shoesonwrong

I No Longer Feel Like I'm Going To Pee!

Two weeks and four days ago, I had another bout of acute renal colic, brought on by a kidney stone. The kidney stone gave me a bladder infection to boot, and by time I made it into the ER, I was peeing a decent amount of blood. Of course, for me, any amount of blood is too much blood because EW.

For the next two weeks and two days, I've been dealing with passing a series of kidney stones through an inflamed and bleeding urinary tract all while being bounced from doctor to doctor and ER to ER because nobody knew what to do with me. I've been repeatedly x-rayed, CT scanned, and ultrasounded. I'm practically glowing from the radiation of the first two. Things have finally settled down now, after a couple weeks of painful spasming, and all my doctors claim they don't see any more kidney stones -- they also, however, told me that they didn't see any reason for ongoing pain while I was screaming in agony and throwing up. SO we'll see how that goes. At least I'm not peeing every seven seconds anymore.

With the upcoming hospital bills and the landlord trying to jerk us around, we decided it would be fiscally responsible to stay put in our current apartment rather than moving to the bigger, two bedroom with an all new *sob* kitchen. The plan had been to move and redecorate, but we compromised and just agreed to redecorate the current apartment. It's a one-time (as much as IKEA can ever be a one-time) cost as opposed to the ongoing cost of increased rent, and since the apartment is smaller, it would cost less to redecorate.

Last Thursday, we walked into IKEA with hope in our hearts and money in our pockets. We left exhausted and with no more money in our pockets. The furniture was delivered on Friday, by which time I had to get rid of all our existing furniture, or at least most of it. My mom claimed my armchairs, but I had to put up a flyer in the lobby that said COME GET OUR FREE CRAP. It was all gone within twenty minutes, and I was left standing in an empty apartment, wondering if I'd done the right thing. Then the boxes arrived from IKEA and I was sure I'd done the wrong thing because I knew, in my heart of hearts, we would be assembling them forever. FOREVER.

 

The before and after of our apartment (Basically. The before picture was obviously taken prior to hanging the little pictures on the wall.). I was considering living on the boxes. Doesn't the long flat one look comfortable? We could have set our TV on the tall one!

By 11:30 on Saturday night, however, we had the whole lot assembled. Our apartment isn't quite done, as we're still lacking a table and chairs, but we're saving that for another payday rather than put it on a dreaded credit card or anything. The result is a very pretty living room with one empty end that I'm referring to as "The Pony Paddock" and have big plans for. An electrified fence, a small pony, some hay -- it's going to be awesome.

I'll post pictures of the new living room later, after I've finally gotten them off my camera and onto Flickr.

As if the bum ovaries weren't enough, now I've got these stone-throwing kidneys

In the wee hours of Saturday morning, two-thirty to be precise, I got up to pee because I drink a lot of water and have a bladder the size of an acorn. At two-fifty-seven, I had a sensation that I can only describe as an explosive and searing pain that felt like someone had planted a tiny bomb directly in my left kidney. I was a bit confused because I didn't see any bleeding or shrapnel, but I was a little too busy screaming in pain to ponder it further.

By three-thirty, Ryan had decided that he'd had enough of my wailing and I was going to the hospital, like it or not, so he went to go get our car. The battery was, of course, dead. We arrived at the hospital at four in the morning, after a car ride where Ryan hit all three million potholes in Detroit and I threw up into not one but TWO old fast food bags in our backseat.

In triage at the hospital, the nurse kept asking me to sit still instead of pacing or pedaling my legs so that she could get better measurements. I kept asking her if she wanted to vomit on her like I did a little bit on Ryan's leg in the car. She said no, and so I kept pacing to help reduce the pain a bit. Then she snidely said that if I have a kidney stone, I'm getting a taste of what it'll be like to have a baby. I roared back that I was never going to have a baby, then, and if I got pregnant I would HOLD IT IN. This entire process took six hours, according to me, or twenty minutes, according to Ryan.

The next, nicer nurse got my IV in on the first try, but in her haste to try to pump anti-nausea and pain relieving medicine into me, she pumped the anti-nausea stuff in too fast and blew out a vein in my hand. The anti-nausea medication made me throw up, which I proceeded to do for the next five minutes while she put the IV into the underside of my wrist and FINALLY administered some pain medication.

