Making my own sugar scrub and imagining my death scene

We went to the beach about 2 weeks ago and for the last few days my gorgeous tan has started to peel like glue on a preschoolers fingers.

As I reached for more lotion I wondered how hard it would be to make a scrub.

I’m a tall girl and not tiny. I’ve got curves in the right places (plus some, whatever). The point is you won’t see me buying enough fancy scrub for my whole body. They don’t sell tubs of the stuff big enough anyway.

I did a little search and *voila* a recipe with simple enough ingredients I could probably whip it up and scrub up these flaky legs.

It couldn’t hurt. I mean what’s the worst that could happen?

I grabbed the big container of coconut oil and a spoon. As soon as the spoon touched the smooth white surface it stopped. The stuff is solid. So I think to myself I will microwave it. Pop it in and look for the sugar.

By the time I realized the container was still in the microwave I had found a bowl, measured sugar, spilled some, wiped it up and wondered to myself where the coconut oil went. Ooops.

I get it out, it’s no longer solid but a clearing mess with white globby things of unmelted goop floating around. I scoop the goop chunks and start stirring it in the sugar.

It smells fainternet-meme-of-cat-at-spa-with-cucumbers-on-eyes-and-wearing-a-bath-robefabulous. I start feeling crafty and wonder if I could be famous for sugar scrubs one day. It could happen.

I don’t remember what the recipe called for but I thought it was about half and half so I kept eyeballing sugar and oil scoops until I thought it was just right. I put half into a cute little jar and the other half in an empty plastic container to take to the bathroom with me. One can never be too thrifty.

Plus we only had one tiny jar.

I was feeling extra fancy so I lit the beach scented candle and started the bath.

I perched on the toilet and grabbed a little scrub and started to rub it on my legs. It wasn’t quite liquid, not quite solid, but definitely messy. Some dropped on the floor to make little sugar splats and the rest coated my shins like a sour gummy candy.

I thought it best to probably get over the tub so not to make a mess. I tried to balance with no such luck. My one foot landed into the super scalding running water. In my genius I jump in with the second foot because balancing wasn’t working out.

* pro-tip: your oiled up hands will not hold you up on linoleum. 

I hurry to the front of the tub and turn the water to cold, at this point getting out of the tub seems more dangerous than boiling to death in it.

Remember those dropped sugar globs? Death waiting. I’m not going out there yet.

I get the water just right and settle in. I smoothed the scrub all over my legs and it feels so heavenly I think I should do as much of me as possible.

There is now coconut oil in my eyeball. How does this even happen?

The bathroom is really starting to get a tropical feel. I had closed the door but not turned on the fan so it was getting really steamy. Really stuffy.

Suffocating really.

My entire body is covered in oil and my pores can’t breathe. My lungs are filling with what Yankee Candles considers the beach. This is starting to seem less and less fancy. This might have been a bad idea.

I rinse off. Actually  considering how well water rinses oil I just moved water around but we’ll say I rinsed. I drained the tub and stepped carefully onto a towel in the floor.

Then it hits me.

That light headed, I don’t think I can make it to the bathroom door, dizzy feeling. The one your mother warned you about; the sitting in a hot tub for too long kinda feeling. The one where things get fuzzy and your legs feel weak.

I consider what my dead body will look like when my wife finds me. I’ll be collapsed in a bath towel – right there in the hallway. This will not due.

I wonder if she does find me dead if she will notice my ridiculously moisturized skin.

I have my doubts.

She will probably just wonder where all the sugar went.

Bravely I made it to the bedroom and collapsed into a heap on our bed. I let my body temperature cool while searched for more scrub recipes.

Next time? Adventures in coffee grounds and safflower oil.

I just might make it big one day.

I can’t wait.

Summer sniffles and the zombie apocalypse. That escalated quickly.

If you have ever watched the History Channel or stayed awake long enough in History class you have heard about the worst plagues ever to be recorded.

The Black Death 1340 – 1771

Smallpox  430 BC ‘ish- 1979

Influenza Pandemic / Spanish Flu 1918-1919

The Common Cold Summer Edition 2016

That’s right. I just put a summer cold in with the worst things ever to happen to humans.

Am  I stretching? Maybe.

