My heart is broken

Short post today.

My baby girl Pepper, my beautiful sweet kitty who I have had for a little over 12 years, is sick. She is on her last leg it seems, and I am devastated.

This year has been one that has left scars in my heart. Some are good scars, like a gratifying war wound, some are still healing. Some appear to be OK, but then are ripped open again.

I'll write more about 2018 later. For today, though, Pepper's illness is what is consuming me. So is all the eating and wine drinking, crying, and sleeping, pouting and dancing in denialville. I don't know how to handle these feelings.

I won't go in to why Pepper is wonderful. She is still here, and it's not the time for a eulogy.

What I will say is that the magnitude of this pain is one I haven't felt in a very long time. In fact, it's a pain that seems very foreign, very unchartered, very lonely.

It's like I am falling through an abyss, and there is no ground. If there was an impact to look forward to, a floor to splat on, a platform of sorts, it would hurt like a fucker, but then it would mean I could address whatever pain and brokenness comes from the landing, the crash.

No, this feels like riding a roller coaster, when your stomach is lingering through your throat and you feel like vomiting, and you feel like crying, you feel terrified, and you feel like it is never going to end. It feels like all this times 1,000,000.

My heart is broken.

To my friends, the ones that have been checking in on me, they are trying so hard to make me feel better. But I know how hard it must be for them. Not knowing what to say, not knowing what to do. To all my friends who have been texting and checking and calling, I love you and I appreciate you just being there. I will never forget that. And please know you don't have to say anything. Just saying hi . . . it goes so so far.

I am not even thinking about what I am saying here. I am just venting. So if it doesn't make sense, the P.S. of it all is this sucks major ass, everything hurts, and I want lots of carbs. And I'll miss my girl. She's in the hospital tonight. And I want her home with us. I want time to stand still. I want to ask myself why do I have to love these little fur babies. I want to understand.

For now, I will just cry and try, but still ask why.

To Christmas or Not To Christmas . . . that is the question

I have been trying to figure out if I should do anything for Christmas. Typically, Christmas is my jam. I am the nerd that plans the holiday party and orders the holiday cards with dorky photos of our cats, Roman, and me, all the while embracing the joy and cheesiness of the season! I have a closet full of decorations, and to portray true scale, a closet in a 1 bedroom NYC apartment is like 25% of the unit. But well worth it!

Well, usually it has been. But this year has put a cloud on that. I mean it's not like I am depressed or sad about the transpiring of the last week, but it feels like Limbo had a love child with Anxiety who was adopted by Freedom and Joy. No matter what, that kid is going to be loads of fucked up!

My mind is super distracted by what my next steps should be. So far, here is my list of ideas:

1. Return to my professional organizing days, double my rates, and seek out clients who want me to help them organize their sock draws and shred all the paper
2. Go back to school and invest in clown college a Masters in organizational psychology
3. Write the biographical fiction novel I have been imagining working on for the last few years
4. Get Botox, but not for wrinkles. For these AWFUL chin hairs that are spreading faster than horny rabbits
5. Have a baby Plant a tree
6. Find the 6 figure corporate gig that would help pay off debt and cultivate my career, but would require a lot of ironing, both clothing and hair
7. Win the lotto
8. Lose the weight
9. Pay off the debt by reaching out to potential rich relatives still in the motherland on the brick of death

Nowhere on this list is roasting chestnuts and/or singing drunken carols after downing a few cups of coquito while tree decorating. 

That all said, every time I leave my apartment, my nose is greeted by the aromas of winter's presence and of pine. And don't get me started on the BLASTING of Christmas Carols on Ditmars Blvd and 31st street. And the little baby Jesus who looks so full of hope and life (give it 33 years, kid), adorning the Catholic Church garden next door. It all brings me such joy but I also feel like I am missing out.

Also, let's face it, this is probably the last Christmas with 2 out of my 3 cats. I am sure they want me to feed them treats and clean their poop and pet their heads and cuddle them to sleep decorate the joint. Or maybe it's just for me, to remember this as being our last Christmas together.

Even my Muslim husband, Roman, wants me to at least get a tree! He's always so supportive, but this year he wants to ensure we celebrate. I personally think it's cuz he wants a stocking again, which totally blew his mine last year (a sock for presents? and it's all for me?). But in all sincerity, I think he knows it will liven up my spirits.

I honestly don't know what to do. A friend of mine even offered to come over and help me decorate, which moved me to tears. I am always moved when someone wants to take time to help me with something that seems so mundane, in light of everything else that is happening (did I mention the chin hair?!?!). 

