Oh, hey, so it's October. Did you know? Because it is. It happened a couple of days ago but it was on the weekend, so you might not have noticed. I about had a full on freak out yesterday when I realized it was not only a new month but that, omg, we close on our house next week. WHAT. NEXT WEEK?
All September, I just kept thinking things like, "oh, we'll be closing in October," and "we should start packing soon since we move next month," and OMG YOU GUYS, IT'S NOW NEXT MONTH HOW DID THIS HAPPEN?
What's crazy is that I haven't started packing at all yet. What's even crazier is that I haven't made any lists. Not a Moving Timeline list, not a "Things To Buy For New House" list, not even a To Do list! WHO AM I. I should really get on that, I know, but frankly I'd rather sit and read and try to ignore the fact that WE ARE MOVING THIS MONTH.
What's the craziest is that we are sort of busy, plan-wise, this month already and the month just started. My sister spent the weekend with us this past weekend, and even though I threatened her that she'd have to help us pack and clean, we did none of that. Yesterday, we celebrated my friend's birthday with massages, fried pickles, Irish food, and beer, along with a surprise party later in the day, so GUESS WHAT, I did nothing yesterday either.
I also thought it would be a great idea to buy/get some tickets to a few shows at work this month. One of those is on the Thursday before we move, so that should be fine. Just fine. No, I'm sure I won't be freaking out at all that week because of the THERE'S NO TIME THERE'S NEVER ANY TIME.
Did you see that Joe reviewed Felicity? Because Joe reviewed Felicity. So you should read it.
Showing posts with label OH MY GOD. Show all posts
Showing posts with label OH MY GOD. Show all posts
Monday, October 03, 2011
Friday, March 12, 2010
TMI? Too much information. Uh, it's just easier to say TMI. I used to say don't go there, but that's lame.
It's been a while since I've shared too much information with the internet, I think, but HOLD ONTO YOUR BUTTS because I went to the lady doctor on Monday.
That's right. I scheduled an appointment with the lady doctor on a Monday morning, because apparently there's no better way to start your week than having someone poke around your girly parts with cold, metal instruments.
So in I went and when the nurse took my blood pressure she was all, "why is your blood pressure so high," and I was like, "because I'm at the doctor's office, duh," and then the doctor took it again later and was all, "why is your blood pressure so high" and I was all, "gee, I don't know, maybe because this one time I came in here and you forcibly ripped out a piece of my body so this place doesn't really give me CUDDLY, WARM FUZZIES."
Long story short (ha!), I have to start watching my sodium, because sodium is an evil bitchmonster, hell-bent on making my heart explode before I'm 30. JK, it's not that bad, but did you know there's a shitload of sodium in everything? Like, that water you're drinking probably has 5000 mgs of sodium in it. OK, it doesn't, unless you dumped four teaspoons of salt in there but why would you do that? That's disgusting.
It turns out lots of foods I thought were healthy are NOT healthy, sodium-wise, because they've been processed out the wazoo (what a fun word) and processed food, while delicious, is a big bad. Not THE big bad, though, otherwise Buffy could just smack it around for a while and all would be well. I wish I could shrink Buffy real tiny like and shoot her into my bloodstream to stake all of the sodium molecules before they could eff up my body. That would be awesome. It could be an Innerspace sequel which OMG I love that movie so much.
Right. So. Here is where the TMI comes in. This may not be common knowledge to those of you with penises, but when you go to the lady doctor, she spends a lot of time feeling you up. This is also when she yells at you for not doing monthly breast exams. The whole thing is less uncomfortable than it sounds, at least with my doctor, because she's really good at carrying on a conversation while she's doing all of that. Do you think they teach that in med school? I think so because I'm pretty sure that's what Karev failed on Grey's Anatomy, and that's where I get all my doctor knowledge. That and WebMD but I'm not allowed to look at WebMD anymore because doctors don't like it when you diagnose yourself.
