I Made Myself Sad Today... On Purpose

So, I'm back. My reasons for leaving for a bit were... I was fighting with a lot of people and it was really depressing me. I just couldn't take one more goddamn fight. So, I stayed pretty quiet for a bit while I sorted through various relationship upheavals and the reality of getting back surgery and being off of work for two months. But let's get to why I'm back today. Let's get to what happened.

So, I didn't really make myself sad "on purpose," more like, I knew that what I was doing was going to lead to a full blown Attack of Sad, but I did it anyway. What I did seems like a seriously dumb thing, but I listened to Johnny Cash's "Hurt" on repeat for like 30 minutes. Like, I was sobbing over making dinner and would start the song over again, and that happened for 30 minutes' worth of music. By the time The Hubby came home, I was almost incoherent.
Now you may be asking yourself a couple of questions: 1) Why the hell did you do that, if you knew it was going to make you cry? and 2) Really? You cried that much over a song? (And Hubby's question, 3) Why don't you turn it off if it makes you this sad, you dork?) I will give a short answer for the second question first, because, basically, to me, if you don't at least tear up at that song, you have a heart of stone and you are dead inside and a stranger to Jesus (kidding about the last part).
The first question is a little more complicated. I have a pretty wide and well documented streak of self-destructiveness in me -- I used to abuse painkillers, I used to cut, I used to do a lot of other stupid shit that was bad for me. Today, I had been flip-flopping in mood all day. I was sad for some friends, I didn't feel really great, and then I walked twice and got dressed and did my makeup and looked AWESOME and went out for a bit, knowing that I was pretty, which is still such a new feeling that it still kind of shocks me to say it. Then, I was making dinner, and I had VH1 on, they were doing the Best Songs of the '00s on, and that kind of thing is nice to have on for background music, etc. while cooking. And they were talking about "Hurt" and Johnny Cash, and I remember my first time hearing that song so vividly that it kind of stopped me in my tracks. When I first heard that song, I was working at a record store in Newport, RI, after having to take some time off from school due to being a suicidal nutjob. I can't remember if it was before or after my major suicide attempt, in September of 2003, which eventually lead to my moving out here to Oklahoma. Now, I want you guys to know, I knew that this song had first been done by Nine Inch Nails but I had not then (nor have I now), heard the original version. I know that's blasphemy to a music-lover, but I just love Cash's version so damn much, it just rips your damn soul out.
But that first line of the song, "I hurt myself today, to see if I still feel," is a good descriptor of what some cutters feel like, what some people who try to drown their pain in other pain are trying to tell themselves. For me, cutting became about control. I wanted to be in control of my pain, so I would hurt myself. But I mentioned my self-destructiveness, I have hurt myself in a lot of ways that weren't inflicted by a razor, although that may be considered the most inexplicable thing I've done. For a lot of things, I think I looked at it as numbing -- I remember saying once when someone suggested I had drank too much that I had not, because I could still feel. And there were a lot of times like that.
I think... I'm still trying to sort out why I made myself sad today. Part of it, I think, was that I may have just needed the release a good cry brings. There have been some major upheavals happening lately, I had surgery, and I may have just needed to let it all out. Maybe I wanted to test myself, to see if I'm really as "healed" and doing better as I've been bragging about. Maybe I just wanted to see if I still feel.
Well, I do. That song brought back every terrible thing I've ever done to myself, every terrible thing I've ever done to others, and made me completely beside myself with grief and worry and guilt and... sincere and utter regret. I know everyone says don't have regrets, but I do. I've made a terrible mess of things on many, many occasions, and those things still weigh on my conscience pretty fucking heavily.
And why didn't I turn it off, when the waterworks and the bad memories started? Well, I guess I have a bit of a martyr complex. Maybe I wanted to punish myself for being happy lately. Maybe I haven't come as far as I thought I have. Maybe I still think that I don't deserve good things.
I don't know. But at least I'm asking the questions, trying to sort this all out. Before I just would have continued sobbing. Before I would have laid down in the kitchen and cried desperately as I wondered what the hell was wrong with me, and that I wanted to go home (as if some magical place that doesn't exist anymore would solve anything). So this process of looking at this stuff logically is a step in the right direction. That's good. Go me.
Now, will someone please come over here and turn this fucking song off?

