I don't need drugs. I have migraines.

The last movie I saw was "The Dark Knight". The last tv show was Dog the Bounty Hunter (don't ask). The last music I listened to was Christmas music. The book I'm reading is Sense and Sensibility and Sea Monsters. So can someone explain to me why Edelweiss is going through my head? For the last two days?

Migraines are weird, weird things.

If this were the middle ages we'd all be dead by now

 Now that Christmas has come and gone and with it Captain Cranky-pants, as I like to call my Dad's dark swings toward 5 year-oldness, has taken a leave of absence. I am, however, awaiting a swift return given the recent events. He always gets pissy when things out of his control happen. Oh god, when did this become "Susan's Dad's Psychosis Hour"? Let's just change topics.

So Mom had surgery on Monday. Some of you  may remember when she had foot surgery many, many (i.e. 5) years ago. As part of the operation they left behind a screw holding two bones together; well, that screw started unscrewing itself, which, as you can imagine, was rather painful. So Mum had it taken out. And now my parents' best friends Rick&Tessa (reminds me of Helen Fielding's observation via Bridget Jones that you always know your parents' friends in binary, "Oh, darling, you know Michelle. She's married to Barack - Michelle&Barack.") are both in the hospital, but for different reasons.

There will be more hospital fun in a week or two when Mom goes back into it for a procedure on her heart to get rid of a condition called PVC.  Whee! Hospitals! True fact: My parents are on a 'frequent fliers' program for seniors at Northwest.

I, meanwhile, am doing all right. My girls are in town (except Dreeha :(  ) which means all is right with the world. (Oh god. Just heard my mom telling Tammy, Tessa's daughter, on the phone, "You are the parent now." What?! The woman broke her leg, not her reasoning. Good gracious. It's probably part of the dying process.)  Some of Wendy's cooking and chocolate I shouldn't have and I'm good.  At least now I have the  chance to repay Mom by taking care of her as well as she's taken care of me.

Happy Birthday, Jesus. Now speed up time and make it go away.

10:25am Christmas Eve. The day my family celebrates Christmas together. A day for families, relaxing in front of fires with cocoa and warm fuzzies. And Dad is already in full arsehole! Yes, he has wasted no time in becoming a bitchy Scrooge-like diva, because heaven-forbid we actually enjoy Christmas.  Among his list of his complaints this year are the wrapping paper, the way Mom wraps, ingredient lists, the act of cooking, presents, and, I'm guessing here, but probably baby Jesus. What upsets him? Their mere existence. Why? Because the man is a psychotic asshole with the maturity of a 5 yr old who throws fits if he doesn't have his way. This entire month he's been just awful and it's become exponentially worse as we approached Christmas, so right now he is at his almost-maximum wankerness. God. Just 24 more hours. Let's just get this damn holiday over with.

(Can I tell you how much I hate that this is my attitude? I love Christmas. Love it. Not terribly enthused about my father, though.)

1:21p
Because my dad finds exception with all things Christmas he has decided  not to help with anything. So although my mom has to cook still and all the gifts to wrap, he's done nothing except some chores around the house before retiring to his room for a nap and some Anthony Bourdain. He did, though, have the gall to come downstairs from his nap and after a leisurely lunch point at some gifts and say, "You could wrap those, Susan. They're for Phil and Rick." Oh, really, I could? I could wrap them? And when exactly could I wrap them? Would that be before or after I get the stockings from the box that's wedged in the worst possible place in the garage, probably guarded by spiders, that you were supposed to get? And where would that fit in with helping Mom cook? Or finish wrapping the other gifts? Or finding time for a shower? Or stuffing the stockings, which are now brown bags, thanks to your lazy, self-centered, 5-yr old ass? So, really? I could wrap them? Why don't you do it during your early afternoon snooze watching the Travel Channel. Oh, and THANKS FOR MAKING CHRISTMAS SUCH A FUCKING JOYFUL TIME OF YEAR.

