The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 2

[Might I offer you a slice of Part 1?]

I truly, honestly hope our birth story doesn't turn out to be this dramatic. I feel like this whole day could be split up like a season of "24." Oh, what the hell.

The following takes place between 5pm and 7pm.

(WOW, was that overkill or what.) (And yes, that is a toe picture as requested by many. Sorry to those of you who would rather melon-ball out their eyes than look at it.) (Scroll, scroll, scroll. Scrolling heals all.)

Relatedly, I do have to warn you that this next installment is absolutely disgusting.

I had just stayed up all night, squeaked out a professional portfolio at the last minute, nailed an interview, came home to find my foot on the verge of decomposing, and found myself completely and unexpectedly pregnant. Whee.

For the third time in as many hours, I endangered my life by getting behind the wheel of a car on absolutely zero sleep and entirely too much caffeine. Time to haul this toe to the hospital.

Once there, the receptionist advised me to go straight to the ER. They set me up with a hospital bed and assured me a doctor would be there shortly.

I cannot express how slowly the next fifteen minutes went by. I was delirious from sleep deprivation, delirious from shock about Sneaky Baby, and deliriously in need of having my husband by my side.

I remember wild scenarios passing through my head... the doctor would say, "I'm sorry, we have to give you antibiotics to save your foot, but the baby won't make it." And my inner Mama Grizzly would snarl, "THEN CUT OFF MY GODDAMNED FOOT." (...to save our new little sesame-seed-sized sac o' cells. Quite the dramatic inner dialogue, as usual, and complete with alliteration.)

I looked up to see Jason rush into the room, and it took everything I had to not burst into tears. There is nothing like seeing your rock, your partner in crime (aHEM), your sweet, handsome fella whose smile dissolves all stress from your body... there's just nothing like seeing that person as a "dad" for the first time.

He thought I was really upset about my toe. Funny.

I decided I couldn't break the news to him in this cold, sterile, public setting. Instead, I buried my face in his chest as he stood next to my bed. He stroked the back of my hair, I melted into him, and time ceased to pass.

Perky Dr. Linda broke the hypnosis as she introduced herself, and promptly started baby-talking to my "poor, poor wittle toe."

She gave it a few pokes and decided we needed to cut it open. Urrrf.

My options were: I could get a super-effective numbing shot in a nerve between my toes, or risk less thorough numbing with a shot on top of my toe.

I don't know about you, but a needle going between my toes and deep into my foot is a prettt-ty horrific prospect. I decided I'd had enough for that day, and convinced her to shoot me up on the top.

Shot. Then,

Scalpel.

Slice.

HOLY FLAMING F***BALLS OF SEARING PAIN.

I'd forgotten that I'm some breed of drug-resistant freak, and usually need a double-dose of Novocain at the dentist. So much for having "had enough that day."

For some reason, I was more freaked out about another syringe to the foot than putting up with this pain. So I tried to keep my hyperventilating silent, and crushed the living dickens out of Jason's hand.

Dr. Linda wasn't done. She grabbed a miniature version of food tongs, and shoved one tong sideways 1/4-inch into my new toe-hole. The other remained on top.

barbecue anyone? [from]

She squeezed the tongs together in a quick, repetitive "snipping" motion and made her way all around the edge of the toe-cano. Several times.

This lady was a TOE-JUICING MACHINE.

Dr. Linda then explained that the next step would be to "pack" my nice new toe cavity with a long strip of gauze. She splayed the wound open with the barbecue tongs and started packin' that sucker.

I don't think I've ever been so close to passing out in my life. All this, and still no sleep from the day before. I looked down at the hospital bed, and at the gore-soaked pile of gauze next to my foot. I thought about the fact that I'd be back in a hospital bed in 9 months, equally sleep-deprived, and in a hell of a lot more pain.

Jason's crushed hand was holding out amazingly well.

"Alllll done!" Dr. Linda broke out of her silent toe-juicing zone and happily chirped her completion. She stripped off her gloves and looked squarely into my haggard, bloodshot eyes.

She said she had some "girl" questions to ask me. I knew where this was going, and my heart tried to explode out of my chest as I contemplated Jason having to find out this way.

But, bless her baby-talking, toe-juicing soul, she continued, "Would you like to have him go outside while we talk?"

I answered "YES" before she could even finish.

...

Okay, sorry amigos. I didn't realize this was going to turn into such a novel, but this exhausted mama needs to go to bed for the night. I promise this will get wrapped up next week! It gets a lot less gross, and a lot more happy, from this point on.

P.S. Dear Sneaky Baby reading this 12 years from now,
As a little bitty brand-new blastocyst, you were a freakin' CHAMP for putting up with all this. Good job. Love, Mom

The tale of Sneaky Baby-- Part 1

This story starts with a bump. A little, tiny bump.

Just kidding, not that one. That's not very "little" these days, anyway.

The bump I'm talking about appeared in September... on my toe. I had noticed a small, swollen red spot-- a bug bite? A super-sexy ingrown toe hair?

(Sorry Sneaky Baby, reading this 12 years from now. This is not a very cute beginning to your tale.)

A week later, the little bump had amassed into a gnarly red & purple welt with something that looked disturbingly... "pop-able" on top.

I didn't really have time to go to the doctor: I was doing a hardcore "whole food" detox where I had to cook everything from scratch, I was lifeguarding at 5AM, teaching swim lessons in the afternoon, and cramming for the two "grown-up" interviews I had within a few days.

Meanwhile, the toe bump kept growing. It was starting to make me limp a little.

The first interview went incredibly well. Afterwards, I kept plugging away at making a printed art portfolio for my next (graphic designer) interview. Horrifyingly sooner than later, it was the night before this interview and I still felt miles from "ready."

I kept working on the portfolio until 1am. Just kidding, I kept working until 4am.

Just kidding, I stayed up ALL EFFING NIGHT without a wink of sleep, sucking down coffee, frantically tinkering and rearranging images. I mean, it's just not possible to make a printed booklet look good enough for a job where you will make printed booklets.

With only two hours before my interview and fingers tightly crossed, I sent my file to Kinko's. Then (in lieu of a nap of course) I crammed, crammed, crammed for any answers this guy could possibly throw at me.

