Ah-men.

Every Christmas Eve I take a great risk to my personal safety and attend Catholic Midnight Mass with my Dad. The risk I'm taking is that one of these years I'm going to burst into flames upon walking through the front doors.

Saying I'm a lapsed Catholic isn't nearly adequate enough. This implies that me not being a good Catholic girl is somehow due to carelessness, as if I left my faith lying around the house somewhere and I can't quite remember where I put it.

One simply doesn't cease being Catholic - it's more of a long, slow recovery process. Recovered Catholics are lucky if all they escape with is a sense of paralyzing guilt and shame. The not so lucky get the guilt and shame and a purveying sense that God is still watching them personally, all of the time.

As God and I have been feuding since 1998, I know I'm being watched and messed with on a regular basis. Should it all turn out to be true and I find myself locked outside of the pearly gates (likely due to some sort of ridiculous turn of events involving a blind date, a tainted cheeseball and a flame-thrower), then God is going to have to step outside so that we can have a very serious conversation -- topics will include why good people die, my lack of metabolism and love life, and if Jesus and Mary are so fantastic then why do they only appear on toast or mildewed ceilings belonging to people in the southern U.S. states.

Every day I add new topics for discussion, but for another year I just wanted to not draw attention to myself by either spontaneously combusting upon entry or having my head spin around while the choir warbled through Angels We Have Heard On High.

Ironically, the choir is always terrible enough to make me take the lord's name in vain at least 72 times before the mass even starts, thereby undoing all the goodwill I hope to buy myself just by showing up.

I try to affect a look of piety, or at the very least, wakefulness. During every Mass the priest asks the congregation to reflect on and ask forgiveness for our sins which always makes me uncomfortable. Having broken at least four commandments on the drive over to the church, I get panicky when I run out out of time to properly reflect let alone beg.

To make things worse, I sin throughout Midnight Mass. Without anything better to do, my mind wanders and somehow it never wanders into thoughts of how I can better help the homeless or if only there was a way I could live with lepers in India. Jesus no.

Having achieved a look I hope will pass as pious I started to think about when the next time I'll see the firefighter might be, and how much fun we can...and Oh. My. God. I'm in church! How sick and twisted can I be?

I try to straighten myself out and pay attention again but then the choir starts warbling which makes me think about suffering which makes me wonder if things will work themselves out with Alex and that's when I know I should just give up and accept the fact that if I was born centuries earlier I would have surely been burned as a witch. And so I feel guilty, and therefore a little less lapsed.

When I was little I took going to church very seriously. I made it as far as taking my first communion, and let me tell you, had I known that was likely going to be the last time in this life I'd be photographed in a white dress and veil I probably would have milked that moment for all it was worth.

I'm not sure when it all changed. I know my most basic personal beliefs are at odds with the doctrine of the Catholic church. I'm pro-choice, pro-gay marriage, pro-me, pro-birth-control, pro-women, pro-married-fire-fighters-and-their-adventurous-wives. By rights, I should have been ex-communicated a long time ago.

Instead, I go to church once a year and it makes my Dad happy. I even take communion while I'm there. (The least the Church can do is provide a snack). Besides, there's nothing wrong with being in a state of holy grace for a few hours a year - God knows I wear it off fast.

An Open Holiday Letter

To Whom It May Concern,

If you're reading this letter, some sort of unspeakable tragedy must have occurred. Please know that while I may be entirely responsible for whatever terrible events have led to this moment...none of it is my fault.

First off, I can't control the weather. If you've discovered this letter somewhere on my frozen corpse, just how in the hell was I supposed to know that God would be dumping several feet of snow on Vancouver Island? I'm sure it surprised everybody, not least of all me, who was probably just trying to get to the mall in some poorly considered shoes.

If you've just pulled me out of a snowbank, then I thank you for finding me and telling my story. I also thank you for not announcing to the world that I was found frozen with a hole in my underpants. My mother warned me to always make sure my underwear was without holes in case of an accident. I suppose if you found me in a snowbank, an accident occurred.