Am I being a little insensitive? Probably.

It could be the cold meds or it could be that I don’t really care about being politically correct among friends. We are friends after all aren’t we?

It feels a lot like something terrible is happening here, my throat is on fire and my nose is producing an awful lot of mucus. 

I have tissues stuck in my nostrils and I feel like I may need another box of Kleenex soon.

 I can’t seem to swallow and my head feels like it is in a vice.

I have a sneaky little cough that creeps up only when I need to talk.

 

I spared you the picture of the tissue in my nose. You’re welcome.

 

Which is what I do. I talk. All the time.

Right now when I speak it sounds like a small animals plea for help.Kinda squeaking, sorta whispered and definitely muffled.

It feels like giving a speech under water. 

Distorted face and all. 

Just blubbering and desperate attempts at cohesive words. A comical attempt to breathe and speak without the aid of my nose. 

All this open mouth gasping makes delivering oxygen to the lungs I have not yet coughed up very, very difficult.

Then there are the coworkers who don’t dare to cross my doorway. Like there is an unseen germ barrier they are safe from. If they hover just a couple of inches from the safety of the hallway they might not need to be decontaminated.

This can both good and bad.

Sure there are some co-workers I don’t really mind to not see for days but we do have to accomplish things here in the office. Put on your hospital mask and let’s get this meeting over with. We have flow charts and spreadsheets to look at. Let me just wipe off that drool.

I think I may actually have heard the sound of an aerosol can behind me when I left the common room. 

The faint smell of Lysol wafting behind me.

The good news is I am almost oblivious to the uncharacteristic avoidance of my work team as I am the general disgust on friends faces as I shove another tissue into my nostril.

My trashcan is overflowing with snotty little ghosts and the bags under my eyes make me look like a zombie.

Sounding more and more like a frightening history lesson in human suffering isn’t it?

I am barely awake having taken so much OTC cold remedy and barely getting any sleep. 

Sleep is such a generous word. 

I really mean something more like trying to rest in an upright position while ranging from ice-cold shivers to blanket throwing sweats.

 All the while sniffling and coughing and generally annoying my wife all night. She loves it when I wake her all night fighting to fluff the pillows and adjust myself for optimum mucus flow.

I could easily snag the lead role in a horror movie featuring the undead.

While I wait patiently for my chance to be a zombie movie star I will be over here all alone in my office. Half asleep and surrounded by a fog of disinfectant. 

 Whimpering, sniffling and coughing the song of my people. 

The song of the common cold. 

The song of the flu-pocalypse.

 

 

 

 

The day they ate all my cocoa almonds and the world almost ended

It may seem a little dramatic for a blog title … “The day they ate all my cocoa almonds and the world almost ended”  but it’s the truth.

I was having a bad day at work. I had skipped lunch because I knew we would be celebrating one of our favorite friends birthdays that evening.

My wife on the other hand had the day to herself and decide to get her snack on.

She found a hidden bag of cocoa almonds tucked away in the pantry. A delicious dark chocolate snack I was saving for a day of all days. The kind where you want to eat something deliriously chocolaty for dinner and wash it down with a chilled bottle of wine.

I wasn’t even so upset about it when she text me. She was giddy. Like she found a pot of chocolate wrapped gold coins at the end of a Skittles rainbow.

I didn’t pout when she told me she opened the bag and sampled the goodness inside.

It was alright. Really.

I was focused on making it the rest of my work day and getting to the restaurant on time. I knew what I was having when we got there too; a buffalo fried chicken salad with ranch, a couple beers and a big ole piece of that red velvet cake we bought the birthday girl.

To say I was hangry by the time we got to our favorite lakeside patio and were seated would be pretty accurate. I was both agitated by work events and starving from a lack of lunch break.

I needed sustenance … pronto.

We were seated and approached by non other than the server from our last visit. The one we didn’t like. The one who was slow to fill our drinks or even check on us last time. I was hopeful that this visit wouldn’t be a repeat.

I was so naive.

We did get our appetizer, and our first beer. He did take the cake to the cooler for us and promised to bring it out when we finished our meals. That was about the extent of my hopefulness.

