For the past week and a half, I have been riding the hormone wave.

“But you’re too young for that,” I hope you’re saying.

Sadly, this has nothing to do with age.  For you long-term Anomalous Life readers, you know I am one of the lucky many women across this country to be blessed with a wonky thyroid.  It’s taken years of searching for the right doctor (i.e. one that actually listens), a change in eating habits (I miss you, Whataburger), and lots of tinkering with medications to get me to where I am today.  And where is that?  Well, it’s somewhere in the middle.  I’m not as screwed up as I used to be (no debates, please), but apparently I still have some tinkering left to do.

A couple of years ago, when I finally left my ancient doc for a new, more open-minded M.D., we switched my meds from synthetic to natural.  We also did lots of tests that temporarily left me with half my blood supply.  Tests results indicated that I was also a bit lacking in the progesterone area…not uncommon for folks restricted to thyroid hell.

First trial:  progesterone cream.  Fourteen days out of the month I slathered this “interesting” smelling cream on the “fattiest part of my body” (of which I will not reveal).  Did I feel better?  I’m not sure I can answer that, because the medication had the lovely side effect of causing my body to radiate every last symptom of early pregnancy - none of them, I might add, terribly enjoyable.  Aching boobs (sorry, boys), nausea, headaches, fatigue, with the added bonus of phantom menstrual cramps.  Oh, joy!  We’ve found the solution!  Or not.

The doc switched me to the progesterone pill.  Both of us crossed our fingers that the same medication in a different form might produce more satisfactory results.  If you consider a nose bleed on top of faux pregnancy symptoms “satisfactory”, then success had been achieved.  Or not.

At the beginning of this month, I stopped taking the progesterone altogether.  The lovely side effects, along with the constant fear of pregnancy (sorry Daddy) had me reeling, and I’m quite convinced Stephen was fearful he was dating Satan reincarnate.  I’m now close to a month progesterone-free and still the symptoms persist.  I called the doc this past Friday.  No luck.  Apparently their Fridays end at 1:00.  Isn’t that nice.  I called again yesterday morning.  No call back by 4:15.  I called again.  Apparently doc decided not to come back that afternoon.  Maybe I should have gone to medical school.

So, I sit here now with symptoms coming and going (yes, including the lovely cramps), and wonder…will I ever feel normal…I mean “physically” normal?  I know mentally I’m a lost cause

Waiting on a call back from the doc today.  I’m sure she’ll suggest progesterone in some sort of liquid form.  I guess I’ll give it a shot.  If I can take it with a whiskey chaser.

I’m off to take more Motrin.  I hope your day is filled with happy boobs, settled tummies and Bachelor recaps.  I think it’s gonna be Vienna by the way.  Discuss.

Several years ago, my wonderful brother-in-law gifted my mother, sister and I a day of pampering at a local salon on the north side of Houston.  It included a facial, massage and pedicure.  Sadly, I’d never experienced two of the three.  Pedicures were a staple in my life.  I’d come to know and love them while living in New York City, as it was one of the few inexpensive perks afforded a poor Advertising employee…that and pizza by the slice.  But facials and massages, never.  They were (I thought) well out of my price range, seemingly too self-indulgent, and, because I was (and admittedly still am) a bit of an odd bird, the thought of lying on a table half naked caused me great stress and the possibility of a major panic attack versus the intended total relaxation.

So, as you might suspect, the morning before the big day at the salon, I was a mess.  It was Saturday, but I woke before the alarm.  I needed preparation time.  Just as others clean house prior to the maid’s arrival, I scrubbed my body from stem to stern.  Outside of the head, arms and face, every last inch of my person was clean shaven.  Tags were pulled from a beautiful, matching set of bra and panties, and I carefully applied a “natural” coat of makeup in an effort to appear as if “yes, this is how I look when I roll out of bed”.  A thousand scenarios ran through my brain as we entered the salon’s parking lot…worst case scenarios, of course.  Would they examine my skin and gasp in horror?  While massaging me, fully exposed and wearing only my birthday suit, would I be scolded for the little pot belly or my blurred “yin and yang” tattoo (ironic, I know).

