Silver Medal

I just finished writing my fourth post from the last few weeks and unfortunately, because 'we got it like that', my husband was able to talk me down from publishing it. Again. I have been strung so tight lately with stress from situations I have no control over. Stress from situations I've had to deal with personally and stress from worrying over other people’s situations. Needless to say, the last four posts I've written have been bitter and straight-up opinionated on said situations that I have no say in whatsoever. So until I’m a famous author and can get paid for officially offending people, I’ll keep my posts sugary-sweet. Regardless of how I’m dying inside to let out all my thoughts. 

Why do men have such an emotional attachment to football? I mean, I’m obsessed with books, and while yes, I get caught up in characters that I wish were in real-life, I don’t pretend to know them personally. For a week now, my husband has been in a constant state of depression because of Aaron Rodger’s injury and inability to play for the next three weeks. When I say depression, I mean, almost actual tears shed. We've lost four pregnancies and have dwindling hope for a successful one I’m the only one in the relationship who has ugly-cried. Rodgers goes down and we are ready to spend our next paychecks on airfare to Green Bay to support Aaron in his time of healing. It’s not depression anymore. It’s daggone emotional cancer.

Mike sleeps literally twelve hours every night and will set Rudy on fire if the poor dog needs to go out before said hours are up. Yet, he’s up at the crack of Christmas to check his phone for notifications from the Packers on the return of Aaron. I feel like he has used his policeman resources to stalk the man’s doctor’s contact info so he can be reached personally on Aaron’s status. I can’t make this stuff up, people.

Ironically, my husband’s obsession with football played an integral part in how our relationship started in the first place. In 2007, I was working as a front desk clerk at a hotel in town. Mike was a police officer for the town. Because we were the only place open later at night (other than gas stations), the cops would come in and hang out in the lobby. It wasn't uncommon for a select few to come hang out with me nightly until my shift was over. On a Friday night, I stopped by the hotel after a class I had just to see what was going on. (I’m not lying when I say that working at a hotel was the best job ever, so much that I wanted to hang out there even when I wasn't working.) Back then, I drove a new GT Mustang. I parked it in the same spot every day, which was pretty much at the entrance. That particular night, I hung out inside for a while then came out only to realize a K-9 police car had me blocked in. One of my frequent cop visitors (the non-K-9) was parked next to it. I made my way over and was basically “shootin’ the shit” with the cop I knew when I noticed the K-9 cop’s uniform. It was different from the other cops’, like a tactical outfit instead of the dressy one. I said to the K-9 guy and my future husband, “Why is your uniform different from everyone else’s?” and he replied in what I can only describe in a "jerk voice" something a total jerk would say. Ugh. Jerk. Too bad I can't remember what his actual line was. I stood outside of his car, awkwardly, and tried to hang with the conversation.

This K-9 cop was sarcastic, like, over-the-top with the sarcasm, yet I couldn’t help trying to check inside his car for glimpses of his left hand for a ring. I’d always heard his name and even knew he used to work with my mom at the same hotel, but I couldn’t drudge up any current info on him in my brain. And obviously, I'm a girl, and it's in our DNA to be attracted to well...jerks. So the next day at work, I did what any self-respecting female in 2007 would do when she was interested in a man. I My-Space stalked him. Low and behold, I had an email waiting for me when I signed into my account.

The email was a one-liner. “When can I drive your car?” What a jerk. I replied, “When I can drive yours" (meaning the police one). We basically bantered back and forth like this over the next few days. Since the Super Bowl was quickly approaching, one of us came up with the idea that we’d make a bet. If the Colts won, Mike got to drive my car for an entire day. If the Bears won, um, I actually don’t remember even having a prize, so obviously I didn't have much stake in the game. Peyton won and thus, Mike did too. I was school girl giddy the day we planned to meet. Mike says all he remembers was wanting to drive my car...I met him and he drove me to Raleigh for our first official date. I think I said three whole sentences the entire afternoon/night. If you know me, you know it would take a zombie apocalypse to make me shut up for five minutes, therefore, it can be said I wasn't myself that day. I was insanely nervous. He is a smoker, so I think at some point I even tried to smoke a cigarette to be cool like him, but that worked out horribly because I didn't inhale and basically wasted a cig from his pac--which he was obviously not a fan of.