The pain medication didn't work.

Well, that's not entirely true. It turned my head into a balloon and made it float away. I began to fall asleep while screaming in agony -- one of the weirdest experiences of my life. Then I had to wait another fifteen minutes while they ran some blood work to make sure I wasn't pregnant before they pumped me full of something delightful that took away all my pain and got me high as a kite.

On the wheelchair ride down to get a CT, I kept trying to wave my lead-filled arms while shriek-slurring, "I'm flying, Jack!" Then I waved at everyone like I was in a parade and fell asleep in the CT machine.

Later in the morning, I had apparently passed the stone and gotten a diagnosis of a kidney stone, severe urinary tract infection, and a yeast infection. I am positive I only went in with the kidney stone and that they planted the other things on my person in order to charge me more.

P.S. Did you know my real name is Andrea? I'm not entirely sure I did until I was four years old because everyone called me Annie as a baby and have ever since.

When I Got Up To Redress, The Paper Trailed After Me

I am back from the doctor's office. Things went poorly. My vagina fell right out onto the ground during the procedure, and they tell me that it will take a minimum of one to two weeks before they can get it into the shop to fix it, so I'm stuck with this loaner in the mean time.

No, seriously, they rescheduled the whole scope debacle. I got to the office, did as the nurse told me to and took off my pants, got under a sheet, and then the doctor came in to tell me that there was a mix up and the scope had to be rescheduled for March. Instead I just got a regular progress report on the various medications he has me on. Of course, since this was a normal visit where he was simply discussing medication, he had a whole gaggle of interns with him, all peering at me and my sheet in confusion, as if they were unsure as to whether they would have to perform some surprise pop pelvic exam or if I was just wearing the sheet for the breeze.

(Also, is it some sort of requirement that you have to be either unbearably gorgeous and/or cute to get into the University of Michigan medical school? Every single person in that room with me yesterday probably watches Grey's Anatomy to look at all the ugly people and feel good about themselves.)

There I was, butt naked from the waist down, facing a horde of breathtakingly pretty people, and all I could think about was how my butt was sweating and sticking to the paper sheet I was sitting on. So I did the only thing that came to mind: I wailed "Don't stand over there," as I gestured to my sides like a flight attendant, "Or you'll see my crack."

I Would Like To Preemptively Apologize For This Post

Tomorrow, I have to go for a procedure. The type of procedure that is in the heart of ladyville, if you get my meaning. It's a womanbits type of thing, you know? The doctor is a bajingo specialist? Have I used enough strange euphemisms to say the doctor is putting a scope up my vagina to become intimately acquainted with my innards?

I don't really talk about my health problems here in general and I try to avoid talking about my reproductive system in particular because, well, it's sort of awkward. (HI MOM AND DAD.) But things have always been way, way off below my navel. And I don't just mean the fact that I have enormous thighs of steel that could probably snap a man's neck. Since the moment I hit puberty like a brick wall, womanhood hasn't been kind to me. Avoiding specifics, my entire reproductive system has been waging war on my body for about twelve years. Any day now, I'm expecting it to come clawing it's way out, all Alien style. Visits to the gynecologists have always been horrible, often ended in tears, and once involved me involuntarily kicking the doctor in the head while she was in the middle of the exam.

So I am SUPER excited about tomorrow.

(It could be worse, though. Seriously. They could be PULLING A KIDNEY OUT OF THERE.)

What Did I Miss?

Is Barack still president? Is he president again? How did Lost end? I HAVE BEEN SLEEPING FOR NEARLY FIVE DAYS STRAIGHT, PEOPLE.

You think I'm joking, but you don't understand that I slept ten hours a night, then woke up and took a series of three hour naps that were punctuated with opening my mouth and inhaling all the food in the building. Because napping like that really takes it out of me, apparently. All I can be thankful for is that we happened to be out of junk food during this time or I would weigh eight thousand pounds. It's a small blessing we don't live in the suburbs where I might have happened upon the neighbor's herb garden. Or children.

Also, did you know that NyQuil -- in high doses or when interacting with other medications that affect the central nervous system -- can have the same effects as LSD? I didn't know that until my heart turned into a bird and FLEW AWAY.

