Friday, September 30, 2011

Oh Don't Worry, That's Just My Face

Balls.  They tend to find my face.

I bet you find that disturbing. 

Me too.

The first time it happened was in first grade.  I was...

What?  Ew.  NO!  Not those balls.  Sports balls.  Get your mind out of the gutter.

Honestly, you people disturb me.

As I was saying, before all the perverts showed up, I was in first grade and I was playing on the playground. I'm sure I had my hair did all fabulous like, and I was looking super cute, and awesome, of course.  I was jumping rope or playing hopscotch or bossing my friends around.  Or maybe I was gathering up the courage to go across the monkey bars.

 I don't what it was about those things, but they scared the shit out of me.  Except when I was in first grade I probably didn't say things like "scare the shit out of me."  I probably said something more along the lines of "monkey bars make me go poo poo in my pants," or something equally articulate and brilliant.

Basically, I was minding my own damn business on the playground, when the boys in the basketball court next to the playground lost control of their ball and it went flying over the fence and directly into my face.

Students ran to my teacher Mrs. Wiggs and said, "one of your students got hurt on the playground!"

Now before I go any further, there is something you should know about Mrs. Wiggs.  That bitch be crazy.

That's not quite fair.  She wasn't actually crazy, just SUPER stressed out.  Like All. The. Time. It could have had something to do with the fact that she was 87 months pregnant and teaching first graders, one of whom, a delightful boy named Jesse, couldn't quite grasp the concept that popsicles don't last too long outside of the freezer.  Poor Jesse never had time to finish his popsicle during lunch and would put it in his lunch box to "save it for later."

"Later" Mrs. Wiggs would lift up his lunchbox and the remains of his popsicle would come pouring out all over the floor.  Mrs. Wiggs would then proceed to rip her face off.

At least that's what it looked like she was doing.  She would spread her fingers on both hands, put them over her face and drag them down to her throat, digging her fingers into her red fleshy skin.

I know what you're thinking: Mrs. Wiggs was a total babe.  But trust me, it wasn't nearly as attractive as it sounds.  In fact, is was freaking terrifying.  Did I also mention she was like seven foot eleventeen and bore a strong resemblance to an ogre?  I mean that in the nicest, sexiest, she-could-be-a-super-model way possible.

When Mrs. Wiggs was told that one of her students got hurt on the playground, to which she responded, "It was SG, wasn't it?", I imagine she then proceeded to drag her hands down her face in an attempt to rip the flesh from her bones thinking F*ck My Life, first it's Jesse and his damn popsicles, now SG's face and those damn balls.

You see, it wasn't just basketballs that were attracted to my face.  Soccer balls, footballs, tennis balls, softballs, all received equal face time.

Get it?  FACE time.

Honestly, you guys.  I'm hilarious.

This phenomenon continued throughout my life.

My freshman year of high school, I went to the batting cages.  The ball machine shot the ball at a speed of approximately one bajillion miles per hour, also known as Imma Kill You miles per hour.  It hit my thumb, changed directions and smashed into my bottom lip, which took no time swelling to the size of the softball that hit it.  If it hadn't been for the retainer I was wearing, I would have spit a mouthful of teeth all over the ground.

My mother was horrified, but I was all, "don't worry mom, I'm a bad ass," which came out sounding more like, "dompth wotbyrh mormth, Imbph a bsadbn asshenb."

Later on in high school, I was cheering court-side at a basketball game when, you guessed it, some dumb-ass player lost control of the ball, which crashed into my nose sending it through my brain and out the back of my head.

Did the game even pause for one nanosecond to see if the sweet cheerleader needed help picking her grey matter up off the court?

I'll give you a hint.  The answer is HELL NO!

I'm not really sure why I'm telling you this story.  I'm sure I had a point.  No doubt, a shocking twist or stunning conclusion is right around the corner, but heck if remember what it is.  That pretty much sums up my life lately.  I don't remember shit.

Two weeks ago I was having drinks with a colleague and at least four separate times I would stop talking and just stare at her.  "I don't remember what I was going to say," I would tell her.  No big deal right?  Happens to people all the time.  Problem was, not only did I not remember what I was going to say, I didn't remember what I just said.

She was a doll and would try to help me out, "you were saying how the vertical integration practices of the riding lawn mover industry are increasing the social capital of the riders."

Me: Oh...right...So, rainbows?  They're colorful, eh?

I guess this post serves as a Public Service Announcement.  BALLS: They're Dangerous.

