Thursday, September 30, 2010

My Fun Day at the Doctors

      Yesterday, I had the pleasure of having my annual physical done. It was by far THE WORST exam I have ever had. It occurred to me that T-Money might be a girl, and that telling her about this would be sort of important. I don't think I was fully prepared for a "sexually active" physical exam when the time came around. I'm not sure why I put "sexually active" in quotes. While I was in the stirrups awkwardly holding Chad's hand, we made eye contact. The look on his face was shock and a bit of horror. It dawned on me. Men should know about this too. If T-Money is a boy, and he decides to convince some girl (when they are both 33) to do it, he should know what she goes thru every year to continue doing it. (doing it should be in quotes) I decided blogging would be the best way to get the word out.

      You are escorted to your examination room by one of two people; the overly cheery, and fake happy nurse, or the disgruntled nurse, wearing kitty scrubs, that is two seconds away from losing it. You will then be instructed to take a seat on a table with wax paper on it and a puppy pad placed at the bottom. They will then hand you a paper towel gown and a long sheet of paper towels you are supposed to use for privacy to cover your bottom half. (I am 5'2 and the sheet is nothing more than a few postage stamps) When you find out what's to come you will laugh that they even offer you the privacy sheet. Some places will give you a cotton gown and sheet to use. I find this creepy because that makes me wonder how many other vaginas have been near that gown. You are allowed to leave your socks on, for dignity. Otherwise, undress completely, slit in the front. Prepare to sit there cold, while the doctor leaves the room to come back 30 minutes later. You will be freezing and pissed off by this point and preparing to put your clothes back on.

      The Doctor will come back in, and check your lungs. Then, you will be asked to lay down. S/he will give you a breast exam. You will be asked to put an arm behind your head. While she is feeling you up, she will ask you questions like, "How long have you been sexually active, how many partners have you had, do you wanna grab dinner some time?" The Doctor will then cover you back up, tucking in your shame simultaneously.

      The next part is the most fun. It involves a metal duck bill, and a q-tip with a razor blade on the end. They will have you scoot all the way to the end of the table, and they will sit on a chair, directly at crotch level. They will have a bendy light they will point directly at your bits. While all of this is going on a nurse will come in and lurk behind the doctor. If it is anything like my experience yesterday, the doctor will opt out of using actual lubrication and just use warm water instead. They will tell you to relax, you won't be able to. It will hurt. They will then use some sort of cork screw device and crank you open so that they can start the next portion. He or she will tell you that this won't hurt. They are lying. He/she will stick a long q-tip into you. You will think, that won't be bad. Right after that, he/she will stick a long stick with a razor blade on it in there and scratch you. It will hurt. You will bleed. Women doctors will hurt you more than men.

      Then, you think the process if over. That your humiliation can start to subside. OH NO that is not the case. The doctor will now start the process of sticking their fingers inside to feel around. I asked my Doctor yesterday what she was feeling for. She rolled her eyes, like I should know. Sorry lady, I didn't go to medical school to look at vagina all day. They will be feeling your cervix and uterus. It will be very uncomfortable. I think that most OB's take a semester in how to make a patient feel awkward.

      The doc will get up, hand you a wet wipe, some tissues, wash their hands, and leave. You will hold the wet wipe, wondering if they are trying to tell you something. You will just assume you can put your clothes back on. Then, you will wonder what you should do with your "gown" after you take it off. You will get dressed, and sit back down on your puppy pad. The doctor will come back in and you will then be forced to my eye contact with someone that has seen your insides. There will be no small talk.

      In closing, T-Money: If you are a girl, make sure you really love him. You gotta ask yourself if this is worth it. If you are a boy, she really loves you, don't break her heart.

Tuesday, September 28, 2010

Dis! Enrolled

      Tricare.  Pretty sure they are going to piss me off enough to need some form of counseling. They will then, promptly tell me I have to pay for it myself, because they have no idea who I am.

      If there is ever a time in your life you don't want to read the words from your health insurance company, "you have been disenrolled," it's the time when you are pregnant. Thoughts of me squatting in a ditch, or in the back of a taxi cab (because those cabbies seem to have it happen enough in movies they could surely deliver mine) float through my mind. Why on Earth was I disenrolled? Well, why don't you call Tricare and ask. I spent and hour on my cell phone (putting me over on my minutes so unless you have Verizon and txt me that in advance, you are not worth the $.45 a minute to talk to)

      Usually conversations with Tricare are about 3 minutes long, because their customer service team stops working after 3 minutes. I call in, and I get someone on the other end.
Tricare: Tricare enrollment.
Me: Hello, I received a letter today that says I have been disenrolled from Tricare. I never authorized this. It is unacceptable.
Tricare rep: LONG SIGH. Let me look into it.
10 minutes roll by.....
20 minutes roll by....
I can hear cash registers making the cha-ching noise in my head as my cell phone bill skyrockets.
Tricare Rep: We disenrolled you because you are living in England.
Me: No. I am not. My address has always been in North Carolina. I came in to change my address from one Carolina address to another. That's why I am
Tricare Rep: HOLD ON.
(internal monologue: did that bitch just cut me off?!)
This turns into 60 minutes of holding and her coming back for 2 seconds to tell me they fixed it but I still have to been seen off base because there isn't room for me on base. I then said no. She said, "Well, I guess you are going to have to find a way to be ok with it."