Anyway, I think I'm over the worst of it. I'm kind of regretting thinking that "over the worst of it" translates to "feel free to resume your normal workout routine, buttface." Because after my brush with a coma, stair climbs made me nearly heave up a lung.

Anybody have any strawberries? Because I could really go for a little snack.

Nondescript Head Juice

I have a cold -- which is nothing new 'round these parts, what with me having lost my immune system and forgetting to buy a new one -- and my throat hurts, my head hurts, and my eyes are scratchy. When my eyes are scratchy, I rub at them a lot. Except this time, whenever I rub my eyes, my nose starts to run like a faucet.

I think it's eye and brain juice. That's a thing, right? Eye and brain juice? I think some of it's going down the back of my throat, too, because my mouth tastes salty when I rub my eyes.

Ever do that thing where you are talking about something that you know is gross but you just can't stop because it's a compulsion? Uh, yeah. Me either. I have a plantar wart that I tried to clip out with toenail clippers and now I think my foot needs to be removed or something.

The Great Lane Bryant Outrage Of Aught Nine is still being dealt with. I'm supposed to get a call back from corporate, and if I don't by tomorrow afternoon, I will call them back. Because no one should be made to feel bad about their shape, size, color, or anything else, especially by a sales person who seems to have the greater part of a broom lodged in one of their orifices. ANNIE DON'T PLAY THAT.

I Also Wear A Five Ring Size, But I Didn't Want To Short Circuit Her Brain

I'm a fat kid. When I say that, most people either look awkward or they try to half-heartedly say, "No, you aren't..." Because they think I'm fishing for reassurance that I'm not a hideous beast. But you don't have to feel awkward or try to reassure me; I'm fat, and that's okay. I'm not some lump who sits on the couch all day in sweat pants that I had to order in a special XXXXXXXXXL size. I don't have to be lifted from my house with a crane. In case of an emergency, a firefighter could drag me from the house without herniating. However, I am fat.

I wasn't always fat, and I might not always be fat. Maybe it's genetics or the insane amounts of medication I currently have to be on. Maybe it's polycystic ovarian syndrome. (Which, all things considered, I am lucky. I escaped with just my large butt in tow rather than adult acne and insane amounts of body hair, like some unfortunate souls with PCOS. Though I could live without the type II diabetes it has given me.) Whatever it is, it doesn't matter. I've got an hourglass figure, great hair, and a confident strut: I am HOT. Being fat doesn't make me ugly. Being fat doesn't mean I'm unhealthy (great blood pressure and cholesterol, I keep my blood sugar level in check, and I eat my fruits and vegetables every day -- how about YOU?). Being fat doesn't mean I'm lazy. My fatness isn't a moral issue, like diet experts, fashion magazines, and Oprah would lead you to believe.

It's taken awhile for me to be able to think all those statements above and believe them. But I DO believe them. I'm confident in my own skin most of the time, which I think is a pretty good thing to be at twenty-three.

However. Last night, I finally had to face the fact that my two pairs of jeans had both gone to live in the big denim heap in the sky. They were ripped, worn, stained, and one pair had super glue on them. I went to Lane Bryant to begin the epic battle of Finding Jeans That Fit Properly And Don't Bind In The Thighs Or Bag In The Butt. While I was there, I asked a sales lady what size bras they happened to have in stock because I am also in need of new undergarments (shopping: I don't do it). She tells me the range of sizes (36-something to 44-something, I think), and I say "Okay, thanks." This is where things start to go downhill.

She asks what size bra I wear (awkward). I tell her (34G, even more awkward to admit to a stranger).

(I really try not to judge anybody's body, no matter how big or small, but this is probably the time to point out the sales lady is relatively thin. Like, too thin to actually wear any clothes that Lane Bryant sells type skinny.)

Her response is to look at me and incredulously say, "Um, you do not. I don't even wear a 34, and you're way bigger than me." I explain that I've been fitted multiple times by multiple people and yes, I am a 34. I attempt to continue perusing the jeans selection, but she won't let it go. She follows me and insists that she measure me for a bra. Before I can answer, she measures me and tells me I am a 40C or a 42B. (And here I am not joking: SHE MEASURED ME OVER MY WINTER COAT.)

