a mere six years later?

I’d do it all again in a heartbeat, y'all- marriage, babies, all of it. BUT I’ll be 36 on Monday. How long ‘til husband? How long ‘til baby? My girly parts are on their last legs, too, so can I even trust them to give me healthy babies? Because honestly, I’m not selfless enough to raise a sick child. I’m just not.

With every new gray hair I find I lament that my prime baby-making years were wasted on THAT MAN. I mean, I got some good babies from him BUT I’d have a lot more had he not been, well, HIM. A better marriage would have found me pregnant (and keeping the babies) lots more than just twice. I regret all that time I wasted with him.

Back to the matter at hand, I’m not over my baby fever. I’m not so in your face with it because no one wants to be around the grown-ass woman with baby fever, but it’s there. And it’s probably why I turn down the suitors who approach me. None of them are the husbands or fathers I see in my dreams.

Who is he? Child, your guess is as good as mine. Will he want babies, and can I still have them? *le sigh* I suppose that's a bridge I'll cross if and when I get there. Hopefully sooner than later.

Nothing would please me more than to write a blog post titled, "I Said YES!" and then another titled "Jaded Part THREE Is On Its Way!" So those of y'all with a direct line to the powers the be put in an order for a husband + babies (yes, plural) for me. Thanks!

*smooches...writing this of sound mind and body*
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I swear I wasn't delirious when I wrote this LOL

Mother Nature VS Jaded McCranky-Pants VS The World!

It's funny how not in control of anything we humans are. I mean, we'd like to think we can control things with our satellites "predicting" shit and our meager contingency plans in case of emergencies, but let's face it- we don't know what the fuck to do when shit gets real.

And that's hard for a control freak like me to admit.

Like, first off, National Grid, Cablevision AND my landlord don't give a shit that my temp job hasn't been paying that much lately because I've been sick and the government holidays and closings have affected my check. Don't be surprised if Jaded starts off 2011 with an overdrawn bank account. It's real in these streets, son!

And second, this fucking snow. THIS. FUCKING. SNOW. I know I live in New York, in the northeast, and we have winters. Yes, I get it, our seasons change. But THIS. FUCKING. SNOW.




How do you even prepare for it? Plows don't come out to South Brooklyn, elevated trains are all fucked up, buses abandoned in the middle of the street... don't y'all have plans for this? Where are the maintenance crews? WHERE ARE MY TAX DOLLARS GOING?

"Either they don't know, don't show, or don't care about what's going on in the hood."

Lastly, I have cramps so I hate every-damn-one and every-damn-thing. The End.

*smooches...ending the list at THREE on purpose*
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it's been a helluva day so only the devil's number will do. Fuck you, Beelzebub! And you, too, Global Warming! Don't think I ain't seen you over there SHITTIN ON THESE HEAUXS...

Frustration 101

I’m going to take advantage of my recent stank-di-dank-dank mood to get a few things off my chest. Normally I prefer not to write a post in anger but I think that’s precisely what I need to do, because walking on eggshells, trying not to offend or upset other people, diplomacy and playing politics can all kiss my ENTIRE high-yellow, flabby new booty.

In 2005 I decided to pursue writing as a career. I figured I’d get some lowly job at a cheesy paper, magazine or website, and then on the side I’d write a few stories that I’d submit to some journals, that would in turn publish the stories and I’d have a quiet little career- writing my little articles and publishing my little stories.

While in graduate school, and especially after my divorce, I got these lofty ideas of doing greater things, like maybe starting my own magazine or publishing a book or teaching a creative writing class to inner-city youth. I didn’t really speak these things out loud because honestly, with the exception of a few people, I knew I was surrounded by Doubting Thomases and Negative Nellies, and it was just safer to dream big only on the inside.

Then I began to meet with other creative types (and the people who claimed to love us) who shouted from the mountain tops that it was okay to dream out loud and whatever ideas I had YES! AWESOME! PURSUE THEM! WE’RE BEHIND YOU AND SUPPORT YOU 100%!!!

Well a funny thing is happening on the way to that big dream- some of the people who shouted the loudest turned into Doubting Thomases and Negative Nellies, and Lazy Limabeans to boot! And all the support and enthusiasm they touted turned out not being worth the price of tube socks.

