Bruised and butt hurt

I'm currently drinking a glass of wine and thinking that maybe I should be sitting on an ice pack. You're probably wondering why one would need an ice pack to sit on unless they had hemorrhoid surgery. Which I did not.  Have no fear, dearest friend!  All in due time. 

Zach went hunting this weekend.  While he was hunting, it was a bit chilly here in good ol San Antonio so I decided I was going to start clearing our yard after doing some thorough research on rattlesnake hibernation. One who is terrified of nope noodles can never been too cautious. Anyways, for those who don't know, Zach and I bought a house.  It's on 1.3 acres and basically an acre of it is all brush...dead trees, rabbits, coyotes, deer, obnoxious pokey mesquite trees, even more obnoxious pokey cacti...

Anyways, I was sitting on the back porch, pondering my life choices and thought "You know what, today is a good day to channel my Pacific Northwest roots and cut some stuff down."  So I did. And it was AWESOME.  Case in point:

It probably looks like a hot mess...because it is.  But I did 95% of that by myself this weekend/week.  All that empty space is where brush and trees were.  I dropped a few mesquite branches on my face, got some nasty scratches but I did a massive amount of work.  I really should have taken a before picture so you can grasp the concept of just how thick it is out there. I even bought a new axe (got some funny looks at Walmart but felt pretty safe walking to my car).  I meant to buy a hack saw but it slipped my mind because I was thinking about the Plumbing-pocolypse....which may be a chapter in a book I will write eventually.

I'm finding that I really enjoy doing yard work when it isn't Satan's A**hole hot outside.  (Don't tell Zach...I don't want him thinking this has the potential to become a regular thing.)

Today I decide that Home Depot isn't too far out of the way from work to home, I'm gonna go buy a saw.  I tell my coworkers because I'm about as giddy as a kid on Christmas morning! My coworker says "Be careful, you don't want to wind up hurting yourself."

Pfft, I've used plenty of axes and saws...I got this. 

In case you were wondering if I possibly chopped off a limb today, the answer is no.  Still got all 11 toes and 9 fingers.

Anyways...a few months back, our friend came over with his new chainsaw and cut down a dead oak tree.  It was covered by the brush but I decided that I was finally going to tackle it.  I chopped one section off this weekend and continuously worked on the top half for a few days. During that time, I had some precious moments to ponder why I didn't just buy a chainsaw? Oh yeah, that's right, I'm a pain in my own ass and against my better judgement was all "Gangster please, you got this. You're gonna show that tree who's boss with that brand new super sharp axe.  You're not even gonna cut off your own limbs...you gonna chop off the tree limbs son. Chainsaws are weak sauce." 

*Side note, I definitely pep talk myself like that.  I'm like Jenny From The Block...but I'm Rachele from County Road.

That thing.  That thing right there is where the good stuff starts.  If you didn't read the first half of this post, you can start here.  You might be confused but that's okay.  

After I had finally separated that giant thing from it's base (probably 8-9 feet long and heavy as all get out), I pulled it out a bit as you can see by the picture above.  You can also see a cactus in the righthand side of this photo.  It's kind of important.  It's been dead long before our friend cut it down so some of the branches have easily fallen off/removed with a swift tug.  I found a branch I thought was sturdy.  I gave said branch a few torques to decide if it was worthy to be my workhorse.  I deemed it usable.  I'd like to say this was my first mistake...but it was probably my third.  My first mistake was not quitting while I was ahead. 

I grabbed on to the branch and started thrusting all my bodyweight back and forth, trying to get it freed from all the other branches that had fallen down/grown around it in the past few months.  With a few heaves and some cursing and grunting, I pulled the section loose and before I could even celebrate, the f*cking limb I was holding on to crumbled in my grip and I fell backwards...Yep.  You guessed it.  Take it in.

I landed ass and hands first into that lovely cactus in the righthand corner of the picture. 

I felt the pain shooting through my gloves first...kind of like "Well what the hell just happened?!" I looked at my glove that was thoroughly impaled with cactus needles.  I attempted to push myself up with one hand and that's when I felt the multiple stabby feelings all around my rear end. 

