Author Archives: Steph

About Steph

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I like words. I suspect I would like sanity, but I really have no way of knowing. I can be reasonable, but not often.
February 19, 2014

Peeing Is Important.

By Steph

I strongly suspect that this post is going to contain Too Much Information.  So, if you are one of my kids, go clean your room!  I already told you about that pile of laundry!

Other people, consider yourselves warned.  I am highly medicated and I’m going to tell you a story.  About my vagina.

Still here?  K.  Let me start by saying that I am like a medical anomaly.  Things that no one is allergic to, I am allergic to.  Simple procedures turn into nightmares.  Medications “anyone can handle” make me want to crawl out of my own skin.

Five years ago, after the birth of Thing 3, I had an IUD placed.

Otherwise known as birth control.

Otherwise known as birth control.

The best thing about this, in my mind, was the whole “set it and forget it.”  It lasts five years.

Fast forward a couple of years and I was at the lady doctor for regularly scheduled maintenance and…they couldn’t find the IUD.

Um…what?  Where in the hell could it have gone?  Eventually, I was assured that it was all good, even though my doctor at the time admitted that she “had no idea” how we’d get it out when the time came.  I think she basically called my uterus a black hole.

Okay, so now my five years are up and it’s time to find this little bastard and get it out.

I had to have an ultrasound to locate it which, again, made me feel like my uterus was being called bad names.  (I might be overly sensitive.)  Anyway.  So the doctor says he’s going to use these giant pliers forceps to grasp the thing and pull it out.

I should've taken a picture. They were bigger and scarier than this. Really.

I should’ve taken a picture. They were bigger and scarier than this. Really.

But first, he was going to numb me up down there, “much like the numbing shots you get at the dentist.”  Yeah.  Only IN MY VAGINA!

It hurt.  Next they had to open my cervix.  You may know this as cervical dilatation, or what happens WHEN A BABY COMES OUT.

It hurt.

He finally got done stabbing me with various instruments of torture and said I should be good to go.  Except I was shaking and pale and about to pass the fuck out.

Eventually I recovered enough to get out of there and my mom took me shopping, because ouch.

Once we got to the store I quickly realized my limitations and ended up driving this sweet ride through the store:

This was the best part of my day.

This was the best part of my day.

 

We got home and I went directly to bed.  To give you some idea of the amount of pain I was in, I dreamt that I was being shot three times in the stomach, then I would pull the bullets out and get shot three times again.  Over and over.

I woke up around 10 p.m. and thought I was dying.  (This happens pretty frequently.)  I realized then that I couldn’t pee and, in fact, had not been able to pee since I’d had the war on my insides simple procedure performed earlier that day.

The next morning I called the doctor’s office and the nurse I spoke to told me to go to the emergency room.  I told her that I was really hoping she would just tell me to go back to bed.  She did not seem to find me amusing at all, which was sad, ’cause I’m pretty funny y’all.  Anyway, I politely declined the ER and eventually had my mom drive me back to the doctor.

Apparently, somehow because my body hates me when my cervix was getting numbed, my pee-control nerve got numbed too.  (I know, these medical terms I’m using are difficult to comprehend, just bear with me.)  Also, my bitchy uterus considers the new IUD a little invader and wants it out, and that’s why I’m being shot repeatedly in the guts cramping.  I was told that normally this doesn’t happen.  Normally, a person would only cramp for 30 minutes or so.  So, to stop the cramping, the doctor prescribed me some medicine which I’m allergic to and now here I am, with a numb pee-button and an angry uterus.

The moral of this story is:

How the fuck should I know, I can’t even pee right.

42 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , | posted in random bullshit, total chaos, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

February 12, 2014

I’m Not Awkward. I’m Just…Squeaky.

By Steph

I’m not very good at anything that has to do with people.  As my son just pointed out yesterday, if you have to argue that you are not that awkward, then you probably are.

A couple of years ago, my husband and I and some friends went to Texas Frightmare Weekend.  It’s this awesome horror convention and if you haven’t been, you should definitely go.  I mean, if you like zombies.  Or porn.  Or zombie porn.  We had a booth to sell t-shirts so it was kind of an awesome vacation/work trip.

Shameless Self Promotion

Shameless Self Promotion

I was super excited because Norman Reedus and Michael Rooker were there.  DARYL AND MERLE DIXON, YOU GUYS!  And don’t even get me started on Boondock Saints, or I might not stop.

So anyway, we drove like six or eight hours to get there, and then set up and wandered around and worked some and I, of course, eyeballed the long line forming at Norman’s table.  The line where people were paying 30 bucks for a picture and an autograph.  My husband was not having any part of me paying money for a picture before we’d even made any money.  So I did the next best thing, made a new friend, and headed up to the room to drink.

I’d only been gone about 3 shots of whiskey 30 minutes when my brother-in-law called me.  “Norman Reedus wants a shirt.  Get your ass down here if you want to give it to him.”

Say whaaa?  From this point on, I mainly only spoke in squeaks.  It seems that Mr. Reedus saw one of the guys go by wearing an awesome shirt (see my adorable husband above.  That shirt.) and he asked for one.  And because the guys LOVE me, they let me deliver it.