EXCUSE ME?!? I want to place a complaint. I am sick of this crap. To place a complaint I have to HAND WRITE a letter and send it snail mail. Wait, what? 1982 strikes again. I couldn't place a complaint over the phone, and I couldn't do it online.
This is what their website says:

How do I file a grievance?Mail written notice of your grievance to the appropriate grievance address (see below) and be sure to include the following:
  • Your name, address and telephone number
  • Your Sponsor's Social Security number
  • Your date of birth
  • Your signature
  • A description of the issue or concern that must include:
    • Date and time of the event
    • Name of the provider(s) and/or person(s) involved
    • Location of the event (address) 
    • The nature of the concern or complaint
    • Details describing the event or issue
    • Any appropriate supporting documents  

Because their system is so archaic, I have decided to take them seriously with their request of having me hand write my complaint. I am using crayon. No, seriously, I am using crayon. Red crayon to show my anger and rage at a health care company that apparently has a problem with pregnant women. Then, I started to look around the house for my crayons. I don't get too many opportunities to use them. I can't find them! All I can find is a light blue sharpie, and a light blue colored pencil. Then, I needed printer paper to write the letter. I can't find any. All I could find was notebook paper. At this point, I am just going with it. Here's what I have so far:

      I know I have an art degree. I don't do cartoons. Plus, it's sharpie on notebook paper, and I have to make dinner tonight. I am going to focus on the rest of my Tricare letter now. The idea of national health care in this country scares me, if they plan on using the military's system as a guide. It's like consulting with JFK on the best way not to get shot.

More in a day or two.

Monday, September 27, 2010

"Hipster" Panties

     I am THAT girl. The one that bends over and exposes an sea of light green cotton, in the form of "hipster" panties. That's the new term for, "I don't like things around my butt hole." I take issue with thong underwear. Yep, I said it. I am one of those girls that is NEVER sexy, because I refuse to put them on. (Unless it's for 3 minutes right before Chad gets home from work and I actually text him to see when he is going to be home and wait until it is in the 3 minute window.) I know there are different types of thong underwear. It doesn't make one bit of difference to me.
      When I was in college, I wore them. I was disgusted by visible panty lines. Now, when Chad and I go out this is a regular conversation.
Liz: Can you see cellulite thru the pants?
Chad: (Awkward silence. Cricket. Cricket.)
Liz: Use your words.
Chad: I don't know what you are talking about. I can see you are wearing underwear.
Liz: No, seriously Chad, I don't give a crap about my granny panties. Can you see dimples?
Chad: (long pause) I'm not comfortable with these questions.
Liz: FINE, I just won't go.
Chad: Good, I didn't want to go anyway.
Then, I just cave and try to find pants that I have bought in the past 5 years rather than wearing stuff from college. I think my self esteem would go way up if I would part with things from my college years. It must be the hoarder in me, or some form of emotional cutting. Every now and again, I will try to squeeze into a pair of jeans I wore in college like 2 times, when I wasn't bloated, and clearly wasn't eating. I found myself wanting to do it a few days ago! What kind of freakish perverted bitch lives inside me??? I am 3+ months pregnant!

      Back to this so-called underwear. I have a few problems with them. First of all, the "comfortable" ones are nothing more than a very thin string in the rear. Now, to get from the string to the crotch there isn't much space for the obligatory crotch triangle to really spread out to be adequate in any way. So, why bother? Is it there as an extra barrier incase you sneeze too hard? The other problem I have is that, well... some people (not me of course) grow hair back there. I can only imagine it is not an area that is 1. easy to shave or 2. takes kindly to it. People who get it waxed can wear whatever they want around it if you ask me. So, if there is any kind of hair growth around there, you are essentially "threading" that hair every now and again. (threading, for anyone who does not know, is the process of removing hair by using a piece of thread that is doubled on itself and used as a torture device similar to tweezers) EXTRA. BIG. TIME. PASS. How can anyone in a thong smile? Maybe that's why there are pictures of me from college looking less than thrilled. I was trying to mentally will the string to the outside of one butt cheek or the other.
      Since thong underwear is pretty much completely useless, I would like to provide a few alternatives to save money.
 1. A female condom.
 2. a grouping of band-aids
 3. scotch tape
 4. a pad stuck directly to the inside of your pants.
 5. a sock
I say go on girl, be the thong Macgyver. Or, stop torturing yourself and just buy 1 size bigger pants, and "hipster" panties.

