Monthly Archives: June 2011

I want to live in a world where Mrs. Brady doesn’t have crabs, as far as we know.

(The first thing you need to know is that the following is a rant based on my irrational rage towards Florence Henderson for being a regular human being like the rest of us.  If you’re new here, you should probably skip this post as it is not typical of my generally witty prose (ha).  If you’re not new here, then you know that I’m struggling to write ANYTHING because I’m fucking depressed so it’s probably not surprising that I’m ranting.  Oh, and it’s my rant, I’m not asking anyone to agree with me or to question the validity of my irrational feelings.  So there.)

So, the big “entertainment news” today is Florence Henderson announcing to the world that she cheated on one of her  husbands with a former mayor of New York City, who gave her crabs.


I could have lived a full and happy life without knowing that Mrs. Brady slept around and had critters in her cookie.  In fact, I would prefer to unknow this information, thankyouverymuch.

And yes, I admit that my reaction to this information is completely out of character for me –  I’m usually the person dying to know all the juicy details about everything, especially about celebrities, and sex.  And, as we have established, I have compulsive disclosure disorder myself, so it’s not like I haven’t shared personal information inappropriately on numerous occasions.  I totally have.

But I’m not Mrs. Brady!

I’m not the one who built my career on a character who was idolized by an entire generation of kids as the perfect mother!  Mrs. Brady was always perfectly dressed, perfectly coiffed, perfectly reasonable and perfectly in-synch with her kids.  She had a good sense of humor and was, well, spunky.  Further, she only had eyes for her husband. 

And Florence never did anything to suggest that she was anything but exactly like Mrs. Brady, at least in public.  I mean, she tried to change her image when she went on Dancing With The Stars, but that was kind of cute, in an old lady way.  Or disturbing, depending on how you looked at it.  Anyway, it was also like 100 years after the show, so it didn’t affect her goody-goody image from back then.  Whatever.  It seemed to work out for her.  So I have to ask…

Why now, Florence?

Call me crazy, Flo, but I don’t think your need to convince people that you were the original Kardashian sister outweighs the need for an entire generation of  people to have something about their childhood that was simple and sweet and good, even if it was a character in a television program.

And, for the love of GOD, even if you felt compelled to share your sexual exploits, why tell us about the crabs?

It makes no sense.  Lots of famous people have “secrets” that they hide for a long time and then want to get off their chest.  Like being anorexic, or having an abortion, or being a meth addict or having an extra vagina…. And then they reveal their big secret, usually stating that they hope telling their story will help other people in the same situation.

I don’t know, Flo, it doesn’t seem like your happy little disclosure about having crabs is designed to encourage all those people who have at one time or another had cooties in their privates feel better about themselves.  I can’t imagine that  tons of people are feeling grateful that they can finally talk about having crabs because you have taken the lead on this painful, controversial issue. 

So, pretty much, you’ve fucked up my childhood for no good reason.

Thanks a bunch 🙂





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On a lighter note, I’m an eccentric creative genius, probably.

One thing I do when I’m not doing anything because I’m so fucking depressed is roam around the world-wide interweb.

Mostly because I fancy myself  a brilliant researcher and, apparently, a Doctor. [Note:  I mean, technically, I am  – cuz I’m a  juris doctor, yo + I am pretty good at researching shit.]  So I’m pretty sure I can figure out what is wrong with me and then get the real doctors to fix me.  Granted, this has led me down a few rabbit holes.  For example, I’m kind of an expert on Cushing’s Disease now.  Turns out I don’t have it, but I can diagnose it in other people.  I know a lot about iodine deficiency (thank you, commenter!) and iron deficiency and adrenal exhaustion (which I totally have, fyi…) and early-onset dementia and Crohn’s disease and IBS (irritable bowel syndrome) and the Specific Carbohydrate Diet and mercury poisoning and autism and diabetes and Metabolic Syndrome and yeast issues and gluten intolerance and why I should probably be a vegetarian and stop drinking Diet Coke.

