Who’s slicing onions in here?
I put it off as long as I could. I tried, y’all, I REALLY tried.
But the day we all dreaded is finally here.
I just couldn’t keep doing things . . . as, um, you probably noticed by the distinct lack of things being done around here lately. Yeah. Sorry about that.
Sooo, this is it. THE END. You’re going to just have to start doing things yourselves. Get your own colonoscopy, eat your own cat puke, have your own bacon cremation, meet your own creepy neighbor, create your own strandwich, and you can go to Jamaica ALL BY YOURSELF. Wait, actually I will continue to do that. Back off.
There comes a day in every JD’s life when it’s time to leave her frivolous youth behind and strike out on her own. Wait, this sounds like a different story. Oh, I remember. I’m quitting my blog. I guess I quit a while ago but wasn’t quite ready to make it official. Today it’s official. Sorry, suckers. Also, thank you. For all the love. It’s been so much fun. But without you, it would’ve been lonely and pointless. Not completely pointless, because I would’ve done things and written about them anyway. Why do anything, if not for oneself, I always say. At some point, I Do Things will be archived, probably at idothings.wordpress.com. For now, it’ll stay nestled right here, where you can come and mourn its demise.
BUT WAIT! Dry your stupid tears, because I’ve started a NEW BLOG. BUT WAIT! Keep crying, because it’s totally different from this one. So some of you will hate it. But some of you may like it. It’s called The Grateful Addict, and you can find it at www.gratefuladdict.com. It’s all about how I’m a grateful addict and stuff. End of plug.
And so in closing, thank you again. For allowing me to do all the things you didn’t want to do. It was an honor and a pleasure. In 2007, I became addicted to prescription painkillers, but that is also the year I started this blog. I’ve had many crappy days since then, but I Do Things and all of you brought me a lot of happiness, laughter, and gratification.
Now get off your asses and do your own damn things.
So, there I was. Recuperating from a bout of projectile vomiting that had left me weak, dehydrated, and craving those flaming-hot Cheetos.
Hi, y’all! Yeah, I’ve been on a little break. A break of a year and a half. What, you don’t think I deserve some time off after four solid years of doing things so you don’t have to? Why don’t YOU try eating cereal marshmallows, wearing a Bumpit, and going nude in public. Go! Try it. Then come back here and . . . er, put your clothes back on, please. I lay my head on that pillow.
Anyway, there I was. Recuperating from a bout of flaming-hot diarrhea from eating those damn Cheetos when . . .
Um . . . so there I was . . . uhhhhhh. How do you blog again? Oh, I remember!
So there I was, recovering from a flaming stomach, which I decided to calm with some mindless entertainment: my favorite celebrity-gossip site: DListed. It’s my one-stop shop for all things Lohan, Kardashian, and this lady, and it has provided me with countless hours of schadenfreudalicious browsing.
Suddenly, instead of a Real Housewife or Anne Hathaway’s vagina, I saw a true celebrity. An icon. A legend.
No, you freaks. It was me, JD. On (J)DListed. The photo that was posted, tho 30 years old, still tells the heartbreaking story of a drunk young woman reduced to posing with a cucumber. In a bow tie.
Now, usually when a humble yet sexy blogger finds out that there’s a picture of herself plastered online against her will, it’s because an angry mob of villagers knocked on her door and said YOU’RE ON THE INTERNET JD. But no. I found it and immediately projectile vomited, but only after I hugged my bag of Cheetos and threw water on my flaming hair.
Readers were asked to caption the photo, and they did, Blanche, they did, but there could be only one winner, and of course it was me, with my somewhat petulant remark that the photo came from my blog and when would I be paid.
More comments followed my shocking victory:
How fucking lame. A blog that every fucking category begins with “I” (ie – I am awesome, I am hungry (wtf?), I do nude (that sounds ok, I guess), I BUY STUFF – how fucking exciting does that shit sound . . .
