House Buying is Funsies Episode 1!

Mom persuaded me to Vlog the renovation of my new home. Here is the day of the closing.

My brother pretended to spray me with the faucet hose.  I splashed him. He then actually sprayed me. Belching. Family. You know. Pottinger fun.

Good news!

A couple of months ago, my mom sent me a link to a writing job. A couple hundred bucks for a short story to go in a pretty popular compilation book. I blew it off.

The night of the deadline, I decided to write something. It was worth a try.

I got in!

I'm being published!

In Chicken Soup For the Soul: Think Positive. Yup.

I get a bunch of free copies, some moolah, and they have a PR firm that will be reaching out to me to plug my story.

WHAT?!?!?

I got the news last night via email as we were picking out new appliances at Brandsmart. GOOD NEWS AND STAINLESS STEEL APPLIANCES!!!

Lemme know if you want a copy.  I'll sign it.

A change will do you good.

I hurt a lot.  All over, in fact.  Dr. Barbie told me it is because I'm overweight.

Dr. Barbie is an asshole.

My legs have been hurting since November of 2014.  They have gotten worse over the last year, to the point where I wanted to chop the left one off during that awesome youth group retreat I went on for my birthday. That was my left leg.  Now my right is in on the action, and trying to move my body to shed the pounds ends with me in a fetal position at bedtime, popping Motrin and praying for sleep to come.

All that complaining aside,  I decided to experiment with the pain the other day.  I woke up feeling like I was walking on broken glass.

I got in the shower, and said to myself, "SELF! You are not going to focus on this pain anymore. You are going to focus on how the warm water feels on your skin.  You are going to focus on the feel of shampoo bubbles in your hands and the lather in your hair.  You're going to focus on the scent of your body wash.  You're going to listen to Kevin sneaking in to lay against the bathtub while you shower and listen to him sigh once he settles against the tiles.  You're going to focus on the feel of the towel drying your body that can move even though it hurts. You're going to focus on the clothes you can afford to buy and dress yourself with even if you're not your perfect size. You're going to focus on the food that nourishes your body and you are going to be happy that you are alive cause it would suck to be the opposite."

It was a good pep talk I had with myself. I am telling myself the same thing now as my thighs throb from power walking around my workplace. In heels.  Like an idiot. But I'm lucky to have a job, period.

This positive thinking stuff is exhausting. BUT I AM TRYING, GUYS.  I'm really, really trying.

Bloggity, blog, blog

This blog is coming to you from my new laptop computer.

It's shiny.  It's blue.  And all the keys are working. I don't have to hit the right shift key to get things to capitalize. I just type, using my left pinky to CAPS ALL THE THINGS.  That's right.  That was not CAPS LOCK. That was straight shifting, bitches.

I'm trying to get back into PMS mode.  I miss it.  The girls are my kids. I miss them and creating fart jokes for them to say.  I downloaded a template for a well known comic book publisher, and am going to be re-typing PMS Adventures, the graphic novel, into the style they want and submitting it. What's the worst that can happen?  They say no and I'm back to finding a local artist I can work with who I feel comfortable giving notes to. 

I think this may all have to wait a week or two. I have a baby shower to host this coming weekend for one of my best friends. Kevin has a grooming appointment tomorrow.  And I have another doctors appointment on Monday to find out why I am so god damn tired all the time.

Thanks, shiny new computer.  I missed blogging on the weekends.

Fear and loathing.

I quit improv a couple of months ago.  I couldn't be happier.

I think about improv now and I have physical reactions. A friend posted a link to an improv retreat, and the headshots of all the instructors made my esophagus fill with stomach acid. Reading the descriptors for the classes made my eyes cross and my heartrate sped up. I think I have PISD.

Post Improv Stress Disorder.

It can only be helped by long naps, reading crappy sci fi fantasy novels, and taking your time walking your poor dog who was alone during all those hours of driving to and from rehearsals.  It can also be helped by using real objects in your home, as your muscles may be trained to mime a salt shaker in a restaurant with imaginary menus and cutlery.  Cook real food and actually chew things.

If  a flashback is really bad, I recommend balling up a long sleeved flannel shirt and throwing it and your Converse into the back of your closet.

Make sure and do something fun on what would have been your show nights. This past month, I had pizza with my parents instead of leaving work early to haul ass down to the theater, scarfing down Burger King on the way so there would be something in my stomach before I bled imagination all over the floor of a dingy black box theater while some asshole dragged his foot through my life blood by negating my every offer.

I don't miss improv.

I'm thankful that I quit when I did. The surgery went well, other than a slight infection after the fact that I am going to check out with my doctor. Had I been working and doing improv?  I probably wouldn't have been able to do it, let alone afford it.