From his emails, I knew he was intelligent because there were hardly any grammar and spelling errors. Aside from teeth, that’s my thing. We spent most of the evening together, silently, and ended the night with not so much as a peck on the lips, and I mean the dry kind that you give your granny. I liked him, but our age difference worried me. He says to this day that he wasn't going to contact me after that date because of how snobby I was. I had a court date for a speeding ticket the following week on Valentine’s Day and I think he texted me to see how it went. I was on another date that night and after that date was over, I texted (is this even the correct tense of "text?!") Mike back and we haven’t STOPPED talking since then. He may not have gotten me to say a word on our first date, but I can promise you, he relishes every opportunity to get me to be quiet now.

I guess this is why I take this unhealthy attachment to a football team and in particularly, a star quarterback, in stride. When the going gets tough for us, (and that's quite frequent) at least we still have each other--baby or not. If it wasn't for a stupid bet on a team, I’d never be where I am today with the person who has helped shape me into what kind of person I am...which is clearly a silver medal to the thirty-something, broken-down quarterback for the Green Bay Packers.  

Meerkatted

Sometimes I feel like I'm sitting cross-legged in the middle of a field smack in the center of a tornado brewing around me. My mind has been trapped in this stationary position the past two months and so often I can literally see the world flying past me. Since I've been MIA for the past week or so, I'll backtrack a little and catch you up to speed...or shall I say...get Kristin connected.

 

Let me start by saying if my loss of pregnancies have been competing with each other in the "Which One of Us Can Make Her Have Unbearable Pain the Most", Number 4 takes the W, hands-slap-down. (Side note: since all 4 haven't technically been "miscarriages", I like to be fancy and call them "My Loss of Pregnancies".) Two weeks ago, I kept having majorly serious pain in my lower right side--no blood, though. This was very different from the first 3 because of the location of my pain. Everything I read screamed "tubular pregnancy" so after the third day of not being able to stand up straight, we went to the ER. Per usual, my stay at Johnston-Willis was top notch yet inconclusive. It was actually pretty fantastic because we had a room with an actual DOOR this time. Mike and I agreed it was only because I had my "Miscarriage Frequent Flyer Card" with us so they went ahead with the upgrade. After being sent home for a few days and multiple trips to the hoo-haa doctor with no progressing pregnancy showing in the uterus--but my hormome levels still shooting up--I decided I couldn't take the pain anymore. Plus, I had started bleeding and it was ridiculously gross. A week after my first trip to the ER, I found myself curled up in my bed in excruciating pain, contemplating a second trip. I'm used to miscarrying so the pain's usually "wham, bam, thank you ma'am" then gone. (Much like the situation that got me where I was in the first place...whomp, whommmmp.) This pain though, was like "wham, bam, thank you ma'am, I think I'll stay and chat awhile".

 

Bless my man's heart, I knew I couldn't call him home from work because of this mess again because let's face facts, the poor man had missed work a month earlier because his mom had a stroke and he'd already missed the week before because his wife was potentially miscarrying (but apparently I like to fake myself out...one day I'm pregnant...one day I'm not). So I did what any young adult would do when desperate times call for desperate measures: I called my mommy. An hour later, the doorbell rang at my house and, to my utter surprise, there was Mama, Lynn, and Ryann waiting to haul me away. I knew, I KNEW! the minute I opened that door that I would be completely and totally distracted from the pain (both physical and emotional) that I was going through because those 3 were with me.

 

Mama went to the back with me and after being stuck, IV'd, questioned, yada yada yada, I was finally able to focus. I wasn't allowed up to that point to take anything for pain except TYLENOL (which is pretty much the equivalent of poppin' gummy bears to me) but my nurse brings me a shot a straight morphine almost immediately. HOLLA. Even though my room the second time around only had curtains, they punched my MFF card and upgraded the painkillers from the week before. An ultrasound tech comes to take me away. Once I get to the room where I have to show my cookah (for the umpteenth time to some random person who is not my husband in the last week), I realize that I need new panties. Like, yesterday. I get back to my ER room and I tell Mama to text Lynn so they can go get me some 'draws. In between watching Modern Family on the mini TV and scoping out the paramedics/firemen delivering patients (by the way, TOTAL waster of time!), Ryann sends Mama a text that says "we're gonna head over to Broad Street". I meerkatted out of the bed from a flat position. (See below if you don't get the reference). They weren't fooling anybody. If you go to Broad Street from Midlothian in my family...you are going for one reason and one reason only. KRISPY. KREME. Those heffas! I made Mama relay a text that said something along the lines of "oh $3!! no, give me another shot and I'll be good to go". See, it doesn't take much to get me motivated.