Our friends orders came out wrong and missing side items. Our food never came at all. He never came back to check if everything was alright. I was getting more and more anxious and well … pissed off. I watched other tables get their orders. I watched the sun slowly setting on the horizon. I watched a small child nearly fall into the lake and  most importantly I watched my glass empty.

I was getting more and more irate. Have you ever witnessed a professional in the business of customer service be under served? It isn’t pretty. I said bad words. I shot a glare across the breezeway that made the server want to jump right past that unattended kid and into the lake.

Our friend flagged him down and forced him to confront our table. He nodded that he understood our complaints and ran off. A manager quickly came back to smooth things over. She made it all well, apologized for ruining our evening and summoned the remainder of our order.

We finished our meal and a second round before I requested the special item we brought in with us be delivered. The manager looked at me quizzically, she had no idea what I was talking about. Or she did and realized that this meant not only was dinner a disaster but it was a special occasion.

In the end everyone was fed, we shared cake with other tables and the helpful manager. Our bill was comped and we were given coupons to come back, all totally unnecessary as we are regulars and would have come back anyway. It was a nice touch though and I appreciated the efforts.

The end of the night came and I strolled into the house, put down my bag and went to turn out every light in the house so that we could go to bed.

I walked into the kitchen and there it was … my bag of almonds. Or should I say the bag that held my almonds when I left that morning.

It was like the final smack in the face.

One tiny chuck left in the bottom of the bag. The kids had polished off the sweet open bag of goodness like it wouldn’t be noticed.

I took a deep breath. Then another. I turned off the lights and took a shower. I climbed into bed unable to turn to the wife. I just couldn’t make her understand why I was so damn mad. My work, my birthday dinner surprise, now my almonds. My cocoa almonds!

When I was a child I was told once the world wouldn’t end if I had a bad day.

Yesterday it almost did.

 

Real marriage advice – life, love and not speaking to each other

It has taken me awhile but I think I have learned a little about relationships, marriages in particular. It can be such a beautiful thing, hand in hand with the intention of growing old together, raising your children and retiring to rocking chairs on the front porch. Then there are days where you can barely stand the sound your phone makes when they send you yet another text message, to which you will also be ignoring.

I have put together 7 age old ridiculous tips and some alternative real life advice from an actual married person.  Actual advice for us long term ball and chain type couples; the gay, the straight, the somewhere in between  … because we all at some point need to step back and just laugh at ourselves.

Never go to bed angry.  Seriously? Who is this helping if you stay up way past your working adult bedtime?

SHUT THE HELL UP AND GO TO BED. Your co-workers will thank me for this tip in the morning. You can hash out whose turn it is to clean the bathroom another time.

Always compliment your lover. I only agree with half of this. Do not throw around over used, thoughtless words you think she wants to hear.  She doesn’t. She will stop buying into your lip service pretty quick. That is no good for her self esteem. All you are doing is encouraging your partner to not believe anything you say. Ever.

Always be sincere. If she is looking hella hot in that dress, by all means tell her so.

**I use the pronoun “she” here but this applies to everyone. Keeping in mind this is  written by a woman who is married to a woman … I use the feminine for everything. This advice could easily be just as good for that gorgeous hunk of a man in your life.

Be reasonable in your expectations. I don’t even know what this means. What exactly is a reasonable expectation? This varies wildly. If you were raised outside of the jungle you know how to behave in society and with other people. Don’t stress about what you are expected to do as long as you aren’t being an asshole.

Real advice: No really. Just don’t be an asshole. The only expectation should be that you are kind to one another and expect that no day is ever the exact same as the one before. Roll with it together.

Trust each other. This is a hard one for me personally. Do I trust she won’t leave one day with our dogs in the passenger seat and a trail of dust behind her? Sure. Do I trust she won’t drink the last of the wine or eat all the fancy ice cream? No.

Real advice: Don’t cheat on her or eat all her ice cream. Done.

Figure out your finances before you tie the knot. Uhh, we have been married awhile and we still havn’t figured this out.

Real advice: You are on your own here. I have no advice. We make the money, we spend the money.

Be affectionate as much as possible. For the sake of everyone around you, please, we beg of you do not do this. It is rude and we will tell you to get a damn room.