In my defense, I was very busy in the weeks leading up to the holidays and I never got around to doing laundry. Besides, if you're pulling me out of a snowbank and my underwear is showing then my pants were also poorly considered and you really ought to be just overwhelmed with sorrow at my predicament instead of being all judgy about who's wearing what. Asshole.

It's quite possible I survived the elements, and you've discovered this letter somewhere at the scene of a terrible crime, the details of which are still sketchy. All that may be known at the time this letter is discovered is that so far I had spent four days snowbound in a small house with my parents and somewhat deaf 82 year-old Scottish grandmother. My very flatulent grandmother.

Terrible things go through one's mind after four days of conversations between one's Mother and Grandmother that sound like this:

Mother: What did you say Mom?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother: Aye?
Mother: Yes?
Grandmother: What?
Mother: What?
Grandmother:

To be honest, I was in a bad mood when I arrived. For days - weeks actually - I'd been feeling angsty. That's right - angsty. I'm sure it's a word. If it isn't, do you really want to argue with me at this point? Yeah. That's what I thought.

I'd feel hungry, go to the kitchen and not feel like eating. I'd feel lonely, call somebody and not want to talk. I'd feel bored and not want to move. Worse, I'd cry at stupid things. E-Harmony commercials, the candy aisle at the grocery store, my laundry hamper...all brought me to tears for some reason or another. Angsty.

Alex made me angsty. Still in love with this guy and feeling helpless because it's just not working. My diet plan was working better, which should really tell you something. I didn't know why, and I didn't know what to do about it. I was looking forward to a break, when I didn't have to wonder where he was or why I wasn't hearing from him - something that had become a bit of a hobby.

I suppose if you're reading this letter you may be wondering just who in the hell Alex is and why this guy would be so important. I wish I could tell you right now, but I'm probably seated in the backseat of a squad car and being advised by my lawyer not to say a word. I'll have to explain later - when I'm not so angsty. Or falsely accused.

Anyhoo. The holiday was to be a nice break, but apparently I don't stop being angsty just because I get on a bus for three hours through the snow, with no heat, seated next to some chick who spent the first hour and a half baby talking with her boyfriend on her cell phone, and the next hour and a half sleeping on my shoulder. The second hour and a half was actually preferable. Besides, it's not like I could get upset. I'd been told I'm very physically comfortable with pillow-like qualities.

Perhaps I wouldn't have noticed the changes to my parents living room decor if I wasn't feeling so delicate. Spaces normally filled with framed photos of my sister and I had been replaced by framed photos of babies. Somebody elses babies. Babies of family friends who are my age, who got married, and are now spawning. Duly noted.

Perhaps one of the lowest moments came when I discovered my Dad discovered how to search online using previous sites visited. There was a rather awkward silence as my Dad scrolled looking for something and came upon E-Harmony.

E-Harmony...? What in the...?? Oh...

Nothing says Happy Holidays like Dad discovering his daughter has an E-Harmony profile while a Scottish grandmother belches upstairs. I suppose it could have been worse, and I could have been surfing porn.

If you're reading this letter, I'm sorry for whatever terrible scene you must have come across to find it. It may have began with a certain family member insisting that we watch a Christmas movie starring Shannon Doherty, but I can't be certain anymore.

Regardless of what happened, I love my family though and I'm happy to be snowed in here of all places, angsty or not. But let's put our bets on angsty.

Merry Christmas everybody! And please call my lawyer.

Bambi

S.O.S.

Victoria got almost six inches of snow over the weekend, and the temperature is hovering around -2. In other words, we've been dealing with the apocalypse. The looting and arson seems to have subsided, but the curfew will be in place for another few days at least.

People in this city seriously lose their minds when white stuff falls from the sky. I left my staff Christmas party early when I saw the snow piling up outside the windows. I knew it was only a matter of time before the crowd panicked and began drawing names for the first people to be cannibalized in the name of the greater good.