I understand that my dream is mine and it is in fact my responsibility to make it happen if I wanted bad enough. I get that and am okay with that. I suppose it just would have been more helpful to know who was really in my corner and who just wanted to jump on the bandwagon once things got rolling.

A light bulb went off in my head and I started to get why there are "sellouts," and why our local creatives rarely come back to the ‘hood. Because for all the hootin’ and hollerin’ that there’s no good entertainment in the Black and Latino community, that same community is the first one to NOT support one another. I used to do the same thing, but now I get it. Now I know why it happens. Mine eyes hath seen the light!

One trillion people will break their necks to view and complain about Keri Hilson gyrating in a video, calling her all kinds of names and saying she’s what’s wrong with entertainment today, but only a handful will show up to an open mic, music showcase, off-off Broadway show or indie film screening. Shame on you. Shame on ALL of you (myself included!) who complain about shit you don’t do anything to change.

And let me just say this: I dare one poor unfortunate soul say one contrary thing about me doing business with The Others when I finish putting The Jaded Empire together. I tried working with my people but y'all are like crabs in a barrel and I can't let myself get caught in there. Talk out of place about Brad or Skip being executive VP in charge of shit and I will forget my degrees/home training and Suge Knight your ass. Trust.

*smooches...giving you some harsh truths on a Wednesday*
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this, of course, does not apply to the people who DO make an effort to support independent movers and shakers. Y'all know who you are. On behalf of creatives everywhere, THANK YOU!

I’m What’s Known As A Halloween Grinch.

I don’t like dressing up, I don’t like trick-or-treaters and I hate going out when the entire City is also out and about. Basically, I hate doing what everyone else is doing. You say white I’m going to say orange, just to be difficult.

But this year I relented because it was my cousin’s birthday and he was DJ-ing at a spot on E. Houston. It took me forever to actually get motivated to leave Brooklyn because I was nursing my ego after being rejected by yet ANOTHER literary magazine, but I grabbed a partner in crime and got there at about 1AM. My costume? I dressed as a 35-year-old mother of two who was ripped from her comfy couch and Law & Order: SVU marathon to deal with drunken fools in the street *side eye*

At first I was annoyed because the trains were acting up and then THIS:



But once I got to the bar I met up with a cute, flirty bouncer, another cousin was there, too, and then THIS:



And this:



Aaaaannnnnnnnd THIS:



It was allllll downhill from there.

This dude in the glasses kept staring at me all night!

My cousin Will and his crazy wig n disco shirt!

Will's YUMMY friend. The things I woulda done to that boy...
um, I mean, he was a nice guy O_o

NO MAS!

OKAY, UNO MAS!

The white DJ who actually played some good stuff.

The world's oldest condom...

What was left of my buffalo wings at the end of the night.

I got home at 7AM. Need I say more?

*smooches...still tired from Saturday night*
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I think my body was so tired that it summoned my period a whole week early to punish me!

"Without Me Your Pimpin Ain't The Same"

You might find this hard to believe, but even a JadedNYer like myself is still amazed at people behaving like assholes. Yes, I know. Shocking.

But honestly, I don't see the point in that sort of behavior (anymore. Yes, I acknowledge that I was a total asshole to my ex-husband the whole time we lived on campus at Waco. I've already admitted to this. Why y'all gotta be bringing up old shit?! Dang! Can I live?!) And why anyone would choose to be that way.

I bring this up because it was brought to my attention that a guy I used to talk to is a complete asshole. This information was related to me by two different people, unrelated to me, him and each other, thousands of months apart. I can only assume it's true.

Except he was never an asshole to me. Well, maybe towards the end he was, but that's because it was ending, however during I can't say that I ever experienced any asshole tendencies from him. He was sweet, considerate, giving, fun- all that shit, so when these two people regaled me with their tales of his assholery I was honestly dumbfounded.

