Friends & Family (And Day Four)

I hate going to work with bad hair. Truly. In case you haven't picked up on the clues, I'm somewhat (very) vain about my hair. That is a holdover from the Fat Girl days. As one's weight grows closer to 250 than 200, one loses most other physical vanities. About all you have left is cleavage (which I seriously do miss) and hair. Even at my most obese, I had good hair. It was down to the middle of my back and very curly on the ends. Plus, in Minnesota, Land of the Nordic Blond, dark hair like mine stands out. Hair-related compliments were the only ones I received. Now that it's shoulder-length and layered, it's much curlier. With the healing head wound, I can't scrunch in as much curl defining goop as usual, feeling that too much cosmetic (and presumably non-sterile) junk would be a bad idea. I really need to invest in some stylish hats.

I got an email last night from a dear friend. He's a great guy, very loving and supportive, and we've known each other since we were kids. I also love the fact that he's one of the few people who has almost as many issues as I do. Anyway, he commented about the part of my recent blog where I said that bashing one's drunken brains out on the entry way floor would be "a stupid fucking way to die." He pointed out, in his sweet, caring way, that dying of lung cancer would also be "a stupid fucking way to die." Yes, I do still smoke. I smoked from ages 12-18, then started again 5 years ago while on a solo road-trip during a Major Nervous Breakdown, or possibly my first Mid-Life Crisis. (Is there a difference? Not sure.) And yes, I know it's bad for me. The fact that my mom and brother both died, at least in part, due to smoking-related arterial disease, was my first clue. I might be able to ignore the Surgeon General, but not my immediate family's health history. But as I pointed out to Brian, I really can only focus on giving up one nasty, life-threatening vice at a time. Right now, alcohol has to take top priority. Smoking certainly is capable of killing me, but I imagine it will be a less immediate death than brain-smashing, self-immolation, or drowning in a hot tub (if I had one). Let me get this one taken care of, then we'll tackle the smoking. But I love you to pieces for caring!

Another friend just wrote and mentioned that wine, as well as most other alcoholic beverages, are off-limits to her because she has an allergic reaction that causes her face to break out in hives! Yikes! Now that would end my drinking right the hell NOW, due to the aforementioned vanity issues.

You might be wondering where my husband has been through my addiction process. He has always, always been right by my side, loving me no matter what, and trying to help in any way I would let him. He's done things like when we'd be at a concert or other event, he made sure I had a glass of water or a soft drink in between glasses of wine. He tries to keep me aware of my alcohol intake, but everybody knows that you can only do so much to help another person with their addictions. The bottom line is nobody can make you quit or even moderate your indulgence. That is something each of us must do on our own. Sadly. I mean, there are only so many times you can tell someone they really should not have "just one more," and hear, "I'm jusht, fiiiiiiiiine, shtop worryin' 'bout me, hoooookay, Shweeeeeetie?" Such comments are frequently followed by a crash as the drunk-in-question impacts a wall or door that failed to get out of her way. I imagine he's been frustrated, scared, angry, and most likely ashamed of me on numerous occasions. But he's never stopped loving me, which is undoubtedly why I'm still here.

While he might love me unconditionally, it seems he does not love Fermented Fur with the same devotion. Yes, he appreciates and supports my writing, and will be my biggest fan when I finally finish and publish a book. But the first words out of his mouth when I showed him FF were, "So. Who all can see this?" He's a lot more reserved, conservative, and private than I am, and worries that I'm sharing too much with the general public. I figure what the hell, this is who I am, a part of my life, and if people care about me they will accept it, the good and the bad. If you don't accept it (or simply ignore it if it makes your brain hurt) then you can't truly accept me. So go away.

I know he is concerned that members of his family may happen across Fermented Fur. Truthfully, I don't see that happening. Most of them aren't the most savvy cyber-people. Plus, with the quadzillion blogs out there, what are the odds they'd stumble across mine, if they even read blogs at all (which I doubt)? The topics discussed here aren't things they're likely to be browsing. And if, by some bizarre coincidence they actually see the blog, it's not like they'd automatically recognize "me" in anything about it. We've lived far away from The Clan since very early in our marriage, and the fact of the matter is that they really don't know that much about me. (Actually, that's just the way I like it.)

So that's the update from Day Four. I'm really glad I went to Urgent Care instead of letting Dr. Vet-Friend Two clipper me a radical new haircut in order to stitch my head. She did check the wound this morning, though, and says the stitches should probably stay in till Friday. Itchy, icky, anti-hair-product stitches, but I'd rather not have to start all over by taking them out too soon.

See you all later! I'll be the one in the crocheted beer can hat.