This was a viral on Facebook a while back. Thought you may enjoy it...
1. i can tell when it's going to rain because the bunion on my left foot starts to throb.
2. doctor's wanted to break both of my feet and do reconstructive surgery because of said bunyons. my mom said no because i would have had two full leg casts and wouldn't have learned how to walk on time. she said no. i wish she'd said yes. if i have the surgery now i'm looking at months on crutches and in a cast.
3. my husband was my first "real" boyfriend. i was 15. he tracked me down 9 years later and the rest is history. we met at the skating rink.
4. i watched my sister give birth 6 weeks ago. it was one of the most amazing moments of my live.
5. my sister helped me give birth almost 3 years ago. that was the most amazing moment of my life.
6. i almost died when i was 5. something called epiglautitis, where your throat closes for no apparent reason. they flew in a surgeon from richmond to chkd and he put a tube down my throat. i remember pretty much everything. i came home on christmas eve.
7. i'm terrified of tongue depressors. result of doctor jamming depressor down my closed throat, vomiting, and choking.
8. i can put my fist in my mouth. comes in handy when a doctor presents a tongue depressor. much easier just to flip-top my head.
9. i'm double jointed. which comes in handy sometimes, but also hurts. my joints pop out while i swim, sleep, stretch...
10. i was the editor in chief of the collegiate times, virginia tech's newspaper, my senior year. it was great and horrible at the same time. way too stressful for me.
11. i still have the tab from blackburg from my 21st birthday. i drank 22 drinks and was sick for 3 days.
12. i can't drink much anymore. more than a glass of wine gives me a panic attack.
13. i have a relentless panic disorder. i've been on medication for years.
14. i have ADD. i took medicine in college and grad school, but struggled in high school.
15. i usually feel very out of place during social situations. the most moronic things will come out of my mouth for no apparent reason. i usually end up feeling like an idiot.
16. my son didn't sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time until he was 9-and-a-half months old. that means i didn't sleep for more than 45 minutes at a time until he was 9-and-a-half months old. he still wakes up several times a night, and i usually end up in his bed by morning.
17. i had night terrors and insomnia as a child. they did a sleep study on me.
18. i still count on my fingers.
19. my favorite tv shows are My Name is Earl and House. i think they both reveal sides of the human condition. I've also added Grey's Anatomy, and pretty much anything having to do with housewives.
20. i stare at imperfections on my face every night while sitting on my bathroom counter with my feet in the sink. not comfortable or sexy in any way. It's an unhealthy obsession.
21. i have nightmares just about every night, mixed in with two or three other extremely vivid dreams. i sometimes mix up my dreams for reality.
22. i once covered the supreme court.
23. my most recurring dream is that i'm back in the dorms with paula, but am married and have juni, so i have to commute. it SUCKS.
24.i have 11 cows, 10 chickens, 2 dogs, 2 cats and quebert, my goose, with his wife and six kids from last spring living in my back yard. i have a big back yard.
25. my biggest fears are 1. something bad happening to juni and 2. growing old.
Friday, February 25, 2011
Thursday, February 24, 2011
What in God's Name is the SOUND?
I do not throw up. Okay, wait. That's not entirely true. I've thrown up once in the past 25 years. I had a stomach bug a few years ago, as written in a previous post. But, I did manage to make it through my 21st birthday, sick as a dog, rocking back and forth and not throwing up for three days. Not an ounce. I made it through pregnancy, dry-heaving for months, lurching over the toilet, toting my big blue plastic bowl around the house. Nothing. I even made it through Juni's projectile vomit without one drop of sympathy puke.
I will pray to whatever power will listen to not throw up. I'll sweat, cry, plead and beg. I realize no one enjoys throwing up. But I absolutely despise it.
Jasen, as in basically other aspect of our lives, is the polar opposite. No, he does not enjoy throwing up, but he'll take a good Pukefest over feeling the least bit queasy. A bit too much Jack Daniels and he's on the front steps, leaving his dinner for the dogs. A steak he let get a little too green and he's on the back porch fertilizing the roses. Stomach bug? Not for long. You get the picture.