Pain Makes Me Angry

You know, I'm basically pretty happy with life right now.
I like my job. Me and The Hubby are doing excellent. I love my clothes. I think I'm pretty. I have plans for the future -- a vague one for the career, and a specific one regarding my health, fitness, and general well-being.
But this freaking pain makes me so impatient and grumpy and generally a such a raging bitch, that I wrote a massive email to a friend today, chock full of negativity. Meanwhile, I'm trying to convince him of my woo-woo, flaky belief that if you put positive thoughts in the universe, positive stuff will come back to you. Irony, thy name is Erica.
And I've been listening to Crosby, Stills, and Nash almost all day, which makes me feel very mellow. I don't understand why I was such a Negative Nancy in that email. Oh, right, the friggin pain.
Grrr.
So anyway, I'm going to dinner tonight with the in-laws, including sister-in-law, to celebrate my niece's 5th birthday. (And she, by the way, is the absolute cutest being on the planet.) That will cheer me up. I greatly enjoy my in-laws. They're hilarious and sweet and very, very loving.
So that's my Friday night. Hopefully I will be less of an angerball tomorrow.

Emotions Are Weird

When you really think about it, about the weird-ass things that trigger different emotions, they are some bizarre suckers, aren't they?
For example, I started off the day on a good foot. I still hurt a lot, so I wore my brightest, happiest, most-forgiving top and cardigan combination, did my makeup and giggled relentlessly over how much wearing purple eyeshadow and blue mascara makes me happy. Came in to work determined to Get Stuff Done.
I started listening to the podcast of Krissie, Lani, and Jenny together on Reinventing Fabulous, caught up on the podcasts at Popcorn Dialogues, did lots and lots of library work.
And then I was listening to ReFab podcast again and all of a sudden, I got super, super sad. Like all of a sudden the fact that I haven't been in the physical presence of my bestie in ten years caught up to me. And when I hurt this much, it's just a hop, skip, and a jump from reasonable amounts of sad to I Will Die Alone Depression-Ville.
Here's how it works:
"I wish I had friends like these three. They're so awesome. They really are like sisters. That's so awesome. Well, I have Bestie. Bestie's awesome. I haven't seen Bestie in ten years. I'll probably never get to see her. This pain is never going to go away. I'm going to live the rest of my life in pain and on painkillers just to be able to work. And I'll never be able to go out like a normal person, so I'll never have any other friends. And I'll never be able to travel to see Bestie, so eventually she'll get tired of my whining, and I'll lose her. And I'm a raging bitch when I hurt, and I'm going to hurt for forever, so The Hubby will get sick of me and leave me, and I'll be so stressed that he left me that I'll get to the point where I hurt so bad, I can never leave the bed ever, and I'll blow up to one of those people who weigh like 800 pounds, and then I'll really never have friends, because I'll smell from not being able to move, and then I'll die alone, a smelly gross, fat bitch."
See? It's insane, I swear.
And I try to cheer myself up, but when it gets this looney tunes, it's hard to find anything that will work.
So, in twenty minutes, I'll head home and get a hug from The Hubby who will reassure me that he won't leave me if I become a super-bitchy hurty-pants, and I'll believe him... for a minute or two, before the Crazy starts up again.