My progress home was seriously impeded by two city buses sprawled across the main street into town, resting comfortably against several parked cars. It took some maneuvering for me to steer up the slight incline, into the oncoming lane and around the buses to keep on my way. Luckily I had a small peanut gallery of drunken men standing on the sidewalk, taking bets as to whether I would make it.

Odds were against me apparently, but they didn't know I drove a white '93 Corsica named Lucille for five years in Calgary without snow tires and without an accident.

Had this been Calgary, I would have had some redneck in a Hummer behind me honking his horn and bursting blood vessels in his brain while I wasted his precious time waiting until there were no cars in the oncoming lane. A drunken peanut gallery shouting discouragement was really rather a nice change.

As I slowly drove to safety, I could hear the peanut gallery in collective appreciation. "Holy shit! She made it!" By this time, there was four inches of snow on the ground.

The second day into the apocalypse, I met some friends for brunch after an hour and a half of phone calls trying to determine whether it was safe to be outside, as there was a windchill factor.

Nobody was sure what the windchill factor was exactly, but several people were convinced that whatever it was, it wasn't safe. We made it to brunch alive, and congratulating ourselves on being hardy enough to walk through snow.

We spent the rest of the day at a friends place watching zombie movies and drinking hot chocolate and wine. Nothing says the holidays like zombie movies. Late into the night we wanted to order pizza, and this is where the problems began. There was no pizza available for delivery in Victoria.

Some pizza places didn't answer the phone. Others answered but said they weren't delivering at all, and some hung up when we asked. Our favourite pizza place said the wait for a delivered pizza was three hours, because they only had two drivers and one was missing. The pizza place was hopeful the missing driver would show up some time, perhaps during the thaw.

Without pizza until spring and or when the deep freeze lifted, I figured I better leave quickly once again. I was watching zombie movies with three skinny gay boys, and if anybody was going to be sacrificed for food it would definitely be me.

In fact, one of my friends had been hugging me all day saying how huggable my curves made me - that I felt like a really great body pillow. This did not bode well for my chances, but it was actually kind of flattering. At least the extra fluff feels nice for others.

It was deemed unsafe for me to walk, and unsafe for anybody to drive me because we were all drunk and somewhat afraid of the undead. I tried to call a cab. I called five different cab companies, and not one answered the phone. Holiday zombies or not, I was walking home.

I was made to promise to call as soon as I walked in the door, and I'm not sure whether the concern was me falling into a snowbank and not being rescued or me freezing to death despite the evidence that I had enough body fat to make me very huggable and therefore more resistant to cold.

The -2 degree deep freeze continues, and I'm not sure how much longer my city can survive. If you get this message, please send snow plows, because we have none. Send food too, because I'm hungry. And also, send men. They won't help with the crisis, but we just don't have enough to go around.

The Real Decision, 2008

I had some thinking to do. What to do with the firefighter and his wife? They were still being very lovely and had emailed me to let me know "they" would love to see me again -- no pressure.

(I would also like to point out that it's been a pathetic amount of time since a date went so well there was so much interest in a second round. Seriously. Even the guy who rode a unicycle and spoke with a lisp wasn't crazy about seeing me again, so you kind of have to wonder. The fact that a man and woman could both agree on me felt a little like redemption.)

There was indeed pressure though, because every time I heard a firetruck on it's way to an emergency I got a little frisky imagining my particular firefighter in action. I have enough hang-ups without adding a Pavlovian reaction to sirens, so I had to act.

When contemplating potentially terrible behaviour I've found it helps to get a broad cross-section of opinion. I formed a panel of people I felt could advise me on whether I was on a slippery slope to eternal damnation and or a guest spot on Jerry Springer, or whether entering into this kind of relationship is a perfectly acceptable way to kill time between now and whenever my next attempt at a conventional relationship turns into a gong-show.

(I'm nothing if not realistic. Predictable, and realistic.)

Should my behaviour lead to eternal damnation it's important to know this now, so that any one of my friends who gets there before me can save me a seat near the dance floor. If I'm going to be on Springer, I want to lose a couple of pounds first so time really was of the essence.