 

Shortly after, my ultrasound results came back and I was pretty much just given a boatload of pain meds to help me deal. Basically, after a quick jaunt in the hospital for the second time with a diagnosis of, "you had an ectopic pregnancy, it's going to hurt, you're not going to die", we head to the parking lot. I settle in and Lynn says, "So what am I doing walking around with underwear in my pocket?" We all start laughing until I turn around and look at her in the backseat. I am a big fan of boy shorts so that's what I requested they get me from wherever they were going. I would've worn $1 panties from Dollar General at that point, so when I gazed upon THE most random item of women's lingerie on the planet, I lost my bearings and laughed hysterically, ignoring all the cramps, soreness, and shooting pains coming from down under. I don't think I've even heard the name "Ninja Turtles" since I 1991, much less seen their faces sprawled out all over the piece of bikinis I was going to have to slip on.

 

They are truly classics and I wish I didn't have to use them that day or I would've framed them. They remind me that no matter how low I find myself, I always, always, have family to reach down into the rock bottom where I'm at and pull me back out. Thank you, Ninja Turtles. And thank you, purchasers of said Ninja Turtles, for not letting me take residence in the place where my mind has so often found itself lately.

 

 

 

 

 

4

The title of this post isn't one I wanted to ever have to name. I starting writing this several days ago but waited to publish it. I've deleted and changed my words so many times because my thoughts keep changing and even I can't keep up with the jumbled mess that is currently my brain. I've gotten flack because I haven't posted in a few weeks and here's the reason: my readers are my favorite people, even the ones I don't know. I can share whatever I want and I don't feel like I'm being judged about any of it. I can tell you my secrets and my fears and my funnies. I guess the reason I couldn't write for you lately is because I couldn't share the secret that I was pregnant. By now, the cat's out of the bag and I have to share my newest secret...I had an ectopic pregnancy and had it terminated today for the sole purpose of saving my own life.

I feel like each time has presented a harder pill to swallow. We are literally up to elephant-tranquilizer-sized pills with this one. I'm completely dumbfounded with myself. My doctors are dumbfounded. My uterus is apparently dumbfounded that Mike's lazy-ass sperm couldn't even make it to where it was supposed to be. I've tried to write about this over the last few days but I'm tired of trying to be funny and optimistic. I'm tired of reading "have faith" quotes to boost my spirits. Every time has taken a little bit of my faith from me and if that makes me a bad Christian, then so be it. I mean, I have faith that every morning we'll get a fog delay for school but reality says (as I pull into the parking lot and walk into the building at 7:45 every day) "it ain't happening". Some small part of me, buried way in the back it seems, still believes there is a chance at having a baby. But the reality is this has happened 4 times in the past 2 years and it is certainly NOT a coincidence each time. Reality is that I finally have to wrap my head around the idea that I may not be able to have a child. Honestly, the fact that the Redskin's record (1-3) is better than mine (0-4), is frightening.

Regardless of my morbid, sappy words here, I am trying to handle this situation the best way I know how. I get out of bed to function and at the end of the day, I'm thankful that I made it through. I put on a brave front and I literally tell myself every second "your faith is greater than your fear". If I can say it enough maybe I'll actually whole-heartedly believe it. I hate that I make people walk on egg-shells around me. I know I'm faking most of the time here lately, but faking it is making me get through this. Treat me like I'm the same person--I promise it's the best medicine for me!! We have tough decisions ahead of us--namely whether or not we want to continue to try. I realize that I'm only 28 and have years ahead of me, but how many more miscarriages do those years entail? Is it really worth it--or even at this point after this one, is it worth me risking my health?

Arrrrgggg I just want to lay in my bed and eat KitKats and Nerds and chips and load up on whatever the medicine my nurse at the ER the other day gave me which was appropriately called "Heroine's 2nd Cousin". Yes. THAT good. There is a video of the influences of this medicine on yours truly that my other half possesses and maybe if you ask nicely, he'll share it with you. It's Tosh.O worthy. Just don't ever let me know you watched it. Every fiber of my being wants to shut out the world but I'm too stubborn to actually let that happen. I'll get up in the morning and I'll go through the motions because that's what I HAVE to make myself do. I'll fake it til I make it--and in this case, perhaps one day I'll actually make a baby.

