Naaaasowenyaaaamamabeseebabah

Have you ever had a moment when you see yourself on video/in pictures and you go, "Who. is. THAT?" while turning your nose up?  I mean, there are occasions where the question "Who. is. THAT?" is meant in a very good way, such as when you are at the doctor's office and you see a particularly attractive member of the opposite sex...and you adjust your phone like you're playing a game or looking at something awkwardly on the screen when really you're taking a Snap of said person and sending it to your girlfriends. Yeah, I don't mean that kind. 

Earlier today, I tried showing my class a video of them performing at a program we had last week. So I pull up the clip and hit "start" on my gigantic Promethean screen that even Stevie Wonder could see from the back of the classroom and low and behold, the first person I see is myself...from the back. LAWWWWWWdamurcy. There I sat, on the front row of the audience, in front of God and errrrbody. I'm cringing at myself then all of sudden, the digital version of me hops up on the stage to adjust a mic and awww nawww...I jumped up from the desk I was watching it from and hit "X" on the computer screen. I couldn't take it!

I've been regularly exercising since mid-January. I've been balls-to-the-wall dieting and exercising since April 1. I mean, after the first day, I was like "Okay, why can't I fit into single digits jeans yet?" It's been all downhill since then.

The ONLY way I've been able to stick to my guns through this devastating period of my life is that all my close friends and co-workers are drop-dead-Fred serious about it with me. It's like my own personal chubster-Kristin therapy called, "Over-Eaters-Anonymous". It's working. I'm not happy about it. But it's working. When my walking PIC (partner in crime) and I are straight ballin' through our neighborhoods, it's like the real-life version of The Lion King's Timon and Pumba. She's like 5'10 and I'm like 5'3, so she's basically the tall skinny one and I'm basically, you guessed it, a freakin' wart hog with stubby legs. And if you don't believe me, then you obviously weren't sitting behind me at the program last week!!!!!!! Ba-da-bum.

Seriously, our nightly walking/jogging/dying jaunts are basically the script of the entire Lion King movie. (Check out the title of this post! Now do you get it?!) New life is born (we are the beginner runners). Scar is a villain (the  skinny bitch that passes us every night completely smokin' us is pure evil, I'm sure). Rafiki is KA-razy (We ran into a recently escaped Schizophrenic patient while walking behind the hospital a few weeks ago and I had to call 911 to save us.) The stampede. (is what we sound like 30 seconds into our jog). The Elephant Graveyard (is what I feel like I should be buried in 2 minutes, 30 seconds into our jog.) The Watering Hole (should I have this much spit in my mouth when I run? It's disgusting, really.) The song, "Be Prepared" (is what somebody should've told me about wearing cheeky underwear while working out. I've got a crick in my neck from turning around behind me while running to check and be sure nobody is there so I can pull out the chronic wedgie I can't shake. Is it socially acceptable to go commando while exercising? If it's not, can somebody help a sistah out and let me know what type I should be wearing?)

I moan and groan about it but I'm still doing it. After all, it's what I do in between pregnancies it seems. I work out til I get pregnant. I stop for a few weeks because I'm scared to move. I miscarry. Wait a few weeks to get my body back to normal. Then start all over again. And THAT, Sir Elton John, is the Circle of Life. At least my life, that is.

The whole baby thing has been pushed to the back of my mind for the most part until there's a wave of new babies or new pregnancy announcements (which happens every few months) I try REEEALLY hard not to allow myself to get upset about it when I hear a bunch of news. I'm stronger than that, I tell myself. Sometimes, just because I'm human, I let myself become overwhelmed with emotions about it (in the privacy of my own home) because I feel like I'm getting left behind. Does that make sense? It's like, people older than me are having babies. People younger than me are having babies. All the people I used to connect with over NOT being able to have babies have all had babies...it's just sad for me sometimes because I'm the one NOT having them.

I have to separate myself from society though. It's often hard to make myself realize that I shouldn't be upset over not having a child because it's what everybody else is doing. You shouldn't get married because "it's what everybody else is doing". You shouldn't get a salad at a restaurant because "it's what everybody else is doing". I want a child because I want to be able to leave a legacy behind. I want to see my quirkiness in a mini-human that the person I love the most and I made. I hope that's why people have babies in the first place. I'm just adjusting to swallowing the pill that is the fact that maybe I'll have to leave a different kind of legacy behind other than a child. And that's okay. Perhaps writing professionally is the road I'm taking to leaving a legacy rather than making another person. That's a basket I should be putting all my eggs into instead of letting tears fall over nonsense that I can't control.