Or maybe: BALLS: They Want Your Face

Or how about: Can't Find Your Face?  Check Your Balls.

I'm not entirely sure what that one means, but it's catchy don't you think?

The point is, balls are mean and evil and dangerous and they're out to get you, so watch out!  This applies to not only the balls you encounter on the field or the court, but any balls you may encounter anywhere else in life.

I, of course, do not know where else those places may be, but I'm sure you guys do, you little perverts.

Wednesday, September 28, 2011

Desperate Times Call for...Burritos?

I don't know if you've noticed but I haven't been blogging much lately.  The reasons for this are numerous and not all that interesting so I won't bore you with them except to say one of the reasons is that I've lost my blogging mojo.

I blame the voices.  They really are gone.  And I don't know how to get them back.  It's so quiet inside my head and apparently without them I'm an incredibly dull person.

But I can't just never blog again.  Seriously, what would you guys do without me?  As it is, I deserve swift and harsh punishment for making you guys go so long without my awesomeness.

But you can rest easy today, because today, I am back.  And not just back with jazz hands and a fabulous dance, but with a story that will make your head explode.  So gird your loins, er head.

Yesterday during lunch I read the paper.  I never  read the paper because a.) the stories are so depressing they make me sad. seriously, why are there so many asshats doing asshattery things in the world and 2.) I am usually bored to tears.  So either way, I end up crying and it's like high school all over again when I dated that douche canoe I called a boyfriend.  Also?  The paper hardly ever talks about bacon, so really, what's the point?

But yesterday a headline about the opening of a new Mexican restaurant caught my eye because my friend Mandy LOVES Mexican (the food, not the people.  not that she doesn't like the people. she does. but she likes to eat the food, not the people.  i mean, I assume she's not a cannibal.  i've never really asked her because honestly, how do you even bring that up?  um, er, so I was just, uh, er wondering, have you, ya know, ever, er, um, eaten a person?) and she's sick with bronchitis and also possibly walking pneumonia so I thought I could cheer her up by telling her about an awesome new place for her to get her Mexican fix.

Yeah no.

The name of the restaurant is called Los Burritos.  That's The Burritos for those of you who don't speak the Spanish.

The article said the restaurant specializes in burritos.

Hold the phone.


Los Burritos specializes in burritos?  Cue head explosion.

Have you ever heard of anything so ridiculous?  I mean, of all the things I would expect to eat at The Burritos, burritos would not be one of them.  Pizza, yes.  A Tempura Tokyo roll, possibly.  Even a good ole fashioned American Cheeseburger would be a more likely choice at Los Burritos than burritos.

Honestly, what are these people thinking?  This place will never work.

I kept reading, cuz like watching a train wreck, I could not turn away.  Apparently the owners operated another restaurant called Lunch Box Cafe, which is closing after six year because it was "just not making a profit."  Probably because it specialized in Lunch Boxes, and I don't know about you guys, but I find lunch boxes to be a little dry and hard to digest.

I expected to then read about the owner bemoaning the lack of business at Los Burritos due to all the pissed off customers who came there expecting egg rolls and wonton soup and were handed a burrito instead, but then I read, "This restaurant has already done better than [Lunch Box Cafe] and we just opened at 11:00 today."

Time. Out.

A restaurant that has been open for a matter of hours has made more of a profit than a restaurant open for SIX YEARS?

Are the burritos at Los Burritos billion dollar burritos?  It's either that or the featured dish at Lunch Box Cafe was a heaping pile of burning money, because how else is that even possible?

Why in the world would you stay in business for SIX YEARS if you weren't making a profit?

I now see why the owners thought burritos would be a good thing to serve at Los Burritos.  These people have zero business sense.



I bet the burritos are awful, too.  I mean, really, everyone knows if you want a good burrito, you go to The Pizzas.  This is just common sense, people.  Common.  Sense.

In the interest of full disclosure, Los Burritos did not pay me for this ringing endorsement of their establishment.

Thursday, September 22, 2011

Turns Out? I *Am* Dying

Remember when I wrote that post about how I think I'm dying all the time when actually I probably just have a hangnail or, according to WebMD, am in the throes of a panic attack?

Well it turns out I am actually dying. 

I know. 

This news is particularly distressing coming on the heels of mah birfday, which, by the way, was A-Mazing.  I didn't get yelled at at work like I did last year.  I got lots of sweet messages and phone calls from people who love me in real life, had an amazing time with the husband and some of my best friends evah, and...there was you guys!!