I'll give it some thought and decide by weeks end. By then, I'll only have 2 weeks of the holiday to enjoy. Which is still something truly lovely. No matter what, when it begins to look a lot like Christmas, it begins to look a lot like happiness. 

To be continued . . .

The Fat Girl Within is Back . . .

Hello special friends. I have so much to update you on, but instead of recapping the last 2.5 years, I'm going to pretend you are all up to date and start from here. Because the last few months have been the kind of months that have thrown tailspins in to life and I need to write it out to fight it out.

But, just to ensure we follow a typical entertainment reboot format, below is a brief bulleted list of the VIPs (very important points) of the last 2.5 years:

• I married the sweetest, loviest, and funniest man, my husband, Roman
• I left publishing, went in to consulting, then to tech start-up-ing
• I have gained back all my weight and then some, weighing in at 216
• lowest weight: 143
• previous highest weight until now: 192
• new goal: not having a fupa
• I left NYC for a year and a half and lived in Princeton, where I learned what true rode kill was, how to drive a car, and how to buy anything and everything from Walmart
• I am back in Astoria with Roman and my 3 fur baby felines: Bam, Gracie and Pepper

That's the gist of it. There have been quite a lot more amazing moments of the last 2.5 years which I am sure will come up organically.

What finally brought me back to this blog was the need to free up my mind of concerns, anxieties, and so much emotion. Writing has always helped bring me back to a healthy track, both mentally and physically. Emotionally, let's face it -- that bitch has a mind of her own. But 2 out of 3 ain't bad. Here's what's going on:

My Fur Babies

Everything had been super peachy with my babies. They have been with me for 13+ years and have managed to deal with my life changes, including the new husband, with mellowness and bribery (Temptation treats are the shit). In August, that all changed. I had returned from a business trip from San Francisco and was sitting in my living room when my cat, Pepper, started to have breathing problems. I rushed her to the ER where the doctor confirmed what I had been dreadfully waiting years to hear: her heart murmur grew in to heart failure. She was diagnosed with a heart murmur when she was 6 years old and all had been passive and great. Now, 7 years later, it rapidly progressed and my little Pepper was hospitalized for a few days in an oxygen tank. Her life expectancy has been cut to an estimated 1 month to a year. It's been 2 months and she is back to her old self. She needs medication twice a day and is drinking incessant amounts of water. But her butterball weight is back and she is full of cuddles. Every day as a blessing, especially when she wakes up next to me, paw in my face, with her big beautiful green eyes staring at me, ever so lovingly as if she is saying, "time to feed me, bitch."

My Bam, my sweet sweet boy, who wouldn't hurt a fly, except the house flies that annoy the crap out of us, also hit a health crossroads. While everything was happening with Pepper, I started to notice that Bam was limping a lot. I took him to the vet twice, both saying it was a sprain. After a week of waiting for this sprain to heal, I went to hug him when my sweet angel hissed at me. Bam has never every hissed. We took him back to the vet and it was discovered he had a tumor in his shoulder blade, that caused a fracture. We decided to have it amputated and my sweet bunny boy was back to his old self. We came to find out that his cancer would spread and that he had another form of a cancer in his lungs. The treatment for both would be incredibly invasive so we decided to let him ride out his remaining time with us happy and healthy. Doctor says that could be 1 month to a year. I cuddle with him every day, making sure to enjoy his time with us. He still chases and outruns his sisters for treats and poops like a champ. All celebratory observations!

My Gracie is a true angel. She has been unfortunately lacking the attention of her humans and has tried her best to be patient. I've noticed her being extra cuddly and playful, and so I try to also give her cuddles and kisses in the morning, which she repays me with cat butt in my face when I am not paying attention. She still purrs like a kitten and perpetually makes us laugh! I adore her playfulness, how much she adores her brother, and when she places her sweet and tender paw to my cheek when I am crying. My sweet Gracie.

My Job

This week, I was laid off from what had started as a job of my dreams. I was part of the training and development crew at a Blockchain startup and worked with incredibly talented and interesting people. Over the last 9 months I learned so much that I was not privy to in publishing and even in my consultant role. It was like entering the 21st century, learning to use a washing machine instead of the the bucket of soap and water out by the latrine outhouse. However, I recognized parts of the organization that concerned me and I knew I had to move on. It turns out, so did the company. For the first time in my 21 years of employment, I was laid off/let go.
I don't know how to feel about it. It's definitely for the best, and I was given a generous goodbye, if you will. But it's like dating someone who you know you need to break up with, because they annoy the shit out of you, but you keep them around for the time being because they put out when you need it and they buy dinner once in a while. Then low and behold, they break up with you! And you are like, "well, I was going to break up with you anyway!" But they have long gone before they can hear you exude such confident denial.


