IF THE BODY'S A TEMPLE-MINE'S A SHRINE TO SLOTH

So, what I’m beginning to discover is that being a pretty girl is hard work. I mean, I am actually having to sweat a little here, people. I have also come to the harsh realization that going from fluffy to fit involves a great deal of knee lifting, backbends and learning that lactic acid is not my friend.

I’m really trying my best to blend in and do what all ‘Pretty Girls’ do. Which is being equal parts disguisted and obsessed with my body and how thin I am.  Or not. In the PG World everything revolves around how I look and what I’m doing to improve my looks. It’s boring and fascinating at the same time.

I mean, I always cared about how I looked before (I’m not a careless hobo or anything) but I didn’t obsess about it. I had made a kind of peace treaty with myself and accepted what I did and didn’t have in the beauty department. But the truth is I didn’t think I could actually compete on that playing field so I never even tried to play. Not really.  I never committed to seriously trying my very hardest to make sure I looked the best I could every single day of my life. And for once, I am truly committed 100%. I even threw away my super comfy, elastic waisted ‘eating pants’ that doubled as pajamas. So, I’m definitely all in!

The most important thing I’ve discovered is that it’s exhausting. Between exercising and preparing healthy food (and performing bizarre beauty rituals), I barely have enough hours in the day to catch up with RHOBH. For the record, I am #TeamVanderpump-Brandi all the way!  My family thinks I’ve gone off the grid, my friends are annoyed and my DVR’s pissed because we don’t spend enough time together anymore.  “I’m sorry baby, I’m sorry. I love you…don’t ever leave me!”

What’s my total body transformation secret you ask? Well, I know there’s a lot of losing weight programs out there but I’m just doing the common sense stuff. Like eating healthy and working out. All the duh! things I never bothered to actually do consistently before.

So, I’ve been eating a lot of chicken. And broccoli. And kale. I didn’t even know what the hell kale was until last week. I thought it was another slang word for cool…like, “That’s sick dude, it’s so kale I can’t deal.” “Word, bro! Watch this, I’m gonna go totally kale on his ass!”  I even tried a three day “goopy”-type detox cleanse where all I ate was veggies and fasting tea. I know, I’m shocked myself that I made it through.

But I did. It wasn’t so bad actually. It just involved a lot of green stuff going in and…coming out. The upside though is that I totally caught up on my reading. Too much? Sorry…but *spoiler alert* that’s pretty much all a cleanse involves. Moving on.

 Now that I had the food situation sorted, I checked out a bunch of exercise classes. I’m not gonna lie, it was intense. I’m still standing…but just barely. Last night I went to Walgreens to get some Tiger balm and spent twenty minutes quietly eyeballing a walker as if it was a prospective lover. I eventually decided that it was too soon for us so I left without one. For now. But I’ll be back, I’m sure of it.

I began my exercise adventure as a PG, by going straight to the belly of the beast and taking a FlirtyGirl Fitness class.

 Flirty Girl Fitness

Ninth circle of hell or innocent pastime? I wasn’t really sure but I was determined to find out.  This class was advertised as “sexy cardio fun”. I’m thinking they’re gonna teach me how to be a stripper or at least twerk better than Hannah Montana. I dressed accordingly. Head to toe in stretchy black and hot pink spandex. Yup! I was legit, y’all. Once inside I was relieved to find out there wasn’t a pole in sight. So it wasn’t a serious stripper class just more of a sexy hip-hop dance class.

The instructor was extremely energetic, and insanely perky but friendly so I suddenly got really cocky thinking, “I got this” even though I have almost no formal dance experience.  The only two other girls in class were college students wearing next to nothing (Like if they could have worn just a g string and leg warmers they would have been ecstatic) and they couldn’t care less about me, I didn’t exist. Probably because they spent the entire class texting their boyfriends in between dance moves. Annoying doesn’t begin to describe it. Especially since there was only the three of us. Four counting the teacher.

The class consisted of various sexy dance moves like, “The Ashley” “The Britney” “The Cheerleader” and “The Cowgirl” Seriously. I’m not making this stuff up.

Basically all the moves I learned that night were either based on pop stars or sexual positions.  There was a lot of “Yeah!” “Whoo-hoo” and staring at ourselves provocatively in the mirror while we flipped our hair around.

Nobody was dancing like the rent was due but it was actually sweaty, slightly sexy fun. And I didn’t totally suck. Sadly, I didn’t earn any tips either but I did learn how to perform “The Fallen Angel”. Which could come in handy once I start internet dating*. *Which will be…*gulp* next week. Start praying for me now, please!

Yoga

I signed up for yoga because I thought it would calm and soothe my mind in addition to helping me learn to be more flexible.

What I encountered was a non-stop menu of poses and positions that I didn’t understand. The class started with our teacher directing us to,

“Gently pull the flesh away from your sitting bones.” Wait, what? I didn’t even know I had “sitting bones.” But sure enough, once I pulled away my super fleshy neither regions…Shabam! There they were. Hiding this whole time. Hmmm, who knew?

Next she shouted out a completely foreign selection of moves that I tried desperately to learn before we moved on to the next one. I was frantic and stressed out…so not the soothing experience I had hoped for.

“Ok, ladies let’s go. First we go into a plank and then tabletop, then lunge to the front into full warrior pose then tree into downward dog into kneeling grasshopper into Wal-Mart clearance section into espresso tears into boxed wine, variation twelve.” What?

Eventually, I gave up and just laid on my back with my eyes closed breathing heavily. I can’t tell you how excited I was to learn that this was actually the final position of the night! Well look at that. I guess I’m a natural!

YMCA

There’s a brand new mega million dollar YMCA that just opened up in town. It’s like a glowing, three story, chrome & glass shrine to good health. I’m not actually a member but my friend Heather snuck me in and I checked out a few of the classes.