My legs are throbbing and I'm pretty sure I won't be able to get out of the chair I'm sitting in. I'm heading to bed 'cos in keeping with my theme, this lion needs to sleep tonight. Until next time, Hakuna Matata, my friends.

 

(Pumba's face below is what mine looked like this morning when I saw myself on tape. Classic.)

 

Touche (imagine that word with the accent mark)

Okay, so a million things are happening in my brain right now. I have the perfect post for tonight, and I've known all afternoon what I wanted to title tonight's story, but then I logged in and saw that I've now reached over 10,000 views and I'm flipping OUT, and I'm also having to Google in another tab how to put the accent mark over the word touché. Which totally makes me a 'douche'. (<----- Keyboard totally autocorrected the touché for me, but all other words that have accent marks are apparently not good enough. How dare they!)

 

The title for this post is just one word: touché. However, in the section where I have to type the title, it won't autocorrect the accent mark, hence the title I had to use. Moving on. I'm over my snit.

 

This past Saturday, Mike and I were going out of town for dinner. Per usual, I started getting ready an hour and a half before we were supposed to leave. Needless to say, An hour and forty-five minutes after the time I started getting ready, I was walking out the door. Only to find Mike sitting in the car, with it ON, waiting for me.

 

He didn't say anything, but like everything in life, actions speak louder than words. I immediately knew at that moment what I would be writing about this week...

 

As a pre-teen, I can honestly say I had a less than stellar hygiene routine. I mean, I took showers people, but there were many a time when I would forget to put on deodorant, forgot to wash my face using the expensive stuff my Mama bought me for acne, etc. etc.

 

In college, there were plen-ty of times when I went to bed at God knows what hour, WITH a full-face of make-up on. Then woke up four hours later and went to class with the same face on from the day before, using Mentos to brush my teeth, and didn't. even. CARE.

 

So what on God's green earth has changed within me, at age 28, that it now takes an HOUR AND FORTY-FIVE MINUTES to achieve a mediocre, presentable Kristin?  Let me walk you through my process and maybe, I'll discover for myself why this abomination is occurring in my full-grown adult life.

 

SHOWER: I'd say this is the longest part of the operation. At a full 20 minutes, many things that happen behind the clothes take place. If it's a shaving day, I have to use my Ultra Sensitive Shaving cream, along with the winner of last summer's "Kristin's Search For the Perfect Razor By Purchasing Every Razor Ever Made" marathon. Because the hair on my legs grows in circles, (literal...CIRCLES) this is long and drawn out process. If I'm awake enough, I'll have been smart enough to shampoo and condition BEFORE this happens so I can leave the conditioner in while shaving. Then I use my fancy face soap. Then I use my fancy body wash. Then I rinse. Then I'm done. Not even gonna lie, back in the day, I could've been caught using shampoo to wash my hair, body, and as shaving cream lather in a pinch. 

 

POST-SHOWER, BEFORE HAIR: With a towel wrapped around my head I brush AND floss--EURday, because I don't like my teeth with fur. Now it's time for some jams. I grew up on country music so by the time I got my own car, I started expanding (widely!) my music collection. Basically, I can still bust out in song when I turn on a country station because they're still playing the same songs that came out when I was FIVE, but I've really grown past that music scene. I'm into all kinds of music, but lately, I've been ALLLLL about the tunes that were huge when I was a teenager. Soooo, probably anything from 1998-2004ish is on my hit list now. I was also born into the wrong generation--I should've been an 80s kid, because I know like, every single 80s song, ever. And I'm confident with my awkward white girl status enough to say that I am quite ghetto fabulous when it comes to knowing hip-hop.