You all - my bloggy friends and twats - seriously did not disappoint in the present department.  I received comments, and poems and bacon and legwarmers oh my!  Honestly, there is nothing else a girl could ask for.

Oh wait.   Yes there is.  There is something else a girl could want on her birfday.  Not one, not two, but three giant piles of dog vomit on the living room floor.

Fortunately for this birfday girl, her puppies know the deepest desires of her heart so when she returned home from work, that's exactly what she found.

Needless to say I. Was. So. EXCITED!!!  Cleaning up dog vomit?  Right up there with winning the lottery.  But just as I was about to get on my hands and knees with the cleaning supplies, the husband came flying into the room, pushed me out of the way and declared, "no! I want to do it!"  I thought it was a little selfish since it was my birfday, but I could tell he would be absolutely devastated if he did not get to clean up the mucus-ey yellow piles, so I said (rather dejectedly), "okay, if it means that much to you, you can do it."

Seriously, I am THE BEST wife.

All of that has nothing to do with why I'm dying.  I'm dying because I have pain in my left side.  At first I thought it was just a pulled muscle because of all that stupid exercising I've been doing.  Seriously, all my cells and muscles and whatever else it is that makes up a body must be thinking Armageddon has come.  She wants us to do what?  But we've NEVER moved that way before.

I can only imagine the chaos inside me as they all ran around gathering supplies and battening down the hatches, waiting for the end to come.  It would make total sense that in the midst of that mess, a muscle would be pulled.

But then the pain felt...different, and kinda sharp and pangy, but not really, but kinda.  So clearly?  Dying.

I didn't even bother with WebMD on this one.  They'd just tell me it was a panic attack anyway.  I went straight to the people who know about medicine and science-y stuff to confirm my diagnosis.  And by "went to them" I mean I didn't talk to anyone, I just assumed.

Because hello!  There's a pain in my side.  If that isn't a precursor of death, I don't know what is.

Also?  If you've gone nearly three weeks eating nothing but leafy greens and fruit and occasionally chicken and fish and then one night, a night that everyone will tell you is a special occasion, decide to eat a giant five gallon tub of creamy cheesy potato leak and BACON soup, followed by a sausage rolled in fried dough, followed by a ginormous piece of greasy pizza,  your body will f*ckin hate you.

And?  If you try to get back on track the next day by eating bland chicken and fruit, your insides will ninja kick you in the stomach and you will vomit in a way that will put your dog to shame.

So now instead of just your normal run-of-the-mill dying, I'm dying harder.

Sigh.  Sometimes I wish I wasn't such an overachiever.

Wednesday, September 21, 2011

A Really Lame Post That You Should Still Read Because It Will Make You Awesome

So apparently, not stuffing your face with fried chicken, ranch and bacon every day and working up a sweat makes you lose weight.

Huh.  Who knew?

No seriously, who knew?  Someone should really market that.  I bet you could make a lot of money.  Especially if you put into some sort of program or book.  You could tell people what to eat and just how many lunges they need to do before their legs fall off.  People would totally eat that shit up.  Metaphorically, of course, because you know dieting and all.

I really don't want this to be a weight loss blog, but I HAVE NOTHING ELSE TO SAY!  I mean, I know my life appears interesting and fabulous and all.  But honestly?  Not all that interesting.

In fact, it's pretty lame.


The husband has lost seven pounds to my six.  This fact totally does not make me want to tie him to a chair and shove fistfuls of lard into his face.  Because it's not a competition.


It totally is.  The husband and I compete all the time.  He often doesn't even know we're competing until I declare, "haha! I won!"  And he's all "won what?"  And I'm like, "duh."  And then he sort of just gives me this look that may or may not say you are a mental person, but I never care because I'm basking in the euphoria of my recent win.

Are you guys loving how totally lame this post is?  Yeah, me neither.

But I bet you're totally loving how awesome it is making you.  You're welcome.

You know what's great about writing a really lame post like this on this particular day?

This particular day just happens to be mah birfday.  So, even if you think this is the most craptastic thing you have ever read, you still have to say nice things to me.


I win!

I haven't really been looking forward to this birthday, but then last night I got really excited because this last year of my life?  Has sucked balls.  No you dirty perves, not those balls.  Just balls in general.

So I'm totally ready to kiss the last year of my life goodbye.  Sayonara bitch! Au revoir!  Arrivederci!  Good riddance!