Kristin Blanks

I am so proud of myself, y'all, I could just spit! First of all, let me be clear that I'm not one of those annoying runner people (no offense to my MANY associates who run daily) and am bragging. Not at all. 'Running' and 'Kristin Nicole Tanner Peebles' don't even belong in the same article, much less same paragraph or sentence. Since I've been a resident of Beaver Creek the past week, I've only been able to exercise for about 30 minutes. I was averaging my daily walk at 3.8 miles or about an hour, so I felt like dropping down to only 30 minutes was a total waste of my time. (I mean, it wasn't, since I was sweating and panting and gasping for air even in the shortened time.) But I decided that I should try to push myself a little harder since everybody I talk to seemed to be doing the same. Can't have everybody getting skinnier than me now can we? Okay, so the first night I decided to jog/walk/walk/jog/walk/walk. I've done a little more everyday and tonight I finally made it around the pond AT MAXIMUM JOGGING POWER which is pretty much the same speed it would take a grasshopper to hop around it. I did a 12 minute mile!!!!!!!!!!!!! I know my fellow athletes are busting out laughing at their screen as they are re-reading that, but it's so true. And it's so awesome. For me. In high school I did about a 10.5 mile and that was considered the fat girl pace...and I wasn't fat in high school. I just liked to hang out in the back to socialize. Which totally prepared me for real-life. Take notice that I always sit in the back at church or at events, etc. Back pew people are always the fun ones.

 

Things have been piling up for about a month now and it actually felt fantastic to sweat all my issues out. I still have a boat-load of issues, but they aren't as heavy as they were yesterday. My jogging was also supplemented tonight by a brief kick-boxing stunt. There are several bridges I pass on the trail and earlier it rained. I basically knew what I was setting myself up for, but I did it anyway. It was the perfect atmosphere for an invasion. An invasion of frogs, that is. My students know we don't use the 2 'F' words in class--'frizzy' or 'frogs'. And yes, I realize I teach science. I just choose not to teach anything close to the species. I DESPISE--let me repeat--DESPISE frogs. I can't handle them in any capacity and I will flip the flup out when one sneaks up on me.

 

Tonight I passed 2 bridges at a jog then came upon the third which is directly over the water. My feet were pounding on the grass and as I approached, I could see the bushes shaking just slightly. The hairs on my arms stood straight up. I always know they are around me, but like people who eat near me who smack their lips when they eat, I use tunnel vision and focus on getting myself out of the situation.

 

I ran a little faster. My right foot hit the bridge and 2 frogs simultaneously jumped at the same time across the planks and into the water. It was like they planned it; it was totally synchronized. I don't remember much, but I was able to contain my yell. I'm living at Beaver Creek where the average age is 78. These people wouldn't have been able to handle my horror-flick-ready scream down by the pond. I know at that point my left foot never touched the bridge. I'd like to think I was suspended in the air and just floated across it, never having my precious toes within an inch of those tiny bastards, but ninja-punching ensued because I'm pretty sure I have a torn muscle in my shoulder from it. I was instantly taken back to 2001 in the middle of a Billy Blanks Tae-Bo episode. I turned full-circle, kicked out, punched out, jabbed, and upper-cutted, all the while I'm positive there was a row of amphibians on the stump by the water eating popcorn and enjoying the entertainment.

 

I hauled tail up the hill from the bridge and never stopped. You may be secretly making fun of my 12 minutes, but those 12 minutes were hard-earned and I'm dang proud. Tonight was a lesson. I didn't exactly face my fears, but it's obvious somebody was trying to tell me something. As the British say, I've been shit lately. My successful run was a metaphor for how things are going, and that's just it--they ARE going. My fears and bad things keep popping out in front of me and I have tiny freak-outs, but I keep going. It's all I or anyone can do. Keep going. Whoever planned the frogs, I thank you. I'm mumbling ugly words under my breath as I say thank you, but I'm saying it. It made me feel better and it made me get through something that's difficult. Now here's a mental picture. Minus the tan. Enjoy.
 

 

 

 

 

Brain Injury Rehab

This summer I did so well with keeping up with my posts, mainly because I had no life and had hours to spare with nothing to do other than to spit words at my readers. Then school started and life as I knew it was brutally taken away. Not because I'm 'Super Teacher' and work on schoolwork at all hours once I get home from work, but because my brain is a mushy pile of gooey nonsense when I'm finally able to sit down and take a breath. Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be school teachers.