Dressed in the snazzy outfit I'd had planned for a week (thanks to mi amiga Kelley), I went to put on my high-heeled "lady" shoes.

Bad idea.

I just about YAKKED from the searing pain that shot through my toe when I tried to stand up. That sucker was pretty much rotting from the inside out at this point. (Not to mention I still had a healing broken toe on that foot as well.) But in my delirious state, there was no way I was changing shoes.

At this point I probably shouldn't have been driving, but I swung by Kinko's, picked up my rockin' portfolio, managed to avoid any car accidents, and ab. so. lute. ly. NAILED this interview. Like, to the point where we were discussing my starting date by the end of it. What the hell?! It's like I had a lucky charm or something (...wink.)

Back safely at home (again, Holy Lucky Charm Batman... don't ever drive on zero sleep) I took my shoes and tights off.

Oh dear.

My entire left foot was puffed up like it had tried to make sweet love to a rattlesnake. I had to go to the hospital and get antibiotics before this got into the rest of my bloodstream.

The thought of "antibiotics" spurred the first moment of clarity I'd had in about a week, and things started clicking into place. Like, how I (almost) never get sick, yet the other night I couldn't finish cooking my favorite dinner because the smell was making me gag. And how I'd cried about three times in the past week. And how... eh, I wasn't very good at keeping track of this, but it was probably about time for the ol' uterus to do its thing again. And it hadn't.

I had a feeling that antibiotics wouldn't be okay if... gulp. Yeah. The p-word.  I asked The Google and The Google confirmed: antibiotics and the p-word don't mix too well.

Luckily I had a peestick in the bathroom, and luckily I had some pee. I actually wasn't even nervous, because there was no way I was pregnant. That happens to grown-ups. That happens to people who have their shit together. That happens to people who have been trying and trying to get knocked up for months and then do handstands for an hour after hitting the sack. This test was just The Responsible Thing To Do, so I could confidently tell the doctor that, why, yes, I AM currently eligible for antibiotics even though I have been half-assing "natural" birth control for the past two years. Surely all my "symptoms" were easily explained by stress and lack of sleep.

See? Two lines. Totally... wait. Two lines. TWO LINES.

whammo. Look what my pee can do.

 I grabbed the towel hanging next to the toilet, wadded it into my face, and screamed "OHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGODOHMYGOD" for a good twenty seconds.

How... nurturing and maternal of me. (Fast forward to the present 33-weeks-pregnant where Sneaky Baby just gave me a guilt-inducing jab to the ribs).

It's like I had 50 brains with 50 sudden realizations all at once. "OHMYGOD. I'm not ready for this." "OHMYGOD. I get to see what Jason & I are like melded into one new little body." "OHMYGOD. It's in there right now." "OHMYGOD. Jason is going to die of happiness." "OHMYGOD. But I just accepted a full-time job PLUS a second part-time job." "OHMYGOD. My body is going to completely change --WAIT-- OHMYGOD. I get to finally have boobs."

But mostly: "OHMYGOD. Moms know everything and make everything better. I don't do that. That test has to be wrong somehow."

I felt like my heart was crushing between the amazement and protectiveness I felt for our little tiny offspring, and the paralyzing fear I felt that my life was changing forever and there was no going back.

I texted Jason (away at the gym) and told him I was taking The Gross Toe to the Emergency Room. He said he'd meet me there.

Your Questions!: Most Embarrassing Moment, and what I'll never blog about

This picture has nothing to do with the rest of the post-- BUT-- I am promising you right here and right now, I will never again attempt anything as trendy as bacon cupcakes with maple frosting. Ever.

Meet the "Sam" (right)  behind all the epically long & hilarious comments often found here! Love that kid.

(This was for a "bacon party" for our GYM. So legit.) On a sliiightly related note-- now that I'm sick of cupcakes, I'm trying that Paleo diet again. I'm on day three... and every time I wake up in the middle of the night, I get nervous. Eep. On the plus side, you guys might get more barfing stories...?


Moving on-- next two questions, again from Ryan!

What is your most embarrassing moment?
What's one thing you will NEVER talk about on your blog? And why? 

Ironically, I will NEVER talk about my most embarrassing moment on zee blog. It involves a weekend stay at the Hubster's family cabin, a midnight oversized poo, and the horrific steps taken to get rid of said poo. I've already said too much. If you guys really want to hear about it, email me and I might just tell you. But you'll probably regret it a lot a lot a lot.

Seeing as I'm in a chatty mood, and seeing as I prettttty much just blogged about what I said I wouldn't blog about, I'll list a second blogger-verboten topic.

While I try to keep it real on here, and avoid only talking about happy-go-lucky-things that make my life sound flawless, I will never vent about any specific person on my blog. It doesn't seem like it would accomplish anything other than spreading negativity. I learned from my parents to "focus on finding solutions, rather than dwelling on problems."

I do realize that if I did vent, I might get some helpful feedback or advice from the comments (not to mention higher traffic than normal), I'd rather just ask a few carefully chosen confidantes for advice than spread my drama all over the interwebs. And yes, there are several of you who will probably fall into the "confidante category" sooner or later : )

________________
Your turn, amigos! Embarrassing moments? Forbidden blog topics? I'm curious!

Couldn't resist posting some vacation photos

Alternately titled "Two Matthews-ers, Swimsuit edition."

My sister & I just got back from a week in the Southern California sunshine! (So sorry ladies, no Handsome Hubster in this one). 

Our sweet grandma bought us some tickets to come visit her & the rest of our family near LA (yes, I'm yet another California-Oregon transplant kid).

We drove to the airport in true Pacific Northwest fashion-- windshield wipers battling the rain at top speed, bags packed optimistically with shorts & sandals, and pale legs coated in blotchy self-tanner.