I don't mind it when Jasen looses his lunch outside. It's when he's inside that there's an issue. The other night proved a classic example.
My Dad prepared his absolutely delicious mussels in wine and butter broth. Tasty does not begin to describe this dish. Jasen had not so much as swallowed a single mussel for about eight years, since the last time my dad made them. That time, he used butter. A lot of butter. I'd venture to guess Jasen ate a good pound of mussels. And an even better pound of butter. Later that night, he puked a good pound of mussels, and an even better pound of butter. After the other night, I'm thinking Jasen is allergic to mussels.
I've reached my un-scientific diagnosis because this time was different. There was very little butter. They were delicious in every way. My stomach welcomed every tasty bit of shellfish delight.
So imagine my surprise when I hear Jasen puking at 2 am. Everyone's husband pukes. I realize this. But here's what makes mine different:
When Jasen really has a good puke, it lasts for hours. Two, in this particular instance. Two hours of puking. Two hours of torture for him, and me.
And here's why it's torture for me. The sound in insane. There are no words to describe. But I'll try. The volume jolts me out of a dead sleep. Even a Klonopin-induced sleep. Granted, I'm a light sleeper, but this sound causes me to sit straight up in bed, terrified there's an earth quake. Or some sort of alien invasion. Or an airplane headed straight for the front yard.
It's like he's puking from his pancreas. Hoo-waa, Hoo-waa...similar to Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. Only in a demonic voice. I've witnessed the event with my eyes only once. It freaked me out so bad I'll never walk in again. He pukes with his entire body. Muscles I didn't think he had bulging. His hair on end. His face tomato-red. I asked him once why he was so violent with the event. I thought maybe he had some sort of exotic disease that caused his puking mechanism to go haywire.
"I want to get it all out. When I'm pukin', I'm not playin'. You sit there crying over the toilet. I'm not into that. I want that shit out, man. You gotta just get it out."
Gotcha. So he's forcing the contents of every internal organ out through his mouth. I get it. The other night, I drifted in and out of sleep after asking him if he needed anything and he replied "ugh...hoo-waa...no, babe...hoo-waa. I'm fine. Don't come it. F'in mussels. I'm never touching f'in mussels again in my life. hooooo-waa." Flush.
Here are some other choice phrases that woke me up.
"Oh, my God. I though mussels smelled bad before they were digested."
"These f'ers taste f'ing horrible."
"Damn. Damn! Hoo-waa, hoo-waa." Flush.
"Ohhhh...lord. Hooo-waa. I have to get up in two hours. Hoo-waaaaaaa." Flush.
Apparently, he decided at some point to gargle some of my mouthwash to try and mask the taste of mussels, bile and our accompanying dish, spaghetti. Yep. Spaghetti. Everyone's favorite food to expel. the mouthwash was a version of Listerine meant to help whiten teeth. Which means it contains peroxide. Foaming peroxide.
"Oh holy Hell. What the Hell is in the shit? Jesus. I'd rather taste the puke. Oh God...it's drizzling down the back of my throat...Hoo-waaa. Hoooooo-waaaaa....HOOOO-WAAAA." Flush.
And then, just as abruptly as it began, it was morning. Towels from wiping his mouth were in the hamper. There was no sign of the nightmare that was the night before in the bathroom. His eyes featured circles from the lack of sleep. He bitched about the mussels ad nauseum. His skin boasted a bit of a green tint, but other than that he seemed fine. He even took out the trash he'd forgotten the night before...mussel shells and all, without missing a beat.
I hadn't realized until later that day that he'd drizzled a bit of vomit on the toilet. After Sade licked the toilet for 30 minutes while I got ready that morning, and then gave me a love lick on my calf. Now that I realize she was licking the remnants of puke, I'm not so happy about that bit of affection.
Jasen came home that night, walking a little funny. I didn't say anything until later that night, when he got into bed.