The last girl they had this arrangement with stayed "with" them for two years. They all became very close, and considered her a very close friend. She even went camping with them in the summers, and strangely enough my only negative reaction to this news involved the thought of camping.

She left the arrangement when she became involved in a serious relationship and moved away to be with the new guy. This couple doesn't know it, but if I agree to try them out I might be with them a lot longer than they bargained for given my other romantic prospects, or complete lack thereof.

My panel of experts were forthright. The gay guy was disappointed there would only be two other people involved because he was hoping I had been contemplating something "genuinely" kinky, and three in a bed apparently no longer qualifies.

The friend who appears extremely conservative at first glance was very excited for me because every threesome she's ever had has been awesome, leaving to me to question...who are these people??

My flamboyantly kinky friend suggested I give her their number should I lose my nerve and my devoutly religious friend is probably still praying for me as I write this.

This was as helpful as you can imagine, which is to say, not helpful at all. I went back to the firefighter with a few obstacles I figured would render making any decision irrelevant.

I reiterated I would not touch her, and I told him if I was even to think about going any further they would both have to be tested for STDs, expecting that this would be too much hassle and I would have an out.

And dammit if they weren't absolutely wonderful and accommodating. My safety, comfort and well-being is a huge priority, and they would make an appointment at the clinic right away. And they get it...I'm not into girls. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

So...well...what the hell. There has to be some fringe benefits to being single and the last of my friends to find true love, or even a reasonable facsimile. I've never done anything crazy in my life and my comfort zone normally expands only to the end of my nose and back so why not step outside the zone?

And so I did. I told them yes. And I'm so glad. Glad like I have never been glad before. Glad in multiples. Yes, that kind of glad.

These wonderfully depraved people are on to something.

Bambi Meets the Wife

So where was I...? Oh yes. My first ever first date with a man and his wife. A firefighter and his wife. You know - nothing unusual at all. Totally normal...if we happened to be polygamist Mormons.

However, we weren't polygamist Mormons as far as I knew so I was very, very nervous. Who should I be trying to impress? If I wore something revealing would she think I was trying to seduce her husband? Was I not trying to seduce her husband? Do I pay more attention to her or him? And were these people mentally ill?

Overall, I don't think I've ever been as nervous before any date as I was walking into that pub and looking for a man and woman both wearing something red. As it turns out, I don't think I've ever been as shocked as to what happened next.

They were wonderful.

It was probably the best first date I'd had in a long time. The FF was even better looking than his pictures. She was lovely. They were friendly, and funny and we all got along like old friends. Holy crap.

I had walked in expecting both of them to be perverts, liars or psychopaths or some combination of the three, and I prepared accordingly. I'm not entirely sure what I was planning on doing with the pepper spray in my bag or even which way I was supposed to aim the nozzle, but dammit...I was ready. I had also expected him to be taller...but that was asking a little much I suppose.

Once we finished off a plate of nachos we got down to business. Why in the hell was I there? What were they after? As everybody at the surrounding tables can attest, this couple was very open and to the point. I know everybody in the immediate area can tell you all about the conversation, because every single person went completely silent to eavesdrop.

I can't really blame them, because if I heard one woman asking another woman, "Are you really OK with me sleeping with your husband?" I suppose I'd shut-up and listen too. As everybody in the upstairs section heard, this couple was looking for a third person to hang out with, spend time with and take home to bed on a regular basis.

If at all possible, the surrounding silence became more deafening when I explained that although she was absolutely lovely, I would not be having sex with the wife. If I swung that way, she would totally be my type but really I was just interested in her husband.

The peanut gallery gasped in surprise when both the firefighter and his lovely wife said that would be perfectly alright. In fact, the last girl they had this arrangement with felt the same way and she was "with" them for two years.

Two dirty old men at the next table over actually moved their chairs closer when they described that sometimes the wife would be there, in the room, if and when I was with him. Sometimes she wouldn't be but most of the time she'd be there.