Real advice: In the confines of your home or around a private corner in public places by all means grab a quick feel or smooch like teenagers. All is well and good until you are holding up the line at Target looking deeply into each others eyes.

Handle your disagreements in a healthy way. We all know that couple that breaks up and makes up all the freakin’ time. Stop it. Don’t break dishes, don’t drive off squealing tires, don’t call names and never, ever tell them you don’t love them. There is no glue to mend that kind of thing and spray paint and ribbons are not a fancy fix all. No matter what you read on Pinterest.

Real advice: Be honest, take time if you need it before you respond, use your best inside voice. We learned about not throwing tantrums and using inside voices in preschool yet sometimes we forget as grown adults.

The very best advice I have ever been given was to learn from successful couples who have amazing, healthy, happy marriages. Learn from those who know they are not perfect but they keep working on it anyway, those people are the successful ones.

Most of all be willing to laugh at yourself. It’s a lot better than being laughed at.

Leave me your best marriage advice in the comments below, I would love to hear your best “real” advice!

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Corporate ink stains – a tattood journey

Professionally speaking I must consider every action, my words are carefully calculated and my decisions are timed in general accordance with boosting the bottom line.

Personally however I live life on the edge. I make most of my decisions on the fly. I tornado into situations I probably shouldn’t, trapeze over pending doom without a blink and stumble into society with enough sarcasm sprinkled swear words to start a whole new language. That may be a slight exaggeration but you get the point.

While I look like a successfully employed woman, under my corporate skin is a delicately flawed masterpiece.

I love tattoos, I love the statement and sentiment and the art. I love how personal each is, how much goes into each and the emotion behind each story.

I love everything about them. Except the stigma in today’s professional environment.

This is an art form, in most cases well considered and powerfully meaningful.

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Historically people from all walks of life have been adorned with permanent ink. Royalty, warriors, sportsmen and poets. Ancestors of all nationalities, ages, and trades.

I am working on some new large pieces right now which speak to my soul. I also have several smaller works on my body, all of which I can easily cover. I am ready to cover for any situation which it is socially expected for me to do so. However, the temptation is great to get “just a little one” where it is easily visible in daily life. More visible than the ones already outside of the confines of my basic wardrobe. Just a little larger than the tiny open heart behind my ear, a little more obvious than the roman numerals of my wedding date across my foot.

Something a little more daring, a little more bold.

A bit more of a middle finger to the corporate world. A little declaration of my independence, a tiny flag flying in the face of conformity.

The love of my life for instance made a choice, much earlier than the choice to love me, to get a tattoo in a highly visible area. An ink stain handicap if you will – which is all society cares to see. It sits there defiantly on her hand just waiting to tell her truth, her unique story.

She is kind and smart and strong. She is a hard worker and a team player. She is articulate and personable.

Regardless of all of these things – in a corporate world she is simply a highly visible tattoo.

A closed door.

A rejection notice.

A “no” for any career with appearance requirements.

My desire to be unique, to express myself as an individual is stifled. Should I chose to follow my urge to expand my tattoo canvas I am a rebel. Not in such a way to be recognized as an individual but lumped together with real hardened societal taboos. The kind of harmful, dark and immoral sort of rejects you are kepttumblr_mg5rxmDtZW1rbraxfo1_500 safe from in your daily life.

Regardless of my offerings, talents and contributions, to be permanently inked in visible space is to reduce my chances of professional growth. Reduced chances by immeasurable calculations over the lifetime of my career. Considering I am forever  from retirement and have a half life yet to live I must tread a little more carefully.

I have to be very mindful not to make one of my impromptu life decisions which can not be easily reversed. My brain barely wraps around this rationalization and I must continually remind myself I would like to someday afford to retire to a beach. Painted toes in the sand and faded tattoos telling tales of my youth, the arrogance that comes with it and the love that compelled me to get them in the first place.

Until then I will wrap my art, continue on with my 9-5 and dream of the day when I can be free. I will display my inked skin without fear or rejection.

I will still be a rebel when I’m finished here, just on slightly different adventure with a few more tattoos and a way better tan.

 

 

Happy International Women’s Day or whatever day it is …

It seems there is a holiday for everything. Yesterday was Cereal Day. Tomorrow is Unique Names Day. My favorite of all though has to be March 12th, Get Over It Day. Research says it was invented in 2005 but I’m not convinced it’s not a long running joke placed coincidentally between Valentines and April Fools.