I would tell you how old I am, but my paranoia prevents me from doing so.  What exactly am I paranoid about?  Well, if you know my age then you know the year I was born, which means you have the vital information you need to assume my identity.  And who wouldn't want to do that?  Because contrary to what I said at the beginning of this post, my life?  Pretty freaking awesome.

I think I've wasted enough of your time.  Thanks for coming to mah birfday party!

I bet you didn't even know you were at a party, did you?  I mean, I'm sure you had some idea because this post positively screamed good party happy happy fun time.  But it did lack certain beverages of the alcohol variety.  So I could see how you weren't exactly sure.

Thanks in advance for all the awesome presents!

Wednesday, September 14, 2011

WARNING: Stabby objects in the rearview mirror are closer than they appear

The husband and I?  We're starving ourselves dieting trying to live healthier lives.  The husband is doing this because he's in competition with his father to see who can reach his goal weight first.  Kinda like their own version of The Biggest Loser.

The reasons I am doing this are twofold:

1.) People are frequently confusing me with a hippopotamus and it's getting embarrassing. 

2.) I am ridiculously out of shape.

Seriously, it's ridiculous.

Six years ago, this is what a simple trip up the stairs looked like for me:

This is what it looks like today:

This decision could not have come at a worse time.  Because my favorite season is here.

Football season.

And what food goes best with football games?  That's right.  Junk food.

So instead of watching the game like this:

I'm watching it like this:

Yeah, it sucks.  I keep telling myself the three pounds I've lost are totally worth it.  But I'm starting to think they're totally not.

Each day this "healthy living" continues, the chances of someone getting stabbed increases tenfold.  So, silver lining I guess.  Or something.  Whatever.

Feed me.

Sunday, September 11, 2011

Never Forget

I will never forget the phone call.  Ten years ago I was a college freshman and about to leave for class.  My mother called me and told me not to go.  A plane had hit the World Trade Center.  I turned on the news, sunk onto my bed and from my small dorm room I watched the world change.

I watched the towers fall.

I watched lives end.

My thoughts immediately flew to my dad who traveled often for work.  I dialed his number, praying I would get through.  He answered and we talked.  I could hear the shock, the sadness, the change in life as we know it in his voice.

I was glued to the t.v for hours.  Sirens broke out on campus and fear overtook me.  I looked out my tiny window and I waited.  Was this the end?  Was my campus next?  Were other places under attack right now?

I thought about the people on the planes.  I still think about them.  Not just on the anniversary, but often.  At random times.  What was it like for them knowing they were about to die?  Were they able to say goodbye to loved ones? Did they cling to strangers for comfort?

I think about the people in the towers.  Those who ran.  Those who jumped.

I think about the first responders.  Those who went into the towers, who lost their lives trying to save others.

I think about those brave men and women who fought back, who in the last moments of their lives, saved others by altering the course of their plane.  A plane that crashed into a field instead of its intended target.

I think about those still suffering today.  Those whom, every time they take a breath, are reminded of that day.

I think about those who lost loved ones.  Mothers, fathers, sisters, brothers, children, friends.

I've talked to people who were there that day.  Who waited for cell phone reception to find out if their loved ones were safe.  To find out how deeply their lives would be altered.

I've heard of those who overslept, missed their flight, were running late to work. Those who were saved.

I've heard of those who were on stand-by, those who were able to get on one of those ill-fated flights.  Those who were lost.

These good fortunes for some and accidents for others turned out to be the difference between life and death.  This fact gives me chills, makes my stomach hurt, makes me wonder, every time I get on a plane, which category I will fall into.

I'm remember that day so clearly.  The emotions I felt.  The changes in our reality as I realized our world would never be the same.  I remember wondering if it was okay to laugh, to go class, enjoy time with friends, cheer at football games, to put one foot in front of the other and move forward.  And I remember feeling that I had to, that we all had to, or else "they" had taken the lives of us all.

And so I moved forward.

But I think of those who died, of those who grieve, and of those who fight to defend our great nation, and I will never forget.

Friday, September 9, 2011

Magic Jeans

Several weeks ago I wrote a short story, Sweet Surrender, for a Romantic Friday Writers prompt.  I recently decided to expand that story into a longer short story and try my hand at self-publishing.  I planned to write a scene before Sweet Surrender, as well as expand that scene and pick up where "the kiss" left off, and publish it - for FREE! - at Smashwords.