Spinning

I know how to ride a bike so I figured how hard could this be? Yeah, right! Newsflash! Spinning has very little in common with riding a bike. It’s basically boot camp to techno house music with a drill sergeant screaming in your face and with the added bonus of wheels. I don’t have a lot to say about this class because I think I blocked it out. However I do remember at one point mouthing the words, “Help me” to Heather halfway through. She just smiled and said, “You can do it!” Smug bitch. How did she know? I was just barely hanging on. After class, she wanted to spin again later in the week but I value my life so I politely declined. Instead I suggested we try something else. Hopefully something easier. Little did I know that I had just made the foolhardy decision to jump from the pot all the way into the fire…

BodyPump

I was nervous once I noticed the people lining up outside the door for this class. They were focused. Lean. Like long distance runners but with lots of humongous muscles. All artfully displayed in very tight bicycle shorty shorts and miniscule brightly colored sports bras. And that was just the men. I panicked as the teacher strode purposefully to the front of the class and yelled at us to “Get it together” because, “We body pump in five people!” Everyone else whooped it up in excitement. I froze. Frightened by what I could only assume was going to be more exercise than I had previously done in my entire life combined into one intense class…I wasn’t wrong.

Take your worst fitness nightmare and multiply that by ten. Then understand that it doesn’t even come close to the hardcore ass kicking I received in this class. The Gung-ho instructor, Alejandro, had us deadlifting, rowing and bicep curling with a weight rack while we also did squats. SQUATS! With no breaks. FOR AN ENTIRE HOUR!!!! The weird part? I didn’t die and I actually kinda liked it. It was like being a submissive or participating on a forced march. You just put your head down and do what you’re told because at some point you know this madness has to end. Of course for the next three days my body hated me as every muscle group was seized up like I spent my entire weekend dancing The Harlem Shuffle for my office’s version on YouTube. But whatevs. I survived.

Planet Fitness

But by the end of the week my body was screaming for me to stop. Or maybe that was me screaming. Hard to tell because it was so loud inside my head. My neck won’t turn to the right, my calf muscles feel as hard as volcano rocks and I’ve lost all feeling in my toes.

So I’ve temporarily retreated to the comfort and convenience of Planet Fitness where I will slowly walk on a treadmill until I can recover.

This super cheap but clean & friendly gym is open 24 hours a day, 7 days a week and only cost 10 bucks a month so really, what’s not to love?

The best part? They have massage chairs! And massage beds. I love it here. Does massage count as working out? God, I hope so. I’m so tired…so very, very tired!

 

I GUESS RIGHT NOW I'M PRETTY...FAT!

So, I’m stalking pretty girl behavior like I’m on a safari in Africa and random stuck up bitches are my prey. Or, to mix my metaphors, I’m a mad scientist. Studying them like they’re some strange species I’ve just discovered lounging around under my microscope in barely there short shorts and stripper nails. The point is, to me PG's (pretty girls) are completely foreign and I really don’t understand why they do most of the things they do.

Clearly, I’m female too so I share some of the most important characteristics like my DNA, my genetic lust for fashion and my awesome baby making abilities. But I don’t act the same as those other girls. I never have. I started to notice the difference as early as junior high when PG’s would form packs of four to six deep and endlessly roam the playground at lunchtime looking for other weaker, weirder girls to bully. For entertainment. Just to make themselves feel better. 

 

 I could never understand that. Guys didn’t waste as much of their time putting other people down. Instead they used their skills. They competed. They accomplished. They did something. All girls seemed to do was compete as to who was the prettiest and who the boys liked better. To me it was like being a remora, a sucker fish for a larger more important species. I mean, who would choose to be Nemo when you can be the shark?

My friends and I didn’t worry so much about what we looked like. We were more concerned about being talented. Being smart. Being artistic and getting recognized for our achievements. We didn’t use gossip and beauty as social currency. We paid cash with our wit and determination. Then again, we also spent an awful lot of hours dancing around in front of our bedroom mirrors singing show tunes and practicing our Oscar acceptance speeches so maybe we didn’t utilize our time to the best of our abilities either.

Regardless, the space between the PG’s and me widened…  Eventually by high school becoming an endless, gaping chasm. And I didn’t care. Cause I was a drama geek, an outsider, a weirdo, but I still had boyfriends and dances and after school activities. Just not like they did. I was made fun of a little bit but nobody shoved me into a locker or pushed me down a flight of stairs. The worst it got was like bully lite with an extra helping of bitchery.

But now, post high school, post college I barely recognize PG’s as the same species we’re so different. I see these thirty-something women attending their Junior League meetings, their 50 Shades of Grey book club reading bullshit all dressed alike in their matching Tory Burch white jeans, loafers, gauzy embellished ‘I just came back from Morocco and it was to die for’ blouses (even though the farthest away from home they've ever been is St. Louis) and I want to vomit.

Everyone looks the same. Everyone thinks they’re special and different but seriously? Tory Burch is Garanimals for grown-ups. These days even college girls buy into it. Urban Outfitters is Corporate America’s idea of being a rebel. I get the irony but do they?

But this is how PG’s dress. They feel safe if everyone adheres to the same rules. This is how we look. This is who we date. This is who we love. This is how we live. Even the hair all looks similar. Blown out. Highlighted. Straightened. I have masses of thick, unruly red hair. One thing is not like the others. Can you tell which?

I’m trying to understand them but it’s like learning a foreign language. Why do they do what they do? These strange creatures with their awesome magical powers. I don’t compete with my friends for men or who can get the most attention when we walk into a room. Or who is the thinnest. The prettiest. The Best.