I get it now. This was a clever paid advertisement by JD, who apparently is a fat, middle-aged nobody trying to start up a blog.
JD you must be a trillion years old
Hows it feel to be in the spotlight, bitch??? . . . you want some attention? pop those tits out . . .
Based on the adoration and admiration expressed in these comments, I decided it was time. Time to return to the Internet and pick up the heavy load that is my burden in life: to do things so you don’t have to.
And hopefully to score a link on E! Online.
* * *
So, wasn’t this fun? And long? Instead of the end of the world, you get a new I Do Things post. Two cataclysmic events that end in flames. And vomit. There may even be another post someday. How about:
I Went to Rehab so you don’t have to
I Got a Tattoo so you don’t have to
I Pop My Tits Out so you don’t . . . Aw, hell. Let’s all pop our tits out!
Soooo . . . it’s been a while. I know. Get over it.
Hey, did I ever tell you I used to suffer from panic attacks? NO? Well, no wonder. Panic attacks aren’t very funny. Oh, sure, it’s funny when it happens to someone else. HAHAHAHA! Can’t walk half a block from your house to mail a letter because you’re AFRAID? Hilarious. Can’t sit on the front porch with your husband because you once had a panic attack there? BWA-HAR-HAR! Shove pills down your gullet to numb your central nervous system so you can’t feel anything? Tee-freaking-HEE!
Oh, wait. That all happened to me. But come on. It’s still funny. You have to laugh, right? Anyway, it’s been quite a while since my ol’ friend panic attack paid a visit. But the day I signed up for my first Bikram yoga class, I had a feeling we might be meeting again.
You see, my young friends, the panic attacks were always triggered by heat and humidity and the feeling that you can’t breathe because there’s no air when it’s hot and you gasp and hyperventilate and OF COURSE there’s plenty of air but that doesn’t stop your brain from telling your body YEE-HAW! It’s fight-or-flight time, and you ain’t got no one to fight and there ain’t nowhere to fly. So you’re stuck with all this adrenaline and shaking and sweating and the hands get numb and the heart pounds and you gasp and gasp and the black dots start to dance in front of your eyes and you pray for unconsciousness.
And when it’s over, you spend all your time worrying about the next one.
Because this yoga . . . man, this fucking yoga. I swear. It’s like the perfect storm of panic attack triggers. Hot, humid, packed with sweaty people. And in between the poses, we have to be breathing statues. Or, in my case, last Sunday, a hyperventilating statue.
The instructor that day was tough but kind. There were a lot of new people in class, so he talked nonstop to keep them from freaking out. He assured them (and all of us) that we were expected only to give our 100% best, to work hard but to be compassionate. And to stay in the room for the whole 90 minutes.
Now, I don’t know if you’ve ever had a panic attack, but there is one basic tenet. Once it starts, you have to get out of there. I don’t care where “there” is — you have to leave. GO! NOW! Get the hell out of there! Because wherever you are, somewhere else is better. Especially if where you are is a 104-degree room in which you have specifically been told to stay.
It was about two-thirds of the way through class. I’d been struggling since the second pose. I typically stand on the “cooler” side of the room, because duh. But regardless, I was broiling from the inside out. The heat. The humidity. The breathing. We’re encouraged to sit down and take a break any time we need to, and believe me, I did. But it didn’t help. I couldn’t get a handle on my breathing. I tried sitting, lying down, doing the damn pose to take my mind off it, but it was dug in.
Then the instructor said the magic words: “We’ve got a lot of new people in here today, and sometimes when that happens, there’s a sort of panicky vibe in the air that can be contagious. The rest of us need to help keep that under control.”
Well, that was all I needed to hear. There are panic vibes?! In the air? And I’m breathing them in? Well, no fucking wonder! Shit, man, I’ve gotta get out of here! I felt the familiar numbing sensation that precedes a full-blown attack. There was no air in my lungs. My vision swam. Limbs turned to jelly. Pounding, pounding, pounding.