As if in another dimension, I could faintly hear my mother and sister giddily conversating about how excited they were to finally enjoy some “me time”.  I considered leaping from the car and racing home.  But the thought of ruining their moment stressed me out further.  I unsuccessfully practiced some breathing techniques I’d seen earlier on the weekend edition of the Today show, opened the car door, and walked, in a terrified haze into the bustling salon.

“Hello, ladies!” a slight woman behind a massive oak desk exclaimed.  “Do you have an appointment with us today?”

I tried to respond, but had lost the ability to speak.

My sister took over.  “Yes, we have ten-o-clock appointments.  We each have certificates for a spa day.”

“Well, lucky you!” the young girl responded.  “You must be Carolyn, Kim and Nikki!”

I nodded, relieved that at least my body was still functioning.

“Follow me,” she said.  “We’ll get you started.”  She turned my way.  “Are you Nikki?”

I once again nodded.

“Great!  You’ll go in for your facial first with our Aesthetician, Nancy!  You’re just going to love it!”

I had a pool of saliva in my mouth, but was unable to swallow.

“Just head to the bathroom over there,” she pointed.  “Strip down - you can leave on your undies - and wrap yourself up in one of the provided towels!  Nancy is in Room 1.  Enjoy!”

Oh, sweet Jesus.

I attempted to smile at my family and pleaded with my body to successfully walk me to the electric chair…I mean, bathroom.  I opened the door, turned on the light (so bright…why so bright) and proceeded to strip down to my lacy, never before worn underwear.  I draped my clothing on the provided hangers, wrapped what seemed like a dish towel around my shivering (but very smooth) torso, unlocked the door, and made a bee-line to Room 1.

I knocked.

“C’mon in!”

It was a friendly enough voice.

I slowly opened the door and entered a dimly lit room with flickering candlelight and soft music.

“Hi, Nikki.”  She was so calm.  “I’m just finishing setting up.  Would you like something to drink?”

Is this woman hitting on me?

“No, thanks,” I squeaked.  She appeared not to notice the fear in my voice.

I sat in a low, comfortable chair as Nancy placed what looked to be a large water bubble at the top of the massage table.

Oh, God.

“Ok, all ready,” she said.  “Just lay here…you can keep on your towel.”

Thank you, Jesus.

“Just make sure you lay your shoulders and upper back on the warm water pillow.”

I fumbled about for a bit, sloshing the water from side to side, before finally positioning myself, stiff as a board on the surprisingly comfortable table.  It was adorned, much like a 5-star resort-style bed (i.e. Shutters in SoCal), in piles of white linens.  Nancy placed a pillow under my knees and covered me with more linens.  She brushed my hair back, much like my Momma used to do, and placed her hands on my face.

“First time?” she asked.

“Can you tell?” I replied.  We both giggled.

“It’s a breeze,” she teased.  “Just sit back and let me do the work.  You can even sleep if you like.”

Yeah, right.

“Just so you know,” she said.  “I don’t speak once we get started.  It’s just a policy of mine.”

Relief poured from my body.  I could literally feel myself sinking further into the soft sheets.  No longer did I have to carry the stress of “what the hell do we talk about”.  I had, as you might imagine, a long list of topics in my head in case speaking was required - ranging from my love of animals, to my lack of love life, to the perils of greenhouse gases.

“Do you have any animals?” I couldn’t help myself.  The silence was, well, unexpected.

“Oh, yes…I love animals,” she said.

Good sign.

“Ok, time to get started.  Try to relax, Nikki.  And no talking,” she smiled.

I must admit, the first few minutes were a bit odd.  Most women are nurturing.  It can be tough to calm down and be nurtured.  And let’s face it, this was a new and foreign situation.  The unknown can be a bit scary, but I felt much better when I saw a trash receptacle nearby.  If I needed to hurl, I wouldn’t mess up these pretty sheets. 