"Umm...Honey? Is something wrong? You're not quite as frisky as usual."
"Yeah, well...I'm pretty sure I pulled something last night while I was puking."
"Pulled something?"
"Yeah. I'm seriously never eating mussels again. Don't even bring them into the house. I definitely pulled something. Something important. Damnit."
"Ummm...okay...you're not giving me much to go by, here, babe."
"I think I pulled, you know, my love muscle. Is that possible?"
Oh...Good...Lord. My husband is hilarious.
I will pray to whatever power will listen to not throw up. I'll sweat, cry, plead and beg. I realize no one enjoys throwing up. But I absolutely despise it.
Jasen, as in basically other aspect of our lives, is the polar opposite. No, he does not enjoy throwing up, but he'll take a good Pukefest over feeling the least bit queasy. A bit too much Jack Daniels and he's on the front steps, leaving his dinner for the dogs. A steak he let get a little too green and he's on the back porch fertilizing the roses. Stomach bug? Not for long. You get the picture.
I don't mind it when Jasen looses his lunch outside. It's when he's inside that there's an issue. The other night proved a classic example.
My Dad prepared his absolutely delicious mussels in wine and butter broth. Tasty does not begin to describe this dish. Jasen had not so much as swallowed a single mussel for about eight years, since the last time my dad made them. That time, he used butter. A lot of butter. I'd venture to guess Jasen ate a good pound of mussels. And an even better pound of butter. Later that night, he puked a good pound of mussels, and an even better pound of butter. After the other night, I'm thinking Jasen is allergic to mussels.
I've reached my un-scientific diagnosis because this time was different. There was very little butter. They were delicious in every way. My stomach welcomed every tasty bit of shellfish delight.
So imagine my surprise when I hear Jasen puking at 2 am. Everyone's husband pukes. I realize this. But here's what makes mine different:
When Jasen really has a good puke, it lasts for hours. Two, in this particular instance. Two hours of puking. Two hours of torture for him, and me.
And here's why it's torture for me. The sound in insane. There are no words to describe. But I'll try. The volume jolts me out of a dead sleep. Even a Klonopin-induced sleep. Granted, I'm a light sleeper, but this sound causes me to sit straight up in bed, terrified there's an earth quake. Or some sort of alien invasion. Or an airplane headed straight for the front yard.
It's like he's puking from his pancreas. Hoo-waa, Hoo-waa...similar to Al Pacino in Scent of a Woman. Only in a demonic voice. I've witnessed the event with my eyes only once. It freaked me out so bad I'll never walk in again. He pukes with his entire body. Muscles I didn't think he had bulging. His hair on end. His face tomato-red. I asked him once why he was so violent with the event. I thought maybe he had some sort of exotic disease that caused his puking mechanism to go haywire.
"I want to get it all out. When I'm pukin', I'm not playin'. You sit there crying over the toilet. I'm not into that. I want that shit out, man. You gotta just get it out."
Gotcha. So he's forcing the contents of every internal organ out through his mouth. I get it. The other night, I drifted in and out of sleep after asking him if he needed anything and he replied "ugh...hoo-waa...no, babe...hoo-waa. I'm fine. Don't come it. F'in mussels. I'm never touching f'in mussels again in my life. hooooo-waa." Flush.
Here are some other choice phrases that woke me up.
"Oh, my God. I though mussels smelled bad before they were digested."
"These f'ers taste f'ing horrible."
"Damn. Damn! Hoo-waa, hoo-waa." Flush.
"Ohhhh...lord. Hooo-waa. I have to get up in two hours. Hoo-waaaaaaa." Flush.
Apparently, he decided at some point to gargle some of my mouthwash to try and mask the taste of mussels, bile and our accompanying dish, spaghetti. Yep. Spaghetti. Everyone's favorite food to expel. the mouthwash was a version of Listerine meant to help whiten teeth. Which means it contains peroxide. Foaming peroxide.