Public vs. Private

  This isn't going to be my best post. We will get into that in a bit.
    In my artwork over the years, I have discussed quite often the idea of public vs. private. What we as a culture deem necessary to keep to ourselves rather than share with others or the world at large, versus what I deem necessary to keep to myself. The truth and reality of public vs. private comes down to generational differences. My formative years were spent on the internet. I spoke to my friends via AOL IM. I had an e-mail address when I was 14 or so. (I like to brag about having an email account, I believe it was "". epic) We realized there were perils of the internet but as a generation, we embraced technology more than ever before. We were sort of the pioneers of new technology. Young-in's reading're welcome. If it weren't for us, you would still be using pen and paper. So, what does it mean? I will tell you rainbow guy! It means we view information sharing differently. I am more open about who I am because I have always had a computer to type into. I know how to use a google search, and lot's of people's feeling are at my fingertips! Words flow out of me on a keyboard. It's easy. I don't fumble over my tongue, and if I make a misstep, the delete button instinctually reaches out to my ring finger.

      Ugh Kathryn Heigle needs to stop making movies. They all look terrible. I'm glad I misspelled it, it proves I'm not a closet fan.

      This was a tough week for me. That's why I didn't write much. First of all, my dog of 7 years had knee surgery. Gigi is what I refer to as my "dogter." She has been with me every step of the way thru a pretty insane journey. I was a mess because we had to drop her off and pick her up a day later. She had to stay in a vet's office over night. Shivering, with a cone on her head. The night before we had to get up at 5 AM to get her to the Doc's office on time, I got a phone call. Someone wanted to discuss this whole "blog" with me. It had offended some people that don't even know me. My response was a big fat, "so?" Basically the gist of it is that they were going to tell my Mom on me. WTF? Is this the 4th grade? She knows she's in this blog. She is glad I have an outlet to call my own, to get thru a very scary time in my life. You know, because she is cool as shit. She took an issue with one little excerpt. I removed it promptly. I can't say I blame her, but she did say it. But, I digress. Those of you that got there in time, we will forever share that memory. We can get together for drinks after T-money is born. We will laugh about it. I will cry. Just kidding. What I found out from that little bit of info I shared was: EVERYONE'S Mom does that stuff. Haha. People wrote to tell me their stories. I loved it. Keep em coming.

     So, the people did in fact tattle on me. One went so far as to copy and paste an excerpt from a post into an email and email it to someone else to show how easily information can be shared. Ummmmm, how's about you go ahead and use morris code? That would be impressive. Of COURSE you can copy and paste stuff. (Unless you still have one of those computers from the 80's with the green screen) I could also write something, and say person 1 wrote it, and create an entire elaborate blog around it. I could write an email from a fake email account, claiming to be person 1, and send it to tons of people. This all came down to a big case of the sky is falling and to "protect" my mother they tried to tell her all the ways in which I was hurting her.  This person did all of this to "keep the peace." Your version of peace is different than mine, person 1. So, I was left to feel angry. I don't take kindly to subjective criticism. You can like or not like all you want, but it's not going to stop me from getting thru a trying time in my life.

      I live in a military town. I am pregnant. I just moved back to America from another country. We only have 1 car right now. All of these are facts, and another fact is, I am a bit lonely. This is how I am getting thru. It is creative sharing, and allows people to hear about what's going on in my life without me tying them down to a conversation that they may not be able to have at that given time. Trying to make friends in a military town is like trying to find an item of mine that doesn't have boogers on it.

      I would like to keep going with my writing. I kinda think I am good at it. People like to read about Stealth Farts and crazy landlords. The more I write the better I will become. In the long run, there may be a little niche in the writing market for me. I think big. That's what I do. So, in the future, if there are any problems with my blog, feel free to talk to me. I will refer you to Chad, my PR person. He will then quickly tell you, "Go fuck yourself."

      I am so glad I got this off my chest. I am already feeling the writing itch again. More in a day or two.


Wednesday, September 22, 2010

Dear Readers

     Let's have a heart to heart. I decided to start this blog as a way to work through all the things that life has thrown at me. It is a version of therapy. While this blog can't always convey tone, it is meant to be light hearted and funny. I am a real person, with real things that have happened to me. I write about the things I know. It may be hard for some people to understand why I chose this forum. For me, this not only allows me to explore my past and future, but allows me share those feelings with other people. I enjoy making others laugh, and I enjoy knowing that others identify and relate.