“Ok, we’re just about finished.”

Huh?

“You fell asleep, sweetie.”

“I did?  I DID!!!  That’s amazing!”

And it was.  Nancy had achieved the unachievable.  I’m still convinced she’s not human.  I mean, I can’t sleep on a 15-hour flight, not even for a second.  But Nancy, with her strong, but gentle, hands had actually relaxed me to the point of slumber.  The thing is, this was no ordinary facial, I know that now.  It was a dream.  There were sweet (but not too strong-smelling) potions and lotions, hot towels, gentle exfoliants…in the end, my face felt like the quintessential baby’s butt…really.  But that was just the beginning.  Remember that warm water pillow I was so weary of?  It had become my best friend, it’s possible I fell in love with it.  Why?  Because it allowed Nancy, while I was still lying face-up, to massage my back - her hands sliding effortlessly between the pillow and my shoulders and backside.  She then massaged my arms, legs AND FEET!  Yes, you heard me right.  Somewhere in this process, I dozed off.  It was that good.  When I woke, I wondered….was this the facial AND massage?

I found out later that this was not the massage.  It was simply Nancy’s facial.  The massage, it turned out, was handled by a babbling teenager with little experience.  She was what I had feared.  But because my time with Nancy had been so incredibly relaxing, I didn’t care.

An hour later, as my mother and I received side-by-side pedicures, we cooed about our dream facial.  We kept glancing at Room 1, poorly hiding our jealously that Kim was, at that very moment, receiving the magic treatment.  When my sister later emerged, fresh-faced and sleepy-eyed, the three of us floated back to the car, relaxed and revived, and ready to conquer the world.

It would be three years before my next facial with Nancy.  Times had been tough, and, in my mind, facials were a luxury I could not afford.  Little did I know, it was exactly what I needed.  Had I visited Nancy from time to time, some of the obstacles sent my way might not have seemed so insurmountable.  Or, at the least, I might have handled them with a bit more patience.  And, ironically, Nancy was, and is, quite affordable.

For my mother’s birthday last October, my father bought her a year’s worth (of monthly) facials.  He later called Nancy to tell her that in all the gifts he’d bought his wife - from jewelry to clothing and beyond - he’d never seen her squeal quite as loudly as when he presented her with that year’s worth of pampering.  Nancy told me this story when I went to see her last week.  I was not surprised.  And, for a moment, I dreamed of receiving my own free year of facials.  Did you hear that, Daddy?  Daddy?

I decided to return to Nancy for many reasons.  One was my Mom’s constant pontificating about her monthly visits.  Another was the special she was extending through March.  A freaking hour-and-a-half slice of heaven for $75.  I could have chosen an hour for even less.  But it’d been three years, and my face was showing it.  Plus, it was $75!  I found a way to work it out.  And it was even better than I remembered.

Nancy is now on her own in a quaint little commercial condo community near Willowbrook Mall.  The atmosphere is calm and beautiful and, well, perfect.  I rarely, if ever, highlight a business, but this blog is about us.  What makes us the same.  What makes us laugh.  And what makes us happy.  Well, Nancy at Perfecting Skin Care makes me happy.  And so it’s only fair that you know of her, too.

Last weekend, I was planning on attending a friend’s shindig (a “Passion Party”, aka - a party with a Mary Kay-like sales pitch of sex toys).  Nancy had offered up a door prize to be handed out at the party, but at the last minute, I had to cancel.  So now I have this Perfecting Skin Care certificate burning a hole in my purse.  It is…drumroll…a certificate for a NINETY MINUTE FACIAL/MASSAGE!  In other words, it is a certificate to heaven.