Anyway, the doctor was rounding second base and there was a break in the conversation where she was all like, "...hmm," and that's not a good noise for a doctor to make while she's kneading your boob like a lump of dough.
"Your boobs are dense," she said (RUDE) and I told her that I TRIED to tell them to pay more attention in school, but would they listen? No. She didn't laugh, though, because she never gets my jokes.
Long story short again (ha!), I have to get an ultrasound next week. On my boobs. Because, according to my doctor, boobs are supposed to feel like cottage cheese and if she feels something pea-like IN the cottage cheese, that's a problem. WELL. APPARENTLY, my boobs feel like cottage cheese that's been left on the counter for too long (her words), so she couldn't tell if she'd found something weird or just, like, even older cottage cheese.
It's really nothing to worry about, and I wasn't even going to say anything on here, but I'm guessing that the experience of getting my boobs ultrasounded is something I'm going to want to blog about and it would be weird if next week I was like, "I got my boobs ultrasounded today," with no explanation beforehand so that's what this is. An explanation. In the meantime, I'm going to get my boobs a therapist because after being called dense and being compared to old cottage cheese, they're having some self-esteem issues.
That's right. I scheduled an appointment with the lady doctor on a Monday morning, because apparently there's no better way to start your week than having someone poke around your girly parts with cold, metal instruments.
So in I went and when the nurse took my blood pressure she was all, "why is your blood pressure so high," and I was like, "because I'm at the doctor's office, duh," and then the doctor took it again later and was all, "why is your blood pressure so high" and I was all, "gee, I don't know, maybe because this one time I came in here and you forcibly ripped out a piece of my body so this place doesn't really give me CUDDLY, WARM FUZZIES."
Long story short (ha!), I have to start watching my sodium, because sodium is an evil bitchmonster, hell-bent on making my heart explode before I'm 30. JK, it's not that bad, but did you know there's a shitload of sodium in everything? Like, that water you're drinking probably has 5000 mgs of sodium in it. OK, it doesn't, unless you dumped four teaspoons of salt in there but why would you do that? That's disgusting.
It turns out lots of foods I thought were healthy are NOT healthy, sodium-wise, because they've been processed out the wazoo (what a fun word) and processed food, while delicious, is a big bad. Not THE big bad, though, otherwise Buffy could just smack it around for a while and all would be well. I wish I could shrink Buffy real tiny like and shoot her into my bloodstream to stake all of the sodium molecules before they could eff up my body. That would be awesome. It could be an Innerspace sequel which OMG I love that movie so much.
Right. So. Here is where the TMI comes in. This may not be common knowledge to those of you with penises, but when you go to the lady doctor, she spends a lot of time feeling you up. This is also when she yells at you for not doing monthly breast exams. The whole thing is less uncomfortable than it sounds, at least with my doctor, because she's really good at carrying on a conversation while she's doing all of that. Do you think they teach that in med school? I think so because I'm pretty sure that's what Karev failed on Grey's Anatomy, and that's where I get all my doctor knowledge. That and WebMD but I'm not allowed to look at WebMD anymore because doctors don't like it when you diagnose yourself.
Anyway, the doctor was rounding second base and there was a break in the conversation where she was all like, "...hmm," and that's not a good noise for a doctor to make while she's kneading your boob like a lump of dough.
"Your boobs are dense," she said (RUDE) and I told her that I TRIED to tell them to pay more attention in school, but would they listen? No. She didn't laugh, though, because she never gets my jokes.
Long story short again (ha!), I have to get an ultrasound next week. On my boobs. Because, according to my doctor, boobs are supposed to feel like cottage cheese and if she feels something pea-like IN the cottage cheese, that's a problem. WELL. APPARENTLY, my boobs feel like cottage cheese that's been left on the counter for too long (her words), so she couldn't tell if she'd found something weird or just, like, even older cottage cheese.