      I graduated from college with a degree in Art. Artists have a need to explore and discuss the things around them that they see and experience. As a viewer, you have the ability and the right to not show up, or show up and discuss it. It is a conversation with the world around you. I happen to have my conversations with you. Right here. Right now. You should to come to this site with an open mind and the ability to decipher between quick whit, and evil mis-doings.  I love who I am. I love that I am pregnant and so many things are resurfacing as I work my way to motherhood. I have some awesome memories from growing up!  I love my family. They gave me the sense of humor that has helped me to enjoy writing this blog so much. My Mother is a kick ass person. My father is pretty much the coolest dude ever. They made me who I am today. A woman that speaks my mind, reaches out to others, and finds new ways to explore who I am.

      Without my family I would not be the person I am today. I am forever grateful for picking me up from the depths of despair, and helping me to the other side. I will forever have family on my side. While it may be complicated and complex to understand, I am not writing this out of a hateful or mean place. If it is too much to take in, or offensive to you, please feel free to not click on the links.


I am only telling you this so you don't judge me. Since I have become pregnant I have developed a thyroid condition. It makes me feel like death. Walking from the kitchen back to the couch is exhausting. It's seriously embarrassing. I feel like a prisoner in my own body right now. I am waiting for the docs to give me meds. This means that the only things I can do are watch tv, play on facebook, or write blogs. I am going with the last one. So, if you judge me, just know you are judging a sick, defenseless, pregnant woman.

So here I am, a captive of my own body. It's hard to talk about funny things that have happened lately because I have literally been out of the house for 6 hours in 2 weeks. The only thing I have left to do is talk about regalia from my past. Chad read my most recent post and asked if the 6th Grade Lip Sync was a real thing. OF COURSE IT WAS REAL. I'm about to go all Sophia on this story.

Picture this.....Jackson Memorial Middle School, 1992. It was the end of the school year, and I had apparently somehow convinced 3 girls that being my friend would not get them burned at the stake, and that carrying around a pocket knife in your bra is completely normal. There was to be one more middle school dance of the year. Every year the last dance of the year was also a "lip sync." I was like, "awwwww shiiiiit" when I heard it on the announcements. I'm not quite sure that was my actual response, but that's how I remember it in my head. (6th grade had not been kind to me in many ways. It was an unfortunate year of Kelly Kapowski bangs, and flannel shirts) Back to the story. I decided to make my only 3 friends at the time, join me on stage. We needed to find a song that really spoke to us. A song with a sweet video, and a female anthem we could identify with. Naturally we chose the song, "Free Your Mind" by En Vouge. I could really relate to those sisters. With the song chosen, all that was left was choreography, and costume. I was on it. I had costumes galore lying around. Some were from when I was 7, and some had been mailed to me by my Aunt who had two girls a little older than me.

Let me refresh your memory of this video. The costume that really caught my eye was basically a black one piece bathing suit, with a floor length skirt. Sounds ok right? I'm. Not. Finished. Apparently costume design was like, "ummmmm no this isn't nearly slutty enough. Did you see what Madonna has been wearing?" So, they proceeded to cut a slit all the way to very top of the lady bits on the costume. The other outfits were less memorable, but pretty much your average run of the mill bondage type stuff. You know, the stuff that every 11 year old should be into by this point.

*Little known Liz fact: The summer of my 5th to 6th grade year, I became close with a weird neighbor lady that looking back on it was a complete social misfit and surely has at least 10 cats by now. Well, she was interested in medieval times. I was 10, who was I to disagree? We joined a reenactment group. She made me the medieval garb.*

Good thing I had that medieval garb. The underskirt became the black skirt with the slit to the lady bits. The girls and I practiced for a good two weeks for this performance. None of us had thought to ask around about what other people were doing as their act. We also hadn't asked around to see who would be judging the contest either. So, the night comes. We are all nerves and excitement. We change into our costumes in the girls locker room and prepare to head to the stage. Other acts start performing. Other people are dressed up like Raggedy Anne and Andy. Some people are dressed in sailor outfits because they just sang "On the Good Ship Lollipop." The judges are older than the Pope. Seriously. The judges are PEOPLES GRANDPARENTS. Gulp. They. Call. Our. Names. We go up on stage, the music starts (FREE YOUR MIND!!!), and my back up dancers do their thing. I do most of the lead lip syncing. We rocked the effin house, people. It was amazing for four 11 year old girls to have put on such a spectacular. The song ended. We were all smiles. It was like a record skipped. No one spoke. No one clapped. All you could hear was our little high heels as we exited the stage. We went down onto the gym floor, and there were boys from our class waiting for us WITH DOLLAR BILLS. They were asking, "How much?" More than a dollar kid. More than a dollar.