I don’t speak ‘girl talk” That annoying baby voice whisper that women use to feign passivity, appear non-threatening and get out of traffic tickets. Nobody is born talking like this. Trust! It’s a trick that women use to get what they want from men but when they have the gall to attempt to use it on other women its beyond infuriating. Have you ever had to hold a conversation with someone who insists on talking like this?  It’s like they chose a cross between a helium balloon and a Keebler Elf as their spirit animal and they insist on paying homage.

I also don’t feel the need to criticize myself in order to gain compliments and power. Ever notice how certain women don’t allow themselves to be happy? This is a straight up power play, don’t fall for it! If you’re a woman, let me ask you…have you ever tried to compliment a PG woman? It’s impossible, right?

If you tell her you like her shirt she will tell you that its last season, or she got it on sale or that she’s gained five pounds so it doesn’t fit right. Even though she secretly thinks she looks better than you she will keep putting herself down until you finally bust out with a heartfelt, “Oh my God, you look amazing! What are you talking about? I’m the fat/horrible/old/unattractive one!” Then, fully satisfied she will relent and agree with you. She might even add in a ‘helpful comment’ about how you should see her Pilates teacher/dermatologist/spiritual healer to get you “back on track.” Hmmph! Didn’t realize I had derailed.

Anyhoo, in my attempt at understanding what the hell motivates these women I went straight for the belly of the beast and mailed off subscriptions to Elle, Marie Claire and Harper’s Bazaar. I didn’t subscribe to Cosmo because I’m no longer 23 and I’m already really, really good at giving blowjobs.

So, my first magazine arrived yesterday, all thick and glossy. Full of perfume strips, massive fashion layouts for $5,000 bags and ‘inspirational’ headlines like, “Sexy Cool New You”, “Flawless Skin” and “Killer Style”.

I excitedly flip thru the mag like a kid on Christmas morning thrilled to be gleaning insider info until I come upon an article called “Skinny & Crazy VS Fat & Happy”. The article went in depth about a LA woman who was suffering from “An onslaught of depression and suicidal thoughts so intense that she took a leave of absence from her job for treatment.” So she goes on Lithium but discovers that it made her hungry. So she ate. Instead of her normal handfuls of almonds she ate *gasp* sandwiches. With actual bread and everything.

Suffice to say this chick was totally freaked out by her appetite. So she “hit the gym for hours at a time” but still she gained weight until finally, she went to the doctor and was horrified to discover that she had gained…wait for it…twenty pounds! Twenty pounds! According to this LA woman, she had gained more than what she had assumed her maximum weight could be.

Let’s just take that in for a minute, shall we? This is a grown-ass woman who really thought that there was no way in hell she (as a PG, natch!) could possibly, under any conditions, gain more than ten pounds. She thought that her body couldn’t physically weigh that much. Shocking I know. But that’s not even the kicker. It’s this. This woman, this Elizabeth and James jeans wearing, non-processed, gluten-free food eating woman, would rather be depressed and suicidal than be twenty pounds overweight, so she went off her pills.

That means she would rather potentially die than go up a size in her clothes.

She literally would rather die than be fat.

That is complete and utter madness. Is this how these women think? As someone who is more than twenty pounds overweight, I’ve never thought that my life was completely worthless just because I was a little bit fluffy.  Twenty pounds is nothing. It’s a blip, a non-event, an unfortunate result of a messy break-up maybe but totally not worth possibly killing yourself over. WTF?

But then I realized that this was the kind of bizarro world, super-secret, thought process info I’d been searching for. They actually believed this stuff. They believed that even being a little bit overweight could throw you out of the club. That being chubby was a life or death situation and that once you’ve achieved PGD status, maintaining it requires this kind of ruthless vigilance.  In the PG world you can be pretty or you can be fat but you can’t be both. And that’s where I went wrong. I was trying to check both the boxes and let’s be honest, failing.

I just didn’t realize the extent of the unacceptability of being overweight. The standards here are rigid and the expectations high. You either get with the program and get the discount or you don’t.

Damm! Allrighty then, I guess it’s time to start taking working out seriously. Although I will never be insane enough to choose to end my life for something as minor as a few extra pounds, if I want my pretty girl discount (and that's what this little experiment is about after all) the truth is, I will have to lose weight.  

So, I renewed my gym membership to Planet Fitness, signed up for ballet and yoga classes and in general will do my best to get in the most awesome kick-ass shape of my life.  Totally not looking forward to endless dinners of spinach and unseasoned chicken breasts but I have conceded that the Halcion days of Hot Pockets, Tex-Mex Mondays and chocolate covered Krispy Kremes are over.

Because I’ve finally realized that being pretty and fat in the PG world, just means, you’re pretty fat.

TO THINE OWN SELF-BE NEW!

We are well into it my friends. Another new year full of giddy expectations and solemn vows that this year, this one, will be better than the last.  I didn’t torture myself by actually writing out my resolutions because um, hello-that’s what this blog is for. Despite the procrastination, I’m still focused on getting my pretty girl discount and all that it entails.

But I have decided something crucial. My old self is gonna have to go. And I say this with love but she just wasn’t working out and I really feel I can do so much better.

Don’t fear. It’s not going to be a brutal ‘Downton Abbey’ type death. Nobody is giving birth and then dying hours later. Sidenote: Why did Lady Sybil have to go? Why Why Why? I mean screw Lady Mary, Matthew was lovely but he can be replaced. Given time, Mary would have grown bored of his simple, stable self anyway. Just how many more times could he gaze at her lovingly and say, “Do you realize how terribly, terribly happy you’ve made me? But Lady Sybil? After all she went through to get her hot Irish Chauffeur hubby and then she dies? Ugh, it’s so unfair. Julian Fellowes, I am so angry with you right now. You better be bringing something AMA-ZING to Season 4 to make up for all this death.

Um, yeah…I’m just slightly obsessed with this show.