I hadn't just pushed my hand on it, I straight up sat on that thing like I was plopping down on a nice comfy couch after a long day.  Except that couch was made of spikes and it most definitely wasn't soft.   After I mustered up the courage to get up, I waddled to the house clenching the bottom of my pants like I was a toddler who just pooped themselves.  You know what I'm talking about...when they poop and don't want you to know so they just pull and tug at their paints.  Yeah, I did that. 

After the walk of shame to the house, I did what anyone would do.  I called my mom and took pictures.  I won't post the ones of actual damage to me because I don't need y'all seeing me in my underoos and also, the location was a bit too close to the wobbly bits :D. Thank god for granny panties!  

Some pokeys I pulled out of my tush.

Thankfully my pants took the brunt of the impact.  I showed them to Zach and he suggested that I throw them away...I don't think any amount of plucking will get all those bad boys out.  

On that note, I'm gonna go rest this swollen and sore butt. 

That's it for this episode of "My hot mess of a life."

Xoxo

What. Even. Is. This.

Y'all.  I can't even today.  I debated on writing about my doctors appointment I went to on Monday because although it's hilarious, it was also mortifying.  Then I decided against it.  So I basically had my mind made up that you weren't going to be able to laugh at my expense.

Then today happened.  Someone upstairs was like "You don't want to write about how you almost impaled your doctor with a projectile speculum? That's fine.  I'll make it so you accidentally flush your glasses down an automatic toilet filled with your own pee and someone else's skid marks. Done. Now you have to tell your stories."

Interested? If not, click that little "x" on your tab and don't look any farther. If you are interested still, simmer down, buckle up and grab some tissues because my week has been a doozy.

After my last doctors appointment, I was informed I needed a follow-up.  I'll spare you the details and just give you the funny stuff.  I will need to tell you that it was a lady appointment because that's pertinent information.

I....I don't even know how to start this.

So there I was, laying on a bed, wrapped in those god awful giant paper towels the doctors give you to cover your wobbly bits... (which makes NO SENSE to me because you're gonna be inspecting those wobbly bits anyways. You expect me to be modest?  I digress.)

So there I was ( I realize I've said this twice...but I don't know how else to even...), on the elevated bed in the doctors office, covered with a giant paper towel and my feet in some stirrups like I was going to some weird rodeo.

"Alright Mrs. Riley. I'm going to need you to relax your butt.  You're super tense and it's making it difficult to insert the speculum."

"I'm trying. I can think of a million different places I'd rather be than having my lady bits in your face. This is super uncomfortable."

The doctor was having NONE of my sass. Which, I suppose I wouldn't have it either if I had to look at meat curtains all day long.

"Okay, I'm going to insert the smaller speculum since you seem to be having a problem with the larger one."

Yep.  Sure do.

After she inserted the smaller and second FREEZING COLD METAL DUCK BILL THING up where the sun don't shine, I immediately tensed up again.  This isn't Guam.  It's chilly here.  Inside and out. No pun intended.  But seriously, I wasn't aware places even still used the metal ones. I thought they were all plastic.  And if you are using metal, why isn't it in a cute little heated box or something. Why did you just pull it out of the ice chest?

"Ma'am.  Please. You're going to need to relax.  I can't do anything until you put your butt down.  Alright, that's better. Now I'm going to insert the swab and move stuff around, you'll feel slightly..."

The words weren't even out of her mouth when I felt the pressure release from the lady cave. In a split second, I felt better, saw her duck out of the way and throw her arms to her chest. I couldn't even wrap my brain around what just happened.  I launched that sucker out of the taco cabana and straight at my doctor.

"Oh. My. God.  I AM SOOO SORRY!!! I've never had that happen before. I don't even...what even. Oh my god.  Are you alright?"

She responded with a frazzled "I've been doing this for 28 years and I also have never had that happen before.  I don't think we're gonna continue with the exam.  You can come back and see me in two weeks please."

Oops. She left and said to meet her in her office.  After I dressed myself while simultaneously blushing (I didn't even know I could do that anymore), I sat in her office with my head down like I had just been called to the principals office.  She sauntered in and said "Wow.  Now that was an interesting appointment wasn't it?"  to which I responded with "I really am sorry my vagina projectile shot a metal speculum at your face.  It won't happen again...I don't think."