I explain that I am wearing a 34G bra right now. She says, "Well, then it must not fit right. Because YOU can't be that small. I'm not even that small." (Side note: if I wore a 42 and tried to shoehorn into a 34, it would pinch me in half, like some horrible medieval torture.)

Look, I've had sales people at Lane Bryant and Victoria's Secret try to convince me that I'm a 38DD or whatever before. They're trying to sell bras, and I get that. It's not a big deal. I know my bra size, and if I wear anything other than my bra size, my boobs spill out or the band flaps in the breeze. It didn't bother me if she was trying to get me to buy a Lane Bryant bra, but she wasn't. She was harassing me. She was publicly belittling my knowledge of my own body and simultaneously calling me fat in a derogatory manner. Other patrons were actually staring because she was being so loud and rude.

Her tone of voice was what bothered me the most. It was one that suggested I should be ashamed for thinking any part of me could be thin because I am so clearly fat. As if it was okay for me to be shopping in this store for fat people so long as I knew my station in life. Her words dripped contempt as she said, "You do not [wear a 34]. I don't even wear a 34, and you're WAY bigger than me."

I am fat. I am fat and I have a small ribcage. I have a big butt and thunder thighs and skinny wrists and bony fingers and a small ribcage. That's my body. I know it and I like it. However, that harpy at Lane Bryant made me feel bad. And that's why I am not shopping at that store again and am calling corporate. Because being fat is not something I am ashamed of or anyone should be ashamed of. And it's certainly not something someone else should have a problem with.

Based on current behavior, another side effect is eating pepperoni right from the bag

Monday, I went to a specialist who gave me a flu shot, signed me up for physical therapy, and got me started on a pill the size of my fist. When I swallow it, you can watch the lump as it slides down my throat. This drug is used to treat:

• epilepsy
• neuropathic pain (a chronic pain due to nerves misfiring constantly)
• chronic migraines
• bipolar disorder
• anxiety
• social anxiety
• obsessive-compulsive disorder
• pain associated with MS (multiple sclerosis, not Microsoft, but I can see how you would get confused)
• treatment of methamphetamine, cocaine, and alcohol addiction
• insomnia
• that annoying paint that is flaking off the roof of your car but nowhere else on your car*
• partially-inflated basketballs*
• the ebola virus*

*I assume, anyway.

I'm going to leave you to guess amongst yourselves about which of these conditions I'm being treated for. (Hint: There is no way I'm giving up my crystal meth, so it's not for addiction treatment.)

The possible side effects include drowsiness, dizziness, unsteadiness, weight gain, and constipation as well as swelling of the limbs. LUCKILY, my doctor also put me on a higher dose of a medication I'm already on to treat my diabetes, and the side effects of that are diarrhea and weight loss. So here's hoping some thing cancel themselves out and I'm just left exhausted, dizzy, and clumsy with big puffy limbs. Keep your fingers crossed for me because mine will have swelled to the size of sausages.

Frankly, so far, the worst part of the visit has been the flu shot. I have that nasty post-flu shot cold and I keep babying my arm where they put the needle in. Now, I am not one to prone to dramatics, so you know that when I grab my arm and keen loudly that it hurts so bad, and the needle was three feet long, I am telling the truth.

Topics not related to my crappy health.

The IMAX theater at the Henry Ford is offering tickets for five dollars until November sixth, so Ryan and I are seeing a lot of shows there. One day soon, I will be brave enough to see the dinosaur one (THEY HAVE SUCH BIG TEETH).

My vacuum cleaner smells like parmesan cheese when I turn it on. I haven't vacuumed up parmesan cheese in three years.

I'm nearing in on a decision regarding grad school. Stay tuned for further updates.

I can't get no satisfaction

The pain has decreased from want-to-claw-my-face-off nine to want-to-claw-my-ear-off seven. I know it's only been two days, but normally antibiotics knock the pain out in 12-24 hours. Also, there is a lot of trapped fluid still sloshing around in my ear -- painfully sloshing trapped fluid. Would this still be happening if my eardrum had burst? Is it possible that my eardrum hasn't burst and I have fluid stuck in there that needs to be drained? How long will it take for the antibiotics to work? HELP ME INTERNETS.