Doing what exactly? I believe at this point the band actually stopped playing and the table of four behind us who had been ready to leave decided to stay and order another round. As I might have suspected, the wife would not be in the room quietly reading a magazine in the corner with her back to the bed. Oh no. And because this couple was extremely forthright, an entire section of one local drinking establishment is now so much clearer on what three naked people could potentially do to each other at the same time.

I wasn't bothered by this for any moral reasons, but what immediately concerned me was how self-conscious that scenario could make me. I can barely type with somebody looking over my shoulder - I couldn't imagine what could go wrong if I was doing something more...involved.

Would I actually consider this? The entire time I could only sneak glances at him. I spoke mainly to her, partly because it seemed the polite thing to be doing rather than draping myself over her husband and partly because...well...he was so damned attractive.

For years friends have said that I fall for the "bad boys," and while this isn't entirely untrue it's never been quite right. I've figured out what the problem is with the men I'm attracted to, and my friends have it wrong. I don't see a guy kicking a puppy and decide that he's the one for me. I don't write to men in prison or long for a man who can't legally enter the US.

I want a man who's good to me, who loves his mother and has never been tasered, unless of course it was part of his military or police academy training. However, I have noticed that men with an overabundance of testosterone are like catnip.

Perhaps I'm deficient in this area, and I seek out the hormone my body needs. Much like feeling tired due to a lack of vitamin D in the winter, or craving whatever vitamin is contained in those two-bite brownies, I fall for men whose testosterone levels cancel out a good part of whatever hormone it is that's responsible for common sense.

Naturally, a guy who makes his living driving through red lights and running into buildings that are on fire would qualify as being particularly gifted in testosterone. And naturally, I wanted to hump his leg. It's hard to look somebody in the eyes when all you can notice is the outline of his muscles under his t-shirt and his wife is sitting right across from him talking about what kinds of things they like to do in bed. Good Lord.

None of this seemed even remotely strange. Frankly I was more shocked by the realization that both of them were doing their very best to impress me. I had been so nervous about what to say or do, and as it turns out all I had to do was show up. There was no need for me to seduce or impress anybody, they were knocking themselves out to prove to me that they were worthy.

The evening ended with me walking them to their truck so I could meet their dog. (Don't worry - it was just to meet and pet the dog, because I love dogs. The dog would not be involved in any potential activities between the three of us - this was not why I met their dog.) We hugged good-bye, they asked me what I thought about what they were wanting, and I walked myself home. I had a decision to make.

Holy crap! It's an update! Now with 100% more firefighter!

Let's recap the last few months to bring everybody up to speed...

I continue my medical odyssey in which various doctors tell me there's a serious problem, there's no problem, there's a problem and it's in my head, and I won't be able to see a specialist until 2009 which is a huge problem. I fall madly in love. I begin an online graduate program as some kind of personal rebellion against spare time. My Mom is diagnosed with a rare form of cancer in her eye and the earth stops moving. My Mom has surgery, her eye is removed and she dresses as a pirate for Halloween. No really, she does. My Dad develops kidney stones as a result of the stress and ends up in the hospital at the same time my Mom was readmitted for complications. My Mom and Dad are both released from the hospital under the provision they go nowhere without an ambulance following behind, especially if my Mom is driving. I perform the Thriller dance in front of a large audience for Halloween. Medical scans come back clear for my Mom. And that nearly brings us to today.

I know what both of you are thinking - the title of this post said something about a firefighter, and dammit that's why you're still reading. (Never say I don't know my audience.) I'm not in love with the FF, but falling in love with somebody else led me to a date with the FF that was so bizarre, I managed to outdo myself.

(Let's keep in mind I've been on dates with men who have at one point picked up the waitress, rode unicycles, worn bells on their shoes, stripped naked during the first kiss, stolen my vibrator and helped me rescue a bird -- which would have been awesome had this all been the same guy, or the same date. And still, I've outdone myself.)

