Axed. Day 20.

In the past three weeks I have:

• Roasted two chickens.
  • Made chicken pot pie from roasted chicken leftovers.
  • Fed Erica roasted chicken of some sort three days in a row for lunch.
• Baked chocolate chip cookies.
• Baked pumpkin bread.
• Prepared dinner almost every night.
  • Set the table for dinner.
  • Used linen napkins for dinner.
  • Googled (and implemented) special napkin folds.
• Packed lunch for Erica almost every day.
• Bonded with the dog.
• Gone to the park with the dog.
• Bathed the dog.
• Cleaned out the fireplace.
• Reorganized the kitchen drawer.
• Washed every item of clothing we've worn.
• Washed and washed and washed dishes.
• Cleaned out the kitchen cabinets.
• Reorganized the bathroom cabinet.
• Listened to over twenty episodes of Oprah's Soul Series.

That's right. I am a housewife who is addicted to the Spirit Channel. (I am also a bartender at a nice little lesbian bar in the Gowanus section of Brooklyn. A story for another time.)

Know what else? I love it.

Truly. I am so happy these days. My relationship with Erica is healthier than it's ever been. My stress level is zero. (Erica's is only a 15. That alone is a Christmas miracle.) I just have this feeling that everything is exactly as it should be right now. And I've been given this amazing opportunity to make a change in my life and decide what direction I want to go in. It's pretty great.

The first thing I realized after being laid off from the event business (again) was that I have no interest in going back into the event business. It was always something that I had fallen into, not something that I had fallen in love with. What I have fallen in love with, is writing. So, here's the plan:

1. Stay at home and write. (Or go to the park and write. Or a cafe. The zoo. You get the point.)
2. Write the stuff I want to write the way I want to write it.
3. Have someone pay me to do it.

I am so excited.

Definition of Grateful

Occasionally I question my spelling ability. I know that Blogger usually catches my stuff, but there have been times ...

So. I was making sure that I had spelled "grateful" correctly and I came upon the definition.

Pleasing by reason of comfort supplied or discomfort alleviated.

Here's to the McCain/Palin ticket.

And an alleviated discomfort.

I am so excited about the future.

I Am Grateful.

One More For the Road

Receptionist: Hi, how can we help you?

My Friend PMR: Hi there. How are you? What we've got going on here is that my wife and I were having a party tonight.

Erica: Yeah. It was fun. So, they have this cat.

PMR: Yeah. We've got a cat.

Erica: Yeah, she's allergic to them and, uh ...

Me (thinking): God dammit. Why isn't there any panic? Why the FUCK isn't anyone panicking? Here I am dying and she's chatting?

From my keeled over position I wheezed in as much air as I could and screamed.

Me: "ASTHMA ATTACK!"

I know I said I wouldn't write again until I switched domains, but that was before I knew I was going to face death and spend an evening in the Catskills Regional Medical Center with a pothead jaywalker, an escaped convict and one of the younger members of NAMBLA. I had gone into an attack at a Halloween party and thank god the escapee quit drinking after the second round of Beer Pong or we would have been fucked and I would have found myself in the back of a CRMC ambulance as the adult half of the NAMBLA couple.

Note: For those not familiar with Beer Pong, here is a list of what you need to play the game: A table, ping-pong balls, plastic cups, beer, and at least two people who are willing to drink a cup of beer with a dirty ping-pong ball floating in it.

The truth of what happened at the emergency room reception desk was we all went in and Erica, indicating me, calmly said to the nurses, "She's having an asthma attack." The nurses blankly stared back for what felt like eons. I was freaking out because I had dropped down to about 10% lung capacity at this point, and it seemed like everyone was so fucking calm that I might collapse before anyone could decide what to do for me.

After I screamed, I was quickly dropped into a bed and strapped down with an oxygen mask containing a steroid breathing treatment. Within seconds I could breathe again and fell into immediate exhaustion from increasingly struggling for breath for the prior three hours. I was soothed in and out of sleep to the tune of the old man on the other side of the curtain. "Pee pee. Pee pee. Pee pee." The nurse looked at me, "Sorry. It's the only bed we have left," and she turned to give Pee Pee Man a urinal for the third time in about 10 minutes.