Then we enjoyed six long, sunny days of:

-- boogey-boarding for hours (and the resulting traumatic sunburns),

(look! apparently I run like a raptor too) & (I hope Kelsey's okay with her butt on my blog) ('cause I know YOU guys are) (wink wink)

-- visiting with our uncle's family and soaking up all the cousin love we possibly could absorb,

got to see our awesome grandad on Father's day! Schweet. (In other news, B.F. meter has bumped up to a 6.25)

-- doing rascally things like taking a tour of all the nearby In-n-Outs at 1AM, and inventing a suuuuper mature "game" with my grandma's bathroom scale: how much weight can you lose by going to the bathroom? Kelsey won, with 4 POUNDS LOST in one... "sitting" (her strategy involved lots of water, then lots of coffee).
(Sorry. There's another "TMI" tag & "things that happen in the bathroom" tag for the tally.)
(My grandma didn't know we were playing this game. Now she does... Hi, Grandmom.)

-- and last but not least, somehow convincing our 70-year-old grandma to try boogey boarding.

Have I mentioned that summer is my favorite thing in the universe? Just the smell of sunscreen makes me giddy.


(Next up: part two of The Story of Hubster & Me, as told by Mr. Matthews-er himself!)

Field Trip!

Feeling adventurous today? Eeeeexcellent.
Head over to She Got Married where my first-ever "guest post" is hangin' out! My girl Emma, one of my favorite blargy amigas, sent me a (self-proclaimed) "nosy" interview-- so you can read about all kinds of snoopy things like:

What do you argue about the most?
What is the one thing about married life that took some adjusting or getting used to?
Where is your favorite date to go on together?

It was SO fun, because you guys know I love spewing dishing out the TMI.
(& if you're interested in some fun vegetarian recipes & grocery budgeting tips, have a look around her blog! Since following her, she's inspired me cut my grocery costs by almost 40%! Shweet.)

Our Story, Part I: Harry Potter and the Goblet of Public Spit-Swapping

[I promise we're not naked...?]

Eight years ago exactly, a 17-year old, curly-haired boy called a lanky, 16-year old girl, and asked if she wanted to go read in the park.

"That's ALL I want to do. The fifth Harry Potter is coming out in two weeks and I'm re-reading the series to prep for it... I forgot how amazing the Goblet of Fire is."

"Good idea! I'll bring my copy, too. "

Putting her hair in a ponytail in front of the bathroom mirror, she glared at her reflection and thought, "No boyfriends this summer. No boyfriends this summer. But he's really, really nice. No boyfriends this summer. But he has curly hair. No boyfriends this summer. But it felt so good to hug him the other day..."

She smiled. She caught herself smiling and punched the countertop. "NO BOYFRIENDS THIS SUMMER."

He'd brought a blanket, and they laid it out on a grassy hill at the park. They started reading their matching green books. Then, against the girl's claims that she couldn't stop reading it-- they started talking. Their faces got closer. No boyfriends this su.... dude's got some crazy-long eyelashes oh my gawsh he's gonna kiss me he's gonna kissmerightnow
He kissed her. It felt perfect. She kissed him back. A lot.

They were that sleazy couple making out in the park. She didn't care.
She'd never kissed anybody before officially "going out with them" before. That was okay too. In fact, it was pretty darn thrilling.
She was not a very good kisser. He didn't care. (Well, he thought it was pretty funny, but he didn't say anything.)

"So are we... 'together' now?" he asked, forehead against hers.
"I'd say so," she grinned.

Two years later, Jason admitted that I was a dorky kisser on that first "date." Eight years later, he's still a better kisser than I am. But I'd like to say that I've come a long way. (Considering that I'm 24, I've been practicing on him for a third of my life. How's THAT for some matth-ews-ing, eh?)

So that's Part 1 of our little "Love Story," amigos, and now I'm off to a romantical dinner to celebrate our eighth date-a-versary. I PROMISE that this will be the only one written in cheesarific third-person.

(Happy June 10th, Handsome Hubster. You make me excited to wake up every day.)

This is how stylish I am.

what? I had mango stuck in my teeth.  or MAYBE THAT'S JUST HOW GANGSTA I REALLY AM

So stylish that I won an award for it.

Thanks to (the actually really super stylish) Jacqueline @ v o j a c q u e!

Hey, do you guys want to hear seven random facts about me?
Well today's your lucky day, because that's what I'm supposed to tell you when I get this award:

[1] White has been my favorite color since I learned its name in preschool, and I get more obsessed with it every year. (Second-favorite colors rotate on a daily basis, but are almost always delightfully loud and obnoxious.)

makes my heart go pitter-patter

[2] Speaking of loud & obnoxious, my favorite band? Metallica. I'm a sucker for anything minor-key-- even if they're screaming their larynxes out, it soothes me.

[3] ...but Brit-Brit has always come in a close second.

[4] As much as I want to go out and work my butt off and save the world, my whole life I've felt like I was born to have some kids and then love them a crazy amount. I doubt I'll ever be a stay-at-home-mom, but I also know that nothing will ever be more important than my family.

[5] I'm terrified of people who I can't read easily. That includes anyone wearing sunglasses.

(Or alternatively, Keanu Reeves without sunglasses.)

[6] I'm embarrassed to admit that I'm currently rehabbing 3 injuries: hip tendonitis, a shoulder strain, and a knee strain. This is how I now have to do pushups at the gym:

they're called rubber-band-assisted one-armed pushups. I'm such a badass little grandma.

[7] Jason was the first "boy" (yeah, it was that long ago) that I ever kissed without him being my official "boyfriend." But then we went and got married, so it ended up being not so scandalous after all. Oh, well. I tried.

first make-out sesh wasn't quite this dramatic :>

I could still just make out with that dude's face all day long. (Except that he's developed a lot more chin hair since 2003 and there would probably be scabs by the end of the day).