As for today … it’s officially International Women’s Day. I may have just rolled my eyes. Before I am tackled to the cold hard ground by a feminist and my inbox fills with hate mail hear me out.

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I am all about strong, kick ass women. Honestly.

I admire women in every corner of the world for your contributions to life and love. All the amazing work you do without formal recognition.  From those in high heels teetering around office buildings to those wearing military boots stomping alongside your male counterparts. Especially to those of you running around with one slipper, and a day short of a shower, chasing toddlers.

All of us are miracle makers, mountain movers and marvels of beauty and grace in our own right.

I happen to think I am pretty worthy of a little celebration now and again but is all this really necessary? Do we need an actual day of remembrance for our contributions, our talents and our sacrifices?

Do we not hear quiet admiration from our friends, our co-workers, our lovers and our children? Are we not honored by our successes? Do we not build each other to be better than the day before without a day to be reminded to do so?

Instead of a day to honor women internationally each and every one of us should really already be aware of our own unique contributions and appreciated for such daily. We should see ourselves worthy of a place in the world, with or without a ridiculous holiday because without us what kind of world would it really be?

You don’t need a day in your honor, find honor in every one of your days.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Making changes. Hopping trains and hoping for the best.

There are days like any other, predictable and comfortable. Like waking on your own on a Saturday morning, with no hangover despite copious amounts of consumed wine the night before. Eyelids slowly opening to see a breakfast tray beside you, adorned with a single rose and a neatly folded napkin,  your lover waiting patiently to spoon feed you bits of syrup soaked pancake.

Then there are days so miserable and pathetic that you want to cut off all your hair, throw your phone in a nearby body of water (a toilet works), flip your wife the bird and hope all those days at the treadmill afford you the strength to chase down a moving train and hop aboard … bound for wherever hobos go in old movies.

I’m not saying I’m having a really, really bad day but there might be scissors and some pink  Nike shoes in my backpack.

Unfortunately for me I don’t own a breakfast tray, I don’t remember buying napkins at the grocery last time I went and I haven’t had pancakes since the last time Denny’s served them to me while I was wearing sunglasses.

Inside. At 10 am.

Because if you drink that much wine you will have a hang over … just like the last time. Dummy.

So here I sit, on  a Monday, procrastinating. Contemplating returning that text that will undoubtedly start a fight.

Considering dumping my phone in the ladies room but will undoubtedly regret it later.

Scanning Pinterest for ideas about how to make a hobo hanky on a stick that will match my escape outfit.

*FYI that stick is called a “bindle” … thanks eHow for clearing that up for me. http://www.ehow.com/how_8193614_make-hobo-bag-stick.html

A girl has to be stylish even when fleeing from reality. I think I will pass on the hair cutting but I do need a change. Sleep and pancakes would probably be a good start. If that doesn’t work my next blog may just be from the train.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Good morning sunshine, a canine calamity

1003073_727448280602596_401554036_nMy day started with a rude awakening – all 3 dogs barking at the sound of tires in the gravel driveway.

They sound like a puppy version of thousands of tween girls at a boy band concert. That screaching, scream sort of crying bark that doesn’t stop until my wife makes her way from her parked vehicle, into our home and down the hall to open the bedroom door and greet them.

It’s really an incredibly awful way to be jolted from weekend slumber.

Torturous really and it plays out every other weekend at our place right about 7:30 AM. I have about 5 minutes of quiet after they are released, from what should be my sanctuary, before they all come rushing back to the bedroom. Each canine taking flying leaps into the bed on top of me.

Sometimes the wife joins them, just for fun.

It sounds like a romantic comedy until I am finally able to raise my head. Then the romantic comedy turns into a horror flick. My face gets all contorted, smeared with last night’s makeup. Yesterday’s curls now a massive fluff of angry red frizz. A sound escapes me like a guttural growl and when I find my voice obscenities spew out like I’m being exercised of demons. I throw back the blankets and climb clumsily over the furry sprawled out bodies in our bed.

