Category Archives: random bullshit

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.

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.

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.

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: allergic, being shot repeatedly, cramps, IUD, lady doctor, Mirena, ouch, pain, too much information | 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

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?

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.

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.

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: awkward squeals, Boondock Saints, Daryl Dixon, Merle Dixon, Michael Rooker, Norman Reedus, ocdlocal.com, t-shirts, Texas Frightmare Weekend, The Walking Dead, zombies | posted in random bullshit, total chaos

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.

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.

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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.

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.

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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!!

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

19 Comments | tags: Bill Clinton, blogging, Chicken Run, chickens, childhood, Freshly Pressed, gum, Winning, writing, yes I said gum | posted in random bullshit, stuff I made up, thoughts

January 14, 2014

5 Reasons It’s Okay To Have Rogue Snakes Loose In Your Home

By Steph

This is me, looking on the bright side. Don’t blink.

Snakes. Snakes are lovely.

Snakes eat mice.

Snakes are…snakes.

I’m trying this ~~bullshit~~ thing called cognitive behavioral therapy, because as I’ve been told ~~a hundred fucking times~~, what you think is how you feel. So I am going to feel ~~homicidal~~ GREAT about the snake INFESTATION going on in my home IN THE DEAD OF WINTER.

Ahem.

And I’m okay with this. Really. Also, I really need to dust. Don’t judge me. I have snakes.

Five Reasons This ~~Horror~~ ~~Nightmare~~ Guest Is A-Okay:

1. You can save money on your heating bill in an effort to make your home less homey for heat-seeking ~~death worms~~ reptiles.

2. You can ~~break your hip~~ tone your thighs by clomping around your house in steel-toed boots and jumping a lot.

3. Your kids will get really good at “I Spy” and this is a skill all children should have.

4. You can finally make use of the ridiculous amount of swords you own.

5. You can help the local economy by paying someone ~~exorbitant sums of money~~ a worthwhile fee to crawl around in your attic and say, “Ye-ah, where there’s one there’s usually a bunch more.” This is helpful to know.

6. You can save money on your water bill when an ~~asshole~~ a well-meaning friend tells you that the snakes are probably getting in through the plumbing so you won’t be using your bathroom. Ever. Again.

I know, that was actually six reasons, but I am just so good at this positivity thing that I decided to keep going. Also, I am still in the market for a mongoose.

16 Comments | tags: cold, exterminator, infested, pests, reptiles, snakes, therapy, winter | posted in nature hates me, random bullshit, small humans, total chaos

January 5, 2014

I refuse to believe I’m the only one.

By Steph

I sleep with a white noise machine. I used to use a big box fan, but my husband would get pissy when I would point it at him because I didn’t want to be fanned, I just wanted to hear it fanning.

“White Noise” is what the machine is set to, because I’m afraid “Rain Forest” would make me wet the bed, and I’m a grown-ass woman.

http://www.blognorway.com

I have to pee now just looking at that.

The noise machine is on a timer and shuts off after an hour. Sometimes (a lot of times) it takes me longer than that to fall asleep. After I’ve reset it two or three times, the “white noise” starts sounding different, like a beat, or words, or just sounds being repeated over and over instead of just the shhhhhhhhhh sound it is supposed to be making.

Today my husband and I were lazing in bed ( it was an extremely rare quiet moment in this madhouse) and he asked if I’d ever seen the movie “White Noise.”

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Me: Yes! The one with the TVs. Creepy!

Him: I can’t believe that sound helps you sleep. (Probably thinking about last week when he left REDRUM on the bathroom mirror in steam, and when I got out of the shower I screamed and ran outside and wouldn’t go back in. This is why we live in the middle of nowhere. Because he’s an ass, and I often panic before I’m even dressed.)

Me: I know. And it’s weird how it changes. The other night it was saying something over and over.

Him: ?

Me: I don’t know, just words. It was something with a “D,” maybe de-code, de-luge, Den-ver. I don’t remember.

Him: Jesus.

Me: What? It’s like when you are surrounded by chickens and it sounds like they are all saying your name.

Him: *Snort* That has only ever happened to you.

Me: What? No.

Him: Yes.

Me: Really? That’s just me?

Him: Falls asleep laughing while I lie there and try to force the crazy voice inside the noise maker to communicate with me again. It didn’t work.

Note: My family used to raise chickens. I seriously wore headphones and carried my Walkman (yes, Walkman) because thousands of chickens all buck-buck-bawk-bawking at the same time would somehow coalesce into “Steph. Stephanie. Steph.” And that is really fucking creepy.