Now, my husband was no doubt thinking how AWESOME it was that Norman liked his design, and how GREAT it would be to have his picture on our website with one of our shirts!

Does this really need a caption?

Does this really need a caption?

I was thinking, “Sqweeeee!  OMG!  EEEEK!  DARYL!”

So I take the shirt to him, and he was very, very nice and gave me a lovely hug, and even held the shirt up to himself, presumably so I could take a picture.  This is the picture I got:

This is not exactly what my husband was looking for.

This is not exactly what my husband was looking for.

In my defense, the shirt is in the picture.  See it?  It’s right there, clenched in my fist.  I promise it’s there.  (If you ever see Norman Reedus wearing a shirt with two fish on it, I need a picture of that real, real bad.)

The fun didn’t end there.  Oh no, I was just getting started.  After babbling something incomprehensible about “the stupid fucking rope,”  I made my way back to our booth.

For some reason, my husband left me in charge; I don’t know, I guess because I had shown such stellar marketing skills thus far.  So there I sit, a little drunk, a lot happy, just watching the madness that is a horror convention, when who walks up to our booth but MERLE.

Much cleaner and less murdery in real life.

Much cleaner and less murdery in real life.

I shit you not.  I was kind of scared, but I couldn’t stop grinning like a damn fool, and he was grinning back, and I knew I should say something, but I swear I just squeaked.  Again.  Then I said, “Ummm…doyouwannasticker?”  He accepted it very graciously.  Do you remember that scene in dirty dancing where Baby says, “I carried a watermelon”?  It was just like that, only with a bloody zombie sticker.

So, anyway, my husband is totally going to put me in charge of promotions and customer service.  Because I am really not that awkward.

15 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , , | posted in random bullshit, total chaos

February 6, 2014

I’m Pretty Sure Pinterest Wants Me Dead.

By Steph

I love Pinterest.  I’m not even going to estimate how much of my life I’ve wasted spent on pinning.  Just now, I was doing some research for this post, and I almost got sucked in.  Watch yourselves, people.  Pinterest is almost as dangerous as Twitter, or even Candy Crush.

pinterest.com

pinterest.com

I love the projects and ideas I’ve found there and I’ve made a ton of stuff successfully.  But I’ve come to realize that just because somebody pinned something, doesn’t mean it is a good idea. There’s a really funny website called Pinterest, You Are Drunk and there are all sorts of fails and just funny shit that I don’t know why anyone would ever make in the first place…

sadanduseless.com

sadanduseless.com

Slippers made of MAXI PADS??  Seriously?  Who does that? But that’s not what I’m talking about.  I’m talking about craft ideas that seem totally legit…until you are on fire and you’ve used the fire extinguisher for a different project, so you’re just fucked.

pinterest.com

pinterest.com

Anyway, Pinterest does not always know best.  I hardly ever click through and go to the page where the pin originated and maybe that’s my problem, because then I could tell if it came from a reputable source, like Martha Stewart, or if it was just some criminal sharing bad ideas.

So, here’s one I tried.  The idea was to put plastic beads into a pie pan and bake until they melted, making a sun catcher.  Just my style – easy.  Only one problem.  I’m not sure plastic beads were made for the oven.  It was like I said, “Hey kids, let’s inhale a bunch of burnt plastic and see what happens.”  The smoke detector went off, we all had headaches, and none of us could take a breath without gagging.  And my damned sun catcher looked like this:

Not what I was going for.

Not what I was going for.

Another idea I got from Pinterest was to put coffee beans in a pretty bowl with a vanilla candle in the center, which sounded like it would smell ah-mazing.  Either I didn’t read the instructions (possible) or there weren’t any, cause this is what I got:

I put the fire out quickly, but those beans were burning.

I put the fire out quickly, but those beans were burning.

Then there was the Fairy Glitter Jar.  Supposedly, mixing a glow stick, glitter, and some other stuff I can’t remember, would produce this:

Nope. This is not what happened.

Nope. This is not what happened.

I ended up with a jar of what looked like unusually thick, speckled urine.  My Fairy Princess was not impressed.  Although my fairy glitter was not a success, I did try another glow stick experiment for a party my teenage son was having.  It was supposed to make glowing bubbles.  I don’t have a picture, because it was dark and THEY DIDN’T GLOW.  But here’s a picture similar to what my kid and his friends thought of it:

Yeah. Super impressed.

Yeah. Super impressed.

I’ve got a lot of other cool stuff I want to try, but my husband is really unreasonable and won’t let me have the tools I need.  I don’t know what he thinks is going to happen.  I mean, how much damage could I possibly do with a blow torch?

24 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in parenting, small humans, total chaos

January 29, 2014

Blog for Mental Health Project

By Steph

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“I pledge my commitment to the Blog for Mental Health 2014 Project. I will blog about mental health topics not only for myself, but for others. By displaying this badge, I show my pride, dedication, and acceptance for mental health. I use this to promote mental health education in the struggle to erase stigma.”  

Ever since I heard about this project, I’ve been determined to contribute.

I start a post, then I stop.

I write a post, then I delete it.