I hope you get eaten by a hippopotamus.

11:20
Yes, Virginia, there is a Santa Claus and he delivers Christmas miracles. Namely my dad deciding not to come to my sister's house for Christmas. Yay! For some reason (he said he had a cold and didn't want to give it to the baby - the real reason is yet to be determined) he stayed home while Karen, Mom, Glen and I went to celebrate Christmas with Amy and her family. 'Twas wonderful! No dad making snide remarks under his breath or holding forced, whispered conversations with Mom where he tells her that everything she does is wrong and Mom's face contorts with the violent indignation rising inside her and she forces herself to refrain from saying something back which would ruin Christmas. And there wasn't any awkward silence as dad stews in his weird, self-concocted anger, drenching the table in anxiety. None of it, because the wanker stayed home. Thank God. And the holiday is over, too. Although he still has another week of vacation to spend home with me and mum. What joy is mine. Oy.

Don't you see the stars? Don't you see them?

Our freshman year at the U of A Kathleen and I had the great honor of watching one of the worst movies ever made. It was about Cleopatra and for some reason I think  it was a Hallmark made for tv film. And it had one of the worst lines ever written, delivered in such a way that amplified the horribleness by several magnitudes.

Let me set the scene: We're in a bedchamber. There are diaphonous curtains hung suggestively, large, curvy pillows thrown about; it's all very exotic and harem-esque. Cleopatra positions herself against a wall to show off all her curves and says, "Tonight, Egypt is yours....and I am Egypt. For one...night...only." The "I am Egypt" was said in a sort of "Oh, by the way, just so you know, I'm synonymous with my country" sort of way. It doesn't look that bad on paper/computer screen, but the actress delivered just the wrong way: taking Marc Anthony's hand and walking slowly, seductively (I think that's what it's supposed to be) away, all the while lowering her head and looking at him the way a librarian looks over the top of her reading glasses. 

Since this brilliantly awful movie I've been fond of any films involving one nights and history and today I found one, One Night With The King! It's about the Biblical story of Esther, the Jewish queen of Persia who saved the Jews from genocide. And it's happily cheesy: Esther is a little ferklemped in the head, the king is permanently smeared in baby oil, one of the eunechs screams about getting "cut", and the main point gets lost in a nonsensical love story.  Aw, I love bad movies.

You'll never get me, copper!

Karen and I were standing in the kitchen innocently when the phone rings and through the answering machine we hear the dulcet tones of an automated voice, "Hello. You have a call from Sean at the detention facility [garbled]. Will you accept the charge?" Karen and I looked at each other in looks that can only be described as a mixture of horrored delight and awe. Then the message repeated. Karen called up to Dad, "Hey, we're getting a call from someone at a detention facility - what do you want to do?" Now, this seemed a bit of a silly question, since this is the man who thinks Girl Scouts are actually scouts for gangs. What does she think he's going to say?

When Dad responded, the man nearly squeaked with strangled panic, "DON'T ANSWER IT! Don't pick the phone up!!" Nuts. I wanted to talk to the strange man in the "detention facility". The answering machine hung up on its own and Karen mentioned something about how we had no intention of picking the phone up. To which my dad responded, "Oh, I didn't know if he might have been one of your friends - a friend from college or something - calling."

Um. Yes. Because so many of you, my dear readers, are of the criminal element. And we all know of my long battle with, uh...uh...bigamy. Yes. Bigamy. First you shoplift Peeps, then cheat on the SATs, then you're hacking into National Weather Service database and then before you know it you've graduated on to, uh, bigamy.  It's a vicious circle.

Colon Hydrotherapy, Or, What Goes Up Must Come Down

On my travail, er, travel with migraines I've experienced new and interesting things, like acupuncture and electric shocks to the back of my head; so when my doctor said I needed to have water shot up my tuckus, I said, sure. Why the hell not?