She said "Well now you can tell your doctor you shot a speculum at me! He'll like that." - She was laughing as was I.

"Great, how did you know I wanted to tell Dr. McSteamy that I'm able to shoot foreign objects out of my front butt at people's faces. Maybe I should move back to Guam and practice with ping pong balls. I know there's a market for it there."

We had some good chuckles...then I left and immediately called my mom...still blushing because...good lord am I going to be able to spit out some kids if these fertility treatments work.

This was Monday.  It's Thursday.  If you want to have an exciting life, be my friend. You can live vicariously through me.
_____________________________________________________

I have accidentally been leaving my glasses at work because I leave during the day time and don't need them but I definitely need them for my drive to work at 5 a.m.  Which doesn't help me when I leave them on the coffee pot overnight.  My eyesight isn't bad, it's just not great so I try to avoid driving in the dark as often as possible.

Today I thought to myself "You know what, I'm going to put my glasses on my collar so I don't forget them. I can't forget them if they're around my neck."

Fast forward to the end of the work day, I literally have 40 minutes left and I have to use the urination station something fierce.  So I choose the first stall.  That's my favorite. It has the highest toilet seat and I seem to be a lot taller than most of the females I encounter.  It makes me feel like I'm sitting on a throne.  Okay, not really, however I don't feel like I'm doing a trust fall when I sit down to get down to business.  I always inspect the toilet before going. I think it's important.

Today I notice someone had left skid marks (this is also pertinent information for the story you're about to read).  Usually, I would move to another stall because ew.  Today, I decided not to because I was having one of those "Good lord I'm going to pee myself if I don't unbutton these pants at this very moment" kind of things.  The toilets are also automatic and super ridiculously strong.  Like the ocean probably loses a 1000 gallons of water for one flush (not really, but you get my drift)...so what took place in there prior to my visit must have been...well you know.

After I finished relieving myself, I knocked my glasses out of my shirt and into the toilet.

"OHHHH SHIT. OH MY GOD NO. NO NO NO." - I said half of that, the other half I was thinking in my head.

Then came the bargaining....do I reach in there? No, someone else's skids and my pee are in there...but ugh, oh god I paid 300 bucks for these.  I'm gonna do it.  Ugh this is so gross.

I stood up, pulled my underoos and pants up bracing myself for what I was going to have to do...then I turned around and in a split second, the toilet flushed and they were gone.

"OH MY GOD. NO."

I proceeded to tell my coworkers while laughing and crying from laughing so hard.  Then I felt like I needed to do the right thing and tell maintenance what had happened, in the event there's a huge blockage or something, they'll know it's because I flushed my glasses.

I flagged down Mike, the head maintenance guy and recounted my story to him while blushing (for the second time this week) and I could tell he was having a hard time wrapping his head around my woes.  After he stopped laughing, he looked at me and said "You realize you aren't going to get your glasses back, right? You didn't reach in there, did you?  Hey Steve! Come over here and talk to Rachele. Now tell him what you told me."

Then I had to tell the other maintenance guy what happened...he was also dumbfounded at my sheer luck and after HE STOPPED laughing, he got silent and said "Now you know you're not gonna see those glasses ever again.  Just so we're clear. Also, you probably wouldn't want to wear them anyways.  You didn't stick your hand in there did you?"

I replied with "I just want y'all to know I just peed in there.  It was someone else's poop stuck to the toilet wall but I really had to pee.  Also, I thought about reaching for them...but the automatic flusher beat me to it and now I'm actually really grateful because that would have been gross. Even if it was my own poop, still would have been nasty."


And now you're either really grossed out...or your stomach hurts from laughing.  Or probably both.  And just a note for future references...If your glasses aren't on your face, don't take them into the bathroom.

That's it for this saga of Riley Writes.  Now I'm going to drink wine.

Xoxo,
Rachele

The Infertility Diary

In my last post, I chronicled our Repeat Pregnancy Loss.  There's a legitimate acronym for that...which makes me sad.