 

When I finally wrapped my head around some topics that were legitimate enough to write about last week, my organized, chaotic life tilted on its axis even more when Mike's mom had a stroke Tuesday. I love y'all, but I love her more. I had to clock out from my day job as a teacher and my night job as a writer and clock in as a nurse. Mamas don't let your babies grow up to be nurses, either. I spent everyday at MCV (except Monday, or something like that, considering I don't even know what today is...) until she came home yesterday and I'm snuggly nestled in at her condo until she's cleared to be on her own. Or until Mike drags me home. Her community is the closest thing to a Floridian retirement home I can get. All the women are ages 65 and older and all the men are gay. And then there's me--and weirdly, I fit in perfectly. It's like a jolly 'ol episode of the Golden Girls, except it's the modernized version, and the only Golden Girls around here are the 2 gay couples in the condo across the driveway. I. love. it!

 

You'll be happy to know that not only am I a certified doctor of gynecology and fertility, I'm also now a neurologist and can explain the effects of a Transient Ischemic Attack in complete detail. Who goes to medical school for decades when you can get all the information you need from Google in ten minutes? I mean, the doctors at the hospital in South Hill diagnosed my MIL with "low magnesium" and gave her fluids...meanwhile, she doesn't know who she is, where she's at, has slurred speech, and her face is droopy. C'mon man. My 10 year old students could have diagnosed her better than they did. (And no, I will not apologize to anyone who I just offended by mentioning the incredibly ignorant doctor/experience we dealt with last week. However, I will state that the CMH ER nurses went above and beyond to give her the best care!)  

 

Since we did have sense to get her to the best care we knew in the short amount of time we had, we moved her very quickly to Richmond and even though her status was a roller coaster for several hours, she improved very rapidly and eventually ended up in the "Brain Injury Rehabilitation Unit".

 

Did you know that if your brain becomes injured--from any internal or external source--you can go to rehab to fix yourself? I'd like to think 'internal' brain injuries come from the way your body handles something. I'd like to think 'external' brain injuries come from being surrounded by stupid people, or from your job. Had I known such a place existed, I would have checked myself into it years ago. (Namely around the time I decided to go into public education). There were people in the unit who didn't know who they were, who were perpetually angry, who were mentally unstable, and even thought they were somebody else. Also, these people don't stay in their assigned rooms in the unit. Oh no. They wander up and down the halls and make visitors of other brain injury patients feel extremely awkward.

 

My thoughts were, "you mean to tell me there's a place I can go to where I get to be whiny and pissed for hours at a time, and it's OKAY because I have an injured brain?" Or, "you mean to tell me there's a place I can go to where I can pretend to be somebody else for days at a time, all the while knowing exactly who I am and fake out people around me because I'm tired of being me?" UGH! Why didn't you people tell me of this magical place before now?! I guess to others a place of this nature would be considered a psych ward, annnnnnd it kinda was. One guy wore boxing gloves 24/7 (for unknown reasons) and another lady had horrible Turret's and screamed the F-bomb sporadically. And I don't mean the F-word that curly-haired people like myself use (aka FRIZZY). Another guy asked me "you gotta jacket on?" every time I passed him--which was like 7 times a day. I always wore shorts and a t-shirt, so unless 'jacket' is a code word for something else, I was assuredly surrounding by N-U-T-S.

 

In the midst of all this insanity (did I mention last week was the FIRST WEEK OF SCHOOL?!?!), I started my period. Which was my third cycle since my last fertility appointment. Which meant I was supposed to call my doctor to in for "the next step". You'd think I would've called the day I started last week but frankly, I'm tired of waiting for "the next step". It will be 2 years this October since my first miscarriage. I'm tired of waiting. I'm tired of feeling the twinge that let's me know I better get ready because the cramps are coming.  I'm tired of getting my hopes up around every 26th day of my cycle because I'm having symptoms only to be let down when I realize it's only PMS. I'm tired of recording temperatures and days and flow and ovulation and I'm tired of avoiding Facebook because if I see another baby-related post, I may just flip my lid. People have been so kind to me and they always have the same advice--"be patient" or "it will happen" or "don't stress". You're right. I know it will happen. I'm just so tired of dealing with the pain that comes along with what we're going through on top of everything else we're going through. At the end of every day, I erase the stress from my job. I erase anything that causes me worry, yet I still carry the weight of not only the question of 'WHEN we will get pregnant?' but the question "will we even be able to keep it?"  We've both suffered long enough from this and I think we are way past due for some GOOD karma, dammit.