****

And now I'm supposed to list ten stylish little blargy-blargs, and by "stylish" I mean blargs that are new-ish blargs that I love & want to spread the word about [...alphabetical, yo]:

• Adventures of a Ginger: This chick is kind of nuts, and more than "kind of" nerdy. Enjoy.
• All Groan Up: a hilarious yet sincere attempt at figuring out what exactly growing up even... means...?
• Beautiful Little Fool-- wacky, often vulgarity-strewn recollections of a young high-school teacher.
• A Creative Beginning-- Super rad home renovation projects by my friend from Architecture school.
• life is sweet. love is real.-- often goofy, stunningly introspective glimpse into the life of two head-over-heels newlyweds.
• tumor-ey side of me-- A brave, beautiful, & faith-guided young woman's journey with a rare disease that grows hundreds of painful tumors on the nerves throughout her body. This chick's amazing.
• Margo & Betty-- beautiful photography and crafts! Eye candy warning-- don't lick your screen.
• Scrumptious Somethings-- JACKPOT blend of stylish, geeky, and romantical. I <3 this blog.
• She Got Married-- all about being a newlywed; lately has been focusing on healthy & inexpensive meals. Makes meh hungreh.
• True Colours-- I love me some deep introspection, and this blog's got it in spades.

           (I'll email all of you on the list tonight w/ full details!)

I'll get back on-track with regular posts soon, I just piled too much on my plate these past two weeks... and then got super sick on top of it.

However, recharge has almost completed.
(Evil cackle.) (With the aid of a sick raspy throat.)

[images] [1]  [2]  [3]  [4 (I drew it)]  [5]  [6]  [7]

My leg hair's 9-month adventure

Sometime earlier this spring, I realized I hadn't shaved above my mid-shins since August. I announced this to Jason. He gave me a high-five (aaaaand that's why I married the guy).

Here's the gratuitous photo:

Kidding. Those are Jason's legs. But it's an accurate representation, other than his enviable quadriceps. Okay, if you MUST-- here's mine. Yeaaaah-heah-heah-heahhhh BABY. Pretty sure mine are even hairier than the mister's.

Oh, my little strings of keratin. You've been through a gamut of adventures since August:

You began your journey of growth whilst frolicking about Disneyworld.
You kept me as warm as a wooly mammoth in Sveeden.

You've been to recent physical therapy appointments where--SURPRISE!!-- the doctor asked me to change into shorts. Awkward.

Then you accompanied me to another appointment where the doctor put that weird therapy tape on my knee:

except way hairier

...and then you went to another doctor appointment a week later where I had to rip off the $&^% TAPE and HOLY FLAMING HELLFIRE I SWEAR I WILL NEVER TRY WAXING IN MY LIFE. I made my poor (male) doctor do it because I literally could not will myself to pull on the tape. (So for that, and just for being awesome, I'll give him a little plug here: Dr. Gervais will fix your injuries AND rip off your leg hair for you-- without even cringing at all the hair stuck to the tape.)

But this week... alas. The weather got hot and I had to run a timed 6K (3.7 miles) at my gym. Not something I wanted to do in sweatpants.

THE TIME WAS NIGH TO HARVEST ZEE CROPS.

The idea of it tortured me. My leg hair had grown on me, and I was rather attached to it (I'm SORRY, I'm SORRY, it's not even funny, but was two puns in one sentence and I just couldn't let the opportunity pass me by).

But really, amigos. I'm serious. I was sad. I stroked my fuzzy knee caps wistfully, and reminisced: I hadn't shaved my legs all fall, winter, and spring, because, dammit, shaving my legs is a completely pointless societal expectation, contrived by giant pharmaceutical companies so they can sell more razors. And it's really really boring to do. And I WILL NOT STAND FOR IT.

...that is, until I actually have to wear shorts in public. Way to walk the walk, April.

I thought of all that work those little follicles had accomplished; I'll bet they were so proud. I thought of all that protein that my bloodstream had lovingly set aside for a little decorative somethin'-somethin' for my legs. Nine looong months of tedious hair-building, gone with the effortless swipe of a razor.

* * *

Forty minutes and three decimated razors later, my fall foliage was clogging the drain and I was rushing into the gym five minutes late.

We stepped outdoors to begin the run, and I felt a strange sensation on my left thigh. A... rustling, if you will. I looked down.

I had missed a chunk. A little oasis of lingering wildlife amidst a clear-cutted massacre zone. And the rustling sensation was it gleefully blowing in the breeze.

It enjoyed the 6K run like a dog with its head out a car window (believe me, I speak fluent folliclean).

And now it's three days later... and I still haven't shaved it.
I love stories with happy endings.

What happens when my mom drinks Yerba Mate.

Holy moley, are you guys in for a treat today.

I've been waiting for an excuse to post The Funniest Email I've Ever Gotten (from the Mama Bear herself) and now that it's her birthday, I can finally justify it.

...she may or may not have consented to me publishing this.

Meh. Bygones.

So here's the backstory to this crazy email of hers:

• I had just emailed her about my phone not working because she hadn't payed the bills yet. (Spoiled brat, I know...! At least I wasn't married at this point yet?)
• She is a life-long coffee addict. She brews that s#!t stronger than espresso and drinks 5 cups a day.

Without further ado, you all can now catch a glimpse of where I "get it from" (and THEN some):

Hi April!

So sorry about the phone malfunction, I think it's really unfair they cut service off just because they don't get any money. 

I've just about had it with that company anyway, always demanding money for sound waves and pieces of plastic that just annoy the heck out of you anyway (except of course when I call). I'm sure they will come to their senses before too long and let us use the service for free, but until then I guess I will play their stupid little game!!!

Kelsey and I went to see "Jumper" last night.  It was pretty good but the camera was truly "jumpy" and I felt dizzy, like I'd been on a rollercoaster!  We just threw up in the popcorn bags, though, so it was all good.

I hope you are sitting down right now, because I have some AMAZING NEWS.  Ready?  You're sitting down right?  Read this slowly, because it may be too much to take in initially.....






I     have      stopped           drinking                       coffee.



Are you okay?  Wake up, wake up!!!!  Jason, get her off the floor!!!!  

I have switched to Yerba Mate, a tea that is popular in Costa Rica.  It is supposed to give you energy without the jitters (but what if you like the jitters? just kidding, kind of). 

You probably think that I switched to Yerba Mate because I've been sick and throwing up, but actually I did it because of the obvious health benefits, AND because I was easily able to make the adjustment based on the diligent dedication to more evolving alternative lifestyle which I have embraced wholeheartedly. 

