It's Everyone Can Bite Me Friday!

You know how they say women's stress shows up in their stomachs? Not in the boobs, which would be ever so helpful and is so close to the stomach. It's not like the stress needs to travel all the way to Europe for God's sakes. Well I've had a poochy stomach for 2 years and seriously thought I was giving birth to a baby elephant.

My doctor put me on Lexapro for anxiety and whoa mama, elle stomacko is gonno. I'm down 3 and a half pounds to 124.5. At first I thought it was because every piece of food I pick up ends on the floor. Round foods are a BITCH, I can tell you that. And don't get me started on opening jars. Then I figured out that my anxiety had really been cut in half. The pills killed the baby elephant.

I also realized that I've had these symptoms off and on for 10 years, basically since I left the toughest city in the world, Manhattan, and moved to LaLa Land, where people rollerblade in thongs and get Botox for their Shar Peis. When I was in one of my 'moods' I couldn't fall asleep before 5 a.m., had RLS and saw my brain racing around the bedroom on cocaine. I could go three days without food and water and still get up to pee 10 times a night. I could get by on 3 hours of sleep and not feel tired the next day. And then as abruptly as it would show up, it would disappear. And I would forget about it. But this time the hand numbness brought it to the surface so as per usual in life, often the bad leads to the good. And because I have no health insurance, the doctor is giving them to me for free. UNLIKE DR. BOB.

A good psychiatrist is worth every penny and is the only person who should prescribe meds because they spend an hour asking you questions and monitor you closely in sessions for as long as you're on them. She's the one who asked me if I had any symptoms as a kid and as I thought 'who remembers?' I suddenly unleashed a repressed memory of one of my chronic childhood traumas, nosebleeds, a sign of anxiety. As she scribbled furiously on her pad, or finished a Sudoku puzzle, I realized a psychotherapist might have gotten to this question but since they can't legally dispense meds, s/he might not have found it relevant and gone back to why I tried to stab my sister with my Girl Scout knife when I was 13. GP's and Internists are handing out scripts, which is why the US is so over medicated. The meds might or might not work for you but there's no way you'll get to the root of your real problem, which is probably reading this blog at work, unless you see a psychiatrist.

I dyed my hair, something I do every 3 months. I use a different color of blond each time, all close in tints, so it looks natural when it grows out. People always ask me for the name of my colorist and when I tell them my trick they can't believe it. It looks like it did when I was a little girl. Except this month, when it looks like I used finger-paints instead.

Are you supposed to spill most of the ammonia all over your rug and your naked self? And are you supposed to yell FUCK 65 million times while you do this? So there's a less blonder rectangular patch in the back but I can't see it so fuck it. And there is a reddish hue in the front which I can see so fuck me.

I'm over at Uproarious today with a list of things you don't know about standup comics.

End of chat.