 

People are always dealing with bones they keep locked in their closets. This is my only bone. These past few weeks have been utterly INSANE for the people around me--whether with my family, my friends, or with my coworkers. I ask you...is all the stress you're dealing with really worth it? I think you should be allowed to carry around your 1 bone.  That's it. Choose the one that's really worth worrying over and throw the rest of them to the dogs. If not, then perhaps you shall find yourself at Brain Injury Rehab. And thankfully, they have large rooms...so I'm sure you can take a friend with you when you go.

 

 

Luke, I am your father.

Today was the first day back to work for teachers and I'll go ahead and save you from hearing me moan and groan about it paragraph after paragraph by wrapping it up with one short phrase: O.M.G.

Most would think being a lazy, overeating, oversleeping, procrastinator would reach sort of a limit after a few years but I'm hear to tell you, this lazy, overeating, oversleeping, procrastinator goes above and beyond to earn that description when you give her several weeks off with no set goals to accomplish. I mean, is it wrong of me to think it's WAY too much of a task that my supervisors expect me to get up before 10am? Or expect me to wear actual make-up? Or expect me to wear a bra? Because I'm pretty sure none of the three things I just listed happened to me simultaneously since June 8th. But I did get up before 10:00 today and I did wear full-blown make-up and I did wear a bra...even though it was my flimsiest one and was a baby-step up from what an average 11-year-old girl would wear.

Aside from the excitement of a new year starting (because I'm positive somebody out there is oozing excitement, just not me. Not yet, anyway.) it was nice to see all the people I work with. I can't say it at school because it would be inappropriate, but we are the shit, in case you didn't already know. Convocation, is when alllllllll the teachers in one county get together and...do stuff. Listen, I said I got up before 10:00 but I didn't say I was alert. Anyway, there were hundreds of thousands of people (or something like that) at our building today and I'd estimate that I saw about 100 pregnant women. While at the beach this summer in every restaurant we went to, I'm pretty sure every third random woman we saw was pregnant. And they all had like 4 small kids running around them and they looked exhausted and we almost decided to check into a clinic so I could go back on birth control. I also have to be grateful that God knew what he was doing this past miscarriage because I'm Captain Cranky Pants when I'm hot and GEEZ, LOUISE--I could NOT handle being pregnant during the summer. Well, I could probably handle it but for the sake and well-being of my peers, be thankful I'm not.

 

Our doctor's set goal for us was to be pregnant by September 1. I have about 10 more days left in this cycle to find out if I am or not. If not, we go back to the fertility clinic for whatever the next step is. I turn 28 in September and while I still consider that young, my other half is 10 years older than me...so his biological clock is ticking, hehehe. If you are a religious person, I'd appreciate all prayers for a SUCCESSFUL pregnancy beginning in late September (so I'll have all next summer to whatever it is you do with newborns) and if you could add in "a GIRL, with Kristin's hair, Mike's brain's, and let Mike allow Kristin to pick the name so they don't have a kid with the name LUCAS strictly so the first words their child hears is not 'LUKE, I AM YOUR FATHER'"...that'd be fabulous. Thank you in advance.

 

Have you ever had a particular food item that you were obsessed with that abruptly stopped being produced and went away from every store you had access to? I grew up with a fire chief daddy who worked 24 on, 24 off. This meant that many times, Mama would make stuff quick and easy for supper when Daddy was working. One of the things I grew up living off of was Armour Beef Stew. It was a short, fat, little can of stew on the bottom shelf of the 'soup aisle' and it was pretty much my favorite. For whatever reason, when I was in high school, it suddenly stopped showing up in stores. Over the course of a few weeks, I talked to store managers and they suggested I contact the company because if it wasn't in demand, they would stock the stores. One phone call and one sternly written letter later...Armour Beef Stew was back and I've NE-VER had a problem finding it since.

 

It's no secret that chips are my Achilles heel. If I could pick one food to live off of for the rest of my life, I'd pick chips. But not just ANY chip...Lay's Tangy Carolina BBQ. Hello, My Name Is Kristin and I am OBSESSED with Lay's Tangy Carolina BBQ chips. The past few years, the only thing I looked forward to when I got off work was coming home and snacking on TCB's. That is, up until a few months ago I decided to go cold-turkey from my addiction for about a month. You all know how the duration of my diets go, so about a month after that, I went to the store to get a bag. Huh. They were out. I went across town to the other store. HUH. They were out too. I went to Wal-Mart. OH HELL NO, WHERE ARE MY CHIPS?! It has been since May and I can NOT find a single bag of these things anywhere. I have been to every grocery store, every sketchy convenience store, and every supercenter from here to the bottom of the Outer Banks searching for this one type. I can't find them ANYWHERE! I was finally patient enough to ask a grocery store manager a few weeks ago and he didn't know anything about it. Which leads me to my almost-arrest attack and assault situation from this past weekend.