I had my first initial fertility appointment on Wednesday.  I had to wake up early which I'm never a fan of.  I debated on showering but then it was kind of like "Well, someone is going to be probing my lady crevasse so I should probably wash that shit." So I did.  But I didn't shave my legs.  Then I thought "Well, it's been a while since the ol' tree trunks were cleaned up so maybe I should do that too." So I did that too...separately.  Like I took a whole 'nother shower just to shave my legs.

Girl, I am glad I did.

The week before last I had to take a class before I could see a doctor. I sat in a room with 50+ people and learned about IUI and IVF...watched a few videos on egg retrieval and what happens in the lab afterwards.  It was all a lot to take in.  All I could think of was "I shouldn't be here. But here I am because I can't seem to keep an embryo alive. Hopefully it doesn't come down to this, but if it does, at least I have an idea of how it works."  Which was the main focus of the class.  And plus, seeing all these people in the same room as me...for various reasons but all the same thing...none of us can make a baby.  It was a very sobering and enlightening experience.  I am not alone.  The lady that ran the class is the head honcho of the clinic, accompanied by a few other doctors/nurses who's main goal in life is to help other people make babies.

Anyways.

I pretty much wasn't expecting Doctor McSteamy to walk in the door.  At the very moment when he shook my hand and said "Hi, I'm the doctor,"  all I could blurt out was "Well I'm glad I took that second shower and shaved my legs...you're welcome."

We went through the formalities, talked about history and discussed the various reasons I keep having miscarriages.  Then he asked the MOST DREADED question of them all.

"When was your last pap smear?"

The fact that I couldn't recall it meant it was probably time for one.  They are THE WORST.  The only one that was remotely pleasant just so happened to be a little old man who treated me as if we were just having coffee together.

"So how's your week going? You're going to feel a little pinch. Do you have any big plans for the weekend? You'll feel slightly uncomfortable for a second.  So what do you do for a living? Alright almost done.  So are you from around here? I grew up here annnnnd done."

The doctor excused himself and gave me one of those fancy paper gowns to wrap the bottom half in.  You know, the one that's like a giant paper towel and makes you feel like you could use your whole body to wipe up a spill? Yeah that one.

After I took my fancy pants off and wrapped myself in the even fancier paper towel, the doctor came in with a joke.

"What's worse than a vaginal exam?'

I replied with "I can think of a few things, where would you like me to start?"

"You were just supposed to respond with 'What?'  Anyways, the answer is TWO! Two vaginal exams."

"Fuck me running.  Sorry...didn't mean for that to slip out. So I take it its time for my yearly exam?"

"Sure is..but I can do it so we can just knock it out.  Your gown is on backwards.  Would you like to change it around? It provides more coverage the other way."

I should state that when I'm uncomfortable...I tend to babble...make jokes and my filter is practically nonexistent.  It's okay. I like myself and I'm okay with it.  The only difference between being nervous and being normal is a mild case of sweating.  So I responded with the first thing that came to me and prayed to little baby Jesus that the nether-regions weren't as sweaty as my armpits. Hey, at least I showered twice.

"Does it really matter how much coverage the gown has? I mean, you're already going to be in my vagina, can't really cover more than that now and that's probably the body part I'd rather not be seen.  Unless it makes you uncomfortable.  In that case, I'll turn it around but that means I have to get off the table."

"You can do whatever you want. I do this every day ma'am."

"I mean, I guess I don't have to be lazy. I'll turn it around.  I don't care man, I just want to get this over with."

So I turned it around....like how normal people wear it I think.  And it turns out, my tush ripped a giant hole in the paper towel. So much for coverage, eh? But seriously...what am I covering? My extra deep belly button?

After that debacle was finished, we moved on to the ultra sound...which informed me that I was getting ready to ovulate...and oh yeah, I have PCOS.

"Your left ovary is covered with cysts and consistent with PCOS."

"So are you telling me I have it or I'm just lucky that my ovary has a bunch of dots on it?" Then the waterworks started.

"You have it.  Are you alright? Do you feel relieved? Now we have some answers."

"So that's why I've been having miscarriages?'

"More than likely not, PCOS just means you don't ovulate as often."