Dad, Kelsey and I are also bucking the system and have decided to be the pioneers of the Clothing-Optional Lifestyle, both at home and at school and work. Kelsey is actually pretty excited about not being a slave to fashion anymore!

You will be surprised how easy it is to get used to when you COME BACK HOME FOR SPRING BREAK!!!  Just think how much less you will have to pack :)

Okay, I'm sorry, I am trying to stop, today is going to be a fun day.

I LOVE YOU!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

                 Lots of Love,
                               Mom


Perhaps I should take a tip from her, and drink a cup of Yerba before every blog post from now on...? 

Happy birthday to my Mom!! She's weird in the most amazing ways and I love her more than the world.

Housewifery HOO-rah

I am a terrible housewife. I was never made for this. NEVER. I need direction; I need pressure; I need someone to boss me around.

(I need for any potential employers to erase the previous sentence and the existence of this blog from their memory, and believe I'm a perfectly self-motivated individual with energizer-bunny drive and the focus of a bald eagle with binoculars... who never writes run-on sentences.)

It makes sense that if I don't have a job, and Jason is working his butt off at school, I should be doing an equal amount of work in job-seeking and housewifery, yes?

Job-seeking? Check!
Housewifery? ....

Let's just say, it's so bad that I get aprons as gag gifts. 

Click to zoom. If you dare.

Euphemisms of the past:

Dinner isn't late, it's... suspenseful.

Dinner isn't burnt/completely carcinogenic/could be used as charcoal sticks for caveman drawings, it's... smokey. Or "Cajun?"

And the biohazards in the fridge? Just think of them as biodiversity. Flourishing biodiversity. Perhaps you prefer the term "wildlife?"

As for as the algae growing under the dish drainer, it... 

I just can't euphemize that. I can't. That was the final straw.

Combined with that horrific discovery and the manic-episode-inducing-happy-sunny springtime outside, it's as if someone shot me full of some sort of Crack-Ritalin cocktail.

I DON'T EVEN KNOW WHAT TO DO WITH MYSELF RIGHT NOW.
I'm going through a "This is why I'll never be an adult" cycle, and right now I'm full-on:

This is so amazing that I feel guilty for using it, even when I give Allie credit for it. SOURCE: hyperboleandahalf.blogspot.com
 

Seriously, my hands are chapped from bleach.

Currently working on:

• Planning this entire week's meals and writing a grocery list for all the ingredients, organized into three different grocery stores, and BY AISLE. I'm serious about the Crack-Ritalin suspicions.
• Sterilizing/organizing the entire apartment. 
• Redesigning zee old blog... it's gonna be COOL!
• Redesigning my professional portfolio-- I'll link you to it once the dust settles.
• Drawing, & painting, & learning a new architecture design program!
• Applying for volunteer jobs at animal shelters while I wait to hear back from architecture firms.
• Taking a shower every day!
• Planning PARTIES!!!

I'll tell you about them soon. It's exciting. As is FREAKING EVERYTHING right now.

...I hope I don't crash too hard.

P.S. I finally thought of a way to euphemize the algae under the dish drainer: "At least that's ONE houseplant I can keep alive!" Buh-dum-PSHHH.

Premature Maturity

I'm turning 24 in about a month, but lately you'd think it's four times that number.

The last things I do before I go to bed at night include:

• worry that I'm becoming senile. (i.e. the most recent debacle where I lost my apartment key, borrowed Jason's key to check in the storage closet, and promptly locked HIS in the storage closet. Those were our only two keys.) (I may have Alzheimers, but at least I don't have Alzheimers.)
• trail off on long tangents. Where was I? 
• Oh yesss, things I do before bed: take pills for my hip injury. (Not pain pills, chillax.) (Wait, Chillax sounds like some sort of anti-anxiety medication, doesn't it?)
• slather on the anti-wrinkle cream (I'm a vain little old lady.)
• consider seeing a doctor about my bladder issues. I wish I were kidding.
• (as you can imagine, at this point Jason's all, "Hubba hubba, baby.")
• and check on my beard.

Once you consider my genetics, it's not so surprising. Meet the Papa Bear.

Okay, maybe I'm exaggerating a teeeeny little bit. It's only one (although very manly) hair under my jaw, but I like to call it my beard to make the lonely little straggler feel like it has a place in the world. (Me constantly yanking it out probably contradicts this, but no one's pointed that out to it yet.)

So the last time I went to remove it, I could feel it with my hand, but I couldn't see it in the mirror like usual. When I finally tweezed it out, I understood why. IT HAD TURNED GRAY. I could see the exact point at which it had given up on melanin, too-- the last 25% of it was dark, and the rest of it was a bright, shiny silver. I can now tell my wee grandbabies that the first gray hair I ever got was my entire beard, all at once.

I told Jason that I'm thinking of growing it out, just to see how long it gets. I assured him that since it's silver, people probably won't notice it. At least until someone asks me a philosophical question & I have to pause, raise an eyebrow in deep thought, and slowly stroke my 8-inch silver strand thoughtfully between my thumb and index finger. Oh, the wisdom this shall impart.

We went on a diet and it was hard and I barfed

Yup. So don't read this if you don't want to hear details about puking (because I think it's hilarious).

Also, if you are one of my friends who is vegan you might come kill me in my sleep after reading this (although that wouldn't be very vegan of you), so carry on with whatever you were doing before this.

And also any people who are offended by the idea of evolution, adiós for now. Unless you want an anecdote to have handy when arguing that believing evolution makes you barf. 'Cause it did.

But this post also has praying in it, so good times can be enjoyed by all.
Except the vegans.

I'm going to tell the whole story with disclaimers before I even tell the whole story. My bad.

So before anybody stages some sort of body-image intervention, we WEREN'T trying to lose weight. Actually, if I lost any more weight (post-Sweden jet lag was hard on me) I'd have to start buying bras from the little kids' section again, so No Thank You Very Much.

Our gym (Crossfit, which we looove, love, lovelovelove) suggests everyone try the "Paleo Diet." It's definitely not mandatory, but they recommend it for more energy and better athletic results. The basic idea behind it is to limit your diet to things that were available for the majority of human evolution (before we invented cooking and agriculture), because theoretically we should digest those things most easily.