Weekend Musings

I missed posting yesterday. I would feel bad about that but I felt so supremely terrible yesterday that I don't really care.
Friday night, the Hubby and I decided to do some drinking. I needed to pretend that the last week hadn't happened, and he was happy to play along. I had three margaritas, which along with my painkillers made for an interesting little cocktail called "Erica has the alcohol tolerance of a gnat." The Hubby had fifteen beers and we had a blast. We watched a lot of silly stuff, we had some great conversations, and we just laughed and had a good time.
Saturday morning-afternoon-whenever-the-hell-we-decided-to-regain-consciousness, we both felt terrible. We both wound up throwing up and it was just awful. And I feel like someone has systematically beat every part of my body with a sledgehammer. Seriously, everything hurts. I feel bruised everywhere.
Anyway, today has been the grocery shopping, chores around the house day. Chill.
I'm going to go try water walking tomorrow. I've already got a bag all packed of stuff to take to the pool. I will do it. I will, I will.
My mom and I had a conversation recently about me and exercise. I always make these plans and then never follow through with them. I join a gym and never go. Things like that. So, hopefully already having a bag packed for tomorrow will help me get over that hump of "I'm going to do this" to actually accomplish something.
I'm also going to try making a healthier diet happen this week. I've created a very specific menu that is now on my fridge that I want to stick to. The big thing will be seeing if I choose to stick with it even on the days when I'm tired and grumpy and just plain don't want to.
We'll see. But I'm at least trying.

Sick

The Hubby has some head-stuffing sinus something and I feel like crap myself (everything hurts. Everything. How does everything hurt?), so go play elsewhere today. I'm taking pills and going to bed. Again.

Slushy Brains and Valentine's

So, I think I've figured out how to describe this weird amount of non-functional I've been going through. It's like, my body is working and doing something, and my brain is off in the ether. And then my brain realizes that my body is doing stuff without it, and then there's this insanely long lag time for my brain to catch up with my body. I have no idea what's causing it. I only know that it's happening and that I really kind of desperately want to sleep for a week.
Anyway, today is 2/14. This is a bad anniversary for me, so I try to pretend that it doesn't exist, but resistance is futile. Luckily I'm not insanely sad this year. Last year I think I cried all day. So there's progress. At least slushy, nonfunctional brains aren't completely embarassing at work.
Because of this anniversary, I don't really get into the whole Valentine's thing. But regardless of the anniversary, the whole idea of this holiday annoys the crap out of me.
Why is *this* the day to show the ones you love that you love them? Why don't you do that every day?
The Hubby asked me what I wanted to do this year, and I was like, "You know, I'd rather have a normal day than anything else. Because it's the little everyday things that show that you love someone." And I firmly believe that. Hubby could buy me ropes of diamonds and buckets of roses and tons of chocolate, and it wouldn't mean as much as emailing Jenny Crusie about signing a book for me. It wouldn't mean as much as the two of us cooking together. It wouldn't mean as much as him taking me to get new boots before the Superbowl. Those are the things that really matter. Those are the things that show someone that you love them.
Don't get me wrong. I love chocolate, jewelry, and flowers as much as the next girly girl (although I don't like any of the standard things, for example, I hate fancy jewelry and diamonds and crap like that). I wouldn't be mad if I got any of those things.
However, I just don't think those things are important, or even meaningful or valuable, as tokens of affection.
This is just me, though. And I maybe clinically brain dead right now. So take that for what it's worth.
And have a very happy day showing your loved ones that you love them.

Blahblablah

I've been totally out of it since yesterday. I don't really know what's going on, but my brain just feels sluggish. The Hubby was trying to talk to me while we were making dinner tonight and I think I just looked at him for a couple of minutes. Special.
I've been trying to decide how I'm feeling about the Eloisa James book I finished last night. The cross-dressing plot worked pretty well without being too homophobic. The big climactic fight between the hero and heroine, however, didn't make a lot of sense to me. I don't feel like I understood at all why the hero got so upset with the heroine. I may need to look at it again and work out some thoughts.
Neither of the two Eloisa James books I've read in the past couple of days has affected me as much as When Beauty Tamed the Beast did. They were both good reads and I'm glad I read them. I enjoyed them. (Well, I think. I'm still puzzling over the last one.) But When Beauty Tamed the Beast was incredible. I mean, I get teary thinking about that book, it was so good.
I found a couple of places where romances are being critically analyzed and my inner nerd's heartstrings have been tugged. Tugged, I say! Now I'm having all kinds of fantasies of doing critical work in romances, writing papers and going to conferences and stuff. I'm such a dork. But it's very cool to know that people are looking at romances seriously, and critically.
I'm trying to read Beyond Heaving Bosoms again, a loving and critical look at romances from the women who founded Smart Bitches Trashy Books (and I swear, Sarah Wendell is my sister from another mister or something, she's so awesome).
I'm watching a bunch of shows on the Travel channel about super-expensive stuff. I have decided that if I was ever ridiculously rich, I want a villa in the south of France. I love the Provencal vibe. This one villa we saw on this show could be rented for like $12,000 a week, and I swear it is my total dream home. Everything about it is completely perfect. The dream. I love the style of the house. I love the colors, I love the architecture, I love it all.
Yeah, this is ridiculous. I'm just babbling now.
I don't know what's up with my brain. It is not functioning. Not functioning at all.
Yeah, I'm giving this up today. Hope everyone had a lovely weekend. Maybe my brain will be working tomorrow.