It's really nothing to worry about, and I wasn't even going to say anything on here, but I'm guessing that the experience of getting my boobs ultrasounded is something I'm going to want to blog about and it would be weird if next week I was like, "I got my boobs ultrasounded today," with no explanation beforehand so that's what this is. An explanation. In the meantime, I'm going to get my boobs a therapist because after being called dense and being compared to old cottage cheese, they're having some self-esteem issues.
Monday, December 15, 2008
WARNING: there is disturbing hooha talk ahead. I mean it. Turn away now.
Thank you all for the kind words yesterday. I knew I could count on you guys.
Now, it's time to talk about the gyno. I know, how excited are you? So. I went to the gyno this morning, because what better way to start the week than by letting someone you don't know very well shove a cold piece of metal into your hooha and poke around with giant Q-tips. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. I think sometimes men wonder why women complain about going to the gyno and HERE IS WHY.
First, you walk in and they weigh you. I'm really OK with this. The part I have a problem with is that they then measure you and SOMEHOW I've shrunk a quarter of an inch from last time I was in. Or I was wearing thicker socks last time. Or I was standing up straighter. I don't know. But I do know that 26 is probably too young to start shrinking.
Then they take you to an exam room, where they point out the lovely frock you'll be wearing. The nurse is all, "make sure the gown is open in the back and put this white sheet over your lap." The white sheet is for privacy while the doctor gropes you. You'll see.
So you change into this gown, making sure to leave the opening in the back, and cover your business with the white sheet. You wait and wait and wait and, if you're like me, you're just getting to a good part in your book when the doctor walks in and is all, "How's life? How often do you do it? Have you ever been pregnant? When was the first day of your last cycle?" It's like an exam you haven't studied for PLUS ALSO an interrogation. There are even hot lights shining on you. Sure, they're shining on your lady parts, but whatever.
After some chit-chat, the doctor tells you to lie back and put your arms over your head so she can feel you up and make sure your boobs aren't bad-lumpy. And then she yells at your for not giving yourself monthly breast exams. My doctor also likes small talk, but instead of talking about the weather, she'll talk about how her kids go to Catholic school and one day they came home and said they'd had a discussion about abortion in religion class. And you just smile and nod and try to pretend she's not kneading your boob like a bunch of dough.
Now comes the big show. The stirrups come out and she's all, "scoot down here . . . a bit more . . . that's it . . . relax your knees," and it's very uncomfortable, except you're kind of distracted because SHE'S STILL TALKING ABOUT ABORTION. And then, with some gentle words ("oh boy, this part is never fun") she violates you with a piece of metal. Good times. Now is when she switches subjects a bit and starts talking about how she really liked that Mike Huckabee and you bite your tongue because you are in a VERY. COMPRIMISING. POSITION. and she could do you permanent damage. Eventually, she finishes and you think it's all over, but then she feels your ovaries or uterus or whatever. From the inside. Yeah. I've heard some gynos poke you in the butthole or something, but mine doesn't do that. If she did, I'd poke HER in the butthole and see how she likes people messing around down there.
See? I told you not to read this. That'll learn you.
Now, it's time to talk about the gyno. I know, how excited are you? So. I went to the gyno this morning, because what better way to start the week than by letting someone you don't know very well shove a cold piece of metal into your hooha and poke around with giant Q-tips. BECAUSE THAT'S WHAT THEY DO. I think sometimes men wonder why women complain about going to the gyno and HERE IS WHY.
First, you walk in and they weigh you. I'm really OK with this. The part I have a problem with is that they then measure you and SOMEHOW I've shrunk a quarter of an inch from last time I was in. Or I was wearing thicker socks last time. Or I was standing up straighter. I don't know. But I do know that 26 is probably too young to start shrinking.
Then they take you to an exam room, where they point out the lovely frock you'll be wearing. The nurse is all, "make sure the gown is open in the back and put this white sheet over your lap." The white sheet is for privacy while the doctor gropes you. You'll see.
