I'm bored.

So I'm going to tell you a story.  About Habersham, cause Erin's a jerk. :) I googled Habersham, cause I was pretty sure she'd just typed a bunch of letters together, and found listings of a county in Georgia. They have a winery and a farmer's market. So. Habersham Farmers' Market it is.  As a sidenote...don't google killing roosters when you're eating a chicken wrap. Just. Don't.

Nice Melons

The rooster crowed. A piercing reminder that it was time to get up and start the day.  The little asshole seemed to be waking earlier and earlier.  I had half a mind to wring it's little neck and enjoy a nice meal of fried rooster that night at the dinner table. There was little time to contemplate it's demise though, as I had to pack up crates of fruits and vegetables and haul ass to the swanky shopping center where I peddle my wares on a weekly basis. A single man running a farm does more work than a one armed paper hanger.  Though why a one armed man would go into paper hanging is beyond me.  But from 8 am to 1pm every Saturday, I sit and watch hipster douchebags and collagen filled harlots handle the literal fruits of my labor and try to talk me down from $3 a pound for strawberries while carrying purses that cost more than my pickup.

"Are these certified organic?"  If I hear that question one more time, I might scream.

I get to the market and go to my assigned booth. I glance briefly at the paper sign indicating the name of my neighbor.  I groaned as I read, "The Tea Lady." She is the absolute worst for business.  She wears flowing scarves and calls everyone darling while trying to get them to sip her swill from paper cups she crams on a plate in order to shove them in the faces of passersby. People avoid her like the plague, and their avoidance trajectory typically takes them far past the booths on either side of her. Looking around to see if I would get caught, I grabbed the sign off her table and switched it with the sign of the booth on her other side.

More vendors started to arrive as I attempted to make spaghetti squash look appealing. I don't understand why human beings need their produce stacked and symmetrical, but if it makes 'em buy, I'm doing it.  I was so engrossed in the placement of plums to notice that my new neighbor had started unloading. Their fruit.  And their vegetables. I realized my mistake too late to do anything about it. Hoping that the quality of their product would cause more traffic to head my way, I peered over the side of my table to get a view of their goods and noticed a figure hunched down over a crate.  I saw a ponytail of brown hair with the gold highlights associated with working outdoors, not chemical treatments, pulled through a tattered baseball hat. A long tanned neck stuck out of a ratty flannel that had certainly seen it's share of days drying in the sun. I continued to stare, taking her in as she stood.

"Good God, " she said, hand flying up to her chest. "You scared me!"

"Sorry 'bout that," I answered, suddenly embarrassed and bashful now that the full force of her cornflower blue eyes hit me like a sickle bar mower knocking down an alfalfa crop. "I was just looking at your melons."

Her eyes narrowed, her hand reaching up to the buttons on her shirt as I realized how that sounded. "NO! I mean...no. I meant your melons.  Your MELONS.  I can never get mine to grow that big. " I pointed at a stack of watermelons the size of toddlers laying on the table. Her eyes moved towards the large fruit as her eyes crinkled, a smile turning into laughter as she realized what a ridiculous scene we had just made.

I laughed with her then introduced myself. "I'm Will."

"I'm Stephanie, " she said, reaching her hand towards me in a gesture of friendship and goodwill. Her handshake was firm and her hands calloused.

"Stephanie,"  I repeated, liking the way it felt on my tongue.  "It's a pleasure.  Tell me something...do you like fried chicken?"

  

Hypochondria and A*&holes

I'll admit it.  I can be dramatic at times when it comes to my health. I overreact and rely on WebMD to try to figure out if what's happening is going to a)kill me b)lame me or c) lame me then kill me.  Recently, I've been dealing with this shoulder debacle. And by dealing, I mean doing everything I can to heal faster, know more, be stronger and it's not working.

Yesterday, I went to my orthopedist and he reacted strangely to my MRI.  My supraspinatus was solid white with inflammation, and the surrounding muscles were the normal dark grey that usually shows up on the MRI. There was a also a tiny tear in my rotator cuff.  'OK, Lauren.  You're just being sensitive.  That low whistle and shuffling of papers didn't mean anything,' I said to myself.  Then the dude told me that I might have a degenerative muscular thingy, spouted off a name so quickly I can barely remember anything about it but that it might have started with M,  then told me he wanted to try steroid therapy to get the swelling down. Great. Let's do that.  They called a script in. As I was checking out, I heard the doctor in the hallway chatting with another doc about me.   Comforting.

I started the Prednisone this morning and followed instructions to a T. I had no plans after work, so settled in to some time on the couch and catching up with Doctor Who. As I was laying there, my hands started to tingle. Then turned numb. They're still numb as I type.  I didn't freak out. My roommate suggested it was the way I was laying, so I adjusted that.  Still tingling. Worse, actually. So, I looked up side effects to Prednisone.