I was upset over Alex.* Alex is the guy I'm in love with and being upset over Alex is an almost weekly occurrence, directly proportionate to the times I'm deliriously happy over Alex and therefore so annoying to my friends that I'm not allowed to talk about him for more than five minutes a time. Seriously.

(Bambi in love is like a melodramatic 12 year-old girl with a split-personality and Tourrette's Syndrome. I'm either crying or laughing, and I can't stop interrupting conversations to talk about Alex. I even annoy myself. God.)

So a few weeks ago I was nearly devastated over Alex. He hadn't called me, we hadn't spoken in weeks, which was the longest we had gone without speaking like, ever, and I really wanted to call him but I was afraid to because the whole world could end if I called and left a message and he didn't call me back and then I'd have to stop telling myself he's just busy or suffering from amnesia brought on by saving orphans and puppies and I just really wanted to talk to him because I love the sound of his voice and what if he didn't like me anymore and for the love of God is every song that comes on the radio so f*cking sad I could cry? See. I told you. Annoying!

I had to do something to pull myself out of the spiral before I became pathetic (read: more pathetic.) My sister has lovingly recommended, or loaned several self-help books that are supposed to help me not be such a loser. Books with titles like, "It's Called a Break-up Because It's Broken," or "He's Just Not That Into You," or "Put Down That Chocolate Bar You Pathetic Loser," which I just made up.

These books are not actually useful in the heat of wretchedness, or any other time for that matter. Although - the hard-cover edition of "He's Just Not That Into You," does a fantastic job of killing spiders. I did actually read the first chapter of "It's Called a Break-up," when my ex broke things off but stopped when I realized I was more relieved than sad and could be using that time to drink out of the carton or leave the house without having to tell anybody where I was going at long last. Jesus - was that ever a digression.

Back to the FF. Self-help books weren't going to help. Chocolate wasn't going to help. Checking to make sure the phone had a dial tone was definitely not going to help, and neither was lying on the floor imagining how Alex would feel when he was finally freed from his captors, able to reach a phone, only to call and find out I'd joined a nunnery.

I needed a distraction, and so I did something I've never done in my life. I answered an ad on Craigslist. The man seeking woman ad was witty, intriguing, smart and with a hint of dirty. There was no picture, but all I wanted was a little tiny bit of excitement, so it didn't matter. Just a distraction - nothing more.

He answered my answer. We talked online for the next four hours, and when he sent me a picture of himself in his firefighters uniform, leaning against the fire-truck I seriously thought that God himself had taken pity on me and perhaps this was a holy peace offering given that God and I have been feuding since 1996.

I love a man in uniform - you have no idea. There are reasons for this, not least is having watched the movie Top Gun at a pivotal stage of puberty. Cops, firefighters, military - loin-tingling. I draw the line at bell-hops and mall security guards - I'm fixated, but not delusional.

The FF was indeed witty, smart and really very dirty. And from his photos he looked like sex on shoes so things were going a little too well. Three hours into our conversation the following night I told him I was surprised he was single, and that's when he told me he wasn't single at all. He was married - but his wife was totally OK with this, and in fact, she wanted to meet me too.

I'll give you a moment to let that sink in. I needed a moment too.

Are we good? Alright then...

Her name was Jen, and Jen was really excited that her husband had found somebody he found so intriguing. He and Jen had a great relationship - so great, a third person could make it even better. He...they....were not looking for a one time threesome partner - he wanted somebody to go to drinks with, movies, dinner...and then do other things with. And she was fine with all this, and would I at least meet them both for a drink?

Readers, and by readers I mean both of you, and by both of you I may actually not mean anybody at all because I haven't posted in so long but at any rate...what choice did I have? If I write a book, this chapter would have to be included. I had to go, if not for the curiosity that was about to strike me dead, then for the purposes of literary research.

We made a date. If you think your average first date/meeting is nerve-wracking, try figuring out who it is you're supposed to be dressing to impress. And so I went...and what happened next is an entirely new post.

Ha! You'll both have to stay tuned till tomorrow.

Preoccupation.