This is what I was thinking.  Times are a little tough.  People are stressed out.  Some more than others.  And they need a break.  So, I am giving this certificate away to one lucky reader.  For a chance to receive it, all you have to do is this…send me in the reason why you or a dear friend or loved one deserves some “me time”.  Unfortunately, I only have one, so I will only be able to choose one reader.  If I had more, I would give them all away…but I don’t.  Think about who would most benefit from this and tell me why.  And for my guy readers, remember Valentine’s Day is just around the corner…I’m just sayin’…

***Sidenote, for those who do not receive the certificate, Nancy’s special runs through March.  She even had a special on microdermabrasion when I was there - TEN FREAKIN’ DOLLARS - so you might check into that as well.  Her name is Nancy Hetzel (Perfecting Skin Care) and her numbers are:  (W) 281-586-8838 and (C) 713-557-5059.

Okay, folks - the comment section is open!  Send me the reason why you, your husband, wife, sister, mother, brother, aunt, teacher, butcher, favorite Passion Party salesperson, etc. should receive this well-deserved gift.  I’m listening…

So, this past Sunday, after a much needed nap, I peeled myself out of bed and drove in the waning light of dusk to my favorite place in the world (if we lived in a world of opposites).  Kroger.  If you’ve been following The Anomalous Life for any length of time, you know my fairly unhealthy dislike of grocery shopping…namely grocery shopping at the Kroger on West Gray.  You probably also know about my somewhat significant change in eating habits recently (to aid my struggling thyroid and, well, you know, because it’s not good to eat peanut butter and gummy worms four times a week).  Anyway, this new, healthy, organic, very adult regimen gratefully pulled me away from the “meat market” (and I don’t mean ground beef and chicken cutlets) aisles of Kroger into the (deep, fresh breath) heart-healthy pathways of Whole Foods.  I can’t say I necessarily looked forward to grocery shopping, but I no longer compared it to pulling out an abcessed tooth…without anesthetic…with rusty pliers.  You get the picture.

Whole Foods is great…but there’s only one problem.  It ain’t cheap.  And it doesn’t carry my little ladies’ favorite brand of kitty litter.  So, as fate would have it, the grocery store hater now has to make two stops…one being the pricey prima donna palace, and the other…the packed pick-up joint. 

Since Sunday night’s trip was driven mainly by my gals’ need for more than a centimeter of kitty litter, Kroger it was.  I did mention that it was a Sunday night, right?  The night which, in the West Gray grocery world, is on par with the grand opening of Hyde in LA or Pure in Vegas.  In short, parking spaces are scarce and tempers are short.  That’s why, when I saw a space up front that didn’t have a handicapped sign in front of it, I felt like this dreaded errand may not be so bad after all.  I pulled in, powered down my newly rebuilt Honda (that’s a story for another time), and stepped out with my head held high.  Not high enough, however, to miss the large handicapped sign painted on the ground beneath my car.  Shit!  I rush back to the Honda to get back in line behind the throngs of others vying for the limited spaces.  But in my rush…as I threw open the door and swung my body toward the driver’s seat, I miscalculated my height, and, well, I rammed my head, with remarkable force into the unforgiving metal - just below the outer edge of my right eyebrow.  Crack!  Literally, it made a noise…a loud noise…and I briefly saw stars, right before the searing pain set in.  I grabbed my face and slithered into my seat.

My first thought:  “Ouch…ouch…go away, pain.  Please, go far, far away…”

My second thought:  “My God, I have to go in this grocery store full of hip-dressed suitors, flashing solid proof (in their eyes, at least) that I am a victim of domestic abuse.”  I abhor you, Kroger.

The small goose egg hid itself fairly well under strategically placed makeup, although I constantly pulled out my compact mirror - sure that my damaged noggin would soon turn an uncoverable shade of black and blue.  Of course, fellow shoppers assumed I was checking myself out to ensure a “competitive edge” amongst the hords of single sassies.  When in reality, I was working to save myself from the looks of pity or passing suggestions for nearby ‘women’s centers’.  Had the scenario presented itself, I had a prepared rebuttal:

“I DON’T HAVE A DAMN HUSBAND…HELL, I DON’T EVEN HAVE A BOYFRIEND!!”  That should shut ‘em up.  But folks want to believe the dramatic…they don’t want to hear about the unfortunate meeting of an innocent Honda door frame and a slightly accident prone lassie.  They want the dirt.  If it ain’t a husband or boyfriend, maybe it’s a jealous lesbian ex-girlfriend.  Yeah, there’s the dirt.