Anyhow…back to me in 2013.  I’m simply killing my old self off and then giving birth at the same time. Because what I realized is that it’s not enough to just ACT like I want a pretty girl discount, I have to act like I already have it. Like I’m already a pretty girl. Once I do that, then people will start treating me the way I treat myself. I can’t just change my body, my clothes and my hair (although that’s all clearly important as well) I have to change the way I think, my true self. How’s that for some Oprahmetaphysical mind melt stuff?

Because I’ve come to the shocking conclusion that it’s the way I think that’s the real problem. Example: During my college years I had a wild, exciting life. Or at least I imagined it was. I was a drama student so exaggerating the truth was like breathing oxygen…it was vital to my survival. It’s safe to safe you should just go with me on this one and pretend I was utterly fabulous in my black beret and Doc Martens chain smoking Marlboro Lights while I contemplated the true meaning of life and quoted Oscar Wilde out on the quad in between classes.

Anyway, there I was fabulously hanging out at a theatre festival in Scotland one summer with a boyfriend/fellow actor whom I adored, when we came across one of those cut out photo ops. You know the kind, with different types of people’s bodies you stick your own head in. Super fun, right?

So, boyfriend and I saunter over and stick our heads in. He picks a muscleman. Classic. Charming. Funny. Kinda like him. I had my pick of everything else. And what do you think my beautiful 2o year old self picked? That’s right. An old, obese fish woman. Her body looked about 300 lbs. and her age? About 60. WTF??? Why would I do that when I could have been anybody else? Like the sexy blonde bombshell or the glamorous starlet? Why did I think that the hideous heifer was me? I was fabulous right? Wrong!

I thought I was old and ugly. Worthless. Totally un-fab. Because my head is sick. Because I’ve been carefully taught to not think too much of myself lest I get a big head. (Thank you hard working Scots-Irish Protestant background) So instead, I think less of myself and get…nothing. Or maybe not nothing but definitely less than I deserved.

Its like, have you ever seen an ugly rich girl? No, no you haven’t because they don’t exist. It doesn’t matter if her teeth are jacked, her skin is pitted, her hair is limp and she’s extra chunky. She’s rich. She’s been treated special her whole life. She’s been told she’s pretty even when she so clearly is not. Favorite example of this? Lena Dunham. Not to take away from her talent or what she’s accomplished but seriously? You are not a pretty girl Lena and nobody wants to see you naked. All. The. Time. But this is a girl who was told she was special, was told she was pretty and so she acts like she’s great. And guess what? It worked! Now the world is reflecting that reality back to her and so I guess, in a way it has become real. In spite of all evidence to the contrary, it’s real.

So, yeah, I had a little ceremony, killed my old self off and have stolen a new identity. The pretty girl version of me. The one that really is fabulous. Not just in my imaginings but for real. I'm treating myself like I am Lady Mary Crawley and the world is a glittering jewel that lies at my feet created solely for my own pleasure and comfort.


Hello!

My name is Lady Lydia O’Neil and I’m a pretty girl.

This is the real me.

It’s nice to meet you.

MERRY CHRISTMAS, BABY!

I got a lot of great stuff this year. I asked for a lot of pretty girl items and luckily I was gifted with everything on my list; new gym shoes, yoga clothes and classes (do you sense a theme here?), makeup, perfume, bath stuff and oh, yeah, an (almost!) clean bill of health.

What? Yeah, Santa hooked me up big time! Remember my little negative friend? No, not Coco the Cluster, the nurse with the nurturing, bedside manner.* The one who told me that I had a tumor in my head. Well, guess what? She was wrong. Ish. She was wrong-ish. Here’s the deal. They had me go back in for an MRI as the CAT scan was a little hard to read. Then I got sent to a specialist in Springfield who basically said that he didn’t think it was a tumor. (If it was a tumor it was definitely benign) That’s the good news.

 The bad news is that he thought it was a cluster (for real! See I was right!) of blood vessels that were wrapped around my optic nerve. The course of treatment? Wait for me to go blind in that eye and then they would have to operate but he couldn’t really guarantee they would be able to do much. Or save my eye. Hmm, sounds promising and super fun. Very Medieval Times. Very “Would you care for the giant turkey leg/back alley surgery combo Mi’lady? We have a special today!” Anyway, for right now he wanted another MRI in six months and then if there was no further progression, it’s just a waiting game. But it’s not life-threatening…so I really might become a pirate, but I’m definitely gonna live.

Now that still sounds super not great, right? Except for this little bit of awesomeness...shortly after my appointment I happened to go thru a box of old photos while cleaning and noticed that…”Oh my God, my eye was already slightly larger two years ago. Five years ago. Ten. “No way!” I couldn’t believe it. I ended up going thru all my photos in a mad hunt and from what I could tell this, this thing, happened when I was like 16 years old. Yup! I’ve been this way for a really long time and never even knew it! So, that just proves that this is just how I am and it’s not going to progress. Once I realized that, the fear just drained out of me and I slept like a baby for the first time in six months.

But how bizarre that I just noticed now. And even weirder is that nobody and I mean nobody in my life, not my friends, my boyfriend’s, my sister or even my mother noticed the difference. “What did you just call me? Drama Queen?” Wow, harsh. But before you think I’m making a big deal out of nothing just know that every single medical professional I’ve seen in the past few months noticed the difference. Immediately. So, my point is that I think God, my soul, the Universe, Robert Downey Jr…whoever is watching over me…chose this moment for me to notice it so that I would have a spiritual wakeup call, get off my ass and change my life! It’s very 2013 up in here all of a sudden. Even Oprah approves.

Which…brings me back to my pretty girl discount plan. Oh, it’s on people, like mega Donkey Kong. So, thanks Santa. Big ups to the man upstairs and especially to The Carle Clinic who gave me massively discounted medical attention.

