You asked for it ...

Hi everyone, I can’t tell you how much I appreciate your concern and thoughtfulness regarding my sudden exodus from blogging land. So much has been happening in life and somehow through the midst of it all, I think I lost my funny. Writing isn’t nearly as entertaining when you can’t find your damn funny anywhere.

In December, I started a new job. For the record, I love it and it has been an awesome career move. However, it has also come with all of the accompanying stress and pressures of a new job. I dislike being the new kid on the block. My raging Type A personality hates not having all the answers and being kick-ass at my job. My competitive spirit gets a little annoyed with starting over, having to prove myself, and not being the “go to” person on the team. Then there is the drama of new people and new relationships, figuring out who to trust and who should send you screaming into the night. Four months in, I’m feeling more settled and a slightly less incompetent.

Remember all of the health problems I was having last fall? Don’t make me remind you … Despite having sought consultation from multiple Dr’s and having more tests than one would deem possible, I had to diagnose myself and ask my physician to test my gallbladder. Guess what? It was functioning at 2.5% and I quote the surgeon who said, “that is grossly abnormal; I actually can’t believe you are functioning you should be in so much pain.” Good times. It went to gallbladder heaven on March 11th after a MINOR OUTPATIENT surgery. Yes, a minor outpatient surgery that brought me to my knees for days, left me looking 5 months pregnant, and kept me off work for a week.

The fun doesn’t end there though. In routine testing in preparation for surgery, they found “an area of concern” on my EKG. Let’s not even get me started, I’m quite sure you’d have to pull up a seat and stay all night for this one. Only I would go in for minor surgery and come out with more problems than when I went in. I "may or may not" have a very serious cardiac condition … but I’ve had conflicting information from 4 different physicians on the answer to that questions over the past 3 weeks. If I have the “problem”, it is something that can cause someone to suddenly go into cardiac arrest. I think life nearly has me on the edge of cardiac arrest, I don’t need assistance with that, thankyouverymuch. Since I don’t take halfass for an answer, since MY HEALTH is at risk, and since I have been forbidden to run in the meantime (despite being mid-training for my first 10k), I took my Doctor’s advice and will be in consult at the Cleveland Clinic on Monday with one of the nation’s best electrophysiologists. (I’m thinking it isn’t a good sign when Cleveland gets you in in a week, no?)

Best case scenario, I’m normal. Worst case scenario, I do have LQTS (don’t Google this unless you want to lose sleep for decades) and I end up with a pacemaker or a Dick Cheney (ICD). Regardless, at the end of the day, I’ll have answers.

And don’t EVEN get me started about what else is happening around this nut house.

See, I lost my funny.

But I’m here and that’s gotta count for something, right?

Wanted: funny thoughts, a pro-bono personal assistant, chocolate, and uncomplicated relationships

There are few things in life that make me cringe more than the thought of become a statistic. When I first started blogging, I found numerous data taunting the fail rate of new bloggers, many discontinuing the habit after mere months. Undeterred, I pressed on, fully confident in my ability to defy those odds. Slowly, I went from posting daily to a few times a week, to once a week, to a new pathetic low of EIGHTEEN days without a blog post.

That does not mean I haven’t forgotten about my lovely blog over the course of the last EIGHTEEN days. In fact, I have had nothing but great intentions to write. Actually finding the time to do it and acquiring a clear enough mind to do so intelligibly has been the challenge. On second thought, if I am waiting for a clear mind and intelligibility, we might as well all give up now, right?

Frankly, you don’t want to listen to me right now anyway. I’m overworked, sleep deprived, knee deep in unfulfilled obligations, needing some quality friend time, and having a hard time being my positive, cheerful, optimistic self. AS IF. Okay, better stated, I’m crankier than normal and trying to make sure I don’t drop any of the 3 million balls I’m currently juggling, all while trying to refrain from punching people in the face. I am mentality picturing the blogging entries that could have filled these past EIGHTEEN days and feeling relieved for the art of self-control.

But you didn’t come hear to read about that, did you. Heck, I couldn’t be witty if you bribed me with front row Jack Johnson tickets right now. Aren’t you glad you stopped by?

However, I do still exist and that has to count for something, right?

Me: Version 3.0

Is it possible to wake-up an entirely different person?

Over the past couple of weeks I’ve come upon the realization that I actually like to cook. More impressively, I’m not half bad at it. Yeah, I know, absolutely incomprehensible. Apparently it has been the bad attitude, lack of planning, distaste of washing dishes, and absence of time that have stood in my way all of this time.

Over the past two weeks, Kate and I have perfected two variations of granola. We’ve also managed to miraculously create a kick-ass roasted red pepper hummus. On another night we made oatmeal-wheat-banana pancakes. Shockingly fan-freaking-tastic. I’ve also become a sheer genius at making swiss oats; if there were a swiss oat making competition, I would certainly be medal worthy. Queen of the oats.

However, I didn’t realize quite how out of control I was until today at work when I told a coworker that I had ordered a pizza peel and 5 quart dough bucket to make some artisan bread this weekend. Her head promptly rotated 180 degrees; she exited my office and inspected the door just to confirm that she had entered the correct office.