 

While I'm putting on my face, I like to hear something up-beat and pumping, so I begin with a little Jay-Z "Dirt off Ya Shoulder". I start my in-closet search then head back to the vanity. I put on fancy cleanser and fancy moisturizer. Then fancy acne-curing concealer and SPF 45 primer. I'm all about the preventing skin cancer movement, even though I've been known to lay out on a beach for eight hours a day with NADA on my body. By this time, something Whitney has come on and I'm completely preoccupied. "So Emotional" is blasting, and I'm in the mirror like I'm auditioning for her music video back-up singer. I bust a move across the bedroom to my jewelry armoire to pick out matching accessories for the day. Rudy is hiding under the bed at this point because there's air kicking and air punching and head-swinging involved and there's also a pretty good chance that this is all happening sans pants.

 

MAKE-UP: By now I'm back to the vanity and I'm putting on eye liner if I'm in the mood. I have squinty Asian eyes so when I wear liner, I'm pretty much screamin' goth. Some days I just feel 'goth', so I go with it. I put on foundation, then powder, then blush, then eye shadow, then mascara. Nine times outta ten, I stab my eye with the mascara wand and I have to take five to stop the tears. Then I laugh at myself because all the stuff I just put on my face is now a sodden mess. And it looks funny, so I usually stop and take a pic to send to somebody via Snapchat. It takes ten more minutes to fix what all I just messed up.

 

HAIR: This is my favorite part. It's no secret that while God blessed me with faulty baby-making parts, a faulty gall-bladder, whacked jaws, and apparently circular growing hair patterns on my shins, he also blessed me with some fabulous hair. No matter the length, the color, or the style, I've always liked my hair, thus I spend some time loving on it to get it looking the way I like. Most days, I blow it straight, then flat iron which takes maybe 20 minutes. If I'm running WAY late, I use product and scrunch it up, Wavy Lays style.

 

DRESSING: This is the part where I put on what I picked out, stare at myself in the mirror and become disgusted, and take it all off. Which calls for a re-evaluation of the jewelry and eye make-up. The stereo usually flicks to something 90s-ish by now and En Vogue's "Neva Gonna Get It" inspires me to bust out a solo using hair brushes. At the "whoa-whoa-whoa-whoa" part, I usually hear Mike's exasperation from somewhere in the other room so I know I'm pushing the time limit. If my jeans don't require the lay-flat-on-the-bed-and-suck-in fresh out the dryer routine, I can usually be dressed and ready in 10. Sometimes my feet sweat in flats (okay I lied, they sweat all the time) so I put baby powder in my shoes. Not to block out the smell, but apparently to cause a dust to fly up all over my clothes when I slide my feet into them. That causes a minor set-back, so I have to sit and brush off the white that has attacked me...everywhere. I check myself in the mirror and if it's a really good Kristin day, my vain self will bust out the cell phone, cos before it, I have no idea how I looked, apparently.

 

It is a known fact to friends, family, and coworkers that if something should happen to me while in their presence, before 911 is called, #1, check to make sure I have on underwear (if not, I'll let you know where I've stashed a pair I can slip on real quick. And wipe that judge-y look off your face--certain leggings and white pants sometime require commando. Don't even act like you've never done it) Then, #2, get my phone and erase the 405 pictures of myself with 20 different face poses. I'm hugely into pop culture and I'm a victim of this fad. Deal with it. Accept it. You've heard intimate details about my uterus on multiple occasions. Knowing I'm a selfie queen shouldn't sway you away at this point in our relationship!

 

There you have it. What it takes to make...allll this *stands and gestures from head to toe* I guess growing up has made me hyperaware of myself and what I smell and look like to the world. I am certainly not the skinniest or most in shape person, but I know how to tweak it to make myself presentable and most importantly, happy with myself. All girls should be proud of what they have to work with and know how to work it to the best of their ability. Even if it means we girls are deserving of huffy sighs from our spouses who crank up the car and sit in it to make a statement EVERY time you have plans.

 

I just realized my routine took so long to explain that I left out my "touché" story. It takes too long to get ready in real life and it takes too long to explain the story of how I get ready. Perhaps this post was the cure for me shortening my process? Touché. (<---- BOOM!)

I Didn't Choose the No-Gallbladder Life, It Chose Me

It's been four days since the death of my gallbladder. Can I tell you how pissed I am that I weigh no differently than I did last week with it intact? I was hoping for at least 20 pounds. I couldn't slip the doc any extra money to lipo something while he was hanging around in my innards because that would be bribing, so I did manage to do my hair and floss that morning. (FYI--my two best features are my hair and teeth so I had to use them to my advantage).  (FYI--my doc must not be into hair and teeth). Anyway, instead of waking up sans gallbladder AND sans belly fat, I'm essentially still Kristin. Well, I'm still Kristin who has no formal way of processing stomach bile. Do yourself a favor and don't ask me out to Mexican until I get a grasp on this situation.