See, my current doctor is a horrid, seemingly incompetent woman who doesn't listen. I'm in the process of finding a different doctor, but because I am partially deaf and falling all over the place because of my messed up equilibrium, I wasn't really in a great position to drive to a new doctor. So I just sucked it up and went to the crappy doctor within walking distance against my better judgment. Now, however, I am regretting that and am THISCLOSE to jamming a fork in my ear.

Shampoo burns me like sunlight

I realized today that I hadn't washed my hair in three and a half days. Somehow, I was getting in the shower everyday and forgetting to use shampoo. I only finally realized it when Ryan asked if I was feeling okay, prompting me to look in the mirror. My hair was the texture of cold french fries and, oddly enough, seemed to smell like them too. In addition to not being washed it hadn't been brushed either, so I looked like I had been dragged through a hedge backwards.

When Ryan encouraged me to "Take a week off," To recoup from being out of town and not getting the job before I get back into grad school preparations, I don't think he meant "Turn feral and unwashed."

I pwned Monday

I hadn't worked out in a couple of weeks, and I did today. Sweating is still disgusting, it turns out. I've turned to the Dark Side, though, and actually enjoy exercising. Or at least the way that my body feels all warm and tingly afterward. Plus, as you can see, working out is really taking its toll.

Then, I sent my newly polished up resume to a couple different companies and non-profits while looking into grad school and emailing my old professors with messages like, "Could you please write me a letter of recommendation for grad school? I have no options in life. If you don't help me gain entrance to an establishment of higher learning I will probably never be gainfully employed and thus end up wandering the streets wearing Hot Pockets boxes for shoes."

I've heard back from two professors (both of whom agreed to write letters for me) and have one interview with a non-profit a few miles north on Wednesday. That means that I have no excuse to avoid grad school stuff any longer and I have to practice my interviewing skills. Right now, my interviewing skills consist of sitting on a chair, twitching with the effort used to keep from babbling, making my eyes the size of dinner plates, and generally acting like I'm jacked up on diet pills.

Boobs

So at this site I visit frequently, there's a bra debate raging. Some poor girl with 36DDDD boobs is having a problem where her bra wires poke out and wear on her shirt. Most of the responses told her that she was wearing the wrong size (right) and should go up a band size (wrong). A few told her that in order to fit her "unique body type" she would have to get custom made bras or sew them herself.

First of all, the "unique body type" thing reminds me of The Simpsons when the morbidly obese Comic Book Guy sews maternity panels into his Star Wars pants to "fit his unique body type." So I'm immediately imagining this unfortunate woman wearing, like, a storm trooper suit with giant spandex panels sewn in over her boobage.

Second, I am almost positive those comments suggesting she sew her own bra were made by flat chested women. Or men. I wear a 34*mumblemumble high letter in the alphabet mumblemumble* and sew my own bra? Uh, sure. Let me go get my MAGIC SEWING KIT AND I'LL WHIP THAT RIGHT UP FOR YOU. Maybe my enchanted mice could do it for me. Leave the sewin' to the women, I'll go get some trimmin' and they'll make a lovely bra for Annibellini!

Uh, no. She just needs to find a good fitting bra using European sizes rather than the stupid American sizing, and she needs to get fitted in some old dusty shop with a batty old woman who is some sort of boob savant. It's a lot like the place where Harry Potter buys his wands -- she'll dodder around for awhile making you try different ones out and then when you find one that makes all the boxes fall off the shelves you've got the right one.

I Switched Doctors, and All I Got Were These Lousy Ovaries

DId you ever read The Saggy Baggy Elephant? It was a children's book that I wore several copies of out when I was a toddler. (In fact, it was read to me so much that at the age of 2 I had it memorized and I convinced all my relatives that I was in fact reading aloud from the book at Christmas dinner. Brilliant! Stunning! Until, of course, one of them noticed I was holding it upside down.) The basic premise of the story is that there's a baby elephant who has his knickers in a twist over the fact that other animals keep making fun of his saggy baggy skin. I don't remember the ending well now, but I am pretty sure he either comes to self-acceptance or shoots everyone with a small pistol that was cleverly concealed in his wrinkly skin.

I have lost 20 pounds in 2 months, and even though all my clothes fit much better, I wish my skin would hurry up and shrink back to its original size. I feel like the saggy baggy elephant. Except with diabetes and polycystic ovaries.