"Contact your doctor immediately if you experience these side effects: Shortness of breath.  Pain in calf. Tingling or numbness in hands and arms."

I asked the roomie what she thought I should do and decided to call the ER where I originally went for my injury. A nurse got on the "help" line and I told her what was going on after she got out the obligatory, "What's your information so we can bombard you with mailings and emails and prove we're helping people" deal.

Here's the rant part of this blog.

"Did you lay on your arms or hands while you were resting?"

Excuse me? I'm sorry, but I believe I have been speaking pretty intelligently with you up until this extremely asinine question.  NO, I wasn't freaking laying on my hands or arms. They've been numb for over an hour, jerk face. AND NO, I wasn't putting pressure on my elbows or wrists either.  Thank you for absolutely nothing.  Now, instead of just numb hands, I am also irate.  And thank you, very much, for the comforting "You should call your pharmacist cause I have absolutely no idea.  Do you want to receive mailings from us?"

The pharmacist was equally irksome. "Were you laying on your hands or arms?"  NO, you FUCKING ASSHOLE. I understand you get calls from morons all the time. I get it.  You're jaded. But I can't feel my hands and you're making me want to numbly punch a hole in something.  Her final answer: "You should call your doctor in the morning."

Thank you. I will certainly do that.  If I can feel my hands enough to dial the fucking phone.

Rant over.

Mother's Day

My mom is awesome. Period. I love her and am glad to be slowly turning into her. With some additional neuroses.

She may be confusing at times.
Mom: "No, I don't want any presents, but there's a necklace at this store for this price and this is what it looks like, so...."

She may come up with interesting nicknames for me.
Mom: "Hopeless! Get down here!"
Me: "Mom, did you give me the middle name Hope so you could call me that? Or is it a side benefit?"

Mom, about to hang up with me cause she's tired of talking:"Ok, boo boo. Talk to you later."

She may have crazy advice sometimes.
Mom: "I read an article about a guy who only owns what can fit on his back and he just sublets apartments in New York while pursuing his acting career.  YOU SHOULD DO THAT!"

She may be a little too protective.
Mom: "Hey, you want me to go to your doctors appointment with you?"
 
She has the neatest sayings.
Me: "I have a problem....complain, complain, complain."
Mom: "It is what it is, Lauren. It is what it is."

Me:  "This person is driving me crazy!"
Mom: "You can't change people.  Only how you deal with them. But, yeah.  That person's a jerk."

She comes up with the greatest schemes.
Mom: "Ok, your 31st birthday is the 15th and we want to go to Ohio.  Let's drive to Savannah on your birthday, stay over and explore the city then drive to Grandma's house. Sound like a plan?"

Mom: "Ok, we're going on a trip to Scotland next year.  Figure it out."

She's my mom, and I love her.

 

 

 
 

A glimpse into the Guarded Area.

No. I don't mean THAT Guarded Area. Gross.

I had a rough day today.  I'm not even sure why.  The tragedy in Boston. The letdown of the skydiving experience being over. Not looking cool in front of the hip skydivers while I yarfed. Weird rehearsal and late nights. Basically, all this piled up and I acted like a jerk to a lot of people while crying on and off for the entire day.  I had no control over my emotions or over my anger.

So, I made a promise to myself to take care of me tonight.  I ran the errands I needed to run right after work so I wouldn't need to leave the house again.  I bribed the dog with a walk and new toys. I made a light dinner as I'm still feeling off and queasy.  I watched comedies. I drank lemonade, then water and avoided the bottle of Malbec that was staring me in the face.  I walked the dog one final time and was about to head to bed at 10 so that my 6:00 am alarm didn't cause this non-morning person too much distress.

Then things went to hell.  I started talking to my roommate as I ate a few spoonfuls of lemon sorbet.  The next time I looked at the clock, it was 10:40 and I excused myself, called Kevin and went into my room to prep for slumber.

"Take your melatonin.  It'll help you sleep and calm your legs," I said to myself, and headed towards the bathroom.  As I approached the vanity, I noticed a build up of toothpaste in the bottom of the sink. "THIS WILL NOT DO!" I thought, reaching under the sink for my Green Works wipes. Cleaning the counter means moving beauty product, as I'm an addict.  Moving beauty product means more cleaning. My toothbrush cup was dirty. The cotton ball holder was empty and dirty...and needed Q-tips! The Q-tips were in a drawer that wouldn't open all the way as it was blocked by the linen closet door, so shift everything in the closet til it opens. The mirror was smeared. I had to go back out to the kitchen for product. I came back in and scrubbed. These beauty products should go under the sink as I use them infrequently. Oooo. An anti stress face mask! I need that.

It's like a weird Andy Warhol of selfies.