 

Mike and I always joke that I know every doctor within a 50 mile radius and those doctors have all see my cookie, whether they are gynecologist-related or not. Like, we'll be shopping and run into an Ear, Nose, and Throat doctor and Mike will say, "Is it weird that I'm not the only man here that's seen your vagina?" Well, you'd think a general surgeon whose sole purpose last Friday was to only take out my gallbladder (which is located right under the breast--essentially miles away from any cookie region--) wouldn't have to see anything below my belly button. You'd think that, but then it's me you're dealing with.

 

Naturally, the day of my surgery I had my period. When we arrived at the hospital after the long car ride (in which I had been SITTING) I got out of the car and ladies, you know, you KNOW, that feeling that sometimes happens when you stand after sitting awhile on your period...yeah. I had *that feeling*. I walked awkwardly to the check-in counter and quietly asked the woman behind it where the restroom was. She, the bitch, asked for my name and what I was there for. I explained I was checking in for surgery but I really had to use the bathroom. Bitch then picks up the phone and calls for a nurse. Meanwhile, people are trickling in behind me in line. And other things are also...trickling, if you know what I'm saying. Bitch tells me to step aside and wait a second. Which turned into like five minutes. At this point, I'm miserable. Mike--the ultimate man--has evacuated the building when he caught on to what was going on with me so he's absolutely no help. Other people are checking in and I'm twitching around at the end of the counter. Another receptionist appears and tells me to go sit down and wait for a nurse. Sit down?! Ew. No. When I turn to reply to her that I NEED to go to the bathroom (including the very specific reason WHY) a man and his elderly grandfather come up to the counter...ugh!

 

Minutes later and almost at my wit's end, a nurse comes from down the hall with a cup. I'm thinking I'm quite familiar with what that cup's for. She comes right up to me and says rather loudly (I'm sure it was nice and discreet but at this point everything's dramatized to me), "Are you the patient who needs the restroom?" I glare at her and briskly nod my head. She says, "Well, I need a sample". I lean into her and tell her very frigidly "I'm on my period and I'm sort of in a mess so I'm not sure what kinda sample you're gonna get". She then says, "Oh honey, I needed the sample to check for pregnancy so you just go right ahead without it". Offf course.  

 

Once I get taken back into the prep room, my new MALE nurse tells me to strip down to NOTHING and put on the robe. Ummm...that was gonna be a problem. I gritted my teeth and told him I was on my period so I can't take off my undies. He then produces the ugliest net-material draws I've ever seen in addition to a pad that was bigger and sturdier than Tom Hanks' Castaway raft. I begrudgingly changed and layered up, leaving my period woes behind me--or underneath me, in this case. I stay in pre-op for awhile and eventually forget my period. After all, the team of doctors won't see anything below my stomach.

 

The team comes in that will be performing my surgery and one of them injects the greatest medicine known to mankind into my IV. They start to roll me out and all my stress leaves me. We roll down the hall and I wave to every person I meet, you know, the janitor dumping the trashcans, an old lady being rolled past me, the nurses at the nurses' station. We go in this fancy room. They moved me from the rolling bed onto the operating table. I thought to myself, "It really does take a team of humans to lift my fat ass". I even think I laughed out loud. I then closed my eyes because I was under this huge bright light when all of a sudden, I feel hands at the end of my robe, easing it up. Even drugged out of my mind, I think, "Nnnnooooooo!!!! You're not supposed to look down there!!!!"

 

I don't remember anything after that because three hours later, I woke up in recovery. I immediately check under the covers and see that I still had on the massive granny-panties. My first words to Mike when he entered my room were "You won't believe the room full of people who have now also seen a semi-glance of 'tha land down unda'." He smirked and  said, "It wouldn't be a trip to a medical facility if people didn't see your vag." Touché, Mike. Touché. And that's the story of how I got my gallbladder taken out.