This was it. Was I really going to leave the room? What would happen? I was about to find out.
Between poses I raised my shaking hand and caught the instructor’s eye. I motioned toward the door as I unsteadily got to my feet. “Oh, come on,” he said but didn’t try to make me stay. I kept my head down, ignoring what I was sure were looks of contempt, turned the handle, and . . .
I was out! I had left the room! I waited for lightning to strike me dead (it would’ve been welcome at that point), but nothing happened. I ran to the changing room to get my panic pills, which I carry with me everywhere even tho it’s been 700 years since I’ve had an attack. I was still gasping and feeling pretty awful, but I was so glad to be out of that room.
It’s policy that if someone ever does leave the room, the instructor follows them out to make sure they’re OK. I really didn’t feel like talking, but between gasps for air, I explained what was going on. The instructor didn’t make me feel bad for leaving, but when I said I’d had a panic attack, he pointed out, “Well, it just won.” And he was right.
He returned to the room to continue the class, and I sat outside, concentrating on calming my breathing. So cool! So quiet! I was feeling a bit better. I figured I’d sit there until class ended, then skulk back in and get my mat and towel.
Here’s the instructor again. Holding the door open and motioning me into the room. “Get back in the game.” Without hesitation (but also without much enthusiasm), I trudged back in. I made it through the last two poses and breathing exercise somewhat shakily, but I didn’t die. Getting back in that room was the best thing I could’ve done, even if it was the last thing I wanted to do.
So now the question: Why the hell am I doing this? Well, most of you know I’ve had ongoing chronic and debilitating back pain. Many of you know about the Vicodin. But what you probably don’t know is that I’ve been at the end of my rope in more ways than one. Yes, the end of THAT rope. Chronic pain will do that to you. So will Vicodin addiction. Turns out panic attacks were the least of my problems.
This yoga is saving my life.
My pain is manageable — some days I don’t even call it “pain.” I’m stronger, mentally and physically. Before last Sunday, I’d made it through 88 classes where I breathed through the discomfort, the heat, the challenge of the poses. When I’m in a tough situation, I feel better equipped to deal with it.
The instructor advised me to “get my ass in the hottest part of the room.” That doesn’t sound very fun. But I’m not exactly in this for fun. I’m in the fight of my life, and panic may win a few rounds, but I plan on taking the championship.
* * *
Oh, my god, are you still here? Well, don’t worry. Next post will have tons of nudity, sex, and juvenile humor, just as you’ve come to expect from I Do Things.
Please read about my second Bikram yoga class here (It’s way shorter and much funnier, I promise!)
Bikram studio came from here
OK, so a decade has passed since my last post. And that’s the closest thing to an apology you’re gonna get.
More to the point, what have I been doing all this time?
Oh, lots of stuff. I’m still doing the torturous Bikram yoga. I celebrated Dave’s birthday (he got a Kindle) and Pru’s birthday (you forgot again). I learned that shaving my legs in the bathtub can be both comfortable and deadly. But most important, I tried an exciting new food.
Jordan almonds. The most visually stunning member of the nut family. Enrobed in a pastel coat of spring colors, these fanciful and un-nutlike nuts evoke visions of Easter eggs and rainbows —
I don’t even like nuts. Especially since that one time, when I got all carried away by the “EAT NUTS THEY ARE HEALTHY” movement and bought a bag of raw almonds. Ugh. From now on, the only thing I’m eating raw are Twinkies, because these almonds? Well . . .
There I was, eating raw almonds and feeling virtuously healthy. Almond, almond, almond, la la la, then: HORROR SHOW IN MY MOUTH! This almond, if you can call it that, was either rotten or poisoned. Probably poisoned. The outside looked fine, but the inside was bright neon orange. God, how I wish I was kidding, but no. Bright orange. A nut. Orange. Like a particularly evil pumpkin. It tasted like Chernobyl, and the texture was a disturbing combination of slimy and dusty. I threw away the bag and scrubbed the inside of my mouth with a Brillo pad. Then I ate some raw Twinkies to soothe my tortured palate.