Cuts like a knife.

I love that Bryan Adams song.

Also, I'm going under the knife.

This Wednesday, I'm supposed to go to Margate and get a polyp removed from my uterus.  It's a big old polyp. It's making my uterus cranky. A cranky uterus means a cranky Lauren.

I had my pre-op appointment yesterday, and my doc broke some more lovely news for me.  Instead of one 20 minute procedure, he's adding another hour long procedure. A lapropscopic procedure to deal with some adhesions on my uterus that could be causing issues as well. He's gonna cut my belly button, put a camera in me and check everything out.

I was surprised.  I'm scared.

I don't know why I'm scared.  Part of me thinks that I'll find some crazy news out about my lady bits that will make me hate them. Like that I won't be able to have the babies I'm not sure I even want.  I don't know. Going under scares me.

But relief from these stupid symptoms will be great.  No more debilitating cramps.  No more fun mid cycle bleeding.  No more overwhelming PMS.  No more PMS decisions.  No more exhaustion and randomly falling asleep.  No more passing out.

If all that goes away, it will certainly be worth it. BUT I AM FREAKING OUT.

I love oversharing.  My mom got on my case about it the other day, but I feel like the world needs to know that it's ok to be your own advocate. I have felt that something was wrong for the last two years, and it took visiting 4 different doctors, 15 different tests including Xrays, MRI's, Ultrasounds. blood work, poop tests, urine tests, and 2 ER visits to finally get to this place where I will be hopefully solving the issues I've been having. And the only reason I am at this point is because I didn't give up on myself.  And you shouldn't either.

Don't go to the light, Carol Anne!

I kinda died on Saturday. It was nice.

I am an idiot.

I've been battling 2 infections over the last month, and decided that the PERFECT time to donate blood would be whilst fighting these infections and whilst on my lady time.

I walked all morning with Mom and Kevin, and had about an hour to get ready and get to the blood center. I shoved a Belvita biscuit into my piehole, showered and drove to the facility.  My iron level was 13.2. Good enough to donate!  My blood pressure was a little lower than normal...but still ok. 113 over 78.  My temp was 97.8, but over the past few months has been lower than normal.  Still ok.

The lady stabbed me.  It hurt. My arm started tingling halfway through the donation. I didn't say anything, as the phlebotomists were obsessed with Bobbi Christina being found unconscious in a bathtub, The donation was done. She told me to put pressure on my arm and to raise it over my head. I told her I felt wobbly.  She walked away to get me an apple juice from the fridge. Then nothing.

I dreamt that Kevin and I were walking down the trail near my house. The trees arched over the path, with sunlight shining down through the gaps in the leaves. Kevin had lots of energy, and I felt at peace. So cozy.

"Lauren!  Lauren! Wake up, Lauren!"

I opened my eyes to two women standing over me, fluorescent light hurting my eyes.  I wanted to go back to sleep. Why were my shoes gone?  Why was my chest cold? I looked down and saw ice packs on my legs and on my chest.  According to my timeline of events, I was out cold for 20 minutes.

"What did you eat today?"

"I had...I had...one of those...biscuit. Ungh. Belvita things." I slurred.

"Here's some juice."

"I'm going to throw up."

"Here's a bag."

I dry heaved for 20 minutes, until one of the ladies popped me in a wheelchair and let me let lose in the bathroom.

One of the ladies was on the phone. She was canceling the paramedics. DAMN. No hot paramedics. BOO.

They rolled me back to the bed. The lady had to fill out a report and took my blood pressure. 104/38. I was concerned about that, but she didn't acknowledge it or comment. I started feeling slightly better. They rushed me out the door.  I called Mom to let her know I might die again at some point.  She said she'd call and check on me.  I should not have been driving.

I got to Jog Rd. and had to pull over. I had to throw up but couldn't.

I got home and threw up all over myself.

I napped.

Got up and threw up again. There was nothing left.

Napped.

Ate a turkey sandwich. Felt better.

Drove to Walgreens.  Bought apple juice, soda and iced tea. Drove through Burger King.

Napped.

I was scared to really sleep, so stayed up til 1am watching TV before I decided to go to bed.  I only locked one of the deadbolts in case someone had to get in to save me.

I called my boss on Sunday and asked if I had to work the Super Bowl party since I died.  He said I had to.

I am wiped today. I started a 7 day round of pills for the latest fun time infection. They make me wonky.  I have a procedure next week that is supposed to clarify all this garbage, but I may have to reschedule as they want me to take 3 days of antibiotics before the procedure, and that will conflict with the other treatment.

Decisions are stupid.  Can I go back to walking that path with Kevin?  It was soooo nice.