 

I Broke the Kitchen

It must be said that living your entire life with a father that can literally fix anything, cook anything, and DO basically anything under the Tuscan sun can ruin your adult life when the time comes for you to move out into your own house. It's like Princess Fiona, living in a castle where her only worries are showing up to eating times in a timely manner, then marrying Shrek and moving to the swamp. Ouch. Probably should clear up the fact that this post isn't about relating my husband to an ogre. Because that would be rude. And hilarious.

 

I can cook. It can even be said that I can cook well. That is, when I decide to actually do it. Which is like once a season. I take after Daddy and am able to leave the recipe books on the shelf and just throw stuff together. Being cooped up inside, I've had the urge to stand in the kitchen for hours and hours. I like the adrenaline rush every now and then of having to watch and do multiple things in limited time frames. Thus, the reason I'm also a two-day-before-Christmas shopper. I decided to cook a red soup. I'm assuming most people call it a chicken and veggie soup, but in the sticks, the soup looks red so that's the name we gave it. Red Soup is basically corn, butterbeans, chicken, potatoes, and tomatoes thrown in a pot with a little water. Since I know how to make it by heart, I decided to cook breakfast for my sleeping husband who is currently on midnight shift and sleeps well into the morning. It's astonishing, I know, but I actually have pancake batter and bacon on hand too. So, I started in the kitchen with the plan to start the soup, cook bacon in the oven, make pancakes, and possibly use leftover potatoes to fry with leftover onions. I was pretty much thinking like the spawn of Paula Deen. Aww, Paula. Is she still alive?

 

I start working by heading to the cabinet for aluminum foil to line the cookie sheet for the bacon. No aluminum foil. I had taken the roll I had to school for a project. FML. I have wax paper though. And they basically serve the same purpose, right? Line the pan to keep your pans from getting dirty. I line the pan and place the bacon on it, sticking it in the oven. Meanwhile, I'm boiling the chicken in the soup pot and mixing pancake batter.

 

Now, it's time to cut potatoes. I use half the bag for dicing for the soup. The other half is for slicing for fried potatoes and onions. I wash and peel them in the sink, but I leave the peelings there because I don't want to use the garbage disposal while Mike's sleeping. I know the hand techniques to cut the potatoes, as I've watched Daddy hundreds of times doing them. I just never paid attention to what type of knife to use...I started out with a paring knife. After basically pulling a muscle in my right bicep, I found another knife that is serrated. But it ends up tearing stuff apart like I'm cutting a steak up. So I pull out the big guns, the seven inch fancy-smancy one I have the back of my "Wedding Stuff I'll Never Use" cabinet. I'm positive I cut the bamboo board I was working on in half, but it got the job done.

 

I take the chicken out and shred it. I add it back to the pot with the other vegetables. I pour the batter onto my griddle to make pancakes. I turn back for the potatoes. OMG. They are starting to turn pink! I throw the slices into the pot. I set up the pan with oil to start frying the diced potatoes and onions. I turn back to get the slices but they aren't there! It's only pink-tinted dices! What the hell! Are potatoes cousins to bananas? I mean, really. And I think I'm a little jealous. I lay out in the sun for days and can't catch a tan yet these bastards have been out 15 minutes and have more color on their bodies than I do. So the soup will just have to have slices and we'll just have to eat dicey potatoes and onions. Ugh. I'm starting to sweat a little.

 

I settle the potatoes and onions and flip the pancakes which now have turned black on one side, gooey on the other. Then I smell it. Smoke. Son of a...the bacon! I throw on my oven mits and open the over door. I gag on the rush of smoke that pours out into the kitchen. I grab the pan but I can't move it because it's filled with grease. The wax paper has also wrapped itself around the bacon. Way to go, foil's less than mediocre sibling.

 

I can't pour the grease down the drain because the sink is full of potato skins. I stick the pan back into the oven, turn on the disposal, silently apologizing to my snoozing spouse who has no idea the chaos that is happening on the other side of the closed bedroom door. I start to shove the peeling down the drain with a wooden stick that I'm pretty sure the Pampered Chef lady who sold it to me said not to do when all of a sudden, the peelings and water start gurgling back up to me! The disposal starts to hum which directs my attention over to the stove where I have two black as Mickey's ears pancakes on the griddle and grease shooting up out of the potato pan. I want to cry.

