It is very hard for me to write during this particular time in my life.

Some people are very private. They like to keep their problems to themselves. I am not some people.

Normally writing is cathartic. A weight gets lifted from my chest every time I hit “submit” and release my problems into the untouching arms of the internet.

Now things are different. I find myself with a new, conservative career. I also find myself with readers who actually know me, and even some who are trying to get to know me.

Don’t misunderstand me. My blog has never been a secret. I am not embarrassed by it. In fact, I have always been rather proud of it.

But recent events, recent “breaks”, recent feelings that I have shared, have had a backlash. This is not the first time. It is, however, the first time I’ve been selfless enough to care.

I don’t like hurting people. The sharpness of words can cut emotional wounds.

So what do I say? What can I write? How do I get my release?

Do I quit writing? Do I quit sharing? Do I write and not share? Do I only tell bubble-gum stories and leave the grittiness of feelings out of it?

Oh how I would love to write about a day of double betrayal, seeing my ex for the first time in public, and the excitement and sheer comedy of going on dates again.

I’m struggling to find a balance. Writing without posting doesn’t give me the same fix. I like to feel as if I have put myself out there and said what is in my heart. People can decide to like it, or they can decide not to. Either way, it is no longer bent up inside of me.

The problem lies in the fact that my stories involve others. They are not just about me.

I feel as though I need to have an alias or write a dating column for some small city where no one actually knows me. But then again, even if I was by some miracle able to do this, um, this is the internet and nothing stays secret for long.

So buttoned up I will be for now. At least about the juicy gossip that everyone wants to hear about. I’m sorry, but what else am I to do?

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints, blogging, Dating debating

Today I slept in.

I feel like I have been running a marathon lately. Only it’s a marathon I have no chance of winning. I feel like everybody needs something from me and I am letting everybody down because I only have so much to give.

I’m tired. I’m tired of feeling like a failure. I’m tired of being behind. I’m tired of not being on top of things.

A few weeks ago my my body decided it had been feeling well for too long and it was time to remind me not to take it for granted. I felt the pain gradually building. The first week it was was mild, an annoyance that could easily be overcome with Ibuprofen. The second week it started hitting more intense until finally I couldn’t fake like everything was fine. I was doubled over in pain. Having lived with chronic pain for most of my adult life, feeling the pain come back so strong sent me into a panic attack which, of course, only made things worse.  How long is the pain going to last? Is it back for good? Will I need surgery…for the third time? Why is my body so broken? I can’t go through this again.

The pain was worse than normal. I knew something above and beyond my normal endometriosis had to be wrong. When I went to the doctor he told me that I had an orange inside me. I looked at him quizzically. I mean, who says that? Apparently the orange he was referring to was a huge cyst on my ovary called an endometrioma.

Good news: no surgery.

Bad news: the treatment is pain management until the pain goes away in 2-4 weeks.

I hate pain pills. I hate being dependent on them. Nothing will depress me more than watching the clock, counting down the time until I can take another pill because the pain is just that intense.

That was two weeks ago.

Today I am finally doing better in the pain department. The being behind in every other way department is another story. The worst part is, I am so mentally exhausted that I can’t seem to find the drive to make myself do things. I’m behind in two of my three college classes but instead of having a productive day getting caught up, I slept in.

I slept in and I felt good about it.

Sleep. It’s a beautiful thing.  It’s the cure for mental exhaustion. When your healthy in the head, the rest of life’s challenges seem so much more achievable.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints, Emotions get the best of me, Healthy shmelthy

Broken foot.

Check!

Sprained ankle.

Check!

Ruptured ligament that needs to be surgically repaired.

Double check!

What can I say? When I decide to injure myself, I don’t half-ass it.

But for me, being injured is not enough. Oh, no, no, no. Not only can I not put any weight on my left leg and therefore need crutches to stand… I decided to go ahead and move too.

This means I cannot pack myself.

Which means my family and friends have to pack and move everything for me.

EASIEST MOVE EVER!

Actually I totally wish I felt that way. Instead I feel like a total schmuck sitting on the bed with my leg elevated, directing people where to pack my underwear and toaster oven.

That’s a lie too. I don’t own a toaster oven.

My cat, on the other hand, has no problem relaxing while everyone else packs.