I know all of this because I really, really want there to be a reason for my depression that isn’t Mental Illness.  And there probably are some physical things contributing to my fatigue/exhaustion/inability to concentrate because, frankly, I haven’t taken care of myself.  (I’ve never been good at the self-care thing, but the past few years since Mom’s ovarian cancer diagnosis have been the worst)  But it’s all so circular — the physical problems contribute to depression and the depression makes it difficult to impossible for me to take care of myself, which leads to more physical problems, and, well, depression.  And guilt.  Because, of course, everyone knows things like “diet” and “exercise” and “leaving the house” are “healthy”, including me.

Anyway, I do a lot of research…. but I haven’t found a physical ailment that seems to explain away my depression.  Heavy sigh.

I realize that, objectively, I actually have good reason to be depressed –  I live with my brilliant artistic mother (with great hair) who is fighting ovarian cancer which means all that shit is coming up for me + I’m going to be an orphan, my grandma (who was like my best friend) died less than a year ago, my other grandma (who was like my Mom’s best friend) died right before my Mom was diagnosed with ovarian cancer, I have no job and rapidly diminishing funds and my son just graduated from high school — which is not depressing, but it is a major life change and therefore an issue.

But this isn’t my first depression-rodeo.

Consequently, I know that, while those things suck and are sad and scary, all of that is distinct from the depression with a capital “D” that drains the life force right out of me. [Note:  I’m feeling somewhat dramatic today.]  Depression with a capital “D” is not related to anything outside my brain, it just is.  And it has been here before.  Sometimes (when I’m depressed, of course) I think that depression is my “normal” state and that the times in my life when I’ve been stable and happy/content are the exception to the norm, and, therefore, something to be concerned about.

So, essentially, I’m like Eeyore with a law degree and PMS….

“Good morning, Pooh Bear,” said Eeyore gloomily. “If it is a good morning,” he said. “Which I doubt,” said he.

“Why, what’s the matter?” “Nothing, Pooh Bear, nothing. We can’t all, and some of us don’t. That’s all there is to it.”

“Can’t all what?” said Pooh, rubbing his nose. “Gaiety. Song-and-dance.  Here we go round the mulberry bush.”

Just kidding.  I don’t think Eeyore suffered from Depression.  I think he was a gloomy, sarcastic pessimist (with a pink bow on his tail!), but not clinically depressed.  More melancholy-ish.

So, I’m like Eeyore, except more Depressed.

Oh, joy.

On a lighter note, it is statistically likely that Eeyore and I are eccentric creative genius-es…

Yes.  The internet told me that there a remarkable correlation between depression/melancholy and Creative Genius.  There is a really high correlation between bi-polar disorder (which I may or may not have, depending on which doctor you speak to…) and super creative writers, artists, poets,  composers, etc.  But, really, any mental illness will work.  For example, it turns out schizophrenia is a good thing to have if you’re a mathematician. (Personally, I question who in their right mind would choose to even be a mathematician, but that is beside the point and, well, schizophrenics, apparently…)  And we can see what depression did for Michelangelo…(yep, totally depressed while painting the Sistine Chapel). 

Hemingway, Plath, Poe, Tolstoy, Vonnegut = super depressed.  Even Charles Schulz (Charlie Brown!) suffered from clinical depression.

I am not even going to try to summarize the scientific studies that have uncovered the link between Mental Illness and Creative Genius, but, basically, it has something to do with how our brains work  (“we” being human beings, not “we” Creative Genius-es) and how we process stimuli.  Non-linear thinking and emotional vulnerability.  Neurotransmitters.  Stuff like that…

So.  Maybe I haven’t really been avoiding my Brilliant Writing Career, I just haven’t been depressed enough to be inspired?