So now, I have to figure out what to do. My husband is such a champ, not worried at all, and could, in theory, take care of everything until I find myself. I could write that novel I have been working on, or get back in to a size 4 pair of jeans, or learn sign language. I have a 6 month grace period before we have to consider getting rid of Showtime, or, even dire: move back in to my childhood bedroom.


I was on a high yesterday, skipping to a confidential loo of living out my dreams. This morning, however, all that went to poop. I woke up panicking and shot out of bed, conceivable tripping over any loo in my path, and starting looking for jobs. I was even considering applying to publishing jobs that made me so unhappy.


The thing is, I don't know what it is like to NOT work! And to be given this gift to figure it out . . . it's like being gifted the flu vaccine, I suppose. It is for the absolute best, but it hurts and will it actually keep you from dying?

My Weight

So, my weight. The whole point of starting this blog some I guess 6 years ago? Not only has the fat girl not been evicted, but she has taken over the g*&d&*n lease! I don't even know where it all went down hill (or rather sky rocketed up through the solar system) but, alas, I have put on 74lbs since my lowest weight. 

I don't blame anybody but myself. And yes, I would like a cookie for admitting that. But I'll take a stupid piece of celery stalk I suppose. 

So now I guess I have an opportunity in front of me. The free time and liberty to workout, track my food, and stop ordering wine takeout (it's a thing, especially here in Astoria. The delivery guy, Pablo, knows me on a first name basis).

So my goal is to do just that! Sort of act like one of those rich housewives who workout 6 times a week and drink rosé on Saturdays. Become a hot trophy for my husband, maybe get some botox, possibly an expensive luxury bag of a dead designer?

Well maybe not that extreme. But prioritizing my health seems like an easy decision. And I have a few more goals. And I'll be writing about them here in future posts. That way, I can reflect in 3 months or so and say I did it! I have to have one of those BEFORE AND AFTER moments in 3 months or so help me  . . . 

This concludes my comeback post. I'll be back with more fun filled updates, including angry haikus, videos, and possibly a gofundme for the stapling of a body part. Yay!

C

He's coming home!!!!

And I couldn't be happier!! More deets to come! I am crying like a little bitch!

You can't hurry love -INS

You guys, I am in love. And I am blessed to be in love with a wonderful man, my best friend, my fiance.

These are suppose to be the best days, ya know? Going to drink coffee at a cafe in the City after work, folding our linens on laundry day, as I introduce him to Marc Anthony, blasting on the speakers. Watching pre-season baseball at the Courtyard Ale house while eating sandwiches and drinking Magners. Sleeping in on a Saturday, ordering Indian food for lunch, and going to the gym to burn it off (the gym is his idea. DEFINITELY not mine lol). Sitting with him on Mondays, watching WWE raw, enamored with how his dimples form and his smile beams when Roman Reigns kicks the bad guy's butt.

We should be planning the wedding: a Sunday in June, as his family is off on Sundays. We should be visiting venues, tasting menu suggestions, and thinking about who we will offend for not inviting them. I should be freaking out at the dining table over how much detail is involved, while he walks over to me from the kitchen, bringing tea, and a gentle kiss for my forehead. A kiss that instantly puts out the fire that feeds my anxiety.

We should also be acclimating to each other's ways: I don't eat meat and he doesn't eat pork. I pray before my meals and he prays 5 times a day. I go to church on Sunday and he fasts for a month out of the year. We put up the tree in December for Christmas, and we visit his cousins for Eid.

Unfortunately, we haven't been able to do any of the above, even though we have been together for some time. Because, he is a man who lives in Dubai, and is Muslim. And it is quite hard for "his kind" to be allowed here, in the U.S. He was granted a visa to come visit, and then, a few days later, it was put on "hold". That was almost 2 months ago. My theory is someone who works at INS, perhaps a supporter of one of the current presidential candidates, realized that "that" box was checked on the application, and decided that my fiance was a "bad guy".

And that was it. Some guy at INS decided that we can't hurry our love. That this weekend, Chase, my fiance, will not be with me when I go grocery shopping. Or that tomorrow morning, when I wake up for work, undoubtedly late, Chase won't be there to have coffee with me, and we won't talk about the co-worker at work who I perpetually wish diarhea on. Or that on Sunday, while I am home reading the paper, we won't be planning to have lunch with my mom, and then dinner with his cousins and their kids.