Some people just don't get me. They never will. We didn't win. I am still bitter. Sometimes, when I see Lady Gaga, I think, that should be me. I was ahead of my time.
Update on other three: 1 girl turned out wonderfully. She is married and seems to be very happy. The others well, to my best guesstimation, they turned out.

And so, I leave you with the words of the wise lady's of En Vogue.

Tuesday, September 21, 2010

These Are the People In My Neighborhood

     That last post had to happen. There was no way I could let this go on any further without at least touching on that subject. It leads to my next problem. Being graced with social misfits for parents, I had to learn how to interact with people completely on my own. There was no social guide, or "tips" being given. I made a lot of mistakes trying to get people to like me along the way. When I was in the sixth grade, I was at a cool kid party, and in the middle of our scavenger hunt I told everyone I was a witch. I guess there was a lull in convo and it seemed like a natural topic. Needless to say, it didn't make me any friends and I spent the rest of the year at a lunch table by myself with a pocket knife stuffed in my training bra. Why? I have no idea. None at all. That was the same year I should have won the 6th Grade Lip Sync with my rousing rendition of "Free Your Mind." I digress.

      Now, we are back in Fayetteville. No matter how you fancy it up, or give it a kitsch southern name, it's still a terd with a little glitter on it. I can hear BOMBS going off at 3 AM and helicopters hovering 15 ft about our roof at any given time. Regardless of that fact, we have 2 friends here, one of which is in Afghanistan at the moment. We must make friends. Chad's job doesn't really lend itself to making friends. He sort of works alone and people from other places come to him for things they need. So, it would be a bit weird if he was like, "Here's your crap, you wanna have dinner with me and my wife tonight?" So, then I think of our new neighbors. On one side there is a young couple around our age with 2 young children. Sounds perfect right? They haven't even made eye contact with us. We wave and smile and you would think we were actually throwing up gang signs and grabbing our crotches from the way they react. Our other neighbor deserves his own paragraph.

      We haven't met our other neighbor either. I am going to give him a name that is fitting, Bobby Blue will be his name from now on. Bobby, who goes by B for short because that's the only letter he learned to make in the 3rd grade when he dropped out, has a girlfriend from Georgia that parks on the road every weekend. I use the term "park" loosely. It's more like she just stops driving. I have seen B all of 3 or 4 times. In those few times I have seen him, he has never been wearing a shirt, or has been standing between his lady's legs on the back porch snarling in our direction. Of course, B has a pit bull. You can see him thru the slats in the fence.

 I am usually not a fan of pits but this one is actually nice. His owner however must have just happened on him. B has not mowed his back yard in at least 6 months. He has started a poop factory. It is to the point where I don't like to go out on the back porch because I am accosted by the smell of pit poo. So, those are our immediate friend choices in the neighborhood.

      I could get involved with some "do good" group on the base. The problem with this, is that most of the women there are in direct competition with each other. It's an unspoken rule. I am pregnant and live next to a small poop factory. I am not looking to compete. The other option is to make friends at a bar. That doesn't seem smart either. So, here we are. I didn't even tell anyone I am a witch this time, and I am still eating lunch alone. At least now, I don't have a pocket knife, or a training bra.

Monday, September 20, 2010

Awkward Hug

     If I had to describe me, conventional would not be a word I would use. Traditional, perhaps, but never conventional. It's hard to be conventional when you come from my background. (By conventional, I mean, cookie cutter house wife. Not, I have a secret room of creepy stuff.) You model your social interactions after the footsteps your parents left. If I were to use that blue print, I would be saying penis in group settings daily (my mother), and moving through rooms like a ghost (my father). I have gently grazed over the surface of my relationship with my mother, and today I will give you a few samples of the social awkwardness at my house.  I have had to teach myself to hug, and to stop my own ears from bleeding from unacceptable mother daughter conversations. Today, I will tell you about them.

      First, I must paint the proper picture of Claudia. Claudia, is 5'4 and in her late 60's. She is obsessed with physical fitness and you can usually catch her in some form of velour track pants, or adidas warm ups. She is always wearing running shoes. When she is talking to you or presenting you with an item she will cup her hands together and smile at you. That is irrelevant but it just plain pisses me off. No real reason, just an annoying trait. She has a very short hair cut, and refuses to use any sort of hair product so it always looks like wild animals styled her hair. She identifies more strongly with dogs than humans. Not sure why. Claudia also has the MOST AMAZING way of complementing you and tearing you down a peg or two at the same time. "Your hair is such a pretty color these days, it really hides how dead it seems to be." She is passive aggressive at its best.

