This week, I flew halfway across the country to participate in an intervention for someone I love desperately. The intervention failed. We failed. I’m pretty sure that goes down in the books as the worst day of my life.

There’s a lot of brain energy – soul energy – that goes into an intervention. Weeks and months of worry and planning, so much heaviness hanging from such spindly threads of hope and then, in the aftermath, you’re left with so much nothingness. Food you don’t really taste and sleep that can’t leave you rested. And then there’s the anger, because everyone needs someone else to blame. Oddly, it feels like the dress rehearsal for mourning.

When the neurologist recommended an MRI, I knew it was going to be costly. My options were: 1) forgo the tests and just assume that my increasingly freaky migraines were not related to a brain tumor or 2) know they were not. I wanted to know. So did my husband. And we were vaguely aware that knowing was going to dent the ole pocketbook.

What we didn’t quite grasp was that it would dent it to the tune of $1,500. After insurance.

I’ve been staring at the online claim summary, trying to do one of those Magic Eye things where if I stare hard enough the real number would magically appear, floating over the backdrop, gloriously containing one fewer zero. And it doesn’t. Though, frankly, that shouldn’t surprise me since I have heretofore been unsuccessful at discerning any Magic Eye poster ever.

Fifteen hundred dollars for the brain doctor to say, “Well, things look good.” He found some (for lack of a more technical term) scarring consistent with migraines, then turned me loose and told me to come back in six months. If in six months he wants another test, we’re gonna have words. About bills. And how fancy brain doctors are probably way better suited to paying these fancy bills than very unfancy marketing and computer programmer folks.

One mortgage payment + one half of a mortgage payment = 30 minutes in a really loud tube under a blanket of insufficient thickness.

The hell. If I were less than fine, I wouldn’t resent it, I’m sure. I’d have lots of other medical bills to resent along with it, so you know, drop in the bucket. But as it is, I’m fine and wondering if these people have payment plans. Surely. I mean, what can do they do if (ha ha. read: when) I can’t cough it up? Repo the MRI? Telepathically cast lesions onto my brain?

That would be a skill, now wouldn’t it? Like Vader crushing that one dude’s throat with his mind.

Here’s where I talk about healthcare reform but, like so many other things that are messed up with this country, it’s sorta a big, fat duh.

In other, much less whiny news, I have worn lipstick all day long today, just like a real grown up. It’s not even flavored! How’s that for leaf turning? It’s like I won’t even need any New Years resolutions – I’m the model of self improvement a full month early. Bam!

This spring, I’m going to be an auntie again (must. contain. the exclamation. points)! This time, though, it will be a driving distance baby. A baby I can snuggle after 3 hours of Glee playlists and one potty break at a rest stop of questionable cleanliness. Our own brood is still a couple of years off (the Dork Lord will be transferring to SMU in the fall and I probably don’t have to tell you that an infant + husband working/in school full time = one of those poor crazy ladies that end up on the news) so this is just the kind of squeeee! I live for.  If only I could be more patient about it. Every day I email my sister and ask if the baby is ready. Every day she tells me, “Not yet.” Is there no fast-track program for kid making? If anyone is eligible, she is, so let’s get on with it!

Anyway, for a bit I was able to focus some of my energies on making her baby announcement, which as distracting for about ten minutes. (See? This is why I need so many orphaned kittens!)

Oh, you guys, I don’t even have an excuse for all this non-blogging I’ve been doing. This is probably the sixth or seventh post I’ve started in the last couple weeks – I just can’t get interested in it. But boy howdy, enough is enough and I’m gonna give it a solid try. Like, posting every single day. So. Here we go.

The Dork Lord and I are on week three of a three week cleanse. Which means… well, it means many things, but primarily it means that it’s been over two weeks since I’ve had a cup of coffee. No sugar? No big deal. No alcohol, bread or dairy? Eh, okay. But coffee? Even on a normal, non-restrictive day, I could shamelessly open-mouth kiss a cup of really good coffee in front of a crowd of impressionable school children, so you can imagine how lusty I feel right about now. Two weeks ago, I was feeling a little more murderous than lusty, but thankfully, my desire to stab people has decreased exponentially with each passing caffeine free day.

I know, I know. What kind of weirdos go on a cleanse during the holidays? These weirdos. The ones who were breaking zippers and on the verge of investing in wardrobes based solely on elastic waistbands. The ones who packed on 20lbs since they got married a short six months ago. And right after we wrap up the cleanse and our innards are free of toxins, we hop right into a 30 day fitness program and hopefully, be wearing our elastic-free jeans by New Years having celebrated every major winter holiday on lean protein and lots and lots of organic vegetables.

Meanwhile, I lick your empty coffee cup when you step away from your desk.

No, I don’t. But I think about it.