Much Rambling

It's been a lovely chill day. I've slept a lot, read some stuff, done a little bit of laundry. The Hubby's out with buddies, and I am watching a movie that the Hubby would never want to watch, and I found problematic the first time I saw it.
The movie, folks, is He's Just Not That Into You.
For one thing, I hate Bradley Cooper's character in this movie with a seething, roiling passion. He is such a complete jerkwad. Ugh. He makes me want to puke.
Then there's the relationship between Ginnifer Godwin and Justin Long. The first time I saw this movie I was so happy that there was a relationship between a man and a woman that was based in friendship, not romance. But when I watched their relationship develop, I admit I had some crazy secret romantic streak and I was hoping that they would get together. And I was horrified when she came on to him and he rejected her -- because, obviously he did really care about her. But then he comes back for her and tells that he does love her, and then I was totally disgusted, because of course, they had to make it romantic. They had to have some kind of fairy tale ending, even though the whole point of the movie is to show that romantic expectations are screwed up and unrealistic and can completely damage your relationships.
So, I'm watching it again, to see how it feels this time around.
I'm still completely hating Bradley Cooper's character. I'm hurting for Jennifer Connelly's character. I'm hurting for Jennifer Aniston's character. I'm really debating turning the channel.
My latest book, another one by Eloisa James, is a cross-dressing story, which sometimes bothers me. To make the romance work, the hero has to be attracted to the heroine dressed as a male, which leads to a bunch of questioning of one's sexuality, only to be profoundly relieved when the heroine is revealed to be a woman. It just seems to come across a bit homophobic, which is, of course, to be expected of a character living the 1780s, but it still bothers me a little bit. So I've been having some trouble getting into this one.
I'm a teeny bit jealous of The Hubby going out with friends, since with all of my back stuff I can't really do much, but I'm trying not to be one of Those Wives.
Have I mentioned how much I love Drew Barrymore? I love Drew Barrymore. I adore her. She's totally adorable. She's smart. She's funny. She's completely amazing and I love her with every fiber of my body.
Yeah, my brain is not organized right now. I apologize.
Okay, back to watching this movie, or reading my book, or hating Bradley Cooper.