I had an idea of what I wanted the first scene to look like, but as soon as I read this week's prompt for Write On Edge, "JEANS", I knew exactly what I wanted to write.  The complete scene is longer than what I'm posting here, (and we'll all just pretend that what's here is within the word limit and hope that the Write On Edge ladies won't stab me in the face) and I tried to end it at a decent stopping point. 

It's a silly little story that I am having a blast writing and hopefully you'll like this scene and Sweet Surrender enough to want to read the rest and download it a Smashwords - did I mention it will be FREE! - when I publish it in (hopefully) the next week or so.  If you don't like it and won't want to download it, that's okay too.  *sob*

Magic Jeans

Emma spent the day watching him through her kitchen window.  He painted his white shutters blue, repaired the broken front porch railing and mowed the lawn.  And he did it all sans shirt.  The blazing sun had turned his skin an even more delicious shade of golden brown. Sweat ran between the peaks and valleys of his sculpted frame, accentuating each sinewy ripple. 

He drank from a water bottle before turning it over and pouring the remainder over his head. She watched a trickle start at his neck, round his chest, navigate his abs, and slide down the V of his hips before disappearing in his jeans. 

She fanned herself with her latest issue of Good Housekeeping and nearly fell into the sink when she leaned forward, straining her neck to follow him around the side of his house.  "Stupid woman," she muttered, catching herself before her face smacked the faucet.

Collecting herself, she looked at her watch and sprung into action.  The girls would be here any minute.  She emptied a bag of chips in a bowl and a bag of pretzels in another.  She ran to her bedroom, slipped off her house-clothes, threw on a sundress, fluffed her hair, and applied a dab of lipstick.  She answered the door on winded breath.

"You okay, honey?" Millie asked, frowning.  "You look flushed."

"I'm fine," Emma said ushering her and Katie inside.  "I lost track of time and had to hurry to get ready."

"I'm flushed and you didn't ask me if I was okay," Katie huffed, waddling to the kitchen and pouring a generous glass of lemonade.

Millie eyed Katie's rounded stomach.  "You're flushed cuz you're 'bout ready to pop." Millie made her signature drink - a raspberry mojito - and took a sip.  "I know you want that baby outta you honey, but tell him to wait until after our poker game, 'kay?"

Katie rolled her eyes. "If I had any control over when he's coming out, I would have gotten him out weeks ago.  This heat is brutal."

Emma made herself a dirty martini and the trio headed to the kitchen table for their Sunday night card game.  They didn't play for money and they didn't keep track of who won.  The night was really just an excuse to gossip.  "It really is unbearable.  They say it's supposed to remain in the triple digits the rest of the week."

"Kill me now," Katie moaned, lowering herself into a chair.

Emma and Millie sat on either side of her, Emma dealing the first hand.

"If there's one benefit to this heat, it's that hunk of man that just moved in next door," Mille said to Emma, picking up her cards.  "I spent the day on my porch sipping mojitos and watching that fine specimen."

"Was Roy off fishing again?" Katie sorted her hand.

Millie snorted.  "No man spends that much time fishing, Katie dear.  He was at the titty bar where he is most days.  I know that to be the truth and don't let 'im try to tell you dif'rent. I figure he can have I look, so can I.  I'll take two," Millie said, discarding two of the cards in her hand.

"Two for me too," Katie said.  "He was quite a sight to behold, wasn't he?"

"Oh no, Katie," Emma groaned.  "You haven't developed a wondering eye too, have you?"

Millie waved her hand dismissively, her sagging arm flapping like a flag in a windstorm.  "Aint nothing wrong with looking.  Roy and I started looking in other directions ten years after we got hitched and twenty years later, we're still together.  I got a full house."  Millie laid her cards down on the table.

"I think Katie wants a little more out of her marriage than what you and Roy have.  No offense,"  Emma said, showing a pair of Jacks.

Millie shrugged.  "Prob'ly so and none taken."

"I got nothing," Katie said dropping her cards on the table.  "I wouldn't even have to look if Chris weren't so bull-headed.  He's so terrified of hurting the baby, he won't even come near me.  I don't remember the last time we had sex."

Emma tucked her Jacks back into the deck, gathered the cards and passed them to Katie for her deal.

"I went into labor forty-six minutes after I had sex when I was pregnant with Lily," Emma said.

"I made the mistake of telling Chris sex can induce labor.  Freaked him out even more."  Katie shuffled the cards and dealt a fresh hand.

"I bet Emma's new neighbor could help you out with that."  Millie tossed a handful of chips in her mouth.

"Millie!" Emma scolded.

"Oh relax.  I'm not telling her to have sex with him.  All she needs are his jeans."