       Example #1: All kids learn to hug from their parents. My mother had an overwhelming fear of child predators. I  am sure of it. She would constantly warn my sister and myself about the dangers of our friends Dad's. Like they were giving us 3 Muskaroofies before bedtime or something. I get that she needed to protect us, but she was certainly a bit over the top. She obviously taught us the basics of hugging. I am forever scarred. Even when we were to hug our own father or grandfather, we were to turn our chests and torsos away from said predator. Then, use one arm to hug while simultaneously con-caving your back into the most awkward question mark your body could form. This was, obviously, to keep our breasts from touching another human beings, especially every male that would then try to kill us in our sleep. Now, Chad and I have friends over all the time. It is socially acceptable and somewhat expected to hug at the end of a nice evening gathering as a goodbye. I DREAD THIS PART. I dread having to make a question mark out of my back, and I dread having to use one dead arm awkwardly. Why couldn't a handshake and a pat on the ass out the door be acceptable? If you eat at my house, expect that instead. Good food, good convo, and an "atta boy!" on the way out the door.


Wednesday, September 15, 2010

My Wonder Years

      This story is for old friends that become new friends again. For years my self esteem has been effected by some stuff that happened right after I graduated from college. I won't get in to the particulars of that, it's not important any more. I will, however, say that by no longer being friends with most of my college friends it really weighed on me. I shut them out because at the time I felt it was what I had to do.
      My college years were THE BEST. I lived in a house in Kent with 3-4 other insane ladies at any given time. We did some of the most fun stuff ever, and I felt like the people I lived with embraced my very odd sense of humor. To just graze the surface of some of the things we did: we drove around in a seabring convertible with a home phone and ski caps on in mid summer. We screamed at people, and made fake phone calls. We sat on the front steps and yelled at people as they walked past. We stood inside and did it from below the window sills so people wouldn't know where it was coming from. We got REALLY drunk. A lot. We shaved half of a guys beard off. I wore oranges inside my bra for an entire party, until they ended up in the tank of our toilet, and pee in our sugar jar. We danced, A LOT. I still own the chair we used to place in the middle of our living room to give random mock lap dances that were not even remotely sexy. They were sweaty hot messes of ridiculously funny weirdness.

        Where I went to school there was a place called the Euro Gyro. This place had THE FOOD you wanted at 4 AM after binge drinking until you were schmasted. (T-Money, I have NEVER been drunk) Euro Gyro delivered, and they came with beer if you needed it. Their food was amazing, but you waited for it for a long time to arrive. When you are drunk and it's 3 AM, time is of the essence. The clock is ticking on vomit or pass out. (T-Money, I am not condoning this behavior.)

        I became very close friends with a girl named Alex in college. She was always a blast to hang with. We have HOURS of stories to tell about living together. The days of living with Alex were by far, the best. Alex had a long term boyfriend in college named Dave. We renamed him the "weekend warrior." Alex and Dave would take turns driving two hours each weekend to be together throughout their college careers. Dave, in his own right, deserves an introduction. Dave, is probably the nicest human being I have ever met. He is pretty much the 2010 young version of a Mr. Rodgers, minus any creepy obsession with small towns and children. Dave, also doesn't feel the need to sing when he puts on a sweater. However, in all the years I knew Dave, I had never seen him mad. It would be like pissing off Santa Claus. It just doesn't happen.

       Alex finally wised up and transfered to the same school as Dave. Then, they would BOTH drive up to Kent to party it up with the ladies of the 598. That was our address. I wasn't very creative, but it stuck.  We went out one night for some random celebration. Who knows, maybe I got my hair highlighted. Let's celebrate! We partied, and pretty hard (T-Money, I only watched as everyone else got very drunk). We walked home. In between this, inevitably one of the 598 girls was outside at some point crying on some sort of stoop or step. It was an EVERY TIME occurrence. So, there we were. It was 2 AM and we were starving. We order the Euro Gyro. They tell us it will take about an hour to get there. Fair enough everyone can keep drinking for another hour while our food arrives. 1 hour passes. Nothing. 1 1/2 hours later Dave calls Euro Gyro back. They give a lame excuse. We are all sooooo tired and HUNGRY. 2 people already passed out. Finally our food arrives. Dave is pissed off. He goes to the door, opens it to retrieve our food, and proceeds to tell our delivery man that he spoke with the manager, and the manager said our food was free for how long we had waited. The stoned delivery driver accepts this and leaves. He gets in his car, and then comes back to our door. He starts knocking over and over and we just sit there and laugh. He starts screaming, "YOU GUYS ARE LIARS!" We would giggle and laugh, and he would say, "I can hear you ass holes laughing!" He stood there for a good 20 minutes. While it was terrible, I will always remember that night fondly. That is why Euro Gyro will never deliver to our house in Kent ever again. Oh memories.