The Back Update and a Bit On Comfort Reading

So, my big neurosurgeon appointment was this morning. What a mess that was. For starters I got a little lost finding the place, which is not shocking and why I gave myself a ridiculous amount of time to get there this morning. Then I got there and there was ten pages of paperwork to fill out. Meanwhile, I got nervous, and more nervous, and more nervous, and more nervous, until I was shaking so hard I could hardly write and I was dripping with sweat. (Add to all of this, the pain from not taking any pills this weekend, and oh yeah, it was special.)
I went by myself because The Hubby was like, "Hey, I'm not going to have to be there, am I?" And I said, "Oh no, they're not going to do anything to me that day." So while I was having a mini-heart attack in the waiting room, and blowing up my husband's phone with texts about my sweat level and the fact I was pretty sure I was about to vomit, The Hubby said, "Hey I could be there in 35 minutes if you need me/think it'll be that long before you get in." And I said, "No, it's fine." Because I am an idiot.
By the time they took me back into the examination room, I was crying. Kind of a lot. The doctor walked in (who was not the neurosurgeon, but the PA, which I have learned means Physician's Assistant), and he was just kind of stunned by the fact that I was having a freakin' nervous breakdown. He was really nice though, he told me that he didn't bite and he had no needles, and I laughed a bit at that (because needles don't scare me, my dad and I celebrated my seventeenth birthdat by me giving blood, true story). So, I started to calm down a bit. We talked about my pain and how it hurts and where it hurts and all that jazz. Then he pulled up my MRI and walked me through the images, showing me how severely screwed up the major herniation is (and good lord, is it screwed up). He told me that physical therapy wouldn't really help me, and, in fact, could increase my pain. And then he walked me through my options for how to proceed. I can: 1) do nothing, 2) take painkillers and some steroid, 3) have epidural shots to control pain and inflammation, 4) have surgery.
So, he typed up his notes for a bit and I looked at the MRI image and thought about it. I started sweating and shaking again. And then I thought, basically, everything but surgery is pain management. Which is kind of like putting a Band-Aid on a broken bone. I don't want to be hooked on pain pills. I don't want to have depend on pain medication for the rest of my freaking life. I want to fix the freaking problem. So, that means surgery. And I told him that I wanted surgery.
And proceeded to hyperventilate. So, I now have an appointment on the 29th to discuss surgery with the neurosurgeon. Apparently I may be a candidate for minimally invasive surgery, which would be excellent, and would apparently just require shaving off the bulging parts. I will be up and walking by the next day and my recovery period will be: walk, rest, walk, rest, walk, rest. There's a 15% chance that my discs could herniate again. There's a chance that the surgery might not get rid of my pain. I'll never be able to lift more than 20 pounds again. But you know what, I'm okay with all of that. I've been dealing with this stupid back pain since 2005. It's time to get it fixed. (And hell, maybe if someone had taken me seriously back then, it would've never gotten this bad. Friggin' asshats.)
So. That's my plan.
In my "my head is spinning too fast to be able to think clearly" daze after the appointment, because, HOLY CRAP I'M HAVING BACK SURGERY, I bought a couple of books by an author I've recently discovered, Eloisa James. She writes historical romances, and a couple of them are revisions of fairy tales, which I love. The first one I read by her was When Beauty Tamed the Beast, which was a retelling of... Anybody? Anybody? Bueller? (Yeah, that was lame.) Anyway, you get it. But it was completely lovely. The beauty was Linnet, a stunningly beautiful young woman who has been completely ruined by a bad prawn, a frumpy dress, a flirtation with a prince, and her dead mother's reputation as a tramp. As her father and aunt are trying to fix the situation, because Linnet's really not pregnant, they find a duke, a bit obsessed with royalty, whose estranged only son is apparently... incapable... of having a family, due to an injured leg, not to mention a fiendish temper. His name is Piers and he's the beast. He's also an amazingly brilliant doctor, and fashioned a bit on the character of House. (Except he's not an addict, yet. There's a temptation to numb his pain with laudanum, but he hasn't succumbed yet.)
So, the duke, supposedly desperate to see any heir in the family, agrees to set Linnet up with his son, and takes her to the castle in Wales where Piers has set up a hospital. And sparks fly. As do tempers. It's wonderful to read Linnet and Piers going back and forth on each other, because Linnet's no dummy and can give all his venom right back to him. There's one glaring possible historical inaccuracy, but I don't even care, because it's a truly wonderful plot point that gets them alone together. The sex scenes are fabulous. The damages they both carry from their parents is fabulous.
But lemme tell ya, that's not why I love this book. Why do I love this book? Because some crazy bad scarlet fever breaks out, and Piers kicks everyone out of the house so he can tend his patients. He says some terrible things to Linnet to get her to, not just leave the castle, but to leave him. We know he loves her, he knows he loves her, he knows that she loves him, but he doesn't think he should have her -- because his father was an addict, and Piers is really, desperately afraid of becoming his father, and with his injury, the temptation is always there. So, he kicks her out, and she leaves.
Piers saves all of his patients, and is seriously regretting sending Linnet off, so he's thinking of going to London to bring her back and make all better. But he's been having these dreams about Linnet that have been nagging at him. And then suddenly, he realizes that there is a damn good chance that Linnet may have been infected with scarlet fever before he kicked her out, and then he goes searching for her. He finds her in a coma, dehydrated, covered with the sores and rash of the fever and very, very close to dead in a chicken coop. That whole description of what he does to save her, how hard it is for him to see her that way, how hard it is for him to do the things he needs to do to save her, because of his leg, is freakin' heartbreaking. I think I've read the book three times now, and I still sob like a freaking baby all throughout that part. It is so gorgeous, and sad, and just shows how desperately he loves this woman. It's wonderful, wonderful stuff.
Anyway, the point of this is that that's the book, when I was scared to death last night of my appointment, and I hurt, and I couldn't sleep, I turned to that book, specifically to that scene in that book, because watching him fight so damn hard to save her, when he can barely carry a bucket of water up the stairs by himself, is such a wonderful, beautiful thing. It's comfort.
And I love that so much about stories, that they can give you that. That they can make you cry, but you're so happy that you don't even notice that you're crying. That they can give you safe space for you to go when you need to, that you can get a bit of peace for a moment, so that you can finally get a couple of hours of sleep.