Due to the (apparently) advanced and emergency nature of my constipation, I was quickly booked for two days. In a row. Yippee. Skippee. At a place 40 minutes from home.

Time-out: I have to admit that I'm at a bit of a loss about how to go on. I've been trying to write this for the past 15 minutes and I can't move past describing the couches in the waiting room. This is just not a Susanish topic. (Ooh, Lady Gaga is on the radio. I sort of like her; she's so unapologetically crazy.)

Okay. Man up, Susan. Man up.

The couches were lovely but eventually it came time for the Great Colon Cleansing of Oh-Nine. The basic idea is that, um let's call them "accumulated waste products" build up in your colon and if you're not pooping then they just stick there start their own little communities, housing bubbles, and composting. Hydrotherapy is supposed to put a stop to all that nonsense and wash the buggers out. In order to do this, water is introduced to the colon by means of a big tube. I'm sure you know the phrase "stick it where the sun don't shine". Well that is precisely where the big tube goes.

So. Um. There I am, in a lovely lilac hospital gown lying down in a room painted a reassuring shade of green. It's the sort of green that says "afternoon tea" and "peaceful English garden" and not "poo removal". I figure if that green can be unperturbed after years of looking at what occurs there, I'll be fine for 45 minutes. Then comes time for the big tube - and it's not bad. You actually can't feel it, believe me or not. But then I was so distracted by thinking how awful it was going to be that I didn't really notice.

Then the water starts. The triple filtered, UV sterilized water, which I was assured was "not just Tucson tap water" (apologies, Kathleen).  Couldn't feel that, either. Could feel, though, the hydrotherapist (is that the word?) Denise, lovely woman, by the way, we chatted the whole way through, which was good, because when you've got a tube up your tuckus you  want good rapport with the person who's just seen your naughty bits. Anyway, Denise massaged my abdomen to help the water work it's whole way around my colon.

After a little while, a little feeling of, how to say?, er, "discomfort" sets in. Denise called it "pressure", but basically it's like you have to go the bathroom. Really have to go to the bathroom. So the water going in is turned off and the water starts coming out. Do not look at this water. There are just some things that man was never meant to see.

After about 45 minutes and several bouts of the above, my tummy had had enough. It had always been my impression that in a colonic all the water that went in during the treatment came out at the same time. Haha, ah, naivete. Um, no. In this, as in all things,  it's important to remember Newtonian physics: What goes up must come down. See, all the water and loosened poo doesn't get drained whilst the tube is up your hiney; nope, it comes out after. About-30-sec-after-the-tube-comes-out after, to be more specific. Have you ever pooped water? Just straight water? It is a weird, weird sensation. A little quality time was spent in the loo, all the while massaging my abdomen to try to move the water to the side of my colon which empties out, if you get my drift.

Eventually I was done and was faced with a 40 minute drive home. Mom had driven of course, but I was still 40 minutes from a toilet, from a clean and friendly toilet. As we got closer to home the pressure started building so when we got home I jumped out of the car, flung open the door and ran to the bathroom. I spent the rest of the night no more than 20 feet away from the loo. My stomach was crampy and sore and I didn't feel very well in general, sort of like I had a cold. Apparently that's to be expected because of the toxins that are released from the cleansing.

The next day I went back and did it all over again. :-)

All in all, it wasn't that bad. I don't think I'd do it again just because I didn't really get anything out of it. (pun not intended) The experience itself was tolerable - not awful, but not wonderful either - but I can think of a lot of other things I'd be doing for $75 a pop.

Blame in on the gallstones

So today was my first session of colon hydrotherapy and it wasn't that bad; I'll post about it tomorrow, after my second session. Today I must tell you about the evil, evil gallstones and how you must flush your liver.

Denise, the woman who performed the colonic, is a very insistent woman. A very almost-on-the-verge-of-rejecting-Western-medicine woman who insisted that I take home a book about "liver flushing" that could change my life, she said, and had, she also said, cured someone she knew of pancreatic cancer.