       As I dive further into my pregnancy, I start reminiscing more about all the things I have done in my life. I guess part of me fears that I won't still be me after T-Money comes. That I won't still be random. I picture myself being the girl that is crying on the stoop indefinitely. I really hope that I will be that Mom that handles it all so well, and has tons of funny stories like this one to tell. I am not going to be a Mom that shields my kids from the life I once lived. I am not ashamed. I have had an awesome ride so far. Can't wait for T-Money to get here so I can bore him/her with all my stories. I think that's actually why we have children. We run out of people to tell our boring stories, so we just create new people so we can keep telling the same stories. That's what I am going with.

Tuesday, September 14, 2010

What's In My Macy's Bag

      You may be wondering why I haven't mentioned more about T-Money lately. The reason for that would be that Tri Care hates me. To them, I am some chick that got knocked up at a truck stop. They don't know it was actually a Taco Bell bathroom. I am way too classy for truck stop romps. So, Tri Care has been playing this stupid game with me. Our conversation went a little like this.
TriCare: Mrs. S?
Me: Yes?
TriCare: You gots your blood test done at Womack?
Me: Yes I did. It verified the pregnancy.
AntiChrist: Mrs. S?
Me: Yes?!?
AntiChrist: I can't help you.
Me: What do you mean you can't help me? I have insurance thru you.
AntiChrist: Well you do, but when your husband went to England, you went to a doctor off base.
Me: No I didn't. I was living in England with him.
AntiChrist: Well you have to go to your doctor off base.
Me: My husband is back stateside for good.
AntiChrist: You still have to go to the off base doctor.
Me: I can see this is conversation is going nowhere. Can you tell me the name of my Doctor?
AntiChrist: You don't have it? You have been to see her.

        This is when I hung up. I called back and spoke to someone else. I got the lady doctors name. We went. Long story short, TRI CARE PUT ME BACK ON BASE FOR MATERNITY CARE. So, we wasted a good 5 weeks of my first trimester, using the most pointless system I have ever encountered. Maybe, if I break a finger, tri care will send me to a proctologist that will refer me back to base. If I do happen to break a finger I hope it's a middle one.

       So, with all that said, I finally have an appointment on Thursday to give the OBGYN nurse our personal information. I start my second trimester on Friday. I will have gone the whole first Trimester without so much as a here's some prenatal vitamins. (no worries people, my amazingly awesome sister is like the Wonder Woman of pharmacists and she has been helping to keep my stuff healthy) I worry about T-Money. I worry that there are other hidden dangers other than lunchmeat and fish.

        I did see an ultrasound so I know T is in there. Trust me. I know. I have all sorts of new pregnancy symptoms. Trust me. Here's a little tmi. I decided when I started this, I was gunna be for realz. With a z. There are things that no one prepped me for. People said "oh you will crave sex all the time!" MYTH
What is true is that my lady bits feel as though I have ALREADY had sex. Like, way too much of it. I am officially a D cup.  I kinda like that bit. I call them my buzungaz. I don't poop for days. I keep hearing that after I give birth things are worse. Like I will start peeing myself. Thanks everyone. Thanks a lot. This would have been much better brought to my attention 12 weeks ago. Now, I am going to be the lady in the leather pants, that pees herself, while cradling her newborn baby. Truth is I am already showing. I am worried I am going to have a football linebacker pop out with Chad's full grown head already attached. If so, I already told a friend or two, and now I will fill you in as well. At that point, if all that I just mentioned happens. I will then start carrying around my vagina in a Macy's bag. A paper one of course, because it's way more classy. If you can't tell, I am starting to get scared. Of it all. Of being in labor for 12 hours when I can't even run a mile. When I do 15 squats and say eff it. How am I going to push a human out for 12 hours? For now, I will focus on some reruns of the Golden Girls. They got thru it. So will I.

Booger Caper

      I am in the middle of a serious Scooby Doo moment. In an earlier post "This Is How We Do It." I mention that someone had WIPED BOOGERS on the top of the door frame. That was HILARIOUS. What is not funny is unpacking our belongings to discover the booger machine didn't do just door frames. I have been sitting on the floor unpacking boxes and look at the underside of my highboy dresser..... boogs. Our couch was flipped up to reveal the bottom of the couch...boogs. Not just a smear here and there, I'm talking small solar system sized boogs.

     I went all CSI on this. Mostly because I have been racking my brain thinking of friends and family that had been in my house in England long enough to work up a jelly jar of boogers. I've come up with three very likely scenarios.