No matter…I picked up all the groceries before the growing bump became too noticeable and I raced out of the parking lot.  I needed Kroger in my rearview mirror - fast.  Kroger! (Newman!)  Argh!

Once home, I packed away all the groceries…all except a frozen bag of edamame which I carefully placed on my sensitive, swollen (that sounds risque) brow bone.  I’m two days out now, and still a bit painful to the touch.  But I’ve realized something.  Maybe Whole Foods is worth every penny…maybe it’s time to switch the girls to organic, unscented litter.  Maybe…

Well, it’s official.  I am finished with my second children’s book.  The last edit (approximately the 4th edit) is complete and has been turned over to the talented Barbara for layout and eventually (thank you, Jesus) printing.  Come early next semester, Journey to Gunk Junction will join its sister book (Journey to Pansophigus) in 5th grade classrooms across the region.  Bless their poor little 10 to 11-year-old souls.

As fate would have it, this long-awaited moment can not immediately be celebrated with a cold, frosty beverage.  Why?  Because we live in a world of irony.  And I am oft showered with its head-shaking gifts.  Its latest sweet offering?  The beautifully swollen and incredibly painful lovliness that is strep throat.  So tonight, instead of basking in a festive celebration with friends and family, I will gargle hot salt water and pop my 3rd dose of Z-Pack (a pill that, although magical in its healing ability, can wreak havoc on an already fragile system…I’ll spare you the horror of elaboration).

I will, however, likely be feeling close to 90% by the weekend.  I’m encouraged by that timing.  And I will celebrate right up to the edge of relapse.  I’m dangerous like that.

Without another major writing project on the horizon (or at least not one with a deadline), I will have plenty of time to reevaluate my current career, social life, and other general major life happenings.  This is not good.  Too much thinking about such subjects can lead to the “what ifs”:  What if I hadn’t left New York?”; “I hear Seattle’s a great place to dig in your heels”; “Maybe I should have been a dog groomer (allergic), a chef (can’t really cook), or a rock star (can’t play an instrument)”.  What AM I doing with my life????

But let me “turn that frown upside down” for a moment.  I can go to New York if I so choose…momma’s got some contacts.  And I love dogs, but I don’t want to swim in their hair all day long.  I just signed up for Kraft’s email list…I can try out some fabulous fatty meals.  And GET THIS…I finally picked up my guitar from my parent’s house…the one I never learned to play.  I also found someone who has agreed to teach me.  How long he will be able to handle my complete lack of musical knowledge, I don’t know.  But I will give it my all, folks.  And one day I will play in front of an audience (of two to three family members).  It’s all about the dream…fanciful goals…and complete insanity.

Look for me in the neon lights…of New York…or Vegas…or possibly Cali…maybe even Houston.  Who knows.  The world may soon be ready for a pie-makin’, dog bathin’, guitar strummin’ diva.  And when they are…I’ll be there waiting…with a Z-Pack in my gullet and a smile on my face.  Cheers, my friends!

“Beauty is only skin deep”. We all know what that means, don’t we? That real beauty exists on the inside. That a stunning face can hide a nasty spirit and that kindness, compassion, generosity and empathy can just as easily be overshadowed, or at the very least, overlooked, due to a less-than-perfect exterior. What this theory doesn’t take into consideration is that we don’t live in a black and white world. Internal and external traits are not mutually exclusive. And as much as we hate to admit it, our emotional happiness (or unhappiness) can be, in part, affected by how we, or others, judge us physically. Fair? Hell no. Reality? Hell yes. And here’s the part that very few of us are willing to say out loud: it’s okay to care.

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