Like most diets, you can eat whatever you want to eat. Except grains. And legumes. And potatoes. And dairy. And processed food/food additives. This kind of made sense to me, since people have trouble digesting many of these things anyway (gluten, lactose, those magical little fruits known as legumes). The sciencey-side of us was intrigued. Time for a little experiment... on ourselves.

If you want to know more, here's a little propaganda video for ya.
For more sciencey explanations of why the forbidden foods are bad for you, this is a cheesy yet interesting video. 
Or if you'd rather read about it, a great article from Runner's World.

The bag of banishment

We cleared our cupboards of all the banished foods and put them in this giant bag. We went to the store and filled our cart with free-range meat & eggs, nuts, and colorful produce. It looked delicious. I looked forward to the challenge of cooking new things, and smugly doubted that I'd experience any willpower issues.

In those first few days, I learned something about myself. I LOVE LEGUMES. I was hardcore missing-- no, mourning-- peas, hummus, tofu, fake "chicken" nuggets (I'm not a vegetarian, but I love strange, processed soy foods), and for the love of all that is edible, refried beans. Black, pinto, I didn't care. I just needed a big pile of smooshed-up beans.

Also, I realized that unless we ate a LOT of veggies, we were going to have trouble getting enough calories from carbs to not lose weight. And protein was out of the running for a main caloric source-- not only is protein expensive, but my conscience has a bit of a problem with eating that many animals. So, I resolved to get my calories from fat. Cashews, raw coconuts, olive oil, eggs, bananas fried in coconut oil... I ate a lot of fat.

By the fourth day, we'd started craving starches (bread, potatoes) like Edward Cullen wanted to shred Bella in that first Chemistry class. No friendly amber-colored vampire eyes here, amigos. F***ing RED. Don't act like you don't know what I'm talking about. We were strangely hungry... our stomachs burned, but all food sounded gross other than, basically, waffles. We forced down taco salads instead, literally scowling like four-year-olds. I had gained a huge, huge respect for those who have to diet and still manage to have friends. ...Also for "vegetarian" vampires.

Other than that, though, we definitely felt more energetic & were having great workouts. Maybe there was something to this Paleo Diet business.

That night, we had salmon patties and asparagus (dipped in lemon juice & olive oil for the extra calories). Sounds pretty awesome, right? Not after 92 hours of this stupid, STUPID diet. Bitter much? You bet. I was literally having olfactory hallucinations of cake.

Why do you need to know what we had for dinner that night? Foreshadowing, my dears.

the best late-night barfing companion

I woke up around 1AM that night with a horrible burning in my stomach. And thanks to high school anatomy class, I knew that it literally was my stomach: a J-shaped pit of mortal agony on the left of my torso. I turned the lamp on and started reading to distract myself, but it got worse. WAY worse. I hadn't experienced this much pain since I broke my tailbone a decade before.

I started getting a weird feeling all over my body. I thought it might be nausea, but I'd only thrown up three times in my life so I wasn't really sure. I moved myself and my book to the bathroom just in case. An hour passed, then two hours. I started crying from the horrible, tight, searing sensation in my stomach.

Now, I'm not the most religious person, but I do pray pretty often. I never ask for specific things to happen, because I trust that God knows what he's doing; I usually just say, "This situation sucks so I'd appreciate if you'd reveal whatever lesson I'm supposed to get out of it," or, "Thanks, the world is awesome and I'm really enjoying being here." (And then rainbows and little heart-shaped bubbles start floating around my head.) (Kidding.)

But that night, I just felt stuck. I felt stuck in this horrible pain; I was tired of sitting there feeling it get worse, and I wanted it to be over with. (The agony, that is, not my rainbow-and-heart-shaped-bubble Carebear life.) I tearfully begged God, Please give me peace, fix my writhing stomach, let me know what to do to make it go away.

Silence.

...Amen?

And then as if given a shove from behind, I lunged over the toilet seat and started hurling my guts out. HARD. It sucked.

Dear God, 
   You're a funny, funny fella.

And since you really must know, this was some weird barf. There was no stomach acid, no liquid, just chewed up, undigested, pink and green dinner. My sister told me not to write this, but I think it will really benefit you to know that it was so thick, I seriously felt like I was pooping out of my throat.

And because this was only the fourth time I've ever thrown up, ever, I slumped against the toilet for a while feeling confused and violated by whatever the hell kind of trick my stomach had just pulled there. Then I climbed back into bed, shivering, wrapped Jason's arms around me and finally fell asleep.

In retrospect, I'm somewhat embarrassed to tell you that the following morning I continued on with this dieting business. I did some online sleuthing to figure out what had caused the weird stomach pain and the whole little regurgitation trick. Apparently, I learned, fat requires a lot of bile to be digested. If you eat too much of it, you can temporarily run out of bile.  Basically, my stomach had said,

"We're sorry. Please try again later."

Then I looked up the Crossfit workout for that day, and I swear to rainbows and heart bubbles I am not making this sh*t up:

Run 1 mile.
Complete, in any order and any increments:
100 pull-ups
200 pushups
300 air-squats
Then RUN ANOTHER MILE.

Or, you know, DIE. Whichever happens first.

So we went. And I did it. And it sucked, but I didn't die. Plus I got to tell people my awesome barf story.

And then, in our sweaty workout clothes, we drove straight to our favorite Mexican restaurant and I ate THE BEST PLATE OF BEANS AND RICE I've ever had. And it stayed down.

♥

{via peaceloveandsunflowers}

Happy Valentine's Day!

For some reason we're in an especially mushy mood this Monday so we're going to definitely do some romantical business this evening. Okay, I don't mean THAT romantical business, specifically. I mean, not that we're not going to do romantical business... GACK.

WE'RE GOING TO LIGHT CANDLES & DRINK WINE & COOK DINNER TOGETHER. Sorry to interrupt you, little caffeinated typing fingers with a mind of your own. (*waving to my parents and grandparents... including the in-law varieties.)

Obviously I can't properly censor myself right now, so here are some links for your love day:

Bananas.

When zookeepers feel romantic.