Well, watch out world, because this Depression is a doozy and might unleash my Creative Genius, finally. 🙂

It’s a theory.



p.s.  I found out that “doozy” is a real word, weird, huh?


Filed under Uncategorized

And this is what depression looks like. Read at your own risk.

(First of all, you probably shouldn’t even be reading this.  And I probably shouldn’t even be publishing it.  It’s depressing and there is a lot of cussing.  Am I really going to publish it?  I don’t know.  Probably.  Because my blog is about my life and this depression is part of it, unfortunately.  Also because I have CDD (compulsive disclosure disorder)(a/k/a compulsive honesty disorder), which is probably why I’m a terrible lawyer and also why my sister has to talk to me about “boundaries” sometimes….whatever)



Here’s what I want to do right now:  NOT WRITE.

Here’s what I need to do:  WRITE SOMETHING ALREADY.

I’m “solving” this problem by dragging myself, kicking and screaming and moaning and whining, here.  To the blog.  To fucking write something.

Except, as it turns out, I’m not “solving” anything because  I just this minute figured out that the Not Wanting To Write is not about writing, per se.  

It’s about everything.

I don’t want to write, I don’t want to finish the filing that I started 3 days ago (I have the pretty files and everything, but I’m stuck), I don’t want to talk to anyone (I’m grouchy and bitchy and depressed and I don’t want any advice from well-meaning people + “NO, I DON’T HAVE A JOB”), I don’t want to read (because once I start reading I start thinking about all of the books that I purchased but haven’t read yet (books about writing, of course…), I don’t want to  work on my online courses (because then I might finish the courses and then I really have no excuse but to do my thing if that is what I’m going to do, which I don’t fucking know), I don’t want to go anywhere (not even out of my bedroom to our rooftop patio, which is awesome), I don’t want to clean house, sort out my closet, deal with the extra stuff in the garage, clean up my office so I can actually sit at my desk (cuz then I would probably have to write….or something worse), I don’t want to go to the health club (why break tradition?)(+ people = eek), I don’t want to ride my bike (see earlier blog post), I don’t want to eat anything that isn’t chocolate, I don’t want to see a movie or watch TV,  I don’t want to find a doctor (for my gastric issues)(even though it is really getting bad and is partly why I don’t want to leave my house), I don’t want to talk to my insurance company about the $600 mammogram that they apparently don’t cover (since when?  total bullshit.) or anything else (because they SUCK and I pay $478.00/month for coverage, have a $3,000 (yes, three THOUSAND dollars) deductible, PLUS co-pays  AND FUCK YOU PEOPLE WHO DON’T THINK WE NEED TO FIX HEALTH CARE….assholes.), I don’t want to deal with my attorney registration issue because I fucking hate that you have to pay for the “privilege” to practice law (which SUCKS) after you’ve already paid for law school and continuing legal education and malpractice insurance and, and, and, I’m not even practicing, I don’t want to make my fingernails/toenails pretty (even though they look like shit and they usually always look pretty, except for now), I don’t want to try to find a therapist (see insurance issue above + fear of opening the floodgates), I don’t want to reply to emails from nice people who care about me (because I don’t feel worthy of being cared for and I’m tired of being pathetic), I don’t want to deal with the leasing company about the fact that our lease will be up soon (because the woman is a raging bitch and I know it is going to be unpleasant, to say the least), I don’t even want to get the fucking mail.

I don’t want to do anything.

I don’t even want to have sex.  I know….?

And this is what depression looks like, friends.

(and yes, I’m using the ugliest color I could find to symbolize depression…)

I have no interest in anything.  I’m fucking tired all the time, except when I’m exhausted, which is worse.  I’m also lethargic.  My hair is falling out.  I’m not sleeping well.  I can’t concentrate.  I’m anxious. I’m distracted.  I’m sad.  Everything seems overwhelming.