Musings during the Super Bowl

So, I've been as bitchy as I feared I would be today without my painkillers. Thank goodness the neurosurgeon appointment is early tomorrow. (By the way, total yay for that!)
I haven't been paying a lot of attention to the game tonight -- I really don't care about football -- but I do kind of hope that the Patriots win, but to be honest I wouldn't be upset if they didn't. I enjoyed Madonna. I've enjoyed the commercials. I finished Frederica, which was the absolute most adorable story ever written. Which I'm pretty sure I declared loudly and at length to The Hubby several times.
The Hubby took me shopping for a bit today, because my absolute favorite, completely beloved boots officially fell apart. So he bought me new boots. 'Cause he's a sweetheart. And then I finished the chocolate and peanut butter ice cream he bought me it yesterday, because he's a sweetheart.
Kind of looking forward to The Voice. I hate American Idol because too much of it is focused on being negative to people and making fun of people who obviously can't sing, but the worst singers on the The Voice are just average, y'know? Nobody ever sucks. Hopefully this year I can keep myself in perspective and not get all pissy and wish I could audition for it or anything (which I really couldn't, you know. I'm not that good. I'm decent, but I'm not amazing).
I'm debating on trying to start the new Jeffrey Eugenides book I checked out from the library -- The Marriage Plot -- because it looks interesting, but I've been hesitating for some reason. I guess we'll see. It's been staring at me from the top of my book shelf for awhile, so the guilt of not reading it is starting to get to me.
I've been thinking about, depending what the neurosurgeon says, starting to do some water walking. I'm just vain and shallow enough to worry about looking like an old lady, though. But apparently it's amazing exercise, and there's not a lot I can do with my back, so if the water walking would be helpful, then that's what I'll do. The chubbiness must die. (Well, that's not really my primary motivation. I want my back to get stronger. But it would be a nice side effect. Like cake for icing.) But all of that is really dependent on this appointment tomorrow, and I'm really not certain how I want it to go. The Hubby wants surgery -- let's get it fixed and get it done. The parents don't want surgery because surgery should always be the last resort. I see the pros and cons of both sides a little too clearly, so I just want someone to decide for me and then tell me what to do. Which I guess is what tomorrow will be.
Anyway. Yeah, I'm just rambling. I'm kind of nervous, I guess, but I don't really know what I'm nervous for. I guess we'll see.