I can't even plan our birthdays, which are ten days apart, and fastly approaching. It breaks my heart to wake up in the morning, and not see him next to me. I mean, my three furballs are with me, and I adore my kitties. So that definitely helps. But there is this life that is meant to be lived, with someone who makes me better, makes me want to be better, accepts me for me: my awesomeness, my humor, my illness, my past, my sensitivety, my cankles that appear for 5 days out of the month, my culture, my faith, my independence, etc. As I equally accept him for him: his positivety, his strength, his love of corny jokes, his dorky humor, his bravery, his "I don't give a shit what anybody thinks, but I will respect you" smile, his faith, his culture, his values, etc.

And all we can do is wait. Wait for the day when I will come home after a long Monday at the office, trying to deal with multiple projects, and general manic Monday mehs! And I will unlock the apartment door, and see my 3 fur babies napping on the couch, having already been fed.  And my eyes will land on those dimples, greeting me with delight, and glee, not only because Roman Reigns served the ultimate ass-kicking to Triple H, but because I am home, and our little family is together. As he would put his arms around me, and kiss my cheek, as if it were a delicate lilac, he would whisper "hows my jaani" into my ear, and the outside world would melt away.

I patiently await for that day to come.


I love you, Chase.

Rambling thoughts - adulting sucks butt

Fair warning: This is going to be a post about love and heartbreak. So if you have a soft tummy, I'd suggest making a bee-line for Candy Crush.

The last 5 months have been another lesson on adulting. I hate adulting some times. For instance, when I have to pay the american express, scoop out the cat litter, iron my clothes in the morning, etc. But some things/events in my recent days really really drive this yearn to retreat to my kindergarden class when Ms. papazian (rip) would teach us how to fingerpaint and finger dance to Itsy bitsy spider.

And it usually involves people. Allow me to summarize, as the last thing I want to do is give these people any more time then they have already sucked out of me. But, in a nut shell:

Girl has good friends. Girl shares everything with good friends. Good friends mean everything to girl. They have amazing, great times. Then they have not so amazing, great times. Good friends turn out to be douche bags. Douche bags turn out to be good for nothings. Good friend = good for nothings. The end. copyright © 2016 by cmartz

While grateful to see true colors well before an investment is lost (gosh, I sound like my financial advisor), it broke my heart to lose these douche bags/friends. Lesson learned, I guess.

Simultaneously, though, brand new relationships were brought into my life. Besides the existing life time friendships that I had, all of a sudden I became closer to some newbies. I found solace in this, and also with my sweetheart. I'd be lying and saying that I don't miss the douchebags. I don't have the ability to turn off my love for someone like that. Sometimes I wish I did. But, on my good days, I am grateful for it. I love hard. Which means I get hurt hard. But it only really makes you stronger. And appreciate the people you have had by your side through it all.

I feel like this is turning into a Celine/Mariah mashup from the 90s.

Just another ramble I guess . . .

Late night narrative

It's no secret to those that know me that I have depression. Not the, "awww, it's raining and there is a 7 train delay due to a sick passenger, and my boss didn't give me a promotion, and my friend won't talk to me anymore" depression. More like the, "I woke up. . ." depression. Have had it since I was 12.

I remember being so young, and not knowing what the hell was happening, but for some reason, I was handling the Zack and Kelly's breakup WAY worse than they were. Or anything related to leaving my small tenemant bedroom in our family apartment. I hated getting out of bed. Hated facing the world. Hated waking up.

Not to be so depressing (shout out!). It's not like I wanted to kill myself. I didn't. I wanted to live very badly. I just wanted this internal pain to stop. But trying to explain that to a family that called me a "drama queen" from the moment I popped out of my mother's canal: it was a lost cause.

Almost 23 years later, and I still have a fear of leaving my bedroom, or, in this case, my very own 1 bedroom apartment. When it hits me, "it" feels even worse than it used to. I find myself asking myself, WTF. Why do I still have these horrible bouts? No longer do "Zack and Kelly breakup"-like scenarios send me over the edge. Nope, thanks to the likes of Instagram and Youtube--the puppy-saving, kitten cuddling, soldier returning, dead people rememebering videos of the world--put me in crying states for hours and hours.

"Why do you like to poke the burn?" my friend, Sara said to me recently. "Why do you like to torture yourself?"

I didn't have an answer. More like a revelation. She was right, I do. I like to kick myself when I am down. But why?

Maybe it's just what I know to be life. Maybe any other way would be so foreign, I might want to retreat back to my bedroom. Maybe I do that already.