So you change into this gown, making sure to leave the opening in the back, and cover your business with the white sheet. You wait and wait and wait and, if you're like me, you're just getting to a good part in your book when the doctor walks in and is all, "How's life? How often do you do it? Have you ever been pregnant? When was the first day of your last cycle?" It's like an exam you haven't studied for PLUS ALSO an interrogation. There are even hot lights shining on you. Sure, they're shining on your lady parts, but whatever.
After some chit-chat, the doctor tells you to lie back and put your arms over your head so she can feel you up and make sure your boobs aren't bad-lumpy. And then she yells at your for not giving yourself monthly breast exams. My doctor also likes small talk, but instead of talking about the weather, she'll talk about how her kids go to Catholic school and one day they came home and said they'd had a discussion about abortion in religion class. And you just smile and nod and try to pretend she's not kneading your boob like a bunch of dough.
Now comes the big show. The stirrups come out and she's all, "scoot down here . . . a bit more . . . that's it . . . relax your knees," and it's very uncomfortable, except you're kind of distracted because SHE'S STILL TALKING ABOUT ABORTION. And then, with some gentle words ("oh boy, this part is never fun") she violates you with a piece of metal. Good times. Now is when she switches subjects a bit and starts talking about how she really liked that Mike Huckabee and you bite your tongue because you are in a VERY. COMPRIMISING. POSITION. and she could do you permanent damage. Eventually, she finishes and you think it's all over, but then she feels your ovaries or uterus or whatever. From the inside. Yeah. I've heard some gynos poke you in the butthole or something, but mine doesn't do that. If she did, I'd poke HER in the butthole and see how she likes people messing around down there.
See? I told you not to read this. That'll learn you.
Monday, September 15, 2008
This just in: wind blows
Hi, guys. Did you know the world is ending? Because it is. The good thing is, because of the whole world ending thing, I didn't have to work today.
I don't know if you know this, but Hurricane Ike hit Ohio. Or something. What happened was, there was wind. Windy wind. Windy wind full of wind. And the windy wind full of wind blew and blew and blew my house in. Not really, but almost. We drove back from Cleveland yesterday afternoon and around Columbus we noticed that Joe's car was almost being blown off of the road. Which isn't normal, you know. Once we got to Dayton, the majority of the traffic lights were all out and it turns out no one in Dayton knows what to do when the traffic lights are out.
So, we went to my apartment and Heidi told me that the panel in my bedroom that leads to an attic or crawlspace or whatever had blown out AND SHE SHUT MY DOOR IN CASE BATS FLEW IN. After I recovered from my mini-heart attack, Joe fixed the panel because he could reach it, as he is freakishly tall.
Since the power was out, we had nothing to do but talk to each other. Which we did. And then around 6:30 we realized that A) we were hungry and B) we had no way to cook food. We met Heidi's friend Alicia at El Toro and wouldn't you know it? CLOSED. I guess they can't cook food without power and so everyone went home. Booooo! We got in Heidi's car to see if we could find somewhere, anywhere, we could get some food BECAUSE WE WERE STARVING TO DEATH. True story.
After driving around for 18 hours, we finally found another Mexican restaurant that had power. It was right next to a Wendy's that was also open, and the drive thru line was wrapped twice around the restaurant. We decided we wanted some chips and salsa more than a single with cheese, so we ventured into El Rancho Grande (Spanish for . . . the Rancho Grande). We were seated right away but we were there for about two hours, eating our way through three baskets of chips and 98 chimichangas.
Then, when we got home, the power still wasn't on. And Heidi and I don't have any flashlights, really, so we were using our cell phones to light the way through the apartment. But, no worries, Heidi found her Dr. Seuss fish flashlight and that helped.
Our power is still out and so is the power at work. I even tried to go to work today. How's that for dedication? It really had nothing to do with dedication, I was just hoping they'd have power so I could make coffee and check my email. When they told us the power wouldn't be on for the rest of the day, I decided to run through McDonald's really quick (see: coffee) and I called my parents to see if they wanted anything. An hour later, I finally made it up to the window to get my food, which went something like this:
Frazzled McDonald's Employee: Here's your food, but we had to brew more coffee. I'm sorry. It'll be a couple more minutes. I'm sorry.