"Oh holy Hell. What the Hell is in the shit? Jesus. I'd rather taste the puke. Oh God...it's drizzling down the back of my throat...Hoo-waaa. Hoooooo-waaaaa....HOOOO-WAAAA." Flush.
And then, just as abruptly as it began, it was morning. Towels from wiping his mouth were in the hamper. There was no sign of the nightmare that was the night before in the bathroom. His eyes featured circles from the lack of sleep. He bitched about the mussels ad nauseum. His skin boasted a bit of a green tint, but other than that he seemed fine. He even took out the trash he'd forgotten the night before...mussel shells and all, without missing a beat.
I hadn't realized until later that day that he'd drizzled a bit of vomit on the toilet. After Sade licked the toilet for 30 minutes while I got ready that morning, and then gave me a love lick on my calf. Now that I realize she was licking the remnants of puke, I'm not so happy about that bit of affection.
Jasen came home that night, walking a little funny. I didn't say anything until later that night, when he got into bed.
"Umm...Honey? Is something wrong? You're not quite as frisky as usual."
"Yeah, well...I'm pretty sure I pulled something last night while I was puking."
"Pulled something?"
"Yeah. I'm seriously never eating mussels again. Don't even bring them into the house. I definitely pulled something. Something important. Damnit."
"Ummm...okay...you're not giving me much to go by, here, babe."
"I think I pulled, you know, my love muscle. Is that possible?"
Oh...Good...Lord. My husband is hilarious.
Tuesday, February 22, 2011
14 Inches...
of snow. Get your minds out of the gutter.
I love snow. Juni loves snow. Jasen loves snow. It's beautiful, serene and just plain fun when you have acres to trek, sled, build snow families and flop down for snow angels. I love snow cream, cuddling on the couch. Shooting pictures. I. Love. Snow.
I do not, however, appreciate 14 inches of snow. I learned real quick that there's only so much one can do to keep their 4-year-old child and 34-year-old husband occupies. They get bored. Quick. And I get agitated. Extremely quick.
Also, the Chesapeake snow removal sucks ass. Seriously. They can kiss the fattest, most cellulite-ridden part of my ass. Our road remained treacherous for a full week. So they can bite me. But anyway...
Jasen spent the days we were snowed in pondering what he could do, and coming up with nothing. Well, not nothing. He did manage to drive me crazy. Literally crazy. We're talking having to meditate just to make it through the day crazy. Juni decided the cold just wasn't for him. He'd go out, play a bit, and come in crying because his fingers felt like they would fall off any second. Fun times. I spent my time cleaning up after my men, and bitching about it. And cooking. And cleaning some more. And giving myself facials. And anything else I could do to not go even more crazy.
I've decided I'm ready for summer. Stay tuned...in six months, I'll be bitching about sweating and sticking to my car's leather seats...
I love snow. Juni loves snow. Jasen loves snow. It's beautiful, serene and just plain fun when you have acres to trek, sled, build snow families and flop down for snow angels. I love snow cream, cuddling on the couch. Shooting pictures. I. Love. Snow.
I do not, however, appreciate 14 inches of snow. I learned real quick that there's only so much one can do to keep their 4-year-old child and 34-year-old husband occupies. They get bored. Quick. And I get agitated. Extremely quick.
Also, the Chesapeake snow removal sucks ass. Seriously. They can kiss the fattest, most cellulite-ridden part of my ass. Our road remained treacherous for a full week. So they can bite me. But anyway...
Jasen spent the days we were snowed in pondering what he could do, and coming up with nothing. Well, not nothing. He did manage to drive me crazy. Literally crazy. We're talking having to meditate just to make it through the day crazy. Juni decided the cold just wasn't for him. He'd go out, play a bit, and come in crying because his fingers felt like they would fall off any second. Fun times. I spent my time cleaning up after my men, and bitching about it. And cooking. And cleaning some more. And giving myself facials. And anything else I could do to not go even more crazy.
I've decided I'm ready for summer. Stay tuned...in six months, I'll be bitching about sweating and sticking to my car's leather seats...
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)