23-Steps to the Perfect Snow Day

The definition of the word 'purgatory' is defined as a condition or place of temporary punishment or suffering. I haven't been able to come up with the best word for what I've been feeling for the past year, but I read the word today and it basically nailed it for me. Okay, so, 'punishment' or 'suffering' is a little dramatic, but it wouldn't describe me if it wasn't dramatic.

 

I love old people. I've always connected better with people older than me--in school, in college, at my jobs. I lived in a classy subdivision that was basically a fancy retirement place for a month with my mother-in-law and I was in hog-heaven. I married somebody 10 years older than me. Does that make me mature for my age? Hell no. I've just always seemed to gravitate towards people who've got a decade(s) on me. That being said, I learn much from listening to them.

Something I've heard for a while now from more than one 'old' person is that the holidays bring you down as you age. I always thought, "um, are you crazy?" but after this year, I kinda get where they're coming from. From Halloween to New Year's Day, it's pretty much an adrenaline rush from the time you're old enough to recognize that holidays are special until you're settled enough to start sharing traditions with a family you created. Then, the newness sort of wears off and excitement, well, isn't really excitement anymore. Until you have kids of your own. Then the whole cycle starts repeating itself.

It never really bothered me before this year. And 'bothered' isn't the right word, but I can't seem to come up with a better one. I don't sit around pining for a child. But I find myself being a little sad because there are so many situations where I think, "this would be so much better if I had a kid". For instance, when my family gathers, there aren't any small children to entertain us anymore. So I think, "I'm the one who logically should have a child here for everybody to fawn over". Or Christmas shopping. (Shopping for my husband is pretty much equivalent to shopping for a kid, considering he got a light-up Star Wars Lightsaber Chapstick in his stocking this year, along with Batman phone cover and pajamas...) I feel like I would be so much more 'into' it if I were shopping and plotting for my children. And play dates. Lots of girls my age have kids now so they can get together and throw them into a room full of toys while they hang out and talk about parenting stuff. (Or drink adult beverages which is totally what I'd be doing if I were invited to play dates.)

 

Purgatory is where I'm stuck at. It's a place that I will eventually check out of because I'll either accept that I have the perfect family already, just the 2 of us, or I'll end up having my own brood and I'll go back and read this and think "WTF were you thinking?!" It's hard to shake the feeling of being punished when we pretty much have the ideal situation to bring a child into--both parents IN LOVE, (with each other, by the way), married, good jobs, good homes, good cars, good insurance. It's hard to accept when relationships fall apart around us then get rewarded with pregnancies that go off perfectly. It's a hard pill to swallow and it's one I've tried hard not to choke on lately. But it's happening and the only thing I can do is stay on idle in the waiting room of purgatory and wait for this chapter in my story to end.

 

Now, I'm switching over from Debbie Depression and easing up with a topic that is probably the most exciting thing for me since I was a Victoria Elementary Panther and that is a SNOW DAY. I'm sitting here whining about being punished because I don't have children and I'm missing a very important, very obvious fact punching me in the face: It's a snow day and I DON'T HAVE CHILDREN!

 

This is a 23-step guide to a girl teacher's (whose husband is on midnight shift and therefore nonexistent, has no children and no responsibilities other than her dog who fortunately is as lazy as she is and requires only to be taken down the steps to tinkle twice a day) snow day.

 

1. Go to a fitness class the night before the snow day for the first time in a year so that you're so sore you can do nothing, I mean NOTHING, without it causing physical pain. Pain so great, it takes 20 minutes to lower yourself down on the toilet.

 

2. Wake up whenever you want to. 10:30 is a good midmorning time because you can move from the bed to the sofa until 12:00 which everybody knows is the universal time to eat lunch.

 

3. Download samples of books on the Kindle you want to read. Read samples, pick the best, and read it. IN ONE SITTING.

 

4. Do a load of laundry.

 

5. If your eyes start watering from reading, take a break to Pinterest food that looks good. Walk into the kitchen and realize you have nothing but expired cheese slices in the fridge. Unpin all the food that looks good and order something from town. Send 15 inappropriate pins that you can't publically pin to your board because people will judge you to one of your BFFs. View all the ones she sent you an hour earlier.