Unfortunately, it explains a lot of things that have been happening to me lately that are unusual. The emotions broke through the flood gates and I spent the majority of the day crying.  I know it's not a death sentence and things definitely could be a lot worse, but it just made everything feel...like I climbed a big mountain....just to find out it was a hill and now there's another large mountain in front of me.  Or like someone peed in my Wheaties.  However, I guess if YOU HAVE to have bad news, it might suck less coming from McSteamy. I don't know...I don't have anything to compare it to.

I'm still doing my research.  I literally have no idea what any of this means other than I don't ovulate as often as I'm supposed so...that's what I know.  I go in at the end of this month for blood work (an A LOT OF IT), and hopefully once all that comes back, we'll figure out a game plan.  This is just a small fraction of the puzzle in front of me.  Hopefully by this time next year, we'll either have a baby....or I'll be incubating the start of the Riley minion army in my body.

Fingers crossed.

That's it for this edition of Riley Writes.

Xoxo

Pregnancy & Infant Loss Awareness Month

There are so sooooo many other things I'd rather write about like how we installed a new dog door and the dummies don't know how to use it, or how I've unfortunately lost my ability to drink anything alcoholic for more than 3 glasses, but this one has been weighing on my mind lately.

Last year in October, my life was turned upside down for a while.  After three very long years of trying for a baby, we got pregnant.  I called and told everyone, shouted it from the rooftops, let the book of Faces know we finally did it. We finally made a baby!  I was pregnant, I was going to be a mom finally.  We were elated, relieved and ready to take on our next chapter.  I told everyone because  other people I know announced it as soon as they got that positive test and had beautiful babies to show and I finally got to be part of the club.  My world felt complete.

And then the cramping started a week later. And then I wasn't pregnant. And I had to tell everyone that my body couldn't support a baby.  It made me sick.  Having a miscarriage wasn't even within my realm of possibility. Unfathomable.  No one really talks about it.

I shouldn't say the next one was easier.  But it kind of was.  The doctors had finally gotten my autoimmune disorder under control and had given us the okay to start trying.  Another positive pregnancy test only this time, I didn't shout it from the roof.  I kept it to myself.  Didn't want that mud on my face a second time or to get my hopes up.  And that's when I learned what a chemical pregnancy was.

The one after that was easier too.  I've learned that positive pregnancy tests don't always mean you'll have a baby.  Sometimes, you'll get a positive then two days later it's negative.  You move forward.

Then August.  Two positive pregnancy tests. Oreos tasted awful, my favorite Swedish Fish tasted awful.  Tired.  Cranky.  Sore boobs and sobbing at stupid things...like the first episode of Stranger Things where the kid with the lisp offers pizza to his friend's sister, then she slams the door in his face. "Why did she do that? He just wanted to be sweet. He has a lisp! LET HIM LOVE YOU!"  And on Ripper Street where the good guy is in love with the prostitute and she's all "You're a really great friend." Ugly crying about how unfair it was to him because he bought her birds. The only thing I want to eat is popsicles and Top Ramen.  Tried calling the doctors because I know there has to be something they can do. We just bought a house, settled in. Happy.  This one needs to stick.  We deserve it.

But it doesn't stick.  My track record isn't awesome, to say the least.

Then last month, I had an appointment to get a referral to a reproductive endocrinologist and a specialized OBGYN.  The doctor asked my history and I tried to keep it together, but I didn't do a very good job.  He said "I'm so sorry for your losses."

And right then, it made it real.  Real life.  Real babies.  Real losses.  I sobbed the ugly cry the whole way home. And more when I got home and threw myself into my bed because sometimes you need to do that.  Someone that wasn't related to me acknowledged my losses and suddenly they were real. Not that they weren't real before, but now they were really real and happened to me, to us.

I used to think that continually getting negative tests for three years was the worst.  Why couldn't I get one positive?

Ask and you shall receive...I suppose.  I guess I should have been careful what I wished for.  Positive tests don't always equate to a baby for everyone.

Some of my beautiful friends lit candles on the 15th for Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness day.  I usually try not to get wrapped up in these kinds of things.  Keep pushing forward.  It brought tears to my eyes.  The kind words of strangers and friends alike, acknowledging our losses we don't talk about.  I've started to talk about it, in hopes it will make me feel better.  Like maybe if I'm nonchalant, it won't hurt as much...but there are so many women who suffer in silence because miscarriage is a taboo thing to talk about for a lot of people.  Don't.  Don't stay silent.  Reach out.  Talk to me if you have no one else...or you feel like no one understands.