You can’t tell from this picture, but she is totally freaking out. She doesn’t like people in her house and she doesn’t like the fact that my foot is broken. Every time I sit down she lays on my lap in a protective manner and hisses at anyone who comes close.

She is super adorable like that.

That’s how I spent my weekend, watching other people pack my stuff. I must say, I chose the right people for the job too. They got all my shit – and I have more than any one woman should possess - boxed up in a day and a half.

I’m starting to think breaking a bone before I move might not be such a bad ideal…

My surgery is scheduled for Thursday this week. Since my current place is completely boxed up and I can’t officially move into my new place until next weekend, I’ve decided to crash at my parents for the week. Which is great because I really do need help to do most things outside of wiping my own ass – I’ve got that covered – but bad because even a piece of wheat toast comes slathered with half a cup of butter. I can actually feel my ass getting larger at every meal.

The doctor told me to plan on taking TWO WEEKS off from work. Under any other circumstances two weeks off would be great. Spending the majority of my PTO to stay home watching daytime TV and recover is not my idea of a good time. 

I have three days this week to get all my ducks in a row before I go under the knife.

Piece of cake. I’ll just tell all of my clients that their needs have to take some time off too.

To sum up, skinny jeans are the devil. If you wear them, you will likely be injured, become emotionally unstable, living with your parents (again) and well on your way to being checked into an institution where you can “get some rest.”

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – my sister Staci proof read this post and said it might be to my advantage to mention I am on pain pills.

Anklegate, Bag full of complaints, Bitch kitty, Finding Home, Moving Blows

As many of you know, I spent my 30^th birthday in New York City. In theory it was the absolutely most perfectest place to spend a milestone birthday.

That theory was bullshit.

Don’t get me wrong, I absolutely LOVE New York and for the most part I had fantastic time. It’s just that I don’t get along with birthdays all that great to begin with.

My actual birthday was spent moving in slow motion due to pre-birthday celebrations. And I mean SLOW MOTION.

I don’t think we left the hotel once that day.

It took a great deal of effort, but we did make it to two of the three conference sessions (no one can say we didn’t make it to any of the actual conferences). Afterward we got dolled up for dinner and a night on the town to celebrate my “real” birthday.

Cat, Susan and I went to a fancy-schmancy New York style dinner, then back  to the hotel for the estrogen filled party known as Sparklecorn 2010.

Since it was my birthday, and the birthday girl gets to call all the shots, I decided that I wanted to change from my short, sassy, pink dress into jeans and a black top that always makes me feel like a million bucks.

Now, here comes the embarrassing part.

I’m not even going to pretend like alcohol was not involved…

We headed up to the room where I asked my birthday bitches, Susan and Cat, which panties I should wear… don’t ask me why. I ended up deciding to try on both pairs so they could appropriately asses the extent of panty lines that may or may not be showing through my super tight pants.

So I jumped, and I shimmied, into the worlds most non-stretchy jeans.

Then, as I was pulling out the last acrobatic movement to slipping them over my ass, there was an earth-shatteringly loud POP. And then I dropped to the floor. And then I died.

When the girls finally got me to stop screaming, they lifted me onto the bed to examine the source of the pop, the source being my ankle, which now  looked like there was a baseball attached to it.

I fucking kid you not.

From this pint on our plans were drastically changed. No more hitting the town, going form bar to bar. Instead Susan and Cat ran to the local convenience store to get bandages and ice while I laid in the hotel room drinking like the lush-birthday-princess-gimp I was.

,

After wrapping up my ankle, they located a double-wide wheelchair from the hotel lobby and wheeled me downstairs to the hotel bar.

No sense in letting the birthday celebrations end because of a possible broken bone, right?

After a sleepless night the adventure of getting me from the hotel, to the airport and through airport security began. Again, no easy feat and quite possibly the most humbling, humiliating experience I have ever had to go through.

I waited until I got home to go to the doctor. Guess what? My drunken skinny jeans adventure has landed me with a broken 5th meditarcel. I don’t know what that means, but I find out tomorrow if I need to have surgery.

Yay?

I guess now that I’m thirty I need to start wearing “mom jeans” and taking calcium pills.

Seriously, what’s next? Memory loss? Hot flashes? Depends? Reading glasses? Dentures?