 

I went to Food Lion and noticed a Frito Lay truck in the parking lot. The rest of my list of actual needed groceries forgotten, I high-tailed it across the parking lot to the truck. No driver. I went in the store, (and be very thankful that no small children or elderly persons was harmed in the process), and jogged across the aisles in search of a guy in a Frito Lay shirt that would be my saving grace. I made it to the milk aisle at the end of the store and turned around, only to catch the tail-end of a guy toting a Sun Chips box on his shoulder going towards the exit. I flew--I literally do not recall my feet touching the floor--to the doors and back out into the parking lot. How the police were not called by the employees is beyond me. I bustled over to the truck, but no guy!! I'm starting to sweat by this point. I scoured the parking lot and think to myself, "Ain't no way in hell am I letting this man leave without some answers". He must've gone back in the store because I've circled the truck but no sight of the man. I headed BACK in again and low and behold, the guy was standing in front of a chip display with a huge box on his shoulders. Not thinking, I immediately rushed to him and managed to get out an "EXCUSE ME!" I must've ignored all socially acceptable 'personal space' rules because he jumped and the box of chips shook. Luckily, he saved the contents and turned towards me, with a not-too-pleasant glare. I said, word-for-word, "I have been looking for my favorite chips in the whole world, Tangy Carolina BBQ, and I haven't been able to find them. Can you PAH-LEESE tell me they haven't been discontinued? I will KISS YOUR FACE if you can get them back here for me!" And yes, this was rushed because I couldn't breathe and more importantly, it was said OUT LOUD.

 

In a nutshell, homeboy recovered from his crazy-lady attack and promised to work hard for said kiss on the face. He doesn't think they stopped making them, just stopped production for our area, yada yada yada. He is taking my complaint to whoever will listen to him because they were, get this, HIS favorite too. If your world has been off-kilter because of the absence of these chips like mine has been, have no fear. I won't go down without a fight, Frito Lay. Just call a little ol' company called "Armour" and drop my name...I expect I'll have my chips and all will be right with the world in the very near future.

Big Macs & Tampons

So I've been called out (several times!) on missing a post last week. Forgive me. I was vacationing for the second time this summer at the beach. Don't be jealous...we only had like 2 full days out of 7 that were actually SUNNY. But a rainy day at the beach is better than any other day anywhere else.

You are probably intrigued by the title of today's post. And rightfully so. I'm sure your mind is grossing itself out, trying to somehow connect the two random items I've listed...and coming up with nothing short of something nauseating. Let me sidetrack you for a moment. This post is about firsts. Firsts are cemented into our brains, whether they are horrifying or slightly insignificant or off-the-radar, tingly moments in time that will make you remember everything about them in ridiculous detail.

First concert. (Michael Bolton, baby)

First celebrity crush. (Jonathan Taylor Thomas, card-carrying fan club member!)

First kiss. (who I will not name because I'm positive he's a closet Kristin Connection fan)

First car. (1999 white Mercury Cougar)

First TIME. (night AFTER junior prom. Didn't want to be totally cliché)

First job. (Victoria Public Library, summer assistant)

First alcoholic beverage. (Brandy, straight...summer of 6th grade from a Disney
                                                                                             Pocahontas glass)
FIRST grade teacher. (Sally McLaughlin)

First time your spouse said the 3 little words. (During an argument while the FIRST  
                                      Pirates of the Caribbean movie played in the background)

These are just a smidgen of the list of firsts that I so vividly remember from years ago. While most of them are slightly insignificant, (basically all except for the '3 little words' first and the Michael Bolton concert), there are 2 things missing from my list that I just recently experienced within the last two weeks. Ladies and gentlemen, I am twenty seven years old and within the last 14 days, I JUST ate my first Big Mac from McDonald's and *successfully* wore my first tampon. (Although not simultaneously). If you weren't connected to me before, then get ready to be...

The week before vacation in my house basically means we save every penny and eat dust in preparation for all the money we know we're going to spend while away. This particular week, I was in full PMS mode. After eating boiled hotdogs and macaroni and cheese for the third night in a row, Mike & I decided we'd just get fast food. This is the point in the story where you're probably judging me and my continuous battle with weight-loss by the garbage I tossed into my body the last two weeks. Judge away; the first step is admitting the problem and I long ago admitted I have an intimate relationship with the word 'chunky'.