Doesn't get any tackier than sending valentine's day e-cards right? Well, you know the best part of every holiday? Embracing the tackiness. I dare you.

Want to take pictures like these? Check out the tutorial.

IT'S BUSINESS TIME. I know you've all seen it before, but let's make this a Valentine's sing-along tradition, eh?

Last but not least, a rockin' V-day philosophy via Kelley Maria:

Give yourself an excuse to celebrate love and friendship by doing something that makes you or someone special extra happy!
Valentine's day doesn't have to be about spending money or having a significant other.
Just celebrate something.
Why not?!

What are you guys doing to celebrate today?

It's time to install a video camera in our bedroom

Chill out, pervs. Not like that.

But some majorly weird stuff happens in our sleep.

Back when we had pet rats, one of them figured out how to open the cage door. Ignorant of her conniving little ways, I kept blaming myself for leaving the door unlatched. (After all, to open it she'd have to hang upside down, push the just the right spot with her nose, and slide open the door.) We finally realized what was up after one night when we both double-checked the cage before going to bed. She found her way into our bedroom, jumped on the bed, and curled up between us to sleep. Awww. (Or-- "shudder," for the average, non-rodent-rearing person.)

The culprit herself

This next strange happening wasn't really in our bedroom, but when we stayed in his grandma's living room. We awoke the next morning to notice that the foam pad we'd BOTH BEEN SLEEPING ON was haphazardly rolled up on the couch, tied in a loose knot with a belt. Neither of us had any idea how it got there. I always knew I married a neat freak, but... wow.


Sometimes it will happen in the morning:

A:  Jason, it's 8AM. Do you want me to wake you up?
J:   grunt.
A:  Okay, what time to you want to get up then?
J:   Tents and horses.
A:  You just said tents and horses.
J (indignantly, but eyes still closed): I know.
 










A (trying reeeally hard not to laugh): What time to you want me to wake you up?

J (eyes still closed, but sounding seriously irritated): Tents and horses!!!
A:   Dude. That's not a time.
J (sighing, eyes still closed): Oh, yeah. Ten degrees. I meant to say 'ten degrees.'
A (having some serious issues holding in my laughter): What?!
J (really angrily): It makes sense. And I'm right.
A: (completely loses it, which finally wakes him up with a very confused look on his face.)


Here's the latest and final straw that made me sit down and write this post:

Last night, I was dreaming that I was brushing my teeth. How responsible, right? As I was about to finish brushing in my dream and lean over the sink, I slowly started to wake up. I gained just enough vague consciousness to notice I was actually doing that funny sucking thing that gathers a wad of spit at the front of your mouth. Suddenly, with a life of its own, my head pulled up off my pillow and HAWKED THE SPIT ONTO MY CHEST.

WTF, SUBCONSCIOUS?!

{second photo from here.}

Living with a dude / It turns out I am a girl, after all

Normally I think "gender roles" are a pretty obnoxious concept-- but since we moved off to Sweden, I've had very little face-to-face contact with anyone except the mister. The past two months have forced me to acknowledge that I do, in fact, have a need for "girl-talk."* And it's been building for the past two months. I probably shouldn't blog in this state of mind... but I can't hold it in any longer.
Brace yourselves.

Usually, I'm as interested in my appearance as the next person-- a pretty major tomboy, but I still enjoy changing up how I look every now and then. (Okay, fine. Once a month.) (Okay, fine. I have a dark secret that I love doing people's hair, including my own.) (And makeup, yes. Hush. I'm trying to tell a story here.) Anyway, after about a month of living in Sweden, I started noticing that every single time I talked to my sister on Skype, I tried to start conversations about my hair.

GAWD. Dying this pixie-cut blond was a terrible idea. I can't wear anything green without feeling like Peter Pan. 

Look! I think my roots grew another eighth of an inch! That's how much google said they should grow every two weeks!

...etc. (I'm sorry to subject you to all that, but I needed to illustrate the extreme desperation of this situation)

All this drove my poor sister to secretly take screenshots and post them on facebook:

It's true. I looked like Little Baby Bieber.

I covered the bathroom floor in newspaper and busted out the extra-dark brown hair dye.

***

J:     (upon arriving home and looking in the bathroom) Why is there newspaper on the floor?
A:    (waiting for him to notice my snazzy new hair color) I made a mess.
J:     (looking around) Huh? I don't see anything.

...twenty seconds later...

A:   Okay, I'll just tell you... I did my hair! BUT LOOK! (proudly and excitedly pointing to my head) I left
       out some chunks. Cool, huh?
J:    What do you mean, you left some CHUNKS?! It doesn't look like you cut that much off...?!
A:    ...
        I didn't cut my hair.
J:     ... (looks confusedly at my head)
A:    Jason. I dyed it DARK BROWN.
J:    (gets shocked-and-slightly-ashamed look of realization, and quickly erupts in compliments)
A:    (cuteness of "shocked and slightly-ashamed look of realization" cracks me up as I hug him in 
        forgiveness)

If he doesn't notice THIS... then I doubt he notices bad-hair-days either. Sounds good to me.

Yeesh, look at that pose... maybe I am J. Biebs after all.

*The incredibly ironic thing about this whole post, and me calling it "girl talk,"  is the fact that my Dearest Papa Bear is the one who normally cuts my hair. Looking forward to another haircut when I get home, Dad : ) And yes, I'm going to yap your ears off the whole time.

Thanksgiving Leftovers

I am trippin' on tryptophan and unable to write a coherent post... so here are a jumble of leftover thought-scraps from Thanksgiving:

• Is it just me, or do you guys also feel starving the day after Thanksgiving? My lifelong, elephant appetite has always led me to suspect tapeworms, so this day-after Thanksgiving hunger usually makes me wonder if the feast causes an overnight population explosion. Mmmm, a lovely tradition.
• That turkey ended up tasting ALL KINDS OF AWESOME. Even though I substituted "cumin, red pepper, and garlic powder" with a packet of Sveedish "Taco Spice," and substituted "nutmeg, cinnamon, allspice, and ginger" with "Pumpkin Pie Spice." Bygones.
• The Mama Bear shipped some baking soda & baking powder all the way to Sveeden, just so we could have leavened products in our Thanksgiving dinner! (The sweet potato biscuits & cornbread thank you for their existence, Mama B.) She even sent entire boxes of both, even though I only requested a small amount of each (in clear plastic baggies, clearly marked clearly as "Anthrax" and "Crack-Cocaine").