 

One hand almost down the drain, one hand reaching across to turn the stove off. Just off. All of it. I spill some pancake batter all over the front of my shirt. I turn the disposal off and now have an almost-over flowing sink full of...yuck. I slide down to the floor and dramatically growl, putting my head in my hands on my knees. That's when I hear it. The turning of the bedroom door. Mike emerges. And says, "What's for breakfast?"

 

The moral of the story is this: people who are overly cocky will mess things up. Just because I'm my father's daughter, does not mean I have it 'going on' like he does. I'm also my mother's daughter and we like to prioritize. So next time, I will cook one thing at a time. Nice and calmly.

 

I pick myself off the floor, I look around at the kitchen. The oven door still has smoke rolling out of it. The griddle is steaming with two black blobs on it. The potatoes and onions look filmy because the oil is settling. Pancake batter is everywhere. The sink is. Just. Disgusting. The bacon is wrapped snuggly around the wax paper that is also wrapped snuggly around the pan and I'm pretty sure I'm just gonna toss that right out into the snow and buy a new one instead of cleaning it. And God knows, I don't even take the lid off the soup pot.

 

I do the only thing I have left to do. I holler to the living room, "What do you want from Bojangles?" while simultaneously dialing my Daddy. 

Cigarettes and One-Liners

Today is the ninth snow day I've had so far this year. You'd think I'd be over it already, but it coincides with my weather philosophy so well: if it's gonna be hot, I better be at the beach, not working. If it's gonna be cold, there better be snow on the ground (which also causes no working). Since there's snow on the ground, today I'm spending my time in this recliner planning my Homecoming Reunion, aka, 2014 Summer Vaca to Cherry Grove, North Myrtle Beach.

 

The Peebles' household are major fans of the Olympics. I'm talkin' bout, watch every event, all day long. Record them if we aren't here. Hang the American flag up outside like it's July 4th. And it really is an obsession that has nothing to do with enjoying watching the athletes nor cheering on our country, yada yada yada. We just sorta got into it with the Summer Games of 2012 when we were forced to watch it on the miniature ER cubicle TV while experiencing miscarriage #2. I don't know if it holds special meaning to us or what, but it's what we do. (It also could be that I'm a 14 year-old girl inside and I like to scope out the aspiring moderately attractive snowboarders and hockey players. It also could be that we pop popcorn and drink Pepsi while watching men's figure skating, secretly hoping they'll fall in all their bedazzled-tights glory. Figure Skating IS the Olympics' gayest sport, after all. And I love gay people and am still in search of the perfect gay male companion, so don't be offended. And really, if I haven't offended you yet in this writer-reader relationship, then I think we're good. I digress.)

 

Watching the Olympics also means you develop a bond with the commentators. With the exception of Tara Lapinski. Remember her? Yeah. She has had like Joan Rivers' amounts of plastic surgery and it's a struggle to not let my breakfast fall out of my mouth when she's on my screen. And I ate breakfast like an hour ago, so it wouldn't be pretty. Anyway, Bob Costas, bless his sweet heart, is the face of the Olympics on NBC. He aired the first night with what looked like pink eye. Doctors told him it would be better in two days. Two days turned into a week, so NBC gave him time off and have been bringing in other people all week to cover for him. He has some insane eye infection and his face looks like Rocky right now. I mean, seriously!? All this man has done for the past YEAR is research and LIVE all things 'Olympics' and he can't do all he's worked for because a rare infection has taken over his face?! It's crazy. Ol' Bobby's situation is one that's been on my mind lately. Situations that are supposed to work out one way, but end up doing a 180 and you have no control over them.

 

A few weeks ago, I went to a surgeon's office to schedule my gallbladder surgery. I was sitting in the waiting room in Richmond and I see an older man walk in from Victoria. He happened to be one of my favorite people from my hometown and I couldn't believe he was there, so randomly. I hadn't seen him since Christmas, but he's one of those that you could go years without seeing or talking to, yet when you do, you fall right back into conversation like you talked to them the day before. In a community like Victoria, you grow up knowing everyone. I didn't actually get to know this man until I was sixteen, even though he and I knew of each other my whole life.