I guess in my own way, I just got the ultimate pretty girl discount. Hmm, would you look at that?**

 *Read this sentence with the most sarcasm you can possibly muster. And then double it. I’m still pissed at her. Big time.

** I can. Because my eyes are fine. So thanks again Baby Jesus. I owe you one. For reals.

MEDICAL MONKEYSHINES

*I actually wrote this blog a week ago when this happened but lost the nerve to post it. I decided that since this blog is about my life and my truth that I should finally go for it. So, here it is...

11/9/12

In the past three months, I have moved again (for the second time in six months), my TV broke and was replaced, my email was hacked and I had to create all new accounts, including Twitter…and my beloved computer Casanova unexpectedly died and I had to get a new laptop. Last night I dropped my phone at the gym and killed it. So, another new phone was added to the list of things I’ve had to change, adapt and purchase with my hard earned cash.

This morning, on my way to get the phone I had to stop in to get some test results from the eye doctor at Francis Nelson, a local clinic. I popped in, no line (yeah, me!) and the nurse came right out to see me.

She stood in the doorway tentatively. “Do you mind if we speak right here?” That’s random, I thought. Must not be serious. I mean, who gives test results right out in the public standing by a door. “You can have a private room if you prefer but we would have to go and get it ready and really, this is just easier.” Easier for you or for me I thought “Um, ok, I said glancing around the near empty waiting room, “But can we at least sit down?”. “Sure, fine” We sat. 

“So what’s the damage?” I smiled. She glanced at her carefully worded reply. Struggling to only say what was exactly on her approved language notes. “So, you have a tumor” “What?” “You have a tumor and it’s about 1.5 cm in size, it’s behind your right eye and Dr. Ewald wants you to see a specialist in Springfield…” ”Wait, what…what specialist?” I was the one struggling now. Trying to wrap my head around the moment, around her words. This was actually happening and I needed to focus. “He is an occu-plastic…” “An ocular plastic surgeon?” I croaked. “No, just occu-plastic” “Wait, I gotta find a pen”. I dug in my purse and miraculously found one right away. What is his name? How do you spell it? “Don’t bother”, she said. He won’t be back in the office until next week and to be honest we don’t even know if he will work with you. “ “Uh, ok, well what are my other options?” “That’s it.” “That’s it? No other options?” She just stared at me with a blank face of indifference. “Well, can I at least have a copy of my test results?” “No, they have my notes on them on what I’m allowed to tell you and I really wouldn’t feel comfortable letting you see them.” “But it’s my test results” I moaned. “No, I just wouldn’t feel comfortable. “ she replied.

Annnnd, that’s when I lost my shit. “You just told me I have a tumor and you won’t let me have a copy of a piece of paper? Why are you so hostile? You’re a nurse for God’s sake, show some compassion!” I was sobbing now, my words had left me. “I’m sorry you feel that way” She stated coldly as she stared me down. Not once ounce of humanity showed on her features. Oh, fuck, she was one of those people. You know those people who never take responsibility for their actions who ALWAYS put the blame right back on you. My sister was one of those people. It was never her fault. She was always the victim. Things just happened to her out of the blue and she had no idea why…people just attacked her! Blah-Blah. Anyway, back to my tumor.

Appalled, I wanted get away from this wench as quickly as possible. “Anything else?” No. Hilda can help you make an appointment with Dr. Ewald next week. “Great. Thank you” I wandered over to the other nurse who kindly had already made the appointment for me. I thanked her and was on my way out the door when I heard my bearer of bad news say to her supervisor, “ I don’t know why she acted like that…I didn’t do anything wrong, I just told her the results” Priceless. I left the building and drove off towards Wal-Mart and a new phone.

I have a tumor. But here’s the thing. I’m not scared. Hard to believe, but I’m really not. I didn’t have that stomach drop situation. You know, that feeling you get when you know, you just know that something really, truly bad is happening. And I’ve had that feeling enough times and enough really bad things happen to me to know that if something major was going down then I would have been told. If this had been an actual emergency then I would have been told where to go and what to do. Yes, I do have a tumor behind my eye. Technically, that would be in my head so yes, I guess that would be called a brain tumor. Which, as far as tumors go, is really a less than ideal place to have one located being that there are lots of important wires and electrical outlets and stuff up there. And, it seems really wrong of the universe to have me go through hell, come out the other side, be given a chance to start re-building my life and then less than a year in, give me this. I was actually hoping for a really great boyfriend, not a brain tumor.

Oh, and because I was financially in the hole and have dug myself out but still live paycheck to paycheck, I don’t have health insurance.

Oh, yeah, there’s that.

It’s not like in the movies where when people get sick their biggest battle is to overcome their disease. People without the funds for health insurance biggest battle becomes just trying to medical attention, let alone find the way to pay for it when you are sick and out of commission. And I don’t know if I have the energy or the strength to Shirley McClaine-Terms of Endearment- the medical profession on behalf of myself.

But honestly, I can’t even think that far down the road, I mean. That’s insane and all kinds of nasty fears are poking their mean little heads into my mind right now and I can’t deal with that, so I’m not going to.

If I had to choose on what to do right now. I would not get surgery. I would not get radiation or chemo or anything else involving knives close to my face. My eyes. My brain. Because really, that’s all I got. That is me. That is my life.

I am lucky. I am deeply loved by lots of amazing people but I don’t have a husband. I don’t have kids. I don’t have a house. Hell, I don’t even have a dog (It’s because I don’t have a house. I love dogs too much to stick them in my charming but shoebox sized downtown apartment).