For someone who spends as much time as I currently do preoccupied with my nether regions, you'd think I'd be having a much better time in life. I'm not though, and neither are any of the doctors who can't diagnose me, won't diagnose me or believe that the symptoms I'm describing are all in my head.

I know the difference though. My fantasy relationship with gold-medal winner Michael Phelps is indeed, all in my head. The near constant pain in the crotchal region is not. And yes, crotchal is now officially a word.

For almost a year now I've been experiencing daily pain in places too impolite to mention in public. On a good day the pain consists of a dull ache, like I was kicked in the crotch by a donkey. On a bad day it feels like I'm wearing barbed-wire underpants two sizes too tight. Nobody can tell me why, or what I can do to make it go away.

It's starting to take a toll. For one, I have no outlet to complain. While I've done some research online and found that there is a condition in existence that translates into constant pain, and doctors have no idea what to do about it or how to help the women experiencing it, this is not a problem that lends itself to charity walks or ribbon pins.

Tell somebody you have breast cancer or MS or tennis elbow and you get some sympathy. Tell somebody your vagina feels like it's on fire and you get...well...I'm not even sure because I have yet to just tell the truth when somebody at work asks me how I'm doing.

I'm not counting on pledge forms for an annual, "Charity Walk for People With Inexplicably Painful Vaginas," so I'm having to look for help on my own. (Although if this walk were to happen - what colour would the T-shirts be?)

There are several theories as to why I'm experiencing these difficulties, but each theory ends with the doctor shrugging his or her shoulders as if to say, "I'm as stumped as you are. Glad it's you and not me honey."

The most popular theory involves my pubic symphysis bone having separated, causing nerve damage and injury to the surrounding soft tissue. This is a great theory, but nobody can tell me what to do about it. Now that my bone has separated...should it try counselling? How will my pubic bone divide the assets? Who gets the house? And for the love of God - what now??

I spent more than $200 on a chiropractor hoping that if my back was in place my pelvis would smarten up and get back together. I spent an additional $35 on a torturous belt I was to wear every hour of every day.

The belt was to be cinched tight around my lower hips, with rubber pieces on either side ensuring I didn't move. The chiropractor assured me the belt could not be seen underneath my clothes, as she had to wear one after the birth of her ninth child or whatever. She may have less than nine children but I had stopped paying attention when I realized I couldn't sit down properly in the belt.

My chiropractor is a size zero, despite having 17 children or whatever. I'm sure the belt did not show under her clothes because she has no actual flesh. I, on the other hand, am slightly more well-endowed in the pudge department. Having this damnable belt cinched around my hips didn't just give me muffin top, it gave me Big Mac top. The cinching gave me a whole extra bun in the middle.

I threw the belt on my floor after one day of squeezing myself like a sausage link and I haven't put it back on since.

My pubic symphysis bone separating is just one theory, but no doctor is willing to refer me to an orthopedic surgeon, neurologist, gynecologist or any other kind of 'ologist' who might be able to help. At this point if a zoologist stepped forward with a theory I'd gladly sit down and listen.

The constant pain has made me tired, and very, very irritable. And I mean more irritable than usual. The uncertainty surrounding what the problem is has made me fearful and anxious and the frustration after having confounded so many supposedly medical professionals has made me bitter...but as always, there's a silver lining.

I've been told I need to avoid sex. Sex makes the pain worse, and so certain positions should be avoided if I'm to try it at all. This isn't the silver lining. This is not turning out to be difficult, but it's not the bright spot in an otherwise dark little trip.

The bright spot came when the last doctor I saw suggested that from now on if I want to be with a guy he just has to be good at oral sex. In case I was unaware, she went on to explain that a lot of women prefer it anyway, so for me it's my best option.

This is still not the silver lining. Oral sex has never been what gets me out of bed in the morning, but if I have to look on the bright side it's what I'm going to get to inscribe on a MedicAlert bracelet should this continue.

Never mind penicillin allergy or diabetes - if I'm to be revived off the floor then the instructions as to what to do with me are going to be much more explicit.