I did not realize how difficult it would be.

One of the hardest things about depression, for me, is explaining it to someone who doesn’t have it.  I’m no Jenny Lawson or Allie Brosh, and this is hard.  I’m still thinking about a cop-out.  I just gave you links to two of the best bloggers in the universe, who also happen to have struggled with depression, so…does that count as a post?

No?  No.  Ahem.  Okay.

People who don’t suffer from depression mostly don’t understand it, and even people who mean well often don’t “get it.”  They don’t know why you can’t just “get over it” or “look on the bright side.”

Well, I can’t speak for anyone else, but for me it is just not that easy.

Depression is like this crushing weight, this mantle of sadness that you can’t take off.  And it is so heavy.  You don’t want to wear it, because it makes everything seem pointless and it drags the ground wherever you go.  You try to stand up under the weight of it, but it is persistent, and it pulls you down and down until you feel so small and insignificant that you think you might disappear.  And if it is really bad, you think everyone might be better off if you did.

Depression is sticky, like a spider’s web, and you’ll try and try, and you might think you finally got it all off, only to find that you can’t breathe and you can’t see and all you can feel is guilt – guilt that you’re crazy, and sticky, and always crying.  Guilt for not being strong enough to throw off the cloak and clean up the webs.  Guilt for being weak and for being in pain and for just wanting to hide.

Depression is like this bottomless pit and you just keep falling.  You might reach out and try to stop the fall – or you might be so far down in the dark that you don’t think you’re worth saving.

Depression is a bubble that you can’t pop.  You’re inside it, and you can see the shiny world outside, but you can’t quite reach it.  So you go around in your bubble and pretend that you are really a part of the world, but you know you are separate.  The bubble won’t let you feel the sun on your face and the laughter around you sounds flat and unreal.

I was diagnosed with depression as a teenager.  Twenty years later and it’s still a bitch.  But I’m still here.  I might just be putting one foot in front of the other some days, but I’m still here, and I’m still moving forward.

http://acanvasoftheminds.com/2014/01/07/blog-for-mental-health-2014/

http://www.suicidepreventionlifeline.org/

http://www.helpguide.org/mental/suicide_prevention.htm

29 Comments   |  tags: , , , , | posted in thoughts, your health is your wealth and this is why I'm poor

January 21, 2014

Sit Down, Charlie Sheen, I’ll Take It From Here.

By Steph

As I’ve displayed my Freshly Pressed badge so prominently (to the right, if you hadn’t noticed) I’m sure you’re all aware that My Grandma’s Room was an editor’s pick this week.

pop-steph

Normally, I’d make a self-deprecating joke here, but unlike the majority of my posts, that one was really heartfelt and I’ve been crying all day wishing I could tell my Pop that I Won The Internet, so that he in turn could regale everyone he met with stories of my Writing Prowess, Innate Wisdom, and General Success At Life.  All of these tales would be highly embellished, and neither of us would care.

Instead, I will tell you how I became all Writerly and Such.  It’s an inspiring story, I’m sure. *insert hysterical laughter*

I’ve been a huge reader all my life, and last year I started re-collecting all my childhood favorites, like Anne of Green Gables, Little House on the Prairie, and Nancy Drew.

bing images

bing images

Much like Anne Shirley, I was a pain in the ass as a child.  I was overly dramatic, I sometimes lied (confession:  It was me that cut the hair off all my Barbie dolls.  I cannot and could not ever play the banjo and I never wrote a song called Eagle.  Also, I’m ashamed that I didn’t come up with a better name for my song which didn’t exist.), I liked to read more than play, and I was bossy as all hell.

I haven’t changed much.

Anyway.  In the third grade I started a newspaper for the kids on my block and sold copies for 5 cents a piece.  It wasn’t a particularly long-running endeavor, mainly because as Head Writer, Editor, Copy Maker, and Boss Lady, I was too good to hawk my own wares on the corner and my friends grew tired of it quickly once they realized they weren’t getting paid.  Nine year olds have no work ethic anymore.  Especially for unpaid labor.

My next brush with fame came in the fifth grade.  On the same day that I opened a package of gum and won ten dollars, I also won 3rd place in a statewide essay contest.  Best. Day. Ever!

I don’t remember what the essay was about, but I do remember that I got to meet Bill Clinton (just the Governor then, not the President, although I’m sure I probably had something to do with his election).

You're welcome, dude.

You’re welcome, dude.

Also, they served really disgusting food at the banquet.

Not too long after that I tried my hand at fiction, penning The Big Black Bucket, which was a story about chickens living on a farm and plotting their escape.

Yeah.  Let that sink in for a minute.

bing images

bing images

Those Chicken Run assholes.  I wrote it first, dicks.

Fast forward through years of bad poetry, bad decisions, and one too many people saying, rather accusingly, “But you’re so funny on Facebook…” and here I am, reading lots of awesome blogs, writing nonsense, and enjoying myself immensely.  THANK YOU!!

bing images

bing images

Please stop me if I start referencing tiger blood, in any way, shape, or form.  Thanks, guys.

19 Comments   |  tags: , , , , , , , , , | posted in random bullshit, stuff I made up, thoughts