So, my ability to function, to tell a joke, to get the joke and to make my way independently though this world is all I have really. And I don’t want anyone to mess with that. So, if I had to choose on what to do, I would sell everything and go to Europe. Or Tahiti. Go on a trip. Travel. Have fun and live some life before I kick. Just, I don’t know…change the entire directory of my life because obviously this whole, keep your head down, work hard and you will be rewarded for being a good little girl clearly isn’t working for me anymore. Right?

And the alternative is far too frightening to ponder. After all, to recap.

I have a diagnosis of a tumor in my head but I don’t even have a doctor. I have an opthamologist I saw one time. That is my “crack medical team”

If it weren’t so completely ridiculous it would be tragic.

Anyway, I don’t even think it’s gonna come to anything dire...I don’t. I’m not in denial. I just really don’t believe that it’s that bad. It’s just medical monkeyshines, that’s all.

The thing is I’ve had a rough few years…about six to be exact. (I know you might have had some bad stuff happen to you too with the recession and all but this blog is about me so try to focus please. Thanks!)  Six really twisted, torturous, angst ridden years and I freaked out hard. I cried over and over, in long, rage filled nights. Like a little baby, I threw tantrums. I said the words why me? A lot. I got pissed at God. I threw things (in the privacy of my own home of course. I was a hot mess but I wasn’t a savage) I fought hard to have a steady income, a place to live and some semblance of a life. In those six years I moved 7 times in three different states. I kept trying. I kept moving. Maybe it was all a geographic. Maybe it was just bad timing. Who the hell knows? I had over 40 jobs in those years, so many overlapping part time jobs and side gigs that it was hard to remember who I was when I woke up in the morning. No matter what jobs I had or what I was booked for, I kept trying, interviewing, networking, performing and redoing another version of one of my many resumes in order to get something better. Anything better. There had to be something better, something more than this, right?

My point is that I truly believe that I somehow created this little cluster in my head. A little clusterfuck of negativity that has been riding shotgun in my brain for about six years.  I’ve decided to call her Coco. Coco, the cluster, she’s French and she’s a total bitch.

I think I created her. I caused it. And if I did that with my bad attitude and frankly super non-pretty girl discount lifestyle then it stands to reason that I can reverse it. Or at least that’s what I’m hoping.

So, yeah, I’m gonna have to see what the doctors say. And yes, this blog just got a whole hell of a lot more real. But it all goes back to the same thing. The same concept in my original post that I need to learn how to attract better things in life, treat myself better, demand the world treat myself better and get that ever elusive pretty girl discount on a daily basis.

After all, everyone has their “thing” they have to deal with in this life. Their little injustices. And when get thrown up against something this huge, something that threatens to literally kill you I think you can do one of three things. 1) Totally freak out and worry and stress yourself into an early death. 2) Give up your power and do everything everyone, all the physicians and nurses and voodoo witch doctors tell you to do and hope for the best. 3) Go balls out. Live your life to the fullest. Go hell bent for leather until they turn the lights out. I’m choosing for option #3. I’ll pay attention. Some stuff I’ll do like a good soldier. Some stuff I’ll ignore. I’ll pray. I’ll see physicians and psychics. I’ll figure it out. I’ll finally learn my lesson. I’ll be fine. I’ll be better than fine, I’ll be healthy, because I’m healthy now.

So, don’t worry. This blog is not going to turn into “The Epic Adventures of Cancergirl” or “The Joys of Praying” or even “How I Lost My Sight But Became A Modern Day Pirate”.

It’s still going to be focused on getting my PGD on, but with a little bit of tumor added in. That’s the recipe and I’m sticking to it.

Because everything has changed. But nothing has changed. What I need to learn in this lifetime is still there, it’s just a lot closer to my face (well, it’s actually in my face now. Literally.) forcing me to deal with it.

I love this quote “Humans can live about forty days without food. About three days without water and about eight minutes without air. But humans can only live for one second without hope.”

I have hope. I plan to live. For a long, long time.

 

SATURDAY NIGHT SPECIAL

It’s weird but I always seem to meet guys when I least expect it. I’m usually blindsided at the gym, the post office and most frequently at the grocery store. *Why the grocery store? Who the hell knows? Maybe men are actually good at multi-tasking after all?* But once I get that hot little shopping cart in my hands, its like I'm a magnet and last Monday was no exception.

 

Fresh from the gym, dressed seductively in sweats and still slightly sweaty, I was hauling groceries into my trusty Toyota when I sensed this man approaching me. Sure enough, I turned around and there he was leaning against the trunk. *Semi-tall, slighty preppy & Black. Pretty cute actually. He had potential.* “Do you need help putting your stuff in your car?, he mumbled.” Now, seeing that I currently live in a smallish Midwestern town I’m sure he actually meant it.

I however, am from Los Angeles and view all help from strangers with suspicion and mistrust. I tend to immediately go into self-defense attack mode when a random man tries to be a gentleman. *This may or may not be normal, but I was in a dark parking lot late at night so we'll save the pychobabble for when I can finally afford a therapist, mmkay? Thanks!*.

Anyway, I didn’t want to be rude. *Of course not! Why would I want to be rude to a potential attacker? He might get the wrong idea.* So, I told him no, but then let him chat me up. Because after all, I was single. He seemed normal. Had recently moved down from Chicago. Divorced with a 3 year old daughter. Gainfully employed.*Or so he said. I found out later that his idea of a career was working part-time selling used auto parts out of the back of a van. But I'm getting ahead of myself here* He really was cute so I gave him my number and we made plans to go out the following weekend.