 

6. Check out the DVR and find shows you want to rewatch. Realize that you have no more Breaking Bad episodes to see because you watched all 5 seasons in 2 days over Christmas break. Let the sadness seep back in for approximately 5 minutes. (It was THAT good, it deserves to be mourned!) Realize you also have all seasons of "The Mindy Project" recorded. Watch your favorite episodes, especially the ones with Cliff in them because you need him to star as the male character yuppie boy in the book you're going to read next from previous sample list.

 

7. Get attached to Mindy Kaling in a weird, long-lost sisterly way and get her book from upstairs. Reread your favorite chapters and try to be inspired to write on your own book. Sit down to write in your book and realize you are still facing a brick wall and can't think. Get aggravated and go back to Pinterest.

 

8. Search "Charlie Hunnam" and drool for 10 minutes.

 

9. Decide to Netflix Sons of Anarchy. Realize it's going to take at least a week to watch all seasons, so go to YouTube and search "Charlie Hunnam". Find the clip that has basically all his scenes, you know, those scenes.

 

10. Read second book. Imagine the new male character as not-so yuppie Charlie.

 

10. Practice writing your name in the dust on the coffee table in the living room.

 

11. Go get the duster, then decide, you'll do that later.

 

12. Check Facebook to see if the next day is also cancelled.

 

13. Text pictures of your road that's covered in a teeny tiny patch of ice and send it to your coworkers declaring you can't get to work in the morning because of the road conditions, even though you literally live 2 minutes from your job.

 

14. Realize the washer stopped 8 hours ago. Move them to the dryer.

 

15. Eat dinner.

 

16. Vacuum one room. (Let's not get carried away and do more than that.)

 

17. Read texts from coworkers that say school is cancelled again tomorrow.

 

18. Go get laundry from dryer, but half-way there, decide you can do that tomorrow.

 

19. Start new book. Realize your eyes are red and puffy from all the electronics. Put Kindle on charger.

 

20. Wrap up and take the dog outside. Don't actually go off the porch. Can't do steps without screaming in excruciating pain. Watch dog slip on ice-covered steps and tumble down the rest of them. Have mini-panic attack, but also realize you can't stop laughing and wish you could've recorded it. Let dog wander and do his business. Go pick up dog from the ground because he refuses to come back up them.

 

21. Change pajamas. Settle back on the sofa. Until your eyes droop so much you head to bed.

 

22. Say your prayers, give thanks for the family you DO have, for Pinterest, and for living in the south; therefore dealing with a dusting of snow that shuts down the educational system in which you chose your profession. Apologize for whining about purgatory.

 

23. Repeat steps 1-22 the next day.

For those of you who appreciate my visuals:

Yuppie male lead:

 
Not-so yuppie male lead:

 

 

 

Peace Sign, Kissy-Face

I just sat down and as I was booting up the computer, I had to look around for a strange sound coming from the sofa in my living room. Seconds later, I discover it's not coming from anything other than my fat rear because I'M BREATHING LIKE A 70-YEAR-OLD-SMOKER! I had to go upstairs twice then lug my week's worth of laundry across the house and here I am, creeping myself out with my weirdo heavy breathing episode. Which is seriously the cherry on top of my "That's it! I'm freaking going to exercise next week!" declaration from yesterday.

I had an appointment with a surgeon who confirmed that I have quite the gall stone chillin' in my gall blatter (which is apparently the yoga mat of the upper intestine area...lays around, not really serving any type of purpose.) Luckily, if I can tolerate any flare-ups between now and then, I'll have a simple procedure in March and he'll just yank that thang right on out. 

 

They call me back and the sweetest little old lady takes me straight to the scale. I get on and close my eyes and look away, then avoid what she writes down because hey, if you don't see it and don't hear it, it's not there, right? Well, technically, she didn't tell me a number but she did recommend a website that shows the American Heart Association Diet and Nutritional yada yada yada. Then she shows me a chart comparing my height and weight (like I don't know) and points to my height (which I lied about by 2 inches) and starts to explain what BMI is, all the while I'm mentally going, "O-FREAKING-KAY! JEESUZ! I'LL EAT SMARTER AND EXERCISE, DAMMIT! AHHHH! Get outta my FACE!!!!!"