The worst part about depression is that it’s impossible to explain.  There is no reason “why” I’m depressed.  I can’t point to some pivotal  thing that “caused” me to fall into this fucking abyss of gloom.  I wish I could, believe me.  There is nothing worse than trying to explain depression to someone who has never experienced it.  Because it sounds like something I made up to justify my laziness/my weight/my ugly hair/my avoidance of people.  And I often feel judged, which leads, of course, to bitchy defensiveness.  Which is no fun for anyone.  Nor does it help the situation.

Depression is real.  And it is sneaky.  And it sucks.

They say depression feeds on itself.  And it’s true. Because on top of the depression itself, there is the shame of having depression – a (gasp of horror) mental illness.  And the guilt around not being a better/stronger person.  And the fear that this will never, ever end.  And the regret about all the time I’m losing to this thing, this illness that is stealing my life one day at a time.  And the loneliness, even when surrounded by people who love me.

You know how it feels when someone you love dies, and you grieve and you keep running memories of that person through your mind because you are so very afraid that someday you will forget something important?  Like what he looked like.  The sound of her laugh.  That he loved peonies and country music and german chocolate cake.  That she watched Jeopardy every day and her hair was always the same shade of red and her skin was beautiful, even at 89.  That she worried about the weather in Zimbabwe and always wore the same perfume and loved Scrabble.  The way he was so dramatic when he sneezed.

That is how this depression feels to me.  I’m so afraid of forgetting who I am when I’m not depressed.  I don’t want this to be my life.



p.s.  I warned you not to read this!  FYI, no, I’m not thinking about cashing in my chips and going to that great chocolate factory in the sky.  No need to call the authorities.

p.s.s.  And yes, I’m going to get some help.


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Mom Wants To Know Why Oprah Isn’t On Today. I’m Not Kidding.

Not everything I write about my artistic genius mother (with fabulous hair) is “true” — I mean, it’s usually the truth as I see it, but sometimes I exaggerate for effect.

This is not one of those times.

Actual conversation:

Mom:  (kind of yelling from her bedroom which is just down the hall from my bedroom)  “Isn’t it 4:00?”

Me:  (yelling back from my room, where she knows I’m trying to write)  “Yes?”

Mom:  (a hint of panic/annoyance in her voice)  “I can’t find Oprah…”

Me:  (I can hear her flipping channels and I’m dumbfounded)  “Ummmm, Mom, Oprah isn’t on anymore.  It’s over.”

Mom:  (pause)  “What?!  What do you mean it’s over?  It’s 4:00….”

Me:  (annoyed/amused/dumbfounded)  “Mom.  The Oprah Show is not on any longer.  Remember?  She quit.  Farewell season?  Big finale?”

Mom:  (annoyed right back at me because she knows for a fact that I’m going to tease her about this and probably tell other people about it…)  “Well.  I guess I remember hearing something about it, but I didn’t know it already happened – that was quick.”

Me:  (still annoyed)  “Yes, Mom.  It happened last month.  And she announced it like a year ago, so it wasn’t quick…”

Mom:  (righteous indignation)  “It wasn’t a year ago, Kim…. And now what?  They are just going to show the news at 4:00 and 5:00?  Two hours of news?  That is what they came up with to replace Oprah?”

Me:  (I  really want this conversation to be over…)  “Mom!  I don’t know!  I’m not in charge of programming!”

Mom:  (still not satisfied with the information I’ve provided….)  “Well, where is Oprah now?  Doesn’t she have a network?!  Isn’t the show on the network?”

Me:  (I’m done….)  “Mom!  I don’t fucking know where Oprah is.  Are you serious?  STOP YELLING AT ME FROM YOUR ROOM!”


Me:  (incredulous)  “DO YOU EVEN HEAR YOURSELF?”


End. Of. Conversation.

Alright, I know I shouldn’t be making fun of my Mom, but seriously? 