So why Jordan almonds?
Well, as I said, they are pretty. That’s really about all I ask of my food: Look pretty and don’t have a bright-orange interior that causes me to take a lighted match to my tongue to burn away the flavor.
I was also still under the thrall of the “EAT NUTS THEY ARE HEALTHY” propagandists, so I thought a candy-coated nut would be the best of both worlds: delicious candy (for me) and healthy nut (for . . . me, too, I guess).
Now, given my previous Poisoned Nut Trauma, I am cautious about biting into mysterious new nuts. No matter how innocent, no matter how lovely, I was not putting this shiny pink candy nut into my mouth whole.
And bit again.
Then I placed the nut carefully between both sets of molars and ground down.
Then I got a knife.
Then I threw the damn nut against the wall.
Finally, I gave in and shoved the entire nut into my mouth.
And bit again.
Dang, these things are hard as rocks! That candy-coated shell? Is more like a candy-coated suit of armor. You don’t even taste the nut, a feature of which I am a fan, but then why even put the nut in there? There is so little actual nut flavor or texture, I actually Googled “Jordan almond” to make sure it really is a nut and not just a piece of candy shaped like a nut.
I ate three Jordan almonds that day, and I can’t say I’m a better person for it. The flavor is somewhat pleasing, but the hard, thick outer shell seems dangerous. Also, there is very little nutly value, so you may as well just eat candy—preferably candy that doesn’t break your teeth.
Well, I guess that’s really about all I’ve been up to. Doin’ yoga and eatin’ nuts. But stay tuned, because later this week, Dave and I are going to visit Pleasure Island, and you’re invited. (Note: attendance is mandatory.)
Jordan almonds came from here
That’s right, SUCKAHS!
50 years of awesomeness, wrapped up in one gorgeous package. You can look all you want, but no you may not touch. 50-year-old JD is fragile, y’all.
50-year-old JD is also somewhat bewildered as to how all these years piled up. Because you KNOW I don’t look 50. I don’t act 50. I don’t think I smell 50. And yet, somehow, I am 50. I have to tell you: it’s kind of cool.
Because YES! I am now a proud member of AARP. I didn’t ask for it, but the card came in the mail like a stinking, rotten fish slapped against my wrinkle-free face. Damn, AARP. How did you know?
Although today, the 27th, is the official day, the festivities began on Friday, when I treated myself to an all-afternoon marathon of Hoarders and dined on sushi (in between trips to the bathroom to throw up, because of that one hoarder lady who had rotten pumpkins all over her house. Bleeeuuurrrggh!)
Saturday evening Dave and I went out with my family to Dave’s Italian Kitchen, where I gorged myself on I don’t even know what but it had a lot of garlic. And today, I will be sharing that garlic with my fellow Bikram yoga friends via my sweat fumes. YOU’RE WELCOME!
Oh, but Saturday morning. THAT was the zenith of birthday stupendousness.
Dave and I were eating breakfast in front of The Partridge Family when suddenly the room was thrown into shadow. There was a huge truck outside! And it was stopped in front of our house!
Dave cackled and ran to the front door. It dawned on me that this truck had something to do with the glory of my birth. OH NO YOU DID NOT JUST PULL ONE OVER ON JD! But he did, Blanche, he did! Somehow, without my finding out, Dave had bought a 40-inch flat screen HD TV. ALL FOR ME!
And for him.
It was like Christmas! Actually, it was way better than Christmas because there were no presents at Christmas, much less a poor delivery guy staggering up our front walk with a giant TV. I squealed! Dave looked smug. Prudence fainted. Gus flicked a whisker. Our neighbor who always borrows our lawnmower stood on the sidewalk and glowered.
