It has been a couple o’ weeks, friends — you know, those weeks when you find yourself just shaking your head in disbelief at the signs and symbols and meanings of it all. And as if my encounter with Pepe Le Squirrel weren’t symbolic enough, the next chapter of bat-shit crazy began with The Dream (in caps, because this is one of those iconic dreams, the kind that I will inevitably point to as The Symbol of my forever fucked-upedness).

Now keep in mind, given my recent diagnosis with Blogholm Syndrome and constant interaction with the Ex, my emotional state may be — well, questionable. Want evidence? Try this on for size.

The setting of The Dream: Boyfriend Brett and I are in the front of a traditional church. I’m holding a bouquet of flowers the size of a toilet, and we’re engaged in a very casual convo about the wedding that is about to ensue — our wedding, as it turns out. I look down past the flowers, and I notice that I’m wearing the most hideous, matronly, gag-worthy dress I’ve ever seen — complete with high collar, ruffles and fucking romantic lace everywhere.

Oh yeah. And the flowers are lilies. You know: dead people posies. But guess what? The flowers weren’t the best symbol. Nope, not even close.

Because as we’re standing there about to get married, a guy walks through the church. In a faded denim shirt with red suspenders. Carrying a shovel behind him and shaking his head, as if in sheer disbelief. And his words — I shit you not (pun intended):

“Whew…no one wants to use that bathroom for a while! No sir…”

And as I glance down past my collar and ruffles and stupid fucking lace, I watch as giant globs of poop slide from his shovel. All over the floor. And all around my Grandma Boots.

Shit. All over my wedding. How perfectly dreamy

I startled awake almost immediately, grabbing my “You Can’t Make This Shit Up” journal full of pages of real-life symbols including bricks and dead squirrels and penis tiaras and #1 Shit Divorce Google rankings, adding this to the long list that will one day inspire the screenplay.

Anyhow, trying to shake the memory of The Dream, I decided to treat myself that next afternoon to the unparalleled luxury of a facial. But this wasn’t your typical facial, as I’d later find out, but rather a session of unparalleled torture microdermabrasion.

For the uninitiated, microdermabrasion is a process by which an esthetician first burns off the epidermis of your skin with acid, then tackles the dermis, taking 40-grit sandpaper to the remaining layers of sub-dermal skin and systematically scraping them off, one by one, sucking up the copious swaths and flecks and flakes and fragments of flying skin with what equates to an industrial-strength Oreck.

Then there’s lots of lotion, and you’re sent on your way. Back to work. Good to go. Exactly as you were when you came in.

Just missing your face.

So glad I chose to spoil myself thusly. Especially the day after my poop wedding.

Anyhoo, for anyone who has been to an esthetician, perhaps you can relate to my next question: What the fuck is up with the goddamn esthetician goddesses?


Now I realize they’re essentially skin whores, tempting you to “buy” their goods and services based on their alluring looks and radiant complexions. But it’s completely hurtful to the soul to be lying there in the shadow of this glowing, dewy goddess, all radiant and milky, surrounded by white light and being followed by a trail of forest creatures.

As she’s peeling layers of dead skin from your face and asking if you’re always this blotchy. Bitch.

I could leave it there, because these two events adequately tell the story of this chapter of crazy. But let’s just add one more highlight, fast forwarding a mere 24 hours, to the always-forboding invitation to a mandatory work meeting.

“Look around this room,” my boss enjoins. “In about 4-6 weeks, three out of every four of you will probably not be here.”

Poop. Face peeled off by milky goddess. Losing job.


But this has all been complemented by a few highlights. Among them:

  1. I am in the middle of a week in which I have 43 freelance writing assignments due.  Seriously: 43. I believe next week, I will be celebrating with a commensurate number of glasses of wine. And probably surgery for carpal tunnel syndrome, as one astute Facebook friend predicted.
  2. One of these stories was a feature for Spirit, the national (!) in-flight magazine for Southwest Airlines. The story is about Nevada, and I needed to incorporate perspectives from both the north and the south of the state, so I started searching for a source who had traveled to both Reno and Las Vegas. And as if the gods of the blogosphere were watching me, one bloggy buddy, Mark over at Mark My Words,  had recently written a post about visiting Reno. I took my chances, reached out, asked if he’d visited both – and guess what? He’s now the star of the story! And I compare him to Jekyll and Hyde, which he’s just now finding out about. (Hi Mark! Love ya! Write!)
  3. I’m a new contributor on, which is a rockin’ site that allows people new to the divorce process to connect with those of us who’ve “been there, done that.” Brilliant concept, IMHO, and I’m thrilled to be part of it. My first post there — which is also my first post here on Me 2.0 — can be found right here. I hope many of you will take your fabulous voices to that site as well. Just be sure to come back, k? K…
  4. I recently visited Disneyland. With my kids and my parents. And my daughter asked me to wear this:
Mikalee as a bride in Disneyland

No fucking romantic lace on this veil. Oh, but there were ears...

…and I didn’t throw up!

Healing…it’s a beautiful thing.


  1. Anyone want to channel Freud and offer some insightful analysis about My Big Fat Poop Wedding?
  2. Any leads on a good writing job?
  3. Anyone care to share the highlights of a particularly crazy dream/week/facial?

I’m all ears!

…and so were my folks, as it turns out:

Mikalee's parents channeling their inner Mickey

See: Real men wear sequins (and their awesome wives, too!)