 How is it that a person can live in the United States of America and not know that The Oprah Show ended last month? It’s like not knowing that Osama Bin Laden is dead, practically.  I’m starting to question her loyalty to our country….  I mean, the media coverage of the end of  the show has been manic for at least two months.  AND, even if Mom had somehow magically missed the TV and print coverage of the “big event” (and she didn’t, but anyway), you would think that she would have noticed that the cover of the magazine that has been on our coffee table for weeks says, in huge letters, something like “THE OPRAH SHOW IS OVER!!”  if not the actual absence of the show at 4:00 every weekday since May 25, 2011.

I don’t know what to say.  I’m baffled, frankly.  I also categorically deny the assertion that I don’t care about Oprah.  I do.  It seems to me that the person who didn’t notice that The Oprah Show was gone for almost a month is the person whose relationship with Oprah, and, apparently, her loyalty to our country, should be questioned.



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Book of Me: On Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression

I’ve had almost a full week of Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.  I pulled out of it for an hour or two here and there, but mostly I’ve been right down in it.  Unfortunately this is not a rare occurrence for me.  I’ve struggled with anxiety/depression for as long as I can remember.  So, of course, my “story” is that I struggle with anxiety/depression…  I’m going to work on changing that story, but not today.  Today I want to write to the Me who is enmeshed in Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.

Doomy, Gloomy and Utterly Depressed?  Read this!!

Oh sweet pea, I’m sorry you’re having a Hard Time.  If you’re reading this you’re probably just starting to feel the slide into the muck, or, maybe you are all the way in it.  I know it is hard and scary and exhausting and makes you feel hollow and horrible and that is before you start beating yourself up about feeling that way.

Here are some things to remember:

  • No matter how horrible this feels today, it isn’t going to last forever.  I promise.  It just doesn’t work that way.  You will pull out of this and come out on the other side where things look a bit brighter.
  • Beating yourself up for having these feelings seems “appropriate” (“Other people don’t have this problem, what is wrong with me?  Snap out of it!”) but totally isn’t.  Would you attack someone else who is struggling with depression/anxiety/whatever?  No, you wouldn’t.  Try to give yourself an ounce of the compassion that you give others.
  • Sometimes this stuff is really just bio-chemical and sometimes it is really, truly emotional and it helps when you figure out what exactly is going on this time.  Because if it is just bio-chemical, you could look at whether something has changed in your medications/sleep schedule/environment that could be causing this Hard Time.  If it is truly emotional, though, no amount of medication/sleep/alcohol/sex/reading/internet use is going to “fix” anything.  You’re going to need to feel the feelings (I know, I know, it sucks….) before things will start to get better. 
  • It is important to feel your feelings without judging yourself for having them.  What good does that do?  Really, drop the judgement and feel the feelings.  You have permission.
  • If you still don’t think you have permission to feel your feelings, no matter what they are, then try giving yourself written permission – maybe on a popsicle stick or sticky note.
  • If you are isolating (and I know you pretty well, so I’m guessing you are isolating yourself) consider not doing that.  Who could you hang out with safely?  Who do you know who wouldn’t judge you, tell you to snap out of it, make you explain yourself or be super perky?  Find that person.
  • Honey, are you avoiding some Big, Bad Awful Thing that you Don’t Want To Do and/or Even Think About Because It Is Too Big Bad and Awful?  (And beating yourself up for avoiding it?) (Thereby making it Even Worse?)  This would not be unprecedented…If you think this might be what is going on, you might want to try to write about it, draw it in all of it’s ugliness and awfulness so you can get a handle on it, try to break it down into itty-bitty bite-sized pieces, imagine how you will feel when it is done already (!) and off your mind.  Things are rarely as Big, Bad and Awful as they seem to be.
  • Remember this is Now, not Then.  What is different about Now?