I've never been the person who's needed support...but I do lately.  I'm a part of support groups on Facebook, I have my select people I reach out to to talk about how unfair life is sometimes and I try my best not to dwell because what's done is done and there's no undoing it.  It just....is.  And sometimes when I get so upset and want to scream, I quietly remind myself and others that "Their path is not your path. No two paths are alike so there's no point in comparison. You'll get to where you're going one way or another."

Anyways, I suppose that's it for today.

Little Tufts Of Grass

Zach and I have officially been living in our house for two months. About a month and a half ago, we laid down grass seed because our back yard is literally 1/2 weeds and 1/2 dirt. The 1/2 yard of dirt is right up next to the house where the dogs track it in so I've spent the better part of two months sweeping.  Every. Single. Day.  Sometimes multiple times a day. 

It's tiresome.  Especially if that's all you know.  (In fact, once I finish this post, I'm going to sweep for the second time today.)

It's even more so tiresome if in between sweepings, you're looking for jobs.  Going on job interviews to no avail. It has been exhausting mentally and emotionally.  From being told "Congratulations, welcome to our company. We're happy to have you aboard. We'll call you and set up your schedule," and then even after calling to confirm, no contact after that. Did the hiring manager accidentally get her fingers shut in a car door and can't dial the phone ever again? Receiving the dreaded "We're sorry, you're just not the right fit for us," email.  Or the worst of them all...radio silence. 

In all this hustle and bustle...I would periodically check to see if maybe...just maybe....the grass had started growing. It hadn't.  How could it?  If I watered it, the dogs would track heaps and mounds of mud into the house.  If I don't water it, it won't grow.  It wasn't growing.  The automatic sprinklers don't reach that area. 

And then...it happened again, in the midst of all of this crazy.  Two positive pregnancy tests.  Then the rain came.  Raining cats and dogs, if you will. And the tests stopped being positive like they have for the 4th time this year.  So in a sense, it was raining outside and inside. 

In the process of all this rain, the dogs needed to go out front where the sod was laid down. 3 dogs being shuffled outside, multiple times a day.  The weeds got so tall out back that in the mornings, I'd watch birds land on them.  It was so thick that once the dogs were out there, you could only see patches of brown and black through the dense greenery. Occasionally a dog face would pop up and smell the air.  The floor was going to need to be mopped anyways...why not let them out and back in to make a mess? They're happier when they're running around the mud like animals.  

After another failed job interview (at a coffee shop of all places, where the owner was overly concerned about the fact that I'm a military spouse, I move around a lot and I'm "not a real barista" as he put it), the rain had let up and I decided to mow down the 3 foot tall weeds. Something to make me feel better and like I had actually accomplished something for the day.  A scorpion in my boot had other plans for me.  Insult to injury, I suppose. And because that scorpion one upped me, I spent the day with a tingly arm and a tingly tongue. Is that normal?  I did not do the yard work I wanted. 

This week has actually been somewhat of a mess. I can't remember on which day I was laid up with a migraine or what day of the week it is. Well, except I know it's Friday. That much I do know, but only because that's what it says on my phone.  While watching the boonie dogs frolic in their jungle like habitat, I decided it was time. I was going to cut down those weeds.  With sheer determination, I grabbed the lawn mower and guided it through the house, being careful not to run into any doors or scrape any walls. The idiots that installed our fence didn't add a gate because they didn't think about it until the fence was up. (Spoiler alert: it was us.) 

The lawn got mowed...and Zach and I decided to do a bit more yard work. He ran the weed eater and I chopped down some trees with a dull machete. (Another spoiler alert: I don't recommend this method and I'm pretty sure husbands with clumsy,  accident prone wives will also not recommend this method either.)

Then something wonderful happened.  Zach called me over with the tone of utmost importance in his voice. 

"Look!!! The grass has finally started growing!"

And sure enough, it had.  Little tufts of baby grass sprouting up through the mud. 