     Scenario #1: I made some sort of joke that one of our friends didn't really appreciate. They in turn, would purposefully come to our house with a nose full of slimers or a tupperware filled with used tissues, so that systematically, they could plant them throughout our house. I bet this person made charts, and had a planner. Kept a journal of the whereabouts of every piece of nasal putty. If this is the case, well played you post nasal drip freak.

      Scenario #2:  The boogers seem to have appeared recently. Now that we can connect more than one crime scene, it would seem more likely that the culprit felt they did not have the necessary tools to dispose of the evidence properly. My guess is, it was our movers. What I think is that one or both of them has a serious cocaine addiction. This would not be guessed by the speed with which they packed our house, but when you have lots of snot to wipe you work more slowly. It seems to me that our movers systematically moved thru our house placing the little gems wherever they deemed it necessary. Maybe that's how they label things for a move. Some people use stamps our movers use boogers. This brings me to my next dilemma. We get to turn in a report of the damaged items in our shipment, and about how the movers themselves did. If we were to actually report that our movers WIPED BOOGERS on our belongings what would the expected response be? If I were reading the complaint I would pee myself laughing. It's not so funny when you have to find a booger scraping device. I have made the mistake twice now of wondering what on earth was on said item and touching it.

      Scenario #3:  Chad needs booger counseling.

I will post something else in a bit. I've had headaches from T-Money for the past few days.

Thursday, September 9, 2010


    Sooooooo, here we are in North Carolina. Home of furry white people and fried chicken. Over the past few weeks I have been getting some things done. Such as waiting to be seen by a doctor for 3 hours. Watching for the second time in one month as a woman thinks it's OK to pick at the whitehead/blackhead on her husband's face. Incase you didn't know. That is NOT ok. Ever. I love zits, probably more than most people, but picking them in public is right up there with nose picking. I mean come on lady, you are in the waiting room for the black hole that is Tri Care services. There are 7 people sitting behind you. I can see that you obviously found something of interest on his ear and are now picking at it with both thumbs while the rest of us sit here awkwardly with NOTHING to do but stare at you and hold back vomit. Three weeks ago a couple had just left a Starbucks, and the girl stopped her man in the middle of the parking lot to pick a zit on his neck. When did this happen? I leave the country for 2 years and suddenly public zit popping is socially acceptable. Did the recession cause this?  As unemployment rises, so do the number of people publicly picking zits?

     After our trip to the most useless doctor in the world, we were scheduled for an ultrasound. That was a pretty magical moment. Not the scheduling of the appointment, but the ultrasound itself. It was a bit uncomfortable. When someone tells me 32 ounces of water I do 40. I am also smaller than most women and my bladder is not that big....sooooooo I pretty much almost peed all over the lady. I have NEVER been able to see babies on ultrasounds. I have an art degree and I can't see a baby inside of someone. That day, I graduated to seeing things. We cried. It was awesome. We could see the baby's heart beating like a little flutter, and she turned on the sound so we could hear the heart beat. Everything felt more real. It also felt more OMG WE ARE ABOUT TO HAVE A HUMAN! I came home in a mad rush to get started on a registry and then realized that we were living like the Amish for 2 weeks with no cable or internet. So, today I will start the process of figuring out what things I want for T-Money. That's what I decided to name the fetus. Mostly because, let's face it, he/she is white and chances for a career in rap are pretty slim. This way at least he/she gets a good 7 months of small scale fame from all our friends and family.

       Chad and I upgraded to a king size bed. Yeah, I know that was a terrible transition. I don't do transitions. Ever since we got back from England I swear I feel like getting into the spread out snow angel position no matter where I am at. I like the extra space barrier that Americans have. It's nice to eat dinner without feeling like someone is sitting on our lap enjoying our naan bread with us. While I was trying to fall asleep last night, as spread out as humanly possible, I got to thinking. There are those couples out there that state, "We can't fall asleep without the other one being there. We sleep woven together. My leg fits thru his blah blah blah vomit." When I was younger I was all like, "Awww, that is so amazingly sweet and I want that." Now, I am like, "Get back on your side riff raff. Here's a pillow to indicate a no fly zone. It will also keep out the ungodly amount of body heat you put off. Sweat it out on your own side gross-o." Let's discuss the weirdos that actually sleep all tangled up. These are the same people that sleep on a double bed for their entire lives so they can be closer together. If Chad tried to sleep like that with me I would punch him in the ear hole. That has to feel like drowning in someone else's body parts. Plus, do they not move in their sleep? Do they just die for 8 hours? Now that I have inspected this further I am calling a "no way jose!" Deep down inside those a-holes want a king size bed too. It is magical like floating on a sea of pillows into the depths of dream town. Didn't Diddy have a making the band with a bunch of white boys named Dream Town? Who knew it was all about a king size bed and liars that say they sleep all up on each other.

    More in a day or two.