These things sometime work to make things feel less awful:

  • Seek out sunshine (are you taking your Vitamin D?)
  • Listen to music that makes you happy.
  • Cry.  Aggressively.
  • Watch the Jessica videos (“I Like My Stuff!” and “You ok, you fine”)
  • Take a bubble bath.
  • Go for a walk.  Yes, I’m suggesting that you leave the house….
  • Get the mail.
  • Call your sassy, virgo sister.
  • Scream and yell and cuss for a few minutes.
  • Write.  I know you don’t feel like writing, write anyway.  Dude, it always helps.
  • Do laundry.
  • Take yourself to a movie.
  • Read some Hafiz.
  • Locate and consume chocolate.
  • Take a nap.  For real.
  • Do just one thing.

And, Kim, remember that it is okay.  It really is.  Everything is part of everything else, nothing is wasted.


Sooooooooooooooo, as I wrote this I realized that I have a multitude of things going on this week that might explain my Doom, Gloom and Utter Depression.  First, physical stuff:  Hormone Hell + no anti-depressant for 4 days + not sleeping.  Always a recipe for disaster.  Emotionally:  well, Mom is out of town, so I’m alone in my house which is both awesome and sad because it makes me think of a time when she won’t ever be around.  And I’m avoiding at least two Big Bad Awful Things that I really need to address, but can’t even bring myself to name here.  And my son is going to college soon….?  And Mom’s good friend Joan died.  Which is sad for all the regular reasons but also horrifying because Joan had cancer, then she went into remission, then this winter she got a brain tumor, had surgery, felt better and now she has passed away.  It’s all a little too close to home.  And Mom is so, so sad…. So, yes, I’m SAD, dammit!  And Mom has her MRI next week and I’m SCARED, dammit.  I’m afraid to make any plans whatsoever because I don’t know what is going to happen — either she has more brain mets and has to have Gamma Knife again (and then what?) or she doesn’t and she either gets into a Clinical Trial (long-shot) or goes back to chemotherapy (which makes her feel like shit.)  And, of course, there is the little issue of what I’m doing with my life….?  Oh, and our lease will be up here soon and we haven’t decided whether we are moving, so, basically, everything is up in the air.  And I hate moving.  Anyway.  It’s a lot.

I’m going on a mission for chocolate.




Filed under My Big Book of Me

Dear People Who Say You Can Never Forget How to Ride a Bike, Fuck You. Love, Kim.

So, I have this bike.  Actually, if you must know, I have two bikes.  A “la-di-da” ladies Schwinn bike and a fancy-schmancy Fuji road bike.

I got the ladies bike on the same day I got my son his first big-boy bike.  My “vision” was that we would ride around together and have grand adventures and other people would be all “Oh, look at how much fun those two have!  She is the best Mom in the whole wide world!”

Right.  That may have happened once. (The riding part, not the other people being impressed part….)

About a decade later I got the Fuji road bike.  Not because I had extra money burning a hole in my pocket and/or an intense desire to actually ride a bike.  Oh no, I got the road bike because I was head over heels over this guy who said that he didn’t really think our relationship had much of a future if I didn’t like to do the things he liked to do, one of which was biking.  (He forgot to mention that our relationship didn’t have much of a future because he prefers MEN until much, much later…. but that is a different story…) And even though he was super intense in every aspect of his life, I somehow believed him when he said that he would understand that I hadn’t been on a bike in a super long time and I was going to be slower than him + nervous as hell.

Suffice it to say that I did not have a positive experience riding with Mr. Intense/Fake Heterosexual.  I mean, the first block or two was fine — I was wobbly and super concerned that my tires were so thin/narrow/whatever, but I was making progress.  Then the genius decided to take me out on a busy city street with loose gravel remaining from the winter.  And he rode really far ahead of me.  So far that it took him about a half an hour to realize that I wasn’t behind him any longer.  Meanwhile I’m laying in the busy street tangled up in my bike (I knew those shoe clamps were a horrific accident waiting to happen….) cursing him and thanking God that I hadn’t been hit by a car (yet).  Plus I was bleeding.  And probably crying.  Which made it all worse and more painful + super humiliating.