I gather whatever is laying on the floor to wear and mutter a few more obscenities as I walk out to make coffee. All the while the bedroom quiets, the blankets get pulled up and everyone settles in to sleep the day away.

Everyone but me that is.

As soon as I finish my coffee I will realize once again, just like yesterday and the weekend before, that I wouldn’t have it any other way.

Hormones (no, not the pimple face adolescent kind)

It’s been nearly 6 weeks or so since my doc requested an alarming amount of body fluid for testing. Normally I would be apprehensive about it – but hey, he seems to know what he is doing. He did assure me that “yes, it is absolutely required to take that much blood” … I wasn’t really in any place to argue at that point and agreed.

This is how the hormo-pocolypse, as I am affectionately calling it, of 2015 started.

I thought maybe it was my stupid malfunctioning thyroid again. I gained 30 pounds in 2 years, subsequently around the time I divorced the ex and met the (now) wife. I noticed my ass got saggier, my belly tubbier and my arm fat floppier.

Whatever. It happens sometimes.

So I started hitting the gym. I was eating salads and working out nearly every day after work for weeks straight. Still no budging on the scale. Sure my ass lifted, my belly got a wee bit smaller and my arms flapped a tad less.

but still.

I was not budging on the scale.
Not at all.
It was depressing.

It was to the point of “screw the gym, I will eat Burger King if I want to”, cause what’s the point. It was literally depressing.

I made an appointment with a new doctor who boasted about being a miracle worker for thyroid troubles. The doc asked me a bunch of weird questions, and I answered the best I could.

It went mostly like this:

Him: Are you depressed?

Me: Well, maybe, I can’t lose any weight (I look like a cow in a dress) and that makes me sad.

Him: Are you having trouble sleeping?

Me: No. Yes. I don’t know. I want a nap right now. I want to sleep as much as possible? It stops me from crying and eating.

Him: How about sex? Desire? Do you find you orgasm easily?

*Long pause*

Me: Yeah, no problem there, still a newlywed and all. So … yeah. I’m good besides the possible depression and desire to hide my body under the cover of total darkness and long underwear layered with flannel PJs

Doc asks me a few more odd questions and writes the answers furiously on my symptom sheet. He may as well be drawing a stick figure or writing his lunch choices.

I don’t know what he was doing but it was an uncomfortably long period of time listening to him scribble.

After what seems like a year to take all those investigative symptom probes and turn a possible diagnosis, he finishes.

Finally he looks at me with a tilted head and eyes over his glasses, in a very matter of fact way, and advises we will discuss my test results at my next appointment.

I was feeling skeptical.

No prescription except some supplements. No diagnosis. No feel better miracle. No nothing but more questions to float around in my head and pants that still don’t fit. and may never at this rate. What the hell did I just pay for?

Then came my lab results sheet in the mail. I was eager to see what they said. Kind of like a report card in a sealed envelope for an elementary student. Could be good could be bad. Could be real bad. I couldn’t wait the few hours to see them and I made the wife open the mail and take a photo to text me. Technology is pretty awesome sometimes.

I was slightly alarmed by what I could see and I hit up Google faster than you can say Web MD. It was worse than I thought. I was clearly going to die, and probably soon, based on what I was reading.

I didn’t know how I would make it to my follow-up appointment to see what I should do now. What I needed, what kind of medication I would need and how my life might change.

Finally my appointment day came around and I waited nervously in waiting room. I was called back and sat patiently waiting to see the man with all the answers. I considered grabbing my chart from the door and reading it myself but I wasn’t sure that would lead me any more near the answers I was seeking.

He came in, sat down and gave it to me straight. No frills. No hand holding.

He told me my pregnenolone was almost non-existent.

If you aren’t familiar, pregnenolone is a major building block for other hormone production. It is like the granny in a family of hormones. It doesn’t give hugs and bake cookies but it’s a big deal. This stuff helps with memory, fights the effects of aging, fights depressive moods and assists in what seems like every other important function in the body. Seriously important, mental health, stress and depression kind of important.

I had almost none. Probably just enough so that I knew my name everyday but that is about it. I really don’t know how I was getting along at all. This explained everything.

The really frightening part of all of this is that had I not received a diagnosis I may have been suffering from “irreversible diminished mental capacity by age 60”.