"His jeans?" Emma asked.

"Yes."  She turned to Katie.  "You just go on over there honey and tell him you need to borrow his jeans and give yourself a good rub down."

"A rub down?"

"Yep. Rub them jeans all over your body - I would do it naked if I were you - and you'll have that baby in no time."

"You're actually saying my new neighbor's jeans are going to make Katie go into labor?"  Emma asked, laughing.  One of the reasons she loved her friend, affectionately referred to by the rest of the neighborhood as Crazy Millie Milster, was that she never knew what was going to come out of her mouth.

"Sure am. Those jeans are magic, I tell ya." Millie slammed her cards on the table. "Full house again.  Damn I'm good."

Katie giggled.  "Magic jeans?  I'm desperate enough to try anything."

"You saw them jeans, right Emma?" Millie asked, polishing off her mojito.

"Um, yeah, briefly.  When I checked the mail today." She'd been too preoccupied with the scene above his jeans to remember the jeans themselves. She kept her eyes lowered as she slid her losing hand to Millie.

"Oh honey, you shoulda taken a longer look."  Millie grabbed her empty glass and stood up.  "Anyone need a refill?"  Katie handed Millie her glass; Emma shook her head.  "If those jeans were any lower they'da been on the ground.  I could see the top of his crack."

"Ugh.  I hate that," Katie groaned.

Millie handed Katie her fresh drink and sat down, taking a sip of her mojito.  "No complaints from me.  It was a nice change from seeing Roy's fat crack poking outta the top of his jeans.  It's like one a them rattle snakes all poised and ready to strike if you get too close."

Emma and Katie erupted in a fit of laughter.

"You laugh, but I have nightmares about that crack.  Really, I do.  In fact, do me a favor honey," she said to Katie.  "When you're done with them jeans, gimme to me. I'll sleep with 'em. Put 'em between Roy an' me to ward off his evil crack like garlic does a vampire."

"Gee Millie, why don't you just wear them around your neck?"  Emma said.

"Not a bad idea there Emma; I just might do that.  I bet they'd do more than just protect me from Roy's crack.  They'd prob'ly melt the fat right offa my stomach, erase the dipples in my butt and bring my boobs back up to my chest." Millie nodded.  "Mmm hmm.  I bet they just will.  Those jeans?  They're magic I tell ya." 

Tuesday, September 6, 2011

I'm (Probably Not) Dying

I'm what you might call a hypochondriac. I assume I'm dying every day.

Elbow hurts? I have elbow cancer.

Knee hurts? I have incurable knee disease.

Back hurts? My kidneys are poisoned.

Stomach hurts? Stomach cancer. Appendicitis. Uterine cancer. Ovarian cancer. Fertilized egg stuck in my fallopian tube. Alien implantation.

Yeah, stomach pain is a fun one.

What do I do with all this pain and ailments? Go to a doctor? Heck no! What good would that do? I go to the all knowing authority on injury, illness and you-are-probably-dying disease. WebMD.

Have you ever entered your ailments into the symptom checker on WebMD? It's a rip-roaring good time, lemme tell ya. You click on the part of the body that ails you and then check off all the symptoms you have. It then spits out possible conditions associated with said symptoms ranging from Meh, It's Nothing to You Will Be Dead in Five Minutes.

Which one do I always, ALWAYS, assume I have? That's right, You Will Be Dead in Five Minutes. Which is why I have to hide from the husband when I'm diagnosing myself on WedMD. He somehow thinks WebMD feeds my hysteria and therefore will take my phone or the computer away from me if he sees me on the site, causing me to have an epic temper tantrum preventing me from inadequately preparing for my impending death.

I have turned to WebMD for each of the ailments listed above and every time, every single time, WebMD includes Panic Attack in the list of possible conditions.

Panic Attack? Really WebMD? What are you trying to say? That people who check their symptoms on WebMD are prone to hysterics? That we tend to over-react? That we tend to freak out over absolutely nothing? Listen here WebMD, I've had panic attacks and never once did my elbow start hurting. I'm pretty sure that elbow pain I've been experiencing for the last day and a half is due to bone cancer. Duh.

And you call yourself a doctor. Honestly.

Yesterday, I started experiencing a tingly sensation on the top of my head which has persisted throughout today. Time for WebMD!

I have to say, checking off my list of symptoms was quite fun. All I wanted to do was check off "tingly head," find out that my brain was infested with brain-eating bugs and tell my boss I was going home to die. He'd probably try to convince me to stay due to all those Important Deadlines, but seriously dude, there are bugs in my head.