We tried to ride together a few more times.  It was no fun for either of us.  I was a basket-case and so worried about crashing that I think I actually willed myself to crash a few times.  Plus I couldn’t let go of the idea that going on a bike ride was supposed to be pleasant and relaxing and he couldn’t let go of the idea that the only reason to do anything in life was to compete and be as extreme as possible and, ultimately, to win.


So, now I’ve had this Fuji bike for like 5 years but haven’t ridden it for at least 3 (or, ummm, 4.5) years.  And I really do want to ride it but I’m SCARED.  I haven’t “forgotten” how to ride a bike — I’ve forgotten what it feels like to feel confident riding a bike, so confident that you aren’t even really thinking “oh, look, I’m riding a bike….”  you’re just riding it.

I blame part of this on the fact that I live in Colorado.  People in Colorado don’t just “ride” their bikes….  As far as I can tell pleasant bike rides are, like, sooooo 1980.  These days it seems to be all about the correct equipment, the lightest bikes, the longest/fastest rides, going up and down mountain passes (I’m not kidding, everyone here seems to want to do the “Triple Bypass” ride – up and over 3 mountain passes in one fucking day — I get a heart attack just thinking about it.) and riding at least 100 miles (a “century”, fyi….)  So there’s that mentality to deal with.  Then there is the fact that the limited number of people who aren’t obsessed with riding their bikes are pissed off at the people who are riding their bikes, and would rather not share the road with them.  Which makes for a dangerous game of seeing who will get the right of way before someone gets killed.  And it usually isn’t the asshole in the motorized vehicle who end up paralyzed or dead.  You don’t just “ride a bike” around these parts, you fucking RIDE! and hope to live to tell the tale.

 I also blame my lack of self-confidence re: riding a bike on the fact that the piece of machinery purporting to be a “bike” in my garage bears only a faint resemblance to the “bikes” I grew up riding.

I’m fucking confused by the bike.  Yes, there are two wheels, that part looks familiar.  Other than that, I’m lost…..  It’s got like 72.5 “gears”, and lots of levers, brakes everywhere, clamps on the pedals (these scare me, a lot), skinny little tires, no turn signals (!!) and, of course, no streamers off the handlebars (or whatever those things that steer the bike are called these days….).  And I’m supposed to know how to take care of this machinery?  I don’t even know what I’m looking at.  And I bought this tire care kit that I have no clue how to use.  Basically, I’m totally intimidated by the bike.  I’ve scouted out a few “get to know your bike” classes but I’m kind of afraid to show up and reveal the depth of my ignorance.

Then there is the question of proper bike riding attire.

It’s lycra people.  All lycra, all the time.  I don’t really have a problem with lycra, per se.  I just prefer to wear it under the clothes other people are going to see me in….. And, let’s be honest, it doesn’t really let your cookie (or boy parts) breathe.  I feel claustrophobic just thinking about it.  My cookie prefers a little room, if you know what I mean.  And she doesn’t like to sweat.  Are there cups for girls?  Maybe that is the answer?  I’m going to look into that….  So, ok, you need lycra stuff, and a good sports bra, performance socks, fancy shoes, sunglasses and a helmet.  Some women look good in helmets, I am not one of them.  Fact.

I know it’s not supposed to be a fashion show.  It just totally is, people, trust me.

I’m wondering if I have a point here?

OH,  yes, I think I do…..

Riding a bike is not as simple as it used to be.  So fuck all those “don’t be silly, you never forget how to ride a bike!” people.  🙂



p.s.  thanks for all the writing encouragement.  you guys are awesome, unless you’re constantly judging me, then you guys are assholes.

p.s.s.  if you’re reading this and you’re thinking “silly, kim, i could take her bike riding in a non-scary, maybe even enjoyable environment and i would totally refrain from making fun of her!”  let me know, i’m serious about wanting to get back on the bike….