Hell, I may as well take up mall-walking now… that is, of course, after my foot is healed.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

PS – More pictures can be seen HERE

Anklegate, Bag full of complaints, blogging, BlogHer10, Out and About, Vacations

I have friends who absolutely love doing cardio. They run, or bike, or take aerobic classes, or stair step, or hula hoop for hours on end.

I don’t get them.

Don’t get me wrong. I am a little bit of a gym rat, which means I go two or three times a week (on a good week). Only when I go? Cardio gets the shaft. I warm up for 10, sometimes 15 minutes on the treadmill and that is it. I guess I’m just more of a weights and machines type of gal.

Sometimes though, I get a little crazy and think that running sounds fun.

Kind of like how I always try orange juice at breakfast. I keep thinking that one day I will actually like it. Then I remember that without vodka or champagne in it, it’s just acidic and sour.

The same thing happens with running. I see other people running and think “hey, I should really give running another shot” only to end up sweaty, out of breath and with shinsplints. In other words, feeling acidic and sour.

A few weeks ago, Utah took a break from pretending like it’s still January long enough to have one sunny beautiful day. Driving home I passed a dozen or so runners. Of course I took that as a sign that I too should go for a run.

To be honest, it was a fairly nice little jog. When I finished, I figured I was good on the running front for another month or two.

The next day ED invited me to run in a 5K with him.

Eff!

So much for my sampling and discarding routine. Now I actually have to…try. Of course I could have said no, but ED assured me I had two weeks to train and that’s plenty of time to prepare to run three miles.

Yeah…

The race is now in five days and I’ve ran three time (including last night). None of which were for a full three miles at a time.

I feel like such a fitness failure.

Maybe I’ll just buy some snazzy, overpriced running clothes so I look the part. That way I can fake an injury and hobble across the finish line and no one would be the wiser that I am actually not a runner. Then, when they ask if there is anything they can get me, I’ll tell them orange juice.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints, Healthy shmelthy

For most of my adult life I’ve started my mornings off with a cup of coffee, or as my friend John puts it,  “the nectar of the Gods, the I’m so hung over thank all that is holy, the one last legal drugs left that doesn’t hold a mandatory 25 year sentence.”

It’s become a part of my routine.

It jump starts my day.

So believe me when I say, it pains me GREATLY to part with it!

As I’ve mentioned, I have stared a nutrition plan to help with my Endometriosis. Honestly I feel healthier in all aspects except my pain level, which is currently through the roof. I flat out don’t get it. Frankly, it has been incredibly frustrating to say the least.

There are two items on the “to avoid” list that up until Sunday (night) I have not been willing to part with: coffee and alcohol. I’ve been cutting back, but I haven’t completely nixed them from my diet. But after spending way too much time popping Ibuprofen every 4-6 hours and running up the electrical bill from my heating pad (which is on most of the time I am home); I’ve decided it’s time to cut my coffee addiction cord…*sigh*… and remove the majority of alcoholic beverages from my life as well.

My hope is this is not forever. My hope is this is a temporary freeze… just until I can get my pain level back under control again.

People I am GIVING UP COFFEE.

I can’t believe I’ve been reduced to this. Anyone want my ovaries? I’ve about had it with them.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints, Healthy shmelthy

You know those products where you do some sort of “eye exercises” or Voo Doo trances everyday and you end up being able to read faster or control peoples minds?

Do you think they work?

This semester I am taking pretty much all communication classes and surprise, surprise, they all come with giant text books. Well, not giant as in ED’s Organic Chemistry book, but still 400-500 pages each.

And of course, each teacher wants you to read one or two chapters per week. Each chapter is roughly 30 pages long, which equates to exactly way to much freaking reading.

Don’t get me wrong, I find a lot of the content interesting (Yay! I’m actually on the right education path!), it’s just that it takes so GD long to get through it all.

Lord help me. I’m only one week into this semester…

I’ve gotta figure out a way to be more efficient. Your ideas may be are welcome. My sleep depends on it.  And frankly, that’s just not something I want to part with.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Back to School, Bag full of complaints

My days are spent not talking.