"Tingly head" was not a listed symptom, but "agitation" was and I was all, "well I have been feeling extra stabby lately," so I checked it.

Then came "depressed mood." Yep, I battle depression. Check!

Next was "difficulty concentrating." Hmmm, let's see. I've stopped writing this post four times to check for split ends, watch an ant crawl across my desk, ponder how long I can "hold it" until my bladder explodes, and check for split ends again. Yeah, I'd say I have difficulty concentrating.

Difficulty falling asleep? Check!

Difficulty sleeping? Check!

Easily distracted? Che...hey you guys wanna see my wind up caterpillar? His name is Henry. He crawls across my des...where are all these ants coming fro...OMG I have to pee so bad.

Feeling of being detached from reality? Bahahaha. Who me?


Forgetfulness? Yes I'd like some cheese. I'm sorry what were we talking about?

Hallucinations? Did I ever tell you guys about the time I was pretty darn sure I saw a YUGE wolf at the gas station? And there totally was a squirrel sitting on my tire one morning before work.  Totally.

Hearing voices? What? Can you please speak up? I can't hear you. It's so loud in my head.

Paranoia? They're watching me. I know it.

As I checked off each new symptom, the list of possible conditions grew, with Depression and Schizophrenia battling it out for the top spot. Finally I checked my last symptom "impending sense of doom" and coming from behind, shooting to the top like The Little Engine That Could, as the leading possible cause of "tingly head" was: Generalized Anxiety Disorder.

Seriously, WebMD? Seriously? Anxiety? Me? Were you even paying attention to my symptoms? I'm hearing voices. Thousands of tiny bug voices.

What sort of quack-job, crack-head medical school did you go to? I should sue you for mal-practice.

Generalized Anxiety Disorder. Phst.

No you don't get partial credit for trying to cover all your bases.  In fact, I'm pretty sure that makes you an even worse doctor.  Seriously, you listed Intoxication (yeah, I'm pretty sure I'd know if I were drunk), Premenstrual Syndrome (it's like you're asking to be stabbed) and Panic Attack (thought you could just slip that one in without me noticing, didja?) as possible conditions of "tingly head"?  WTF ever.

I think it's time I find a new doctor, but first, tell me, do you think this pain in my wrist is carpal tunnel or wrist cancer?

Oh wait, never mind. I'm just having a panic attack.

Friday, September 2, 2011

Dear Me

Guess where I am today?  I'm guest posting at Jamie's blog Chosen Chaos!  Jamie has a fabulous feature on Fridays where she asks guests to write a letter to your 18 year old self.  I was so honored and stoked when she asked me to participate!

I wrote the letter at 3:00 a.m. in a head-cold induced haze, so hopefully the letter makes sense and I gave myself some good advice.

Head on over to Chosen Chaos and check it out, and make sure you read some of Jamie's posts too - she is A-mazing!!

Thursday, September 1, 2011

It's Kind of Like a New York State of Mind, but With More Vagina

My vagina.  It's like Snow White.  As in, all the woodland creatures come running to it.  Not as in seven dwarves follow it around and sing to it.  Obviously.

Remember a few days ago when I wrote an incredibly lame post* about how'd I'd lost my funny?  Yeah, I'm trying to forget it too.

Well I'm not sure if I've gotten my funny back, but I can't keep writing lame ass posts like that one, thus THE VAGINA. (you should be saying THE VAGINA in your head in a loud sing-songy voice kinda the way Oprah used to do to announce her guests on her show.  or, if you're actually reading this post out loud, like to your kids or something, you can actually say it that way.  however, if you are reading this to your kids, I kinda question your parenting skills.  although I can see why you would be reading this to your kids since I mentioned Snow White, a favorite childhood fairy tale.  but I also mentioned my vagina, so you know, maybe leave the kids outta this one.)

I have it on good authority that some of you are uncomfortable with the amount of vagina talk on this blog.  In fact, I believe the quote was, "there's only so much vagina exploding I can take."

Time.  Out.  Vagina Exploding?


Who's vagina is exploding?  And better yet, why? I can understand why there's only so much of that you can handle.  That sounds terrible.

To my knowledge, vaginas don't explode.  Uteri explode.  Heads explode.  But vaginas?  No.  Just no.

Actually, I'm sure those of you who have birthed a human could probably share some horribly awesome stories of vagina explosions, but maybe keep those stories to yourself.