I simply cannot explain this transformation. The domestic fairy must have visited in my sleep. I am hoping next time the patience fairy, Banana Republic fairy, anti-procrastination fairy, or extra-hours-in-the-day fairy shows up instead.

I’d love to know what fairy is needed at your house …

The plank of death

I don’t like much about exercise, but if I had to pick a least favorite part, it would be running. I wouldn’t run unless something was chasing me and even then, I don’t think I would do it well. The runner-up (ha!) would certainly be ab exercises of any type. Perhaps that is why my stomach has never ever ever ever returned to its pre-baby state.

When my personal trainer enthusiastically moves into the ab portion of the workout, I have to resist the urge to trip her, or pull the fire alarm in the gym. While I often question why I pay her to torture me, it is never more prevalent than it is at this time. A few weeks ago she caught me off guard when she said that we were moving to the ultimate ab workout and it was a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise. Excuse me? You have a CRUNCHLESS-ab exercise that you’ve just conveniently forgotten to incorporate up to this point? Had I known CRUNCHLESS-ab exercises existed, I would certain have abs of steel by now, no?

Moments later, she effortless demonstrated a position called the plank. Not only did it look obnoxiously simple, but you didn’t have to do anything once you assumed the position. Yup, you heard it right, a stationary crunchless-ab exercise. Does it get any better than that? After she showed me how to do the plank, she told me that our goal would be for me to hold it for one minute. Oh, absolutely. Where has this exercise been all of my life?

I quickly got into the plank position. It didn’t take too long before karma totally showed up to kick my ass. I was mentally trying to back track to moments earlier; trying to erase my smug look and those taunting words like easy, effortless, and wimpy. My arms started quivering, certainly milliseconds away from spontaneously combusting. All the while, I was trying to figure out who sat the baby elephant on my lower back, as the hundreds of pounds of pressure there certainly was not a figment of my imagination. While I bit my lip and contemplated standing up and sprinting out to my car before she could catch me, she proudly declared that I had reached the 15 second mark, only 45 more to go! Then my head exploded.

As I was preparing to not-run on my treadmill tonight, I made Craig take a picture of me demonstrating the plank for all of you. For some reason, talking about the PLANK OF DEATH is not nearly as effective without a visual aid. The PLANK OF DEATH doesn’t require much explanation. In fact, the photo likely explains it much better than I could. I would easily write two paragraphs and you’d end up confused, standing on one leg with your arm wrapped behind your back, trying to figure out what to do next. The only caution for the plank (beside its intent to kill you) is to keep your butt flat, fairly level with your back and legs. Don't stick your butt up, or lower it down. In other words, if it doesn't feel like it is seconds away from killing you, you are DOING.IT.WRONG.


If you happen to enlarge this picture, please pretend that the debris on the rug is residue on my camera lens. It isn't, but it is so much better to pretend than to wonder what on earth really is on that rug...

A few things I’d like to say:

First, I dare you to try it, like triple-dog-dare.

Second, if you try it, you are hereby commanded to return to this blog and let me know just how long you were able to stay in the plank. Just don’t say longer than me, I am a sore loser.

Third, if you put a picture on your blog of you doing the plank, I might just love you forever.

Is this a true testament of the whole misery loves company ideology?

I shouldn't be allowed in public

I am not sure when my hair got so long. I swear, it multiplied while I was sleeping. Or, someone is sneaking Miracle Grow into my shampoo. I am not sure which of those two it is, but it certainly has nothing to do with the fact that the only place my hair goes is up into a haphazard pony tail most days. Even more absurd is thinking it has anything do with fact that I haven’t really dried or straightened my hair in months. When I dried it and straightened it today, I was astounded to discover the extra foot of hair I acquired.

Today I was also wearing a shirt with a much deeper neckline than I traditionally sport. You know, one that could technically be classified as cleavage-revealing on someone else. However, on me, it’s just a shirt with an awkwardly low neckline and no cleavage to be found.

After work, I decided to stop and get something to eat prior to teaching (you know, work #2, what supports the shopping habit I have). I had some extra time and went into a little café to savor some quiet time and a good meal before class. Dining alone doesn’t bother me at all. Despite that, dining alone is disconcerting due to the occasional gauche reaction from a fellow diner, which makes me feel like I should be uncomfortable dining alone. Apparently my solo dining status is of greater concern to them than it is to me. Those people apparently don’t recognize the beauty of quiet time. So, dining alone does provide some level of awkwardness as a semi-questionable social activity in the public eye.

So, I am sitting in the café, inconspicuously eating my Cherry Chicken Salad, when I feel something crawl down the front of my shirt.

I might have yelped a little loudly.

I might have began wildly patting, brushing, and beating my chest.

I might have stood up, attempting to fling this predatory creature from my body utilizing effort that should be reserved for evicting a swine-flu carrying visitor.

Much too late, I might have realized that it was a perfectly lovely strand of hair that had rather unexpectedly migrated into the front of my shirt.