I secretly tried to pretend that the tears were actually sweat because what kind of person cries over grass?  Apparently, I'm that type of person.  Especially with everything else going on.  All I could muster up was "This makes me so happy, our baby grass is growing" because I was choking back watering eyeballs.  Seriously, someone must have been cutting onions outside.  

Little tufts of baby grass sprouting all over our yard.  Had I mowed the day I was stung, I wouldn't have seen them. 

My mother always says "God is going to keep trying to teach you the same lesson until you learn it."  Not that I'm an overly religious person, patience is not one of my strong attributes.  I am a flawless dancer, have the perfect comedic timing during inappropriate situations where you shouldn't be funny and I can do 90's rap karaoke on the turn of a dime. I'm basically a gift to humanity.  It would only seem fitting that maybe little tufts of grass is what it took for me to learn my lesson in being patient.  

That and also waiting on a background check to start a new job.

The Guam Hangover

This has been a hard month.  I think harder than it should have been. Mostly because of my recent miscarriage but that's a story for another day.  I'm suffering from a Guam hangover.

"What is a Guam hangover?" you ask?

It's where you've lived on a tiny island for 4 years, then come back to the states and see that everything is different and you're having a hard time wrapping your head around it. It's when you go into 10 different places to apply for a job but they tell you to go home and use your computer because it's all online these days. You can't find a job because 200+ people are also applying for that same position you are.  You have to drive 70-80 mph when you're used to driving 40.  It's when you go to a restaurant and instead of ordering stuff from your server, you order on an iPad looking thing and see your server for all of 2 minutes of your 30 minute stay.  When you're asked to use a chip to pay for something and you're not even sure what a chip is...and you just thought it was decoration on your credit card.  Then you make an ass of yourself because you understand what the guy at Starbucks is saying, but you're not comprehending what he wants you to do.

Albeit, not a fair comparison, but I feel like Tom Hanks in Castaway. When he finally gets rescued and stands in the doorway flipping the light switches on and off again. The world progressed while I was stuck in a time vortex of warm weather, friends that became family and stunning beaches.  The whole world is spinning and I feel dizzy. Like a hangover, except less wine.

It's not all bad.  In fact, it's wonderful.  Antique stores, Hobby Lobby,  TARGET (it's in all caps because I love it), everyone ships to you, AMAZON PRIME (because I love that too), you're closer to your family,  and utility bills aren't anywhere near $400 a month for the lights you keep turned off to save on energy costs.

Although I'm not a fan of scorpions and the fact that I have to watch where I walk in my vast back yard because there might be rattlesnakes back there (I'm pretty sure there is because our backyard is literally brush, pokey trees, cacti and rabbits), and I also miss being able to drive 10 minutes to get a frozen cocktail on the beach.

What a transition, right?

In an effort to stave off my Guam hangover, I think I might drink some wine while binge watching Criminal Minds and give myself a real hangover to complain about :D

Hey, don't be judgey. Zach said I should enjoy this time off because it's not going to last for much longer.

A Short Story

Thought I'd take a break to write some...
_________________________________________________

She looked around the room, dumbfounded by the amount of boxes she had accumulated. What was even in all of them? It didn't matter, she was free and the deed was finished.  A feeling of euphoria swept over her body and a smile crept up on her face.  The positive feelings were intoxicating and she couldn't contain her over joyous thoughts, swirling around like a whirlpool.

"Is this what freedom feels like?" she asked herself aloud. "What will I do? Light a candle and take a bath? Pop open that bottle of champagne from 2010? Paint a portrait? Sure. Take up knitting? Yes, I'll do it all! Because I am a free woman!"

And for one brief moment, she was a free woman.  Until she walked into the laundry room and saw the laundry basket she forgot about filled with towels wet from bathing doggies, clothes in the dryer and the other clothes in the washer that she had already re-washed 3 times that week.




Obviously this is made up. Because let's be real...I'd never ask myself if it's okay to drink my champagne...also, my painting abilities are that of a 5 year old. #StickFiguresOnly

And one other thing...I'm not EVEN CLOSE to being packed up. Which is why it was important for me to take a break and write about laundry. You're welcome.  Also, I need sleep. Why did I even decide this was good to write?

Xoxo
Riley Writes