Me: It's OK, I understand.
FME: I'm sorry. Can you pull over there and we'll bring you your coffee when it's ready? I'm sorry.
Me: Yeah! No problem.
FME: I'm sorry.
Me: No, it's fine, you guys are slammed.
[three minutes later]
FME: I'm really sorry.
Me: Um . . .
FME: We're out of coffee packets so we can't make anymore.
Me: . . . it's OK.
And then, for realsies, you guys, I almost burst into tears. It was OK, though, because I found a UDF that was open and got a ginormous coffee for only 99 cents. Now I am at Joe's mooching off of his electricity and internet and crossing my fingers that when I do make it home, I can turn on the lights.
Here's a fun picture of what the fun wind did:
I don't know if you know this, but Hurricane Ike hit Ohio. Or something. What happened was, there was wind. Windy wind. Windy wind full of wind. And the windy wind full of wind blew and blew and blew my house in. Not really, but almost. We drove back from Cleveland yesterday afternoon and around Columbus we noticed that Joe's car was almost being blown off of the road. Which isn't normal, you know. Once we got to Dayton, the majority of the traffic lights were all out and it turns out no one in Dayton knows what to do when the traffic lights are out.
So, we went to my apartment and Heidi told me that the panel in my bedroom that leads to an attic or crawlspace or whatever had blown out AND SHE SHUT MY DOOR IN CASE BATS FLEW IN. After I recovered from my mini-heart attack, Joe fixed the panel because he could reach it, as he is freakishly tall.
Since the power was out, we had nothing to do but talk to each other. Which we did. And then around 6:30 we realized that A) we were hungry and B) we had no way to cook food. We met Heidi's friend Alicia at El Toro and wouldn't you know it? CLOSED. I guess they can't cook food without power and so everyone went home. Booooo! We got in Heidi's car to see if we could find somewhere, anywhere, we could get some food BECAUSE WE WERE STARVING TO DEATH. True story.
After driving around for 18 hours, we finally found another Mexican restaurant that had power. It was right next to a Wendy's that was also open, and the drive thru line was wrapped twice around the restaurant. We decided we wanted some chips and salsa more than a single with cheese, so we ventured into El Rancho Grande (Spanish for . . . the Rancho Grande). We were seated right away but we were there for about two hours, eating our way through three baskets of chips and 98 chimichangas.
Then, when we got home, the power still wasn't on. And Heidi and I don't have any flashlights, really, so we were using our cell phones to light the way through the apartment. But, no worries, Heidi found her Dr. Seuss fish flashlight and that helped.
Our power is still out and so is the power at work. I even tried to go to work today. How's that for dedication? It really had nothing to do with dedication, I was just hoping they'd have power so I could make coffee and check my email. When they told us the power wouldn't be on for the rest of the day, I decided to run through McDonald's really quick (see: coffee) and I called my parents to see if they wanted anything. An hour later, I finally made it up to the window to get my food, which went something like this:
Frazzled McDonald's Employee: Here's your food, but we had to brew more coffee. I'm sorry. It'll be a couple more minutes. I'm sorry.
Me: It's OK, I understand.
FME: I'm sorry. Can you pull over there and we'll bring you your coffee when it's ready? I'm sorry.
Me: Yeah! No problem.
FME: I'm sorry.
Me: No, it's fine, you guys are slammed.
[three minutes later]
FME: I'm really sorry.
Me: Um . . .
FME: We're out of coffee packets so we can't make anymore.
Me: . . . it's OK.
And then, for realsies, you guys, I almost burst into tears. It was OK, though, because I found a UDF that was open and got a ginormous coffee for only 99 cents. Now I am at Joe's mooching off of his electricity and internet and crossing my fingers that when I do make it home, I can turn on the lights.
Here's a fun picture of what the fun wind did:
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