Nothing Serious

I'm a little worn out by all the whining I've done about my past the last couple of days, so I'm steering clear of those kinds of discussions for awhile. I will just say that although my past has been problematic, although I may come off as a man-hater and a victim, I am most certainly not. At least, not anymore. I couldn't even tell you when it all changed, or how it all changed. I know that sometime after I stopped taking anti-depressant medications and stopping seeing therapists, I started reading, almost exclusively, romance novels. I branched out from Jennifer Crusie and found other authors and subgenres that I enjoyed. And I think that I was affected by those stories the same way Jennifer Crusie was when she first started reading romances -- that here were these positive stories of women working hard to find happiness. And even though I can't pinpoint exactly when it happened, suddenly reading became my therapy; stories became my medication.
And suddenly I was happy, but it was a sustained completely goofy happiness. I have been known to bunny-hop across the apartment just for giggles. The Hubby and I went to get our taxes done last night. He "fake stole" a peppermint and I wrote on him, and the chick doing our taxes stopped suggesting that we get some "dependents" so we could get a bigger refund. :)
Right now I'm reading Frederica, by Georgette Heyer, and it is so adorable. It's a Regency romance, and I have always maintained a disdainful distance from historical romances because usually they involve things so improbable as to border on ridiculous, or what the SmartBitches call the "Old Skool Romance" hero, who is generally an asshole who must be redeemed. Since we all know I how much I hate men, I am not a fan of that kind of hero. (Dripping sarcasm, by the way -- although I don't like the rapey asshole heroes, they annoy me for some reason.) Anyway, I've found a few historical romances that have been absolutely incredible. I've heard so many references to Heyer lately, that I decided to bite the bullet and try her out. Oh my god. SO cute. Take one something by Jane Austen and throw in the most hilarious and ridiculous set of accidents, and that's Frederica. The heroine is smart and funny and sharp. She thinks she's too old to be a suitable marriage partner for anyone, but wants to push her younger sister (a stunning beauty, but not a whole lot going on upstairs) into society. And the hero is this supremely bored, too rich for his own good, sardonic, sharp guy who is convinced to help, and to watch him fall under the spell of the family, to not be bored, but to try to do the right thing for everybody, and to watch him slowly realize he's in love with Frederica.. *sigh* It's just too, too wonderful. I am totally in love. And they do the things that Jenny Crusie and Lani Diane Rich determined were necessary to establish a good romance -- they work together (there's a completely hysterical scene where they just kind of improv with each other, which reminds me of It Happened One Night), they have great dialogue, and you can tell that they really care about each other, and it's so fabulous. So much squee.
Anyway, romance is fabulous. Haha.
Also, I'm going painkiller free this weekend, because the big meeting with the neurosurgeon is on Monday, and we want to have the decision based on all the facts. So, I may become extremely bitchy by tomorrow. That may be why The Hubby went out and got me peanut butter and chocolate ice cream of his own free will. Haha. That's a smart man. I'm very lucky.
Okay, I'm going to go back to my extremely happy-inducing book and to the UFC event we decided to buy.
Here is the transcript of a Three Goddess chat on romantic comedy, where they discuss everything they learned from their review of romantic comedy films on Popcorn Dialogues: http://lucymarch.com/?p=6066. It's awesome. You will learn much.