I go to the kitchen to put the product back AND CLEAN ALL THE COUNTERS IN THE DARK. I fluff pillows in the living room. Move some stuff around so the place looks organized. Drape blankets dramatically.

Then I go back in my room and say, "I should blog about this."

THEN, and only then do I take the melatonin, brush my teeth, wash the blue gunk off my face, pop out my eyeballs, pet Kevin, clean off my dresser, write a blog and NOW I will go to bed. Maybe.  I'll probably watch my skydiving video again.

I jumped out of a plane and then...I barfed.

A couple of months ago, my friend Diane sent out a call on Facebook for someone to join her in a Groupon Skydive.  Of course I was game. We scheduled it for a Sunday in April, and basically didn't talk about it again until 3 days before. There were a lot of "I'm going to poop my pants" comments back and forth, and the anticipation built.  Finally, the day came. I had breakfast with a friend in Boca and time got away from me.  Flying down the turnpike, I got to Diane's house with 20 minutes to spare. We got to the field, and parked across from the hangar where the Miami Skydiving Center was located.

It was a mess.  A bunch of dudes, a bunch of couches, and a bunch of parachutes being repacked while we waited.  The young man behind the counter came out after our check in to put us in our harnesses.  Diane and I are both improvisers/stand ups, so the jokes were flying as our nerves were fraying.  After a short wait, we both met our tandem skydive instructors, and hopped in the plane.

Diane went first. The small Cessna only held our two groups, and our instructors kept asking us the same old questions.  Pooping pants was mentioned again...several times. Finally, the door opened and Diane was gone. My instructor slid us back to the door, I flung my legs out and away we went.  Arms crossed, back arched and legs up, we free fell for a bit before he told me I could put my arms out at a 90 degree angle.

X-Men shirt, mother fronters!

It was amazing.  Exhilarating. Wonderful. We dropped through thick cloud cover that blinded us to the ground and closed in around us as I laughed. The chill was refreshing as we made our way down, down and down. My instructor took my goggles off so I could see everything around me.  I screamed, " Alonzi!" At some point I said, "I'm going to throw up." But I smiled the whole time.  My instructor yelled in my ear that we were about to prep for landing. He told me to keep my legs up and slightly bent, that he would do the work and that he wouldn't do anything to damage my beautiful butt. We skid across the grass and spun around as I laid there, trying to recover.  I felt like I was going to throw up and said so. Diane came over to me and started unbuckling my harness. I staggered over to the car, and the boys allowed me to sit up front on the 5 mile ride back to base.  I kept my eyes closed and listened to Diane charm the boys in the backseat.  Freefall titties were mentioned. I did breathing exercises as we flew through Miami traffic.

We arrived at the airport, and in front of us was a car parked in the middle of the street as the idiot driver tried to take a photo of something in the sky. This is the moment I almost lost my breakfast. I thought I could keep it in, but as we pulled up to the gate, I knew I was done.  I told the driver I was getting out.  As I turned from the car, I threw up. I managed to get my hand over my mouth, caught it, pushed it back in and had it come flowing out of my nostrils as I ran across the street to a set of log parking dividers. I draped myself dramatically over the log and tossed my cookies.  3 times. Ended up all over my face and hands as I finished up and headed over to the bathroom where one of the guys from the car had GONE IN TO USE THE BATHROOM LIKE A DOUCHE.

I cleaned up as Diane hitched a ride to a convenience store to grab me a water. SHE IS THE BEST.  We got our t-shirts, our DVD's and left after posing in front of the Miami Skydiving Center sign (me throwing up, her laying on the ground as if she were dead.) I dropped her at home and ran to Walgreens to grab some Pepto, Saltines, and a Coke. With all my goodies, I got on the road...and promptly had to pull into a parking lot and lay down for 20 minutes before I attempted the 2 hour drive home to Kevin, who vomited shortly after we went for our after dinner walk. His was a little bit more unsightly than mine. And I didn't have to clean mine up.

Now I want to eat the world.

Video of me being an idiot.

4/15/13 Edit: I took a Dramamine and all that. Still barfed.  Maybe cause Diane gave me a drowsy version when I had a less drowsy.

I hate clowns.

I had a date tonight. I felt kind of crappy all day, and was trying to decide whether or not to cancel as I honestly thought I would throw up all over the place, thus humiliating myself (and acquiring an awesome date story!) But I decided to take a nap and see how I felt afterwards.

It didn't help. I still felt like crap, but I heard my mom's voice in my head. "You have to TRY at life, Lauren." So, I tried. I tried to keep down a waffle. I tried to shower and I tried to decide what outfit to wear, while trying to be on time.  I met him at Starbucks, and we grabbed coffee while I tried to decide whether or not he was going to kill me on the ride to the comedy club where his friend was performing.  I tried being sweet, tried being funny. We had a good time over lattes.  I decided that he was harmless, so we got in his car and drove to Boca.