Okay, fine.  Share them with me if you must, but I can't promise I won't faint or throw up on you.  I once watched a woman give birth in my developmental psychology class and it was traumatic.

Hmmm, perhaps I should clarify.  The woman didn't give birth during class.  We watched a video of her giving birth, with her vagina center stage.  I told my mother it was the most unnatural thing I've ever seen and she told me it's the most natural thing there is.

And then my head exploded.

See?  Heads explode.  Vaginas don't.  Unless birthing humans is involved, then, well...didn't we already cover this?

Wow, this post has taken an unexpected turn.

As I way saying, some of you are uncomfortable by all the vagina talk.  However, I think it's important to note that most of the time when I talk about "vagina" I'm talking about the "vagina state of mind" not that thing between my legs.

"Thing between my legs."  That makes me sound like I have a wiener.  Which I DO NOT.  Just want to be clear on that.

Can you please elaborate on what "vagina state of mind" means?

Sorry.  I can't.  You either have it or you don't.  If you don't have it, don't despair.  You can acquire it.

Really!  How?!

I have no idea.  Try doing kegels or something.  Also?  There's a very good chance that if you're following this blog you already have a vagina state of mind.  Congratulations.

Now, about my vagina, Snow White and the woodland creatures - and in this case I'm talking about my actual vagina, not a state of mind, so if that's too much for you to handle, I understand.  Feel free to leave and come back when I'm blogging about puppies, which will probably never happen, so, nice knowing you, I guess.

Those of you who are my twats (for those of you new around here twats = my twitter friends) probably remember the night several months ago when I tweeted: "I don't want to alarm anyone, but I was just bitten on the vagina."

No you perverts, it's not what you're thinking.  The husband was out of town and I was all alone.

As usual, my twats were very supportive.  We tried to determine what exactly could have bitten me and we concluded it was either a bug or a ghost.

I know bug seems like the obvious choice, but I'm not totally convinced my house isn't haunted.  Sometimes my dog stares at the wall, or the space in front of wall, and his eyes start moving like he's following something and his tail starts wagging and I'm like, "stop it! stop looking at it, there's nothing there! stop it! stop it!"

So clearly being bitten by a ghost was totally a possibility.

The verdict was up in the air until I felt something on my leg, my upper thigh to be exact.  I figured it was lint, thread from my blanket, something and tried to brush it away.  But it didn't move.  So I looked down and OH SHIT! OH SHIT OH SHIT OH SHIT!

It's a bug.  A huge giant ass bug.  Similar to a cockroach , but not a cockroach, but just as gross as a cockroach.  You know the phrase blood curdling scream?  Well there's a reason for it.  Because I screamed so loudly my blood actually curdled.  I also think I made myself deaf in my left ear.

It's important to note that I live in a townhouse, which means I share a wall with another person.  We can hear each other when we sneeze so I know they heard me when I screamed my head off as though I were being murdered.  Shockingly, they did not run to my rescue.  Not even when I screamed again, threw my phone and fell over the back of the couch.

Did you guys catch the part where I said it was on my upper thigh?  Do you know what is due north of the upper thigh?  That's right, the vagina.

This was not the first time a creature had endeavored to make its way to my vagina.  The first time I was on my way to party in which I knew like two people so me and my anxiety disorder were really looking forward to it.  Just act normal, not too cool, not too weird, and on one will notice you're there.  That's all I had to do. Just act normal.

But no.  I decided I need to go to the bathroom and inspect whatever the hell was going on in my pants.  When the husband and I had left the house, I felt something on my shin, but chalked it up to my dramatics.  Then I felt something on my knee but assured myself it was nothing.  By the time we got to the party and I'd poured myself a solo cup of punch from a gasoline can - the hell? - that "something" was now on my thigh.

I pulled my pants down and at first thought it was lint, but on closer inspection realized it was a lizard.  An effing lizard in my pants!  A LIZARD IN MY PANTS! ON ITS WAY TO MY VAGINA!!!

I proceeded to lose my shit, go white in the face and poke my head out of the bathroom and squeak for the husband.  As you can imagine, people were lining up to be my friend.  And by that I mean, everyone thought I was freak.

Oh well.  At least I have the woodland creatures to keep me company, right?

*Remember when my incredibly lame post had a name-that-quote contest?  Well, we have a winner!  Let's all congratulate Catherine Dabels of the dabels divulge.

Catherine, I know you will be thrilled to accept your awesome prize.  Here it is...