Yep. Several months ago, I switched to a different doctor (after hearing my previous doctor tell me one too many times, "I don't have time to deal with all your 'problems' because other people are waiting. Stop whining."), who took one look at my previous bloodwork and ultrasounds and said, "Why aren't you on insulin medication, woman?! I predict your foot will fall off if you eat one more cookie! And also, your ovaries don't work."I switched doctors, and all I got was these busted ovaries. And also, Metformin pills that I have to take three times a day. (Did you know? If your body can actually use the insulin it's producing, you won't crave sweets like Agustus Gloop in the freakin' chocolate factory 24 hours a day?) While I am not thrilled about having diabetes or uncooperative ovaries (Not that I'm really upset about the ovaries, considering having a child at this point in my life is one of my greatest fears -- right behind needles and watching that Scientology movie that John Travolta starred in.), I am glad to finally have a reason that I am approximately the size of a Macy's Day Float.

Three years ago, I was a size six and 14% body fat. Now? I am a size not-six, and feel about 200% body fat. I gained almost 90 pounds in 6 months (without a change in diet/exercise) time because of the weird number my ovaries did on my metabolism -- I felt like I could actually watch myself swell up in the mirror, and if I listened really closely I swear I could HEAR it. Sort of like that sound that you hear when you blow into a balloon.

When my doctor asked me what I knew about diabetes, my reply was, "Stacey from the Baby-Sitter's Club books had it!"

The Time Has Come, The Walrus Said...

Paragraphs, writing structure, and transitional sentences are for wussies.

1. I've started eating non-fat, no sugar added fudgesicles. And by "eating" I mean "inhaling constantly." Recently had a meal? Have a fudgesicle for desert! Hungry for a little snack? Have a fudgesicle! Bored? Have a fudgesicle! They're only 45 calories and I'm guessing about 69% cocaine because I've developed a full blown addiction. I get the shakes when I go more than a day without one, and when I see a child eating one, I just want to rip it out of their pudgy hands so I can have it all for myself.
2. My hair has been cut. To about 3/4 of an inch long. Surprisingly, I don't look like a man. I am currently greatly enjoying the feeling of it, but seriously doubt that I will keep my hair at this length. It was more of a one-time thing that I wanted to do. Plus, people are being really really nice to me, and I suspect it's because they think I am a brave cancer survivor. There may or may not be pictures of the new 'do
3. We watched Crash tonight, and I have to say I greatly enjoyed it. I became very emotionally invested in the locksmith guy who had the little girl, and declared to Ryan at the beginning of the movie, "I am just warning you, if he dies, I am going to end it all." Because really, what's a movie without the threat of someone's demise? The word you're looking for right now is "boring."

Rabbit! I Wasn't Gonna Eat It -- I Was Just Gonna Taste It.

There's this scene in The Many Adventures of Winnie the Pooh where Pooh is stuck in the rabbit hole, and Rabbit is inside, freaking out because of the giant bear behind sticking out of his wall. He tries turning his back to it so that he doesn't have to look at it, when lo and behold, he looks up and sees a mirror across the room that is reflecting the image of that bulbous rump at him -- causing him to scream out "Ah! There it is again!"

And that's pretty much how I'm feeling this week. I've been sick recently, and as soon as I recovered from that, I had to begin studying non-stop for final exams. When I don't get a chance to exercise regularly, I start to feel gross and am positive that I can actually feel myself growing wider. So although my weight and muscle tone hasn't noticeably changed in the past week and a half, I've begun to feel like a blob and am starting to feel like Rabbit -- No matter where I look, my butt is staring me in the face.

Or something like that.

That's Sexxy With Two XXes

After a long, stressful day of driving through Chicago's traffic jams and telling Ryan over and over again in an irritated voice that I did not move the Indiana border 30 miles to the west he just doesn't know where he was going, my back was so tense you could bounce quarters off it for sport. So I did the logical thing: I drew myself a nice warm bath using the low-flow faucet -- I could have put water in that tub faster if I was using a spoon with a hole in it -- and put on some Lewis Black. Because as we all know, there's nothing better to unwind to than the angriest man on earth whining and moaning about US politics and the human condition.