 

So I'm doing it. I'm going back to classes starting Monday morning at 5 o'frickin' AM and I don't want to talk anymore about it. I can't start running because I can't kid myself into thinking I'm a runner. Let's be honest. If I'm running, the only reason for that action is because I've illegally maneuvered myself on the red carpet of the Golden Globes and I've just inappropriately grabbed Chris Hemsworth and now security is chasing me. 

The worst thing a person on a diet can do is talk about their diet so I'm not. My blog won't be about getting fit and in shape because my inner slob won't allow it. Don't ask me how it's going and if you're there, don't ask me during class a thousand times if I'm okay. No I'm not okay. I have to get up at the ass-crack of Jehovah and I have to start shaving my legs. It's laundry night and I have on 10-year-old booty shorts that barely contain said booty with knock-off Ugg boots and I can't tell where the fur from the boots begins and where my shin hair ends. I'm going to be grumpy and I'm going to be moving slow. Don't talk to me unless you're going to fake compliment me on my slendering appearance. Deal? Deal. 

 

Don't zoom in. I promise you, it won't be specks on your screen. It's probably my hair.

After my inner melt-down with the nurse, I get put into this tiny room to wait 20 minutes for the doctor. What did people do before smart phones when they had to wait during times like that? There's only so much picking at your nails you can manage. I adjusted my posture 100 times because I've never seen this doctor before so what if he's hot? I don't want him to walk in and see me slouchy with bad posture. I started fidgeting with the new bangs I got the day before but I didn't have a mirror so I couldn't tell if they were strategically placed on my forehead in the cute, Zooey Deschanel kinda way or if they were the hot mess, Nicole Kidman broom-sticks.

 

I pull out my phone which I was trying not to use because I didn't want his first impression of me to be "she's one of those people who constantly have their phones although she isn't really doing anything she just wants me to think she's so important" and I start angling the blank screen so I can see my forehead. But I can't see because of a shadow so I do what every 14-year-old with a smart phone would do and that's turn on the camera and start taking selfies. And even though I make fun of them relentlessly, I pucker and make faces with my arm jacked awkwardly in the air and click away. Annnnd then enters the doctor.

 

He's super cute. And he's like, 60. With a bow-tie. Yes, this is seriously him.

I turn fifty shades of red and toss the phone in my bag. We immediately jump right into conversation. I seem to have a way with doctors. Especially the avuncular ones. (BAM! Word of the week: a-vun-cu-lar. Of or relating to an uncle. You're welcome.) Come to find out, the cute old lady nurse's husband is an orthodontist in Richmond and is BFF's with my oral surgeon who did my jaw surgery. They have dinner on the reg. And my doctor, Uncle Bow-tie, is a huge fan of my retired family doctor, Dr. Bridgeforth from itty-bitty Victoria. So yes, spoiler alert! I'm pretty much best friends with every doctor in the Greater Richmond area. And they can pretty much compare notes on me from the top of my head to the tips of my...cookah. In fact, I'd like to think that my OB-GYN, my fertility specialist, my 70-year-old retired PCP, my orthodontist, my oral surgeon, and my newly acquired general surgeon are all sitting around a table at Carrabba's tonight discussing yours truly. In fact, this could be a completely legit scenario, except they've all made BANK off me so they're probably doing Ruth's Chris instead.

 

Gah! At least with all this other stuff going on, I've had no time to think about lack of babies. In fact, this long weekend should be the start of month 3, post-ectopic, which means my system should be cleared out and ready to get back to work. And maybe, once I have my gallbladder removed, doctors will find a long-lost connection between miscarriages and gallstones and all my problems will be solved! Until then, enjoy the following picture. Until I have a kid and other than the 700 pictures of Rudy I share on Instagram when I'm bored, this is pretty much happening on a regular basis. Even in doctor's offices!