• Okay, I promised TMI from the very first post and here is your latest helping of it: This morning, I ran to the bathroom with a gurgling stomach, only to turn the toilet water bright RED. Not a pleasant sight to wake up to. An image of the turkey marinating in the mop bucket immediately flashed before my eyes, and my lips went numb as all blood drained from my face. (Although I still had the clarity to think, "I hope it's not draining into my intestines.") I woozily covered my head with my hands, took a deep breath... and remembered that I had scarfed down a TON of beets at dinner. So, beware that beets make it look like you have bloody bowel syndrome. You're welcome.

As sick as my sense of humor is, I can't leave you on that note. So enjoy some  pictures of our Sveedish Thanksgiving table!

We pulled off everything listed on the menu... tada!

We now have clean clothes and I am not undead

Warning: If you're within the first two seasons of Lost, and "the Hatch" doesn't sound familiar, then you might be subjected to mild spoilers.

After our fourth week of living in Sweden, Jason & I admitted that it was time to wash our two-weeks-worth of clothes. When you've worn all your underwear once-- and then once again, inside-out-- you know you're slacking on the whole "responsible adult" gimmick.

Seeing as Jason spends twelve hours a day in his Physics lab, it was my Sveedish housewifey doom to find a nearby washing machine and put our clothes in it. I soon came across a sketchy-looking door:

We're definitely looking at some long-lost Dharma Initiative Station here.

and tried my key on it. Nothing.

Relief washed over me, because this whole scenario was giving me some serious Lost flashbacks. Namely, the part when John Locke finally dynamited open the Hatch, and went inside despite the BIOHAZARD/ QUARANTINE sign. He totally deserved the surely impending zombie buffet on his brains.

Well, Karma loves a Judgy-McJudgersons like myself, because I suddenly had an idea to hold the blue, plastic thing that came with our keys up to the lock... and I heard a muffled click as the light flashed green. Sh*t.

I slowly cracked the door open, and this is what I saw:

It's impossible for me to look at this without imagining Resident Evil creatures scrambling across the ceiling.

I've put off writing about this little misadventure for over a month now, because I knew my writing skills will utterly fail at communicating the SHEER TERROR I felt at this moment.

I may or may not use an inexusable amount of artistic license when writing these posts... but it would be impossible to exaggerate my neurosis about zombies. Debilitating neurosis. I don't even like typing the word.

• The night after I saw "I Am Legend" in theater, I didn't sleep a wink. I trembled under my covers until the sun came up the next morning, and all those undead demons outside returned to their lairs.
• The one time some friends & I wandered into an abandoned Japanese theme park at night, I tearfully begged everyone to leave with me, lest we awaken the zombie infestation lurking in the shadows. ...That's an embarrassing memory.
• The night a stumbling drunk tried to break into my apartment when I was home alone, I DIDN'T SNEAK OUT THE BACK DOOR because I was completely convinced he was a zombie, and that he surely couldn't be the only one out there.

So. I believe the use of the word "debilitating" is justified.

And you'll be quite proud to hear that I actually entered this demonic-looking hallway, and let the door close behind me.

I shakily tried my key on various doors along the dark hallway until one finally opened, and I nearly... ahem... rendered yet another pair of pants ready for the wash.

That plastic bag made me scream a tiny bit.

Seriously, what IS this place?!

Finally, a windowed door revealed a dark room with silhouetted, whirring machines and red blinking lights. But the door wouldn't open.

Guys, at this point I was so terrified that it felt like an out-of-body experience. Although I could no longer feel my face, I could hear my teeth chattering. Every last survival alarm had gone off in my brain, and my adrenaline levels were such that I probably could have Edward-Cullen-ed a car.

To the side of the door, a metallic box displayed the same emblem the outside door had, so I waved my magic blue key at it.

"SVEEEEEEEDISH SVEEDISH, SVEEDY SVEED SVEEDISH."

I went Rambo on the buttons until it started to look like some sort of scheduling system. I guessed at making an appointment for the next afternoon and got the hell out of there. I didn't stop shaking for another twenty minutes.

* * *

The next afternoon, after a morning's worth of pep-talk and dread, I literally sprinted down the demonic hallway to the laundry room, our 40-lb laundry bag knocking me against the walls like a rubber pinball. This time, my key turned the lock light green and granted me access to the insidious-looking machinery inside.

Checking my back every three seconds, I began stuffing our clothes into a washer.

I saw movement out of the corner of my eye. This was the end. I knew it.


Body frozen in place, my head slowly turned to the side to behold two eyes glaring through the door window with black, bottomless RAGE. Like, 28-Days-Later RAGE.

For those of you with z-o-m-b-....etc. neurosis (seriously, I hate saying that word. I understand why wizards call Voldemort He-Who-Must-Not-Be-Named)... anyway, those of you who suffer from my condition-- when you find yourself in this situation, you pray to God Almighty that that door opens. Because you know that if they ARE infected, they no longer have the mental capacity to open doors. Much less the advanced forethought to show up the day before and make an appointment with a magic 007-style key.

Well, it was not yet my time to succumb to viral cannibalism (ahhh, thank goodness for technical-sounding euphemisms), because the door swung open to reveal a disheveled, spandex-clad Sveede with a giant pregnant belly and a hamper full of socks. I could have hugged her.

She proceeded to rant at me in hormonal Sveedish as I smiled at her, semi-slumped against the washer in relief. I happily interjected to tell her that I didn't speak Swedish, and without missing a beat she switched to English and told me I was using HER washing machine that SHE had scheduled a week ago. Bless her fertile, still-human soul.

I gleefully moved my clothes to the next washer as she glowered behind me. If anyone could stop hordes of staggering undead, it was this ass-kicking, hormonal woman on a F***ING SOCK- WASHING MISSION.

I was safe. We now have clean clothes and I am not undead.