Anyway, I'm sitting in my own filth becoming increasingly irritated with both US politics and the human condition, and look at my own legs. I should state right here that I don't shave my legs much; I'm blonde and relatively hairless -- shaving my legs seems about as useful as using Nair on a peach or something. However, things had gotten horribly out of control, and I decided something had to be done before I spent my spring break in a spa in Montana. Something drastic. I broke out that razor, whipped out my 2-in-1 children's shampoo (I am on vacation. If I have to use more than one product to wash and condition my hair, scrub my body, and shave my legs, it's clearly not a vacation. Why even bother leaving home?), and attacked the situation with gleeful resolve.

40 minutes later, my legs were smooth and slightly bloody, my razor was rendered useless, and the bathtub was coated in tiny blonde hairs. When I drained tub finally, it looked like I had shaved a cat and then let it attack my legs. Any thinking person would have realized this was probably not the best foot to start spring break off on, but as I sat there in that hairy mush coating the tub, bleeding, I thought to myself, "Hm. I'm tanner than I thought I was. Score!"

Pondering the Mysteries of Life and Girly Bits

A night of frustrating online bra shopping has led me to the conclusion that bra manufacturers are either delusional or don't understand the laws of physics in the least.

First, women who wear a 28AA don't need a pushup bra; there is nothing really TO push up. Padding, while I don't see the appeal of wearing it, would at least make some sense. But pushing up something that's not there is absurd.

Second, why, for the love of all that is holy, would somebody manufacture a strapless 36G bra? If you're wearing a strapless bra, the only thing that's holding up your breasts is hope and maybe some double sided tape. You don't have to be a nuclear physicist to understand THERE ISN'T ENOUGH HOPE IN THE WORLD TO HOLD G CUP BOOBS UP UNASSISTED.

I'm just saying.

Pictures Almost Make Up for the Fact This Post has No Real Content

Before:

After:

What I look like in the morning when the dog wakes me up with her incessant, brian-cramping, barking:

Love Means Never Having to Say You're Sorry... For Having Big Boobs

Who knew. Apparently lasting love is a handsome man and an emaciated woman doing it in the water. And this WHOLE time I thought it was about communication and committment and love blah blah blah. But nope. It's outdoor sex between two hot people.

If a second hot person is not available, it's still possible to find true love. But only if you have enormous jugs. Bonus points for willingness to get down on all fours.

Ironically, the only woman in the ads who does not have, um, plentiful bazongas is the one in the "Curves Ahead" ad.

Between this, Paris Hilton, and Britney Spears reproducing, I'm pretty much ready to get shot into space. There is clearly no helping our wounded planet.

Let's go for a Drive Baby

In yet another cruel maneuver life has made, it seems I only grow wider in one direction as I put on weight. It's odd because, even though I'm 40 pounds heavier than last year, if I stand sideways I look exactly the same. Geez. If I had to choose a direction to grow, it certainly would have been in a more... aerodynamic direction. Oh well. On the plus side, when I turn sideways, I feel thin. Have decided to always enter rooms sideways.

Well, that was an extremely Bridget Jones-y statement. Speaking of which, I saw Bridget Jones: Edge of Reason the other day... Rather enjoyed it, actually. Yes, I realize that it was, essentially, the exact same thing as the first movie. I don't know... maybe I watch it for the Colin Firth/Hugh Grant fights. There's few things in this life more enjoyable than watching two men fight it out like little school girls. The pulling of hair, the kicking, the random shrieking of, "OWW!" It fills my heart with joy.

Also, I have decided that Phantom of the Opera (the movie) = enjoyable, though more than a little creepy at times. I want to know why the lead woman... girl... thing looks like a 12 year old boy with breasts. Okay, more like a gazelle. A very... lippy gazelle. I'm not kidding. Her lips were entrancingly large.

Currently most of my worldly posessions are stacked in a corner of my apartment, ready to move. It's been an odd weekend... I'm trying to pack without thinking about packing. Because packing -> moving -> uncertainty -> mild anxiety attacks with each sucessive box that gets packed. I would just let Ryan do all of it... but, well... I love him. I did not marry him for his organizational/packing skills. The other day, I found him trying to fold a spaghetti strap tank top of mine to pack up. I thought the poor guy was going to break down. He tried folding one way, then another, and finally just kind of stuffed it into the box with a befuddled look. I'm not sure he knew I was watching.