 

 

 

 

A Series of Unfortunate Events

At Longwood I had this really quirky guy that was a Professor in the English Department and the class I was enrolled in was called "Teaching Children's and YA Literature". Our entire syllabus consisted of reading a variety of suggested books, commenting on them, then creating lessons using said books. It was basically a book club using kid lit. Which is totally right up my alley. One of the worst critiques I remember presenting was on Lemony Snickett's books, "A Series of Unfortunate Events". For my class, it was a love it or hate it series and I was the ring leader of the "hate fans". What kid wanted to read about the depressing lives of orphans?

 

I was 20 while attending that class. I lived at home and even though I also worked full-time, life was pretty much handed to me on a glistening, shiny, silver platter. Now, as a 28 year old teacher, I'm finally beginning to see the glistening, shiny, silver linings that come from appreciating a book series that eight years ago I despised. I'm a walking, talking, live version of a character from A Series of Unfortunate Events. I could basically have Jennifer Lawrence play me in a movie about my Unfortunate Events. I'm pretty much Oscar-award entertaining.

 

Since it's January, I officially declared myself as resolutionless. Historically, I'm a take-the-situation-as-it-is kind of girl. Especially situations I have no control over. This being the case, there's no need to declare dramatically what I'm going to change this year because, also historically, things are going to do what they want anyway. Hence what has happened to me this week.

 

For weeks, I've been working up to a somewhat sort of motivation to exercise. This is a long process. It usually involves me looking at old pictures of my skinny self. Then pinning 150 diet ideas on pinterest. Then talking about exercising with my friends and coworkers. Then realizing I have no cute exercise clothes so I squash thoughts of publically exercising. Then I think about how I can't exercise alone because I won't hold myself accountable, just like I can't go to the bathroom in public alone because I don't wash my hands after I tinkle unless somebody is there to judge me. Hey, that's what tiny Bath & Body Works germ-x is for. Annnnnnd I'm back to square one.

 

Up until I was a card-carrying recurrent miscarriager, I considered myself a pretty healthy person. Then it's alllll down hill from there, apparently. I don't consider myself a hypochondriac. I'm more like a person who has a medical flare for the dramatics. My very first "real" gynecologist papsmear at age 19 resulted in a surgery the very next week because I had an ovarian cyst that was about to bust. I couldn't just have braces ONCE, I had to have them twice, the second occurring at age 25 along with a side dose of 2 broken jaws. When I try to get pregnant like a normal 26 year old, I end up embarking on this road of insanity that has been 4 miscarriages. At 27, having never had a broken bone (other than jaws but they don't count because I don't have a cool story about how they got broken) I fall out of a chair and land on my elbow and have to wear a sling and wrap for weeks on end (and THERE'S the cool story to which I was referring). And more recently,  at 28, my first bout of heartburn the other night results in a diagnosis of gallstones that have to be removed ASAP. See, medical dramatics!

 

Gallstones? What am I? 60? At 3:00am the other night I'm thinking I'm having a heart attack while pacing the living room. I'm like, looking around the house, trying to mentally give away my stuff to people I'm about to leave behind. I'm thinking that I'll never get the chance to Blindside a kid. And I don't mean physically hit them, I mean, if it comes down to it and we have to adopt, I'm dying my hair blonde, going to the ghetto, and finding the best kid-athlete orphan I can find and Sandra Bullocking him. Seriousness was going down at my house Sunday night, people.

 

So, alas, it has come to my attention that the disaster that was 2013 for Mike and I will also now dribble over onto 2014. I'm meeting with a surgeon next week to discuss options, and praying that another attack won't happen between now and then because I'm down to deciding who gets the Jonathan Taylor Thomas autographed glossy photo and seasons 1-3 of Jersey Shore. The struggle is real.

It'll get better, they said. Make lemonade, they said. Well, since all the lemonade in my world is bitter right now, I guess the best thing I can do is look back on the sour parts and toss a little sugar on them. After all, the series "A Series of Unfortunate Events" (aptly named, 'The Complete Wreck' <---- can I get this monogrammed on all my shirts?!) eventually, ended.