Where I Get Sappy and Lovey-Dovey

So, my mood improved greatly last night.
First, the hubby told me what his secret surprise for me was. Are you guys ready for this? (I'm serious, this is, like, the sweetest thing ever.) The hubby has been in contact with The Goddess's (Jennifer Crusie's) daughter/business manager about sending my favorite book of The Goddess's to be signed. HOW SWEET IS THAT? Want something sweeter? Apparently, he came up with this idea at work. He told me he was working, and suddenly he thought that while we have a good time together and all that, he doesn't ever really surprise me with random presents or anything. And then he was thinking of a good present, and he decided that having Jenny Crusie sign one of my books would be the awesomest thing ever. (Which it totally is.) He was going to keep it secret and have it be my Valentine's Day present, but then decided that he'd let me open it as soon as it got here, and then decided that I would notice the book being missing, and that he really just needed to tell me that it was happening. And when he did, I was totally silly with glee, and after appropriate amounts of squeeing and dancing around in joy, I felt a bit shaken out of my grumpalicious mood.
And then, because The Hubby knew I was feeling pissy and resentful of not being able to go out and party and dance and generally shake my tushy, he decided to play some fabulous old school hip-hop that I love so that I could dance a bit in the apartment. That way, when my back started giving out, I could lay down and rest it immediately, instead of, at the club, having to seat on some super-unsupportive stool. It was awesome and after I danced to a couple of songs, I felt much, much better about the universe and my place in it. :)
Today, we looked at some used cars (the Explorer is getting very close to being dead and it makes life very exciting when I have to take it out of town), tried to get my book sent to The Goddess, ate a completely awesome lunch, and cleaned the apartment.
A quiet weekend, but a damn good one.
And so, instead of being grumpy and pissy about all the things that I can't do, I'm feeling really grateful that I have such a sweetheart for a hubby, and that he understands what I need, what makes me happy. It's something that I don't think we appreciate as much as we should. Romantic movies tend to disregard the devoted best friend as a hero, going instead for the sexy new guy. (Think of Buffy -- Xander was never a viable option for her to date (although, to be honest, that relationship couldn't have happened without hurting Willow), it was always Angel, or that Army guy who didn't last, or Spike.) But someone who knows what makes you laugh, who can make you laugh when you really don't want to (because you have a dramatic streak a mile wide and you're enjoying being a bit of a wench), and goes to get to chocolate and peanut butter ice cream is someone who is definitely to be appreciated.
Okay, are you gagging yet? I got a little sappy. I'm sorry. But Jenny Crusie is going to sign a book for me. It's allowed. ;)
Anyway, speaking of Jenny Crusie, here is an excellent chat transcript between her, Krissie, and Lani about the use of soundtracks for their books (and, if you remember, it was a song for my soundtrack that got me all sappy and grumpy yesterday). It's hilarious, as is anything with the three of them. Enjoy!
http://www.arghink.com/2012/01/28/the-three-goddesses-chat-book-soundtracks/#more-6634

Blegh

I don't know what's wrong with me, but I am in a seriously weird mood. I'm just the slighest bit sad, a bit grumpy, a bit annoyed with life in general. For some reason, I really feel like getting absolutely stupid drunk. I feel like wearing some small, little cute party top and go out and shake my butt. However, I cannot do any of those things, because of my freaking back (and the pills I'm that enable me to move without screaming).
So, blegh.
Another reason why I may be feeling so weird is because I've been thinking about my story a lot the last couple of days. I really like the premise and all, but I need to work out a couple of major plot points and a couple of little detail-y things. But I've been looking at a lot of "house" magazines (my heroine is a designer/contractor). And today I listened to some songs that are going to be on the book's soundtrack, and one of them is kind of depressing. But it's a totally kickass song, so I like it, so I tend to listen to it on repeat, and then I get all bummed out. That's super-dumb of me, but what are you going to do?
In other news, the hubby's being all not-secretive about this massive secret he's got. Haha. He told me that he may be getting me "the greatest present that [he has] ever bought [me] ever." (I asked if Jenny Crusie was going to ship herself to Oklahoma and he said, "Well... It's not that great.") So then I come home from work today, all grumpy and sad, and he said that he would tell me what the present was if I really, really, really wanted to know. And then he said, "But, I just want you to know, that it will mean much more if you wait. But I'll tell you if you say you want to know." Well, of course I can't say I want to know now! Butthead cheater. ;) (Hahaha, he just told me what the present is. Best Hubby Ever!)
And that's it. That's all I have today. Well, that and this (http://reinventingfabulous.com/?p=794#more-794), Lani's experiment on not using shampoo. I have insanely oily hair, so this experiment would probably be great for my poor overworked scalp, but I am way too concerned about my appearance to risk the crazy oily time.
Anyway, time to curl up with Maybe This Time (Crusie's adaptation of Henry James) and to eat some ice cream (and not seethe with resentment) while Hubby drinks some beer.
And here's the song that made me a little sniffly today, if you're interested :http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Pv01LslEXbo