We chatted a few times during the week and he solidified his standing as a non-serial killer. Funny, interesting and super flirty, he gave good phone. *Not bad for a pickup in the parking lot of Meijer’s.*  Once again, he brought up wanting to take me out on a date.  Not a ‘Cool, I might show up to that too if you’re going’, or a ‘Me and my friends are gonna be there if you wanna drop by’ or even the classic, ‘Lets chill out at home watching movies until I can talk you into a hand job’ but an actual 'Lets get dressed up and show up at the same time, same place, get to know each other adult date type situation'. He even said the words, “This is a date. I’m paying for everything and I can’t wait to see you”. *Amazing! As far as I know, most men haven't uttered that line since 2003*

My first real date since I moved here. *Since oh, God knows when. It's too depressing to even count, let's just move on, shall we? * I tried not to have expectations as I showered and got dressed but I was kinda excited. I thought, this is a total pretty girl move. This is what it’s like when men treat me with respect. An actual date. Hey, I am making progress here!

 

Running slightly late *Btw, I’m always slightly late. I can’t help it, I’m pretty sure it’s genetic* I jumped in the car and sped towards the Old Orchard bowling alley where we had decided to meet. Now, before you get all judgy on me, let me just say that 1) It was my idea. I picked bowling because I like the first date to be casual and active in some way so as to avoid those awkward getting to know you pauses.

2) They have an amazing bar. Again, being drunk is so handy when avoiding those awkward getting to know you pauses. 3) Who doesn’t love bowling? *It’s the only sport where you can chow down on pizza & hot wings, chug a vodka spritzer, rock ridiculous shoes and still be considered a winner, right? What's not to love?*

The parking lot was only half full as I pulled in and there were plenty of lanes open inside but no Mr. Date. I poked my head into the bar but no sign of him there either. Trying not to panic I quickly dialed his number. He picked up on the first ring. “Hey. What’s up?” “Um, I’m here. Where are you?” I tried not to sound needy. “Oh, didn’t you get my message?” “No, what message?” I shouted.  “I texted you. I can’t go tonight.”

*What the hell!!!!*

“What do you mean you can’t go out with me tonight? I just talked to you like, two hours ago and you were all excited to see me. So, what’s changed in two hours?” *I was pissed. This was so not happening to me.*

“I know, I was excited to see you." He stuttered, "I do want to see you, but I can’t. I was supposed to get paid but my check didn’t come. I don’t have any money so…I can’t go out.”

I let the enormity of the situation sink in. I was trying to date a man that didn’t have the money to take a woman out on a date at a bowling alley. A bowling alley! In the Midwest. Where a game cost $4.25 and drinks clock in at the massive rate of $3.00 each.  *That means his net worth had to be in the range somewhere below $10.00. I know times are tough, and I am not all about the money, honey, but even for me, this was a new low.*

I can’t believe I did it again.

“Um, ok, is this an excuse or do you really not have money?” I demanded. “ No” he replied, “ I really do want to see you I just don’t have the money.“ I wasn’t sure what to think. *I mean I could have ditched the denial, believed the words coming out of his mouth and let it go, but I'm codependent so that really wasn't an option for me.* “Well, I got all dressed up and I’m here so if you really want to see me, you should come down.” I demanded. And with that, I hung up the phone and went into the bar for a stiff drink.

 

Now, I had two choices. Turn around and go home or….start bowling. So, I did what any normal, self-respecting woman would do and began bowling. By myself. On a Saturday night. Surrounded by League Players. *Semi-pathetic but whatever, I was determined to not cave into the depression just hovering around the edges of this fiasco* Besides I was all dressed up and looked good. Maybe I would meet somebody else. *Dear God, please let me meet someone else. Someone with more than ten dollars to their name.*

 As my first game wound down *I broke 100 thank you very much!* wouldn’t you know it, Mr. Date strolled in looking sheepish and dressed in a backwards baseball cap, short jean pants and a Chicago Bears jersey. *Heartland Boojie Casual*

Now, what disturbed me about his ensemble was that he either did not make an effort or…his outfit was the result of him making an effort. Either way his fashion conundrum was like a giant red flag and I was seriously beginning to question my invitation to meet me here. *Shocking that I'm just beginning to question it now, but that my friends, is what makes my real life a never-ending pot of comedy gold, doncha think?*

“Hey. I’m here. I had to borrow money from my mom for gas but I’m here.” He smiled.  *Holy shit. His Mom? He's 36 years old! Maybe his net worth was less than $10.* “Hey, ok….wow. Well, thanks for coming down.” *I guess. Whatever. Was this even the same guy? Why did he look so much different in the light? I really gotta get some glasses*

He immediately tried to start bowling on my game but without paying for bowling shoes or the lane. *Janky*  Super annoyed, I offered to pay for one more game for the both of us. So, to recap, first I have been stood up and now I am paying for our date. *It’s like a humiliation two-fer.*

Somehow, my Pretty Girl Discount agenda has gone horribly off the rails. Regardless, we pressed on. We bowled and chatted. He seemed bitter about his ex-wife and his job prospects. He didn’t ask any questions about me at all, just rambled on about himself for the best part of an hour. Suddenly I remembered that I wasn't his girlfriend, so I didn't have to care and abruptly decided to leave. *Brilliant*

“I gotta go now.” I turned in my shoes at the front desk and started for the door. “I’ll walk you out” he mumbled.

We ended up in front of my car. Now that he was out with me, live in the flesh, he didn’t want to let me go. I went in for the goodbye hug and he planted one on my lips. “Wow. Ok. Was not expecting that. Well, I really gotta go now” I whispered. With that I made the move towards opening my car door and a clean getaway.

“Wait, wait” he pleaded. “I wanna show you something” He ran towards his car parked a few spots away.

“I wanna show you my dick.” He yelled.  *Um, what?* “Your dick? Right here in the parking lot?” *Seriously? Was this guy insane? Was he getting naked right here, right now? And what about me says this is my idea of a good time? This is our first date and while I am ninety-nine flavors of fun sauce, I am seriously not that kind of girl*

All of a sudden he squeezed up to me on my left flashing his phone in my face. “It’s my dick. Do you like it?” He asked proudly.