That book is The Amazing Liver and Gallbladder Flush. (jazzhands!!) According to it, every health problem you've ever had or could possibly ever have is due to gallstones in your liver. Wha-? What's that, my dear? You say that gallstones are in the gallbladder? Why, not at all! According to the author, Andreas Moritz,  "most gallstones are actually found in the liver"; hence, the name, gallliverstones.  These little nasties can wreak havoc on your body and are the most likely cause of the following: food cravings, brain disorders, high cholesterol, Alzheimers, scoliosis,  dark color under the eye, nightmares, asthma, congestive heart failure, dandruff, and, of course, cancer. Yes, that's right. Gallstones give you bags under your eyes and cancer.

What's a person to do?! I can handle the dandruff, but sorry, Mr. Gallstones-in-my-liver, I draw the line at congestive heart failure.  But fear not! Mr. Moritz is at our rescue with his ol' timey, handy-dandy Liver Flush!  Now, it's actually quite simple. You prepare for the flush by drinking apple juice everyday for six straight days. Then, on the day of the new moon*,  you begin the flush at 6pm by drinking Epsom salts dissolved in water to dilate the bile ducts. Drink more at 8 and at 9:45 make the cocktail du jour: freshly squeezed grapefruit juice and virgin olive oil. At precisely 10pm you are to do as Mr. Moritz instructs, "Stand next to your bed (do not sit down) and drink the concoction, if possible, without interruption....Most people...have no problem drinking [it] in one go. Do not take more than 5 minutes for this (only elderly or weak people may take longer).

"PLEASE LIE DOWN IMMEDIATELY!"

(his emphasis, pg. 114) He is very enthusiastic about laying down. Immediately. He also believes strongly that patients (victims?) should, "Lie perfectly still for at least 20 minutes and try not to speak!" (his emphasis, pg. 114). The next morning you get up at 6 for more Epsom salts in water, then more at 8, and finally at 10 you can have some fruit after your "surgery". Apparently you will poop out your gallstones, which will "be different shades of green", look like "tiny gemstones", and float on top of the water - probably somewhat  like grapefruit juice and olive oil would look like if you mixed them together in a petri dish and added some Epsom salts.

I'm almost tempted to try it in a morbidly curious way - but the fact that he dispenses medical advice based on moon phases and  that, of the two medical professionals they could find to endorse his book, one is a dentist, somehow a little voice says, "This is like the time you tried Beggin Strips: you satisfied your curiosity, but, boy howdy, it sure tasted like stupid."  Think I'll pass.


*I"m not making this up; he actually writes, "Try to avoid doing the actual flush on full moon day...The day of new moon is the most conducive for cleansing and healing." (pg. 112)

Everyone, meet Kate. Kate, this is Everyone.

I finally got to meet Kate today and she is all kinds of wonderful. She's tiny, only about the length of my forearm and barely 6 pounds. She slept the whole time I was there and through all of her older brother's giggling and outbursts. I am completely in love with her.

Will, as I was told, is a proud and protective older brother. He showed me how to hold her and then, as she was placed in my arms, told me, "Now I want you to be careful." Before I left he spent some time 'holding' her, which really just amounts to sitting/laying next to her on the couch with his arm around her; his whole face just lights up when he does it. I seriously don't think there was ever a sweeter or more adorable little boy. Except for Jesus. Probably.

Anyway, I have some pictures for y'all. I am a very, very blessed woman to have such a great family. :-)  (And friends!)

I'm pleased to introduce y'all to my tiny, beautiful niece, Kate. Kate, this is everyone. Everyone, this is Kate. Welcome to the world, darling; it's strange, it's beautiful, and it's better because you're in it. I promise to love you forever - even if you somehow vote for Sarah Palin.

 And here's proud brother Will holding his sister before bedtime. The disembodied hand you see on the right is my sister Amy's (aka, the Mommy)  to just make sure everything's okay.