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Dear Blog, Go On Without Me, Love, Kim

Dear Blog,

Just a quick note to let you know that you are going to have to go on without me.  I know that doesn’t seem possible, seeing that technically I’m your author, but you’re going to have to work it out on your own.  I love you and I’m sorry.



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Dear Drama-Kim,

WTF?  I’m a blog, I can’t “work it out” on my own.  You can’t just stop writing me.  I’ve got FANS who are counting on me, Kim.  And not all of them are your relatives.  What is your problem? 



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Blog –

I don’t know if you have noticed, but I CAN’T WRITE.  I don’t know what happened.  I thought I could write but I looked back at what I wrote and I think it is mediocre at best and mostly not very funny.  At all.   There are a LOT of funny women writing on the world wide interweb these days and I’m really starting to doubt that there is room for moi.  Plus, I’m soooooooooooooooo tired of hearing myself whine and work shit out and talk to monsters and fabric and my multiple personalities.  Does anything ever get solved?  It doesn’t seem like it.  All these issues get raised and then what?  NOTHING, that is what.  Did I do my tax stuff? NO.  Did I make a safe place for myself to feel my feelings about you-know-what?  NO.  Did I address that big wall around money stuff?  NO.  And, furthermore, Mom has been gone since Saturday and I’ve had the house all to myself (which is fucking awesome, btw) which means I have had nothing but time to write like a motherfucker.  So what have I written?  N-O-T-H-I-N-G.  I can’t even bring myself to comment on other people’s blogs, much less write my own.

I can’t even write a “To-Do List”…..

Here is what I have “accomplished” since Mom left:

–  Some laundry.

– Some “homework” from the online classes I started just before Mom’s brain tumor was diagnosed.  (The classes are both over but I have all the materials and can do them myself, but kind of the whole point of the classes (or a big part of it) was to meet other people and share stories/feedback/etc. and that can’t happen because the other people finished the classes.)

That is about it.

I’ve gone to the cafe to write twice – nada.

I have a gillion things to do + I need to write.

Instead I’m not doing the things I need to do and I’m not writing and, to top it all off, I’m not sleeping.

I don’t really know what I am doing with my time.  I guess not-writing and worrying about not-writing is keeping me fairly busy.

Anyway, Blog, I don’t know what else to say.  I can’t write.



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Wow.  Sounds like you are having a hard time.  It’s kind of confusing for me, since you were all excited about writing as recently as last week.  You were even talking about starting another blog, i.e., writing more often.  What happened to that idea?  And, let me get this straight, you’ve run across other women bloggers who you admire and who you think are funny so you don’t think there is “room” in/on the internet for your writing…?  That seems like a stretch to me.  The internet is pretty big.  And mostly you are writing for you — at least that is what you have said in the past.  So why does it matter what other people are doing?  And that doesn’t explain why you aren’t even doing non-blog writing right now.  Something is definitely going on with you, but I don’t think it means that you can’t blog anymore.  Or that you can’t write ever again.  I know you are frustrated because it seems like some issues aren’t getting “resolved” but really they are moving more towards resolution than ever before mostly because you are writing about them.  Isn’t that a good thing?  I think it is.  And, Kim, you don’t whine all the time.  Further, the fact that you annoy yourself with your whining makes you human.  And funny.  I think you need to give yourself a break.  And get some sleep.  Everything seems worse when you haven’t slept.  I think you need to decide that you are not going to write for a certain amount of time, get some sleep and then try again.  I’m not going on without you.  That would be stupid.



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Oh Blog….

You are being really nice to me.  Thanks.  You’re probably right that my writer’s block isn’t going to last forever.  I guess I was being a bit dramatic….  And you’re right that this lack of sleep is making everything worse.  Maybe I will stop beating myself up for awhile.  Maybe not.  Who knows.  Anyway, thanks for listening.  And thanks for not going on without me.  I’m sure I will be back.




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