I hate being the person who has to be taken to the emergency room. It's embarrassing and I feel guilty for being the buzz-kill. When I was shivering on the back porch, Erica and PMR were with me. "I'm fine. -wheeeeze.- Just let me stay out here for a -wheeeze- while. You guys go back inside." I knew I needed to go to the emergency room, but I just didn't know how to break it to them. I felt like Sookie Stackhouse, the mindreader in True Blood. All I could hear was their thoughts

Oh, please be okay. We don't want to spend the night in the emergency room. Please. She's okay, right? Man. We just started "The Shining." Am I really going to have to go to the hospital with her?

Honey, do you need to go to the hospital?

Yeah. I do.

Crap.

My three costumed companions and I got in the car and headed out. As I sat in the back seat trying to concentrate on getting air into my inflamed bronchial tubes, I could hear them talking about my and PMR's run to try to find a store that had Primatene Mist earlier in the evening.

PMR (the pothead jaywalker): Well, we went to Wal-Mart and Shop Rite and they were both out. Or Wal-Mart was out, Shop Rite's pharmacy was closed and we couldn't get to it. The only other place was another 20 minutes away.

S (the ex-con): Yeah. Taking her to the emergency room is way better than that.

The worst part about being the patient in the ER scenario, is missing out on all of the drama at the hospital. My experience was limited to Pee Pee Man and a rotten-toothed nurse who attempted to start an IV line on me. Being needle-phobic, just the thought of getting an IV was bad enough. But then the stick that should have stung for no more than three seconds hurt like I was being shot up by a fellow heroin junkie in a rush to get his own hit. A doctor who was passing by saw me writhing in pain and asked the nurse what was going on. "The vein is blown," then accusingly, "She jumped." Mercifully the doctor said, "Please stop torturing her and just give her the pills."

There are pills? You bitch.

Meanwhile, outside my room:

S is pacing because he is so freaked out by the filth.
PMR has passed out on a gurney in the hallway and is unfazed when a nurse passes and drops a pile of sheets at his head as if he's not there.
Erica is registering me with a nurse who notices the clock when daylight savings time kicks in. "Great. It's 1 o'clock again. The last thing I need is to re-live that."

Occasionally I'd get a quick report from Erica on what was happening outside my door.

These two nurses were just out there talking and one of them said, "Well, we can't release the body to them tonight." Eek.

And then she'd be off to watch the rest of the show. The most exciting reports were about the crackhead. She'd duck her head in with snippets of the action.

He's detoxing in the "Quiet Room." He isn't very quiet.

Now he's mumbling something about people contaminating ketchup bottles with AIDS.

Ooh! They just strapped him down. He is not pleased.

After about two hours, three breathing treatments and a dose of Prednisone (in pill form, thank you very much), the staff told Erica I was released.

Relieved to finally be freed from the ER, she came in with PMR and S. "Honey? We can go now."

"Okay. Can I just lie here for five more minutes?"

Erica and PMR's faces dropped.

S, done with the filth and drama said, "I'm getting the car."

Incubating.

I've been trying to sit down and write all week. You'd think with all the free time I have on my hands, I'd be writing non-stop. But I just can't get it down. I'm processing a lot of stuff with being laid off and the exciting prospect of where this is going to take me next. I write every day, but nothing really post-worthy. Or nothing I really care to post. But I want to be a dependable and responsible blogger. I don't want my millions of fans to be put on hold for my emotional well-being.

Today, realizing that it had been a week since my last post, I tried to force it and was writing some bullshit about some stuff I've been thinking about. It's good stuff to write about, it's just that I haven't taken the time to let everything soak in so my brain is kind of firing off in a billion different directions. So I decide to try to find this link I want to include in it and I come across the Follow Your Bliss Compass. Naturally I spun it.

refresh your spirit with some creative incubation

Thank you, Follow Your Bliss Compass. Don't mind if I do.

In the meantime, I'm re-designing and moving the blog to my own domain. So, just hold tight. The next post will be a link to my new home.