Now, some of you may not think getting a TV for your birthday is very romantic, but we’re talking ME here. I don’t need diamond-encrusted truffles or chocolate-dipped roses or gold-covered lingerie (altho I do hope someday to receive a jeweled tiara). No, if someone is going to shell out cash, it had better be on something that will enhance every detail of hoarders’ rotten pumpkins.
Speaking of decay, we pulled out the TV stand to find a variety of toy mice in various states of patheticness.
Hey, I was playing with those!
I cleaned out the DVDs under the stand, so everything would look nice and neat. First to go? Naked yoga.
Amazingly, we got everything set up and working pretty quickly. And thank Zod, because when I cleaned out my DVDs, I found a few I’d forgotten about.
Well, I sure hope you liked this post. It will probably be the last one I ever write. That is, until we get a Blu-Ray DVR that allows me to go online via my fabulous TV.
Until then . . .
Dave, you done good.
AARP came from here
All this recent talk of mealworms made me remember one of my bucket list entries:
Purchase and eat a McDonald’s Happy Meal — without getting caught!
Because you have to have proof of child, right, to legitimately buy a Happy Meal? I mean, there’s a reason your local brasserie has a kids’ menu. You can’t order the “Wee Folks Mac & Cheese” because the server will be all like, YOU’RE FIFTY!
So I figured it must be the same for Happy Meals. No Happy Meals to anyone over four feet — but then what about dwarves? Can you tell how I’ve been agonizing over this? I mean, really. Dwarves?
But all of the sudden it occurred to me: If I place my order via the drive-thru window . . . how would they ever know? Unless the drive-thru operator’s camera scans your car for humanoid shapes under four feet? But I’m sure I’ve never heard the disembodied voice ask, “Is that a child or a dwarf, ma’am?” whenever anyone in front of me ordered a Happy Meal, so maybe they don’t check.
Also, if interrogated, I could always say my child is at home, too sick to accompany me. “She has the plague! And her dying wish is for a Happy Meal!” I’m sure they’d fork it over and probably feel really guilty, which would be a bonus.
So that was my plan, as I set out that cold January day, full of anticipation and fear and hunger. To SCAM a Happy Meal out of McDonald’s and eat it by my almost-fifty-year-old-self.
Now, I’m a good liar if it’s spontaneous. But this lie had been years in the making. I was nervous.
“One Happy Meal, please,” I said in a trembling voice.
“Boy or girl?”
Whaaat? I was not prepared for this question. Why did it matter? Were they trying to trick me into screaming “NONE OF THE ABOVE” and tearing out of there?
Terrified and confused, I said, “I’m sorry?”
“Do you want a girl’s Happy Meal or a boy’s?”
Ohhhhhh, right. ‘Cuz you get a toy. I said, “Girl” but regretted it almost immediately, because I bet the boy toy is better (and yes, I meant it like that).
“What would you like?”
Again, stymied! I would like a Happy Meal! A Girl Happy Meal! What other information am I supposed to provide? The jig is up! They’re onto me. Should I bail or fake my way through this?
I had come too far to abandon my dream. I faked it.
“Uhhh . . . a cheeseburger and fries?” No response. Phew. Either that was the right answer or they had pulled up my personal information on their computer and the cops were waiting at my house.
“Milk or apple juice?”
Oh, man, I was getting away with it! This was starting to feel fun. Plus — apple juice! No wonder they call this a Happy Meal!
But I still had to get by the cashier.
I was ready for anything she might say: “I hope you . . . I mean, your daughter enjoys her Happy Meal” or “You’re buying this for a dwarf, aren’t you?” or “YOU’RE FIFTY!” but none of those things happened. I paid and received my greasy bag.
Off I sped, shaking with triumph.
So was it worth it?
Oh, yes. Lookit.
Would you lie for a Happy Meal?
Would you even eat a Happy Meal?
Do Happy Meals ever decompose?
Milk or apple juice?
Dopey came from here