We got to the club, and it was a country club disguised as a comedy club.  The small stage looked like it had been decorated by the people who set dressed The Golden Girls condo.   We got our required beverages, and the opening act came up on the stage.  His set was ok.  Then they started the introduction of the headliner. The voiceover track announced that this gentlemen had performed with various circuses.  I laughed to myself. What the hell is happening?

Then it happened.  A huge, smirking clown came striding towards the stage.

This guy. I'm smiling but crying inside.

I looked at my date and whispered, "I hate clowns. They're terrifying."  My grandmother had a clown doll that sat in her basement. You pulled a cord, and the thing laughed. AND LAUGHED AND LAUGHED.  Sometimes you wouldn't have to pull the string.  It just WENT OFF. It was terrifying, and after reading Stephen King's IT at the age of 10, I have been scarred for life.  But back to the present. My date laughed, and the show started.  The guy was creepy and funny, but I kept having moments where I was reminded that there was a fucking CLOWN staring at me with his creepy, bulging eyeballs and leering grin.  I sipped my $10 beverage nervously, then switched to water.  I didn't want to have any sort of anything hindering me from beating the crap out of that clown if he came anywhere near me.

I went to the bathroom after avoiding the guy in the lobby, and as I washed my hands I resigned myself.  My date was outside with his friend, so I went back to the area where the comedian, The Disgruntled Clown, was hawking merch. I walked straight up to him, said, "I'm scared of clowns, but that was a good set. Thank you." He put a sticker on my jacket that said, "I've been clowned" then asked if I wanted to buy a shot glass.    I said no but asked for the above picture.

I conquered my fear of clowns. At least that one clown. And I tried at life.  And stopped myself from throwing up on my date on the way home.  WIN,

Social Anxiety and Online Dating

My mother signed me up for an online dating site. She filled in the profile, uploaded a picture (that unfortunately looks nothing like me at this current weight) and started messaging people she thought would make good dates/boyfriends/husbands/fathers of my children. She also asked me to promise to start working on my life, to get outside of work and losing myself in pet projects to try.  Not to try anything specific, just to try.  And it's hard. It's hard to put a facsimile of  yourself together to project to a world of men who have access to any kind of woman they want on the internet. It's hard to not slip into comfy sweats after walking the dog and do anything but lay on the couch catching up on my favorite television shows while Kevin lays on my lap. I've gone through a lot in the past three years.  I've overcome anorexia.  I've fluctuated between scary skinny and (according to Nutrisystem) obese. I've built things up and torn things down. And I'm scared that who I am won't appeal to who they are. I'm scared that the comedian will come out and I'll put up the number of walls that are standard when I'm getting to know someone new.  I'm scared, period.


I have rescheduled a date with a handsome sommelier 2 times, making up some excuse about needing to prepare for my improv show, or telling him that something came up at work. HE'S CUTE AND KNOWS ALL ABOUT WINE.  NO BRAINER.  But I'm afraid to sit across from someone and feel the judgment that I'm not skinny enough, or that I'm not as pretty as my photo. I'd hate for them to think to themselves, "Man, she was so witty on her online profile. What happened?" Because when I get nervous, I joke and I laugh.  And act weird. I wear my strangest accomplishments on my sleeve so that this person knows who I am and they can deal with it or not.  Most of the time, they can't or won't.  They don't.  Ironically, I just got a message from someone that read, "HEY, is your improv troupe The Rejects? My friends and I just came to your show." See, Mom? Maybe being a psycho workaholic can be trying to have a life. Boom.  Though my brain immediately said, "He's seen you in person and knows this photo is a lie."

That little voice in my brain is now telling me to type out another excuse to the poor sommelier who just wants to have a glass of wine in a hotel bar. It's cajoling me to slip into those sweatpants and just go to sleep instead of trying. That little voice is getting louder as other voices are chiming in with "What are you going to wear so he can't see your gut?" "How are you going to do your hair so he doesn't see that scar on your neck?"  "How much makeup can you slather on so he can't see the pimples on your face from stress?" "How are you ever, ever going to find love when you don't even love yourself?"

That last one is the worst and the most important question I've asked myself in a while.  Why can't I love myself, skinny or chubby? Why do I focus on the negatives when it comes to self worth and not the positives?  Why can't my life be like a romantic comedy, where the perfect guy falls into my lap, we date, we break up because of some major difference, then get back together cause really, was that difference so bad?  Because with my luck, the perfect guy will but he'll type "your pretty" instead of "you're pretty" and it'll be over before it's begun.

There's an irony here as my co-worker's radio was playing "What's Love Got to Do With It?" and transitioned into "Love is a Battlefield."Stupid radio.