Yeah.
Whoa. 

The rest of the doctors words were more harsh than I will share here, but they are my reality.

I cried when I left the doctor’s office, I didn’t even make it to the car before the tears started to flow.

I cried when I told my wife.

I cried quietly in my office later that day.

I cried when I thought about talking about it to anyone else at all. It has taken me some time on medication and a new sense of self-awareness to decide to write about my diagnosis at all.

It’s not been easy, it wasn’t all funny and it’s not always going to feel like something I can share.

I will share this with you, I knew something was clearly wrong with me and I should have seen a doctor much earlier.

Even if my diagnosis wasn’t what I expected.

Even if it proves I’m not perfect. Lets me honest, that’s the worst part. I thought I was invincible. I’m not hanging up my cape but I got a bit of a reality check.

My goal here is to encourage everyone to trust their instinct. If something doesn’t seem right with you or your spouse, your kid, your parent or even a friend, tell them to see a doctor about some blood work.

Tell them to get off their ass and go see their doctor for help – it will all be worth it.

Life is way too short to not live it … and laugh about it whenever possible.

I would love to hear from others with the same or a similar diagnosis – if your body is showing you who is boss and refuses to produce necessary hormones lets talk. or trash talk, whatever makes you feel better.

In a world full of strangers

Everything you have read from me has been hilarious.

Fine, it was at least funny in parts.

I try to be light hearted as much as possible. No matter what. Anything to make the next day better. Sarcasm helps.

Some days though … there is no strength left for better.

Some days it just feels like I’m dragging around a body. Just posing my limbs throughout the day like a stylish department store clothing display. Moving my mouth to form words in such a way that to call it interacting with society would be a generous stretch.

I’m in autopilot and I’m surrounded by strangers. Overwhelmed, emotionally exhausted, dramatically desperate.

I left the doctor today with strange news. There is a major malfunction in my body but it is fixable. Correctable once the source of the problem has been diagnosed. Probably. Hopefully.

Great news, right? No.

I like to be in control. It’s what I do. It’s who I am. I am great at being in control. I mean it’s not like I land airplanes for a living but I direct and reflect trouble like a boss.

Except now. Right now I am all alone. I am broken. I don’t want to share the pits of my despair with anyone in particular. I don’t want to pour my story onto a white page to be discovered by strangers.

Actually. Yes. Yes, I do. I want to share my story. It’s not always witty and entertaining. Sometimes it’s sad and raw and real.

The entirety of the situation is rather embarrassing really.

That makes me sad.
Or mad.
Not gangster style mad though … more like blogger mad. Instead of roughing up the rivals I will take to my blog and punch the keys with intent. That’s right, the sound of my typing can probably be heard from outside the house.
I’m an angry typer.

It’s been a tough couple weeks. I have not blogged purposely because I didn’t want to share sad. Sad isn’t witty or funny or entertaining. It’s just … sad.

Not very long ago I watched my children walk with contained excitement onto an airplane destined for the other side of the country. To be delivered to the other half of their parental unit. They couldn’t wait to find their seats and I panicked when I lost sight down the airplane corridor.

I cried on the way home.
I lost control.

I will miss them. They are gone for a few more weeks. If they need me I won’t be there. I don’t know what to do with that. How do parents do this? Why is this a thing?

Yes, they are safe.
Yes, they are healthy and happy and having a blast.
Yes, I’m still crying.
So what.

Also entirely out of my control?

My marriage. My beautiful, amazing, brag worthy and public love letter inspiring union.
What could be so bad about that? My fairy tale is made of regular everyday normal people, that’s what. People who sometimes reach a crossroads. I have no control over the depths of my love and just the same seemingly no control over the limits of human patience. My carriage may have turned into a pumpkin. No fairy godmother, just humble pie. Good thing I still believe in happy endings.

Sometimes you just want to go where nobody knows your name. Where you are surrounded by strangers. Where you only need to be in control of you.

I need to be reminded that the world still turns, the sun still rises and the moon will still beckon to the lost souls. Even if I get lost in the crowd. Even if I get lost and have to relinquish my control.

Sometimes I just need to be in a world full of strangers.
with my humble pie.
a glass of wine would be great too.