Let’s examine this a little bit, shall we? I work full time. At work I sit alone in my office and write things for clients like news letters, press releases and marketing plans, I research the latest marketing trends, responding to emails and attend meetings. I then go to school where I listen to teachers lecture and take notes. In the evenings I am reading my text books, studying and doing homework.

Oh the exciting life I lead. It’s an rare night in deed if I can find the time to work out or watch TV.

I spend so much time reading and listening that when I finally do get placed in a situation where I have to use my audible communication skills my words fail me. They just flat out disappear. I have no backspace, cut and paste or delete keys to rely on and I can’t just “Google” what I am looking for. I find myself simply listening to whatever conversation I am in and not really speaking up too much because when I try to contribute or tell a story I simply can not get through it without help. “You know that one thing with the four wheels and you drive it? Yeah, a car! So I was in the car and I was listening to, oh crap, what’s the name of that one band that sings that one song? Remember? We saw them in concert that one time?”

You get the picture. And heaven forbid you ask me my opinion! Because that answer will leave you so lost you will think you have just been talking to mentally challenged person. I swear, it’s still me! I am just out of practice at… talking?

Maybe I just need to get more sleep or take some ginkgo biloba or whatever vitamin makes your brain work more better. I’ve seriously  got to do something though because all this learnin’  and edumacation is making me unsmart.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Back to School, Bag full of complaints, Random

Just in a fight with all things technology related.

It started last week when my Yahoo email account was hacked and sent out links to a Viagra to everyone in my contacts list. Sorry if you were one of them. I promise I am not that concerned about your erection or lack there of.

Then on Friday night Karina the Russian and I went to a concert. We only wanted to see the opening band (Staind) so we left when they were done to get a cold beverage that didn’t cost $9. Well, like the smart person I am, I decide NOT to bring my purse and just put my iPhone in my back pocket. Somewhere between visiting three restrooms at the concert venue and one at the bar, my phone disappeared. We back tracked and retraced all of our steps including turning the car inside out, and being escorted by security through the concert venue after everyone had left  (which was actually kind of embarrassing because we had to take them to the back stage restrooms we snuck into). All to no avail. My freaking phone is gone!

I spent the weekend moving (more on that soon!) and came across my old Black Jack phone, so at least I have that. Although the internet is not working on it so I need to take it to At&t and ask them WTF? It sucks, I miss my iPhone! I feel so disconnected with the world!

Needless to say, due to my crazy weekend, I didn’t so much as glance at my homework. When I rolled into my new pad last night at 8:30 pm, cat in hand (I had just picked her up from my parents), my intention was to bust out some serious study time. Only problem, I don’t have access to the secured wireless account set up at my place. It’s a Mac Airport, I have a PC.

Just one more chance for technology to shove it’s fat middle finger right in my face.

I’m hoping that my not-technology-retarded brother in law will be able to make the Mac and PC play nice together, because I haven’t so much as a clue to how to make them work. However, I’m keeping my stress level relatively low, ignoring the fact that I have an online assignment due by midnight tonight and spending my lunch break writing this instead of studying. It’s OK though, everything is going to work out. If I tell myself that long enough, it has to come true.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints, Moving Blows

The only thing worse than spending the weekend studying is spending the weekend sick in bed.

Friday night I yacked my guts out in ED’s toilet and shivering in bed next to him. I even got a little throw up on his t-shirt.

Yeah, I’m such a sexy girlfriend.

Saturday ED took care of me in between my naps and complaints about how freezing cold it was and how my throat was swelling at a rapid rate.

By the time I woke up on Sunday my throat was swollen to double the size and I could no longer swallow my own spit, yet alone any other fluids,  so I decided it was time to get some medical help.

I knew I had Strep throat before I walked through the Instacare doors. I’ve had it every year since I was a little girl so I recognize it instantly. Unfortunately knowing I have it will not get me the antibiotics needed to take it away and since I bought jewelery in Mexico instead of  antibiotics, I had to suffer a 45 minute wait to get them.

So here I sit, miserable and achy. One day in to my 4 pills a day for 10 days regime. ED is home studying and my parents have left for Lake Powell (I will be joining them at the end of the week – more on that soon) so I have no one to bitch to except my cat and she sympathy is not exactly her strong point.

Ahh well. On the bright side I have a free pass to eat lots of ice cream and watch bad TV.

Blogfully yours,

Summer

Bag full of complaints