Especially because during a recent PMS week I found myself missing him, cyber-stalking him, wondering what went wrong and if it was salvageable. But just when Lady Estrogen was about to cry and get all swoony, El Generalissimo came thru with a vicious backhanded slap of reality for that ass:

"You don't want him back and you don't miss him. You just hate the thought that he's not after you. You are bothered by the fact that you can't flaunt a bigger, better, faster MORE you in his face. You want to stroll down BK with a lovely Rasta on your arm just to rub his nose in it. You want a lush and lavish writing career so you can pop bottles in his face. You only want to get in shape so he can see what he missed out on. You want all his friends to say, 'daaaaamn, son! You gave THAT up? Yo, you STUPID!'



"And you want to be able to walk up to him and smile and say hello and appear to be the bigger person. But you're not. You're petty and immature and quite bitter about the whole thing. You, my dear, don't want him. You want him to want you like the vain bitch you've always been. Snap out of it!"

In one wordy monologue of real talk and tough love, El Generalissimo enlightened me about why I'm not moving forward as much as I'd like; why I can't get rid of these last 10lbs; why my love life is still ghost: I'm still too concerned with what others will think and how they see me. Not just this dude but everybody. I thought I'd licked it but I didn't.

If I'm gonna get ahead it's gotta be for me. The weight? It won't leave til I love myself enough to make it leave. My aspirations have to be pure of heart or The Universe will just continue to shit all over me. I need to let go of MY inner asshole. Only then will I get all the good stuff I deserve!

In the meantime, tho, don't let me see that fool in the street *side eye* He WILL regret all manner of thangs. And that's some MO' truth for YOUR ass, from one Asshole to another *b-girl stance*

*smooches...trying my darndest to GROW UP*
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but it's hella hard, y'all... hella hard!

"Bitches Be Loco."

I'm finding it rather difficult to find things to say to you... know what that means? YUP. It's probably time for another break, starting Monday or Tuesday. Nothing is set in stone just yet, relax. And I don't care if the last one was only a few weeks ago- who runs this site: ME or YOU? That's what I thought.

Anyway, back to what I wanted to say.

I gots me a nasty case of the blogger's block, because the things that are running through my head right now are not things I want to share with you (SORRY!) and it's hard to concentrate on... wait, where was I going with this? Right. Estoy stuck.

This must be what journalists feel like in Cuba n shit. You have so much to pour out onto the page but the regulators, in my case, The Voices, are like, "Go ahead and step outta line and see what happens." I dare not find out, I tell you. DARE. NOT.

There's a roaring something inside me. A combination of worries and excitement and anticipation and impatience that manifests itself in very weird dreams and even weirder realities.

Like, I'm working again but playing "Catch Up To The Bills" is taking longer than I thought. My landlord can only take so much before he shows me the door. And Mami found my Uncle Julio in Indiana but the floodgate of issues and emotions that it brought up is probably more than we bargained for. And I've come to terms with what I want for me and my family and my future and it's scary as fuck to think that it may not all come true. That maybe I waited too long (for more babies, a writing career, etc.) and will now have to settle for a mediocre existence.

(Now I know my male readers don't want to know this but...) On Saturday night my period snuck up on me like a thief in the night with barely any symptoms to announce itself the way it usually does. I didn't snap on anybody, I didn't eat the entire house and most importantly, I didn't cry.

But it did put a halt on this euphoric haze I've been living in and force me to sit. still.

It occurred to me that I was too crazed and frazzled and swept away and caught up to have a minute of hormonal tears, and perhaps I really needed them. They cleanse me; clear my head of shit I need to get rid of and gosh-darnit it just feels good to cry sometimes.

So after an amazing night of great live music (Marsha Ambrosious KILLED IT at SOBs last night), I re-watched the season finale of Brothers & Sisters and cried. I cried for Robert (Rob Lowe) and Kitty (Calista Flockhart) and Uncle Saul (Ron Rifkin), and maybe even a little bit for Holly (Patricia Wettig) and then took a moment to cry for me and the things I want and will never have, the things I thought I didn't want and threw away and the ones I wanted and got.

Yeah, it felt good.

*smooches...thinking maybe I'm not as blocked as I thought*
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you know Lady Estrogen- always being dramat... uh oh. she saw me write that. ABORT MISSION. I REPEAT, ABORT MISSION!!!! *runs away*