“Um…” *What is the etiquette exactly on complimenting a guy’s junk you barely know?* If I say something positive, he might want to show me the real deal. If I say something negative….well, he might want to show me the real deal to prove me wrong. Let’s face it. The guy just wanted to show me his dick. In a parking lot. Of a bowling alley. *You know, I’m new in town so on a Saturday night in the Midwest this might pass for good times but I wanted no part of it.*

“Um…it’s ok.” I finally managed. “Oh, am I freaking you out?” he questioned. *You think?* “Uh, yeah, I gotta go.” And so I did. Leaving him standing there, wondering why this woman he barely knows didn’t want to examine his strange dick pics any further.

For my part, I hit up Arby’s for a classic beef & cheddar *Diet be dammed!* and then drove around for a while wondering why shit like this always happens to me.

In the end, I decided that it might be a good idea to not chat up strange men in parking lots. Especially in the dark. Late at night. *Maybe try that on for a bit.* I’m fairly certain that in the Pretty Girl rulebook that might be listed under DUH! But ok, I’m slow, so lesson learned.

If anything, it just made me more determined than ever to change whatever I needed to do, to make sure I got my Pretty Girl Discount. So that the next time a man asks me out on a date, I don’t end up by myself after midnight, with a mouth full of processed meat and cheese. *Though to be honest, it did look a lot better than his dick so I think I made the right choice*
 

 

 

 

WHERE IN THE WORLD IS MY PRETTY GIRL DISCOUNT?

Pretty Girl Discount Tally

Today: 0

Here’s the thing…looks matter. For some people, it’s all that matters. It’s not the end destination, it’s a lifestyle choice. Now, nobody has ever accused me of being superficial but I was born and raised in Los Angeles so you do the math. My entire life, I was literally surrounded by pretty people. Every fucking beauty queen from around the world regularly relocated to my city at an alarming rate. Everyone from the garbage man to the checkout girl at The Pavilions grocery store was so very special, photogenic…beautiful.

Now, don’t get me wrong, I’m no Quasimodo. I don’t have to lurk in dark alleys or anything…I clean up well. But…I’m not and have never been accused of being one of those girls. A perfect “pretty girl”. I’m different. An acquired taste, I guess. I’m super pale. I have red hair. I’m LA fat. Not to be confused with real world fat (anything over a size fourteen) or NY fat (which is anything over a size zero) But definitely chubbyesque. And I’m tall (5’9) so I have no excuse.

I ‘m usually the girl guys date before they meet “the one” and get married. I’m the girl who was really fun and who made them laugh and feel awesome about themselves, but they always felt they could do a little bit better and eventually left. Now, before you start feeling too sorry for me…it is true that I have a long and sordid history of dating actors, alcoholics and assholes (sometimes all three wrapped up in one tempting package), so that probably explains most of it, but still….

As an actor I have literally been pulled out of shots and replaced with girls who were blonder, thinner and had way bigger boobs. This happened a lot actually so even though I was attractive, by comparison I seemed like the “not so pretty one.” The one destined to hover in the background while others hogged the spotlight.

But as much as it was a struggle to get anywhere in a city that mostly prizes looks above everything else, it did force me to perfect my best attribute; my personality. I know, I’m a total fat girl cliché. But it’s true…I couldn’t count on getting what I wanted by relying on my looks so instead I double downed on my wit, fabulous sense of humor and what talent I had.

And it worked. For a while anyway. By sheer force of will and the grace of God (of course!), I was moderately successful as a comedian, writer & producer. I had legit credits, I was doing stuff…and I was working. But then I decided that I wanted more. I wanted what very few people in LA actually have no matter how successful they are…I wanted a life. So, I up and moved away. I traveled through a few states and then ended up performing in Texas when the world crashed.

The Great Recession? Check. Semi/underemployed? Check. Double check. Careening through a series of bad relationships, worse job prospects and a shocking lack of direction? Check, check, check. I spent two years veering between weekly gigs performing stand-up for appreciative audiences and a series of humbling, low-paying, soul sucking jobs. Retail, anyone?

So finally, I did what any normal, college educated woman from a big city would do…I fled to the Midwest. I know, random, right? But now that I’m here I’m determined to take full advantage of my do-over. I’m going to get what I’ve always secretly coveted…a pretty girl discount.

For those of you wondering out there in cyberspace…According to urban slang, the definition of a Pretty Girl Discount is this: Preferential treatment given to a female by members of the opposite sex. Basically, it’s a non-stop fairyland where you get stuff for free, men trip over themselves to do things for you and even other women are more deferential. Sounds good to me, where do I sign up?

Getting better dates, better job prospects and better opportunities equals a better life so really, having a pretty girl discount is like possessing the best rewards card at the most exclusive shops. I see you Nordy’s and I raise you!

Now, that I’m in yet another new city can I finally pull off becoming a “pretty girl”? We'll see. In a world in which everybody has their own reality show/product line/ghostwritten NY Times bestselling book…I'm only one Bravo appearance from becoming a public pretty girl!  Are you there Andy Cohen? It’s me, Lydia.

So, this blog is my way to document my struggles living a non-supermodel life and the ongoing tragedy of not being treated special. I’ll also get into exploring everything from fashion to makeup, to self-help treatments to online dating (yikes!) in an effort to finally get the attention I so richly deserve. Who knows what's going to go down? I might turn into a self-entitled, narcissist bitch. I might start spending way too much time looking at myself in the mirror. I might get married. Or I might learn to finally, really, truly love myself. I won’t be getting plastic surgery but I will be losing weight. And I for sure am going to stop being so nice. Because being a “nice girl” is the kiss of death when you're trying to learn to make it all about you.

It’s time to put myself first...to start treating myself the way I want the world to see me. It’s time...to start getting my pretty girl discount!