 

At the time, he was friends with my boyfriend's mom. I'd hang out with them on Saturday nights, watching COPS, while they smoked cigarettes and I bitched about the lies my boyfriend had told me that day (and yes, I was hanging out with HIS mom while doing so). I remember, distinctly, William Howard looking straight at me, cigarette in hand, saying, "Don't be one of those psycho women". I was sixteen, so I was wounded by his words. I thought he meant, "you're being psycho, that's why your boyfriend makes up lies to be somewhere where YOU aren't." It hurt.

 

When I was going to community college, every Thursday night I'd go to Victoria Restaurant and eat taco salads at the community table that consisted of 2 divorcees, an older married couple, and a few older men, William Howard included. (This is evidence of the start of my old-people obsession). They were the coolest people I knew. I was working my way through a horrid break-up with the lying boyfriend, so I found solace listening to old stories and wisdom--whether it was or not--for a few hours each week.

 

I was 21 then. It had been about a year since I got out of my long, broken relationship. A guy I met through mutual friends in South Hill asked me out. I said yes. I shared this at the table at the restaurant one night. I remember, distinctly, William Howard looking straight at me, cigarette in hand, saying, "Told ya you wouldn't be one of those psycho women". I didn't get him...what he was saying. I brushed it off, went to pay (found out he had already paid for my dinner) and left to go walking. Half way through that walk, I realized what he meant. He told me when I was 16 not to be a psycho woman--one of those women who put up with men's nonsense because they thought they couldn't do better. He was telling me without out-right saying it that I should move on and find better. Six years later, he was telling me "congratulations, you did it" in his own way.

 

This was January of 2007. I ended up going out on several dates with the first guy who had asked me out since my long-term relationship. He was so opposite from what I was used to. Skater-boy mentality. Artsy. Cool. I knew it wouldn't work because it was one of those 'I like you as a best friend, not romantically' kinda things. Our dates were becoming scarce, and the week before Valentine's Day, I had to live up to my end of a lost bet and let this sarcastic cop I had recently met drive my car to Raleigh. Then, on the actual V-Day at work I get a huge bouquet of flowers (I'm talkin' like, $80 worth) from the computer tech guy that frequented our offices. Being a total non-hobag, juggling 2 admirers at one time was a bit overwhelming. I was super shy so I had my friend and coworker let the tech guy down easy. She told him I was in a relationship. (I thought she meant the skater-guy, she says to this day she meant Mike.) At the time, I didn't count Mike as an admirer. I was seriously interested, but I seriously got the vibes from him that he wasn't. I hadn't heard from him that day, so I accepted a date to dinner with the skater-boy. I got showered with gifts and food, but something just wasn't right. I decided we wouldn't go on anymore dates.

 

When we got back to town and on my way home, I texted Mike. I had just turned down the road to take me to Victoria when he said "why don't you come by here?" (Stop being judgmental!!! It wasn't like that!) I whipped the car around and headed to where he lived. I told him about my day (all of it!) and we talked for awhile, which was saying a lot, considering we'd only chatted via email and text thus far. When I got up to leave, he went to the kitchen and brought me back a little heart-shaped tin of Hershey's kisses. It was THE perfect Valentine's Day gift. I didn't know what to think. I didn't think the man was interested in me and BOOM. He brought out the big guns: Hershey's. It was love at first sight. I never went out with another person again. I never got flowers from anyone else. And every Valentine's Day since then, I've gotten a heart-shaped tin of Hershey's from my man.

 

Mike was with me that day a few weeks ago in the doctor's office. He had never met William Howard, yet I'd told him plenty about the community table at the restaurant. William Howard certainly knew all about Mike. We all chatted and I got a smug grin from the man who had given probably the most sound advice I'd ever needed, when I didn't even know what he was talking about.

 

When I got a call last week that William Howard had died suddenly, it was quite a shock and somewhat of a jolt to my system. It blows my mind how things work in this world. You think and you plan and you schedule, but then something beyond any of us shakes it all up. You have to find the good in whatever the outcome is. If I hadn't moved on, I'd still be one of those psycho women. I wouldn't appreciate a man's random words and apply them to how good and decent my life is now. I wouldn't get annual heart-shaped tins. And for the love of Christmas cookies, instead of being bummed out about his jacked-up face, Bob Costas is probably enjoying a paid-in-full, snowy, mountainy, Russian vacation right now. I just hope he doesn't run into Tara. Seriously, Google her. It's a nightmare.

 

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!