Because we not only gamble with our cholesterol levels at McDonalds, we like to play Monopoly when it comes around. We were both looking up playing items on the menu and I said out loud, "The only sandwich I see with game pieces is the Big Mac. I've never had one before." **Cue crickets**

Since Mike thought I was the only person on the planet NOT to have eaten a Big Mac before, we decided to spend the few extra dollars and pop my Big Mac cherry. Here is my conclusion:

1. Sit at a table when eating a Big Mac.
2. Before you take it out of the box, smush it down with the palm of your hand so you're able to bite into it at one time.
3. After about the third bite, you will realize that everything and it's mama is coming out the back bun furthest away from your face. You're going to have to reconstruct.
4. If you aren't used to a hamburger that size, you probably won't finish it. However, if you do finish it, don't look at the nutritional information.
5. If you're a nosey ass like me, look up the nutritional information. It's a 550 calorie cheeseburger with 29 grams of fat and like 90000000000 mg's of sodium.
6. Call yourself a fatty when you finish the burger, but go ahead and finish the fries that came with it. Wouldn't want to waste anything.

And now for what you've really been waiting for. It's no secret in my family that I had never used a tampon before and I'm a all-pad, all-the-way, kinda girl. I've spent every summer since I can remember at our pool and using the earache excuse gets old after about the third month. Rewind to last week...our beach vacation and the arrival of Aunt Flo on the second day. Because not all the women in my family are total babies like myself, one of them had quite the stash of supplies, aka tampons in every shape, size, and color (or 'flavors' as one of the boys said when he saw the clear bag with all the assorted treats inside).

It's not that I've never tried using a tampon before. I think I was 13 and I remember, CLEARLY, being in the bathroom with my leg propped up on the toilet and hollering to my mama on the other side of the door, "I DON'T KNOW WHICH HOLE TO PUT IT IN!" Hence, the first and last time I ever tried. Also, my middle school health/gym teacher told us the story about some girl having to have emergency surgery because she went like 7 days without changing it and it got stuck and ewwwwwwwwwwwwww I can't even finish the story. That's basically the psychological reasoning behind my decision to stick strictly to pads.

Because I didn't want to punish myself the entire week by not being able to swim in our pool nor the ocean, I got a tampon from the stash and announced that I was heading into the bathroom with it. Of course, because my family is awesome (or insane), they followed me.

I'm sitting in the bathroom and I unwrap the lime green paper. I'm thinking it could easily pass as Laffy Taffy. After several unsuccessful attempts, I hear a whisper through the door. "Is everything going okay?" "NO!" I replied. Every time I shove it up into the great beyond, it's painful. So that's what I tell them. My cousin says to hold on. My aunt starts giving me words of encouragement. "You can do it!" she says. "I'm so proud of you!" I hear.

I yank it back down and I hear my cousin back at the door. She's going to give me the step-by-step. Unwrap. Check. Shove til it stops. Check. Push the plastic til it pops out. WHAT? Christ on a cracker. I had no idea just the cotton part stayed there. I thought the whole plastic thing stayed there. BAM. We're done. No wonder I had so many issues. They should really teach this process to girls in school. I'm almost 30 and didn't know how to work one.

After yells of excitement and a round of applause from outside the door, I do a hundred string-siting checks and head to the pool. Slowly.

As  I awkwardly enter the pool area, another cousin (this one a boy) yells, "She's a WOMAN now!" I ease myself into the shallow part and all I can picture in my head is a clear pitcher of water with a packet of red Kool-Aid being dumped into it. Please God, let this thing stay in.  I stay in the pool for about 30 minutes until I psych myself out and retreat to my lounge chair. The rest of the week gets easier and easier though.

Here is my conclusion:
1. Do not leave the plastic part of a tampon inside of you. It's a cool rocket toy, if you think about it. This way, you can countdown from 10 if it's awkward for you while inserting.
2. Never divulge private information to your family members. No good can come from it.
3. Wear what is comfortable to you. Don't let a tampon be your stick in the mud.
4. If wearing a tampon, it's best not to sneeze. Ever.

Again, 'd like to end this with just a small statement. Ladies and gentlemen, I am twenty seven years old and within the last 14 days, I've eaten a Big Mac and I've become a woman. Although, perhaps I should rightly rename this post with my preferences from now on, "Nuggets and Maxi Pads".