Buzz Feed, You Just Get Me

My therapist once asked  what I believe to be my primary coping skills.  My first reply was wine (of course). I then cited a long, hot bath with a good book, and random, mindless games or similar web searching.  Wine, a bath, and a book often do work wonderfully to cure depression or stress.  However, when anxiety also arises, I find myself unable to concentrate, so I frequently turn to sleep and mind-numbing activity to cope.  Such behaviors are an attempt to stop my brain from coursing rapidly through every single worse-case scenario one could possibly imagine. 

Satan's Children: Nightmares will ensue.

Given my extremely high levels of anxiety this past week, I ended up wasting a lot of time scrolling through hours of useless trending information on the interwebs.  I saw that damn mash-up of Justin Bieber and Miley Cyrus’s face so many times that it appeared in my nightmares.  I learned what super bowl ads to watch for this coming weekend (because that’s important).  I also passed through several levels in god-damn, relationship- ruining Candy Crush, ensuring that there is now only one person on my friend list who has also passed the Soda Swamp.  Believe me, I recognize how pathetic said activity sounds, but it does indeed succeed in temporarily distracting me from the anxiety and depression. 

 

Aside : Anna Kendrick is expected to have a hilarious ad for Newcastle Brown Ale.  Just thought I should give you all the head's up.  You're welcome.

 

Me and Kanye: We're basically soul mates.

While my tedious time sucks served to divert my anxiety, an additional bonus is that I just so happened to learn several eye-opening (sarcasm font) things about myself this week thanks to multiple Buzz Feed quizzes.  First of all, I took the all-important self-concept affirming quiz, “Which Pop Diva are you?” Turns out I am Rihanna.  Who knew? Because “sticks and stones may break my bones, but whips and chains excite me” (except not really).  I then was so relieved to finally have an answer to the one question I have been pondering my entire life: "Which Rapper are You?" Of course you guessed it right. Yes, I'm Kanye because I "need to relax and accept that not everyone recognizes your amazing talent." Aint' that the truth, yo? I feel ya, Yeezus, I feel ya.

 

You might also be interested to know that if I were an 80s pop hit, I would be Cyndi Lauper’s “Time After Time” because: “Sometimes you feel like a misunderstood outsider, but everyone adores you when you let down your guard and show them your sensitive side.”  Isn’t it so true, folks? You do love me when I’m vulnerable, and I thank you for that too. I also discovered, of equally high importance, that if I were a sandwich, I would be a grilled cheese.  I don’t even know what the fuck that is supposed to mean. 

But, alas, that is not all I gathered of myself.  Indeed, there’s even more; I told you I squandered a lot of fucking time this week.  If I were a dog, I would be a corgi. Hmmm …  I must admit I didn’t expect this one; I have always imagined myself as more of a Labrador.  All the same, I was quite pleased with the logic as, apparently, like the corgi, I “know how to be myself at all times without apology.”  In addition, the corgi and I also both have a “cute tush.”  I do have a cute booty, Buzz Feed! OMG!

Finally, here is the most paramount self-discovery I acquired from Buzz Feed all week (and, again, I spent like a shit-load of time there):  I should be a writer.  Yes, Buzz Feed! Thank you for this affirmation! Yes!

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What Career Should You Actually Have?

You are a maker. Creative from the day you were born, you spend most of your time thinking about the world you live in. You are open to new ideas and value beauty and originality more than most. We both know you’re not really the office type, so give yourself some room to create. Other occupations: director, producer, advertiser.

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I’m constantly having a discussion with others (and more frequently, in my own head) about how I might finally be ready to trust myself and attempt to make a career out of writing.  I do suppose I am already a writer per se, but I have never been paid, so it doesn’t really count, right?  I genuinely aspire to become an author, but that dream also terrifies me and prevents me from truly trying. 

But Buzz Feed has now changed everything! Now that this highly intellectually esteemed site has informed me I’m like a kick-ass grilled cheese sandwich with a cute corgi tush, I believe! Thanks, interwebs! I’m so glad you sucked me into hours of random, mindless quizzes because once I’m a successful author, I won’t need to cope with Candy Crush no more.  No more, sister, no more.  I’m retaining wine as a coping skill though.  Whether or not I obtain publication, you can be certain that I’m forever clinging to my wine.

You got: CEO

You are a visionary. You’ve always thought about the bigger picture and are most excited by new possibilities. Sure, you’ve been told to get your head out of the clouds every now and then, but what’s life without dreaming?! You might not be at the top just yet, but you’ll get there one day.

1. You got: Professor
   

   You are a thinker, in constant search of knowledge and answers to life’s most illusive questions. You love to analyze everything, testing out theories and pushing mental boundaries. Basically you’re an Einstein, but then again you probably already knew that.

 
And now, for your listening pleasure ...

                                     
                                         It's just so me, right?  Buzz Feed, you're  a genius.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Now we Play Detective

I just wanted a glass of juice.  I got up out of bed, left my two young children to snuggle, and trudged to the kitchen.  I was miserable with congestion and cough and my body ached.  I had spent the day before home ill in bed suffering from the combination of these cold symptoms and a severe migraine.  My lips were parched and dry and I longed for a glass of cold orange juice.  I opened the refrigerator door, pulled out the pitcher of juice, and poured it into a glass I had retrieved from the cupboard.  The juice felt refreshing as it slowly slid down my throat bringing me relief. 

I began to move toward the sink to rinse out my glass and I felt a definite dis ease in my body.  I felt dizzy and my head felt congested with negative energy.  When the physician later asked me to describe this feeling, I said, “It’s just like my head feels suddenly full of static and just … well, full.”  As an individual who would like to fancy herself a writer, this description is sorely disappointing.  However, given more time to contemplate this feeling and try to put the perfect words to this overwhelming dizziness and heaviness, I still come up lacking. 

I stood still for a moment and tried to steady myself as I was overcome by this dizzy, indescribable feeling. I felt my knees weaken and they bent slowly.  The glass of juice fell from my hand and the last drops poured out on the kitchen floor.  My body crashed down upon the flooring and I blacked out for just a few moments.  I opened my eyes when my dog began licking my face, after first eagerly scoffing the sweet sticky juice to my side.  I closed my eyes again, opened them, stared off not unconscious, but not fully aware of my surroundings and the situation either.  Eyes closing, eyes opening, head still spinning, body still flat on the floor, head and feet jerking and twitching between moments of waking of fading.  This is how I existed until my husband came in the home and to my side.  

He brought me slowly to an awake state, though I was left with an extreme exhaustion.  While I still lay there unaware, he checked on the children, called my employer, and called my mother.  This was the second time an episode like this had happened in the week.  And this time, unlike all the others in the past, I was home alone with our two tiny children.  My husband woke me, and put a pillow beneath my head.  He was asking me questions when I heard my four month old son crying from the next room.  When I heard his tears, I erupted into tears of my own.  I sobbed and shook in fear – a fear greater than that I felt prior to falling upon the floor. 

“My babies. My babies," I began to cry and repeat.  What if I hadn’t been holding a glass of juice?  What if I had my son in my arms?  I didn’t want to consider this.  I don’t want to consider this now because the thought terrifies me.   Therefore, through my sobbing, I demanded that we go to the clinic as soon as possible. This isn't a full seizure as I've had those before. It's a strange, debilitating feeling that frightens and confounds me.  I need answers because I need assurance that I won’t collapse while I’m caring for my children. My husband came back home that day only because I had called him earlier to let him know I was still feeling ill and out of sorts. 

I yet remain feeling out of sorts, but improved enough to compose this story.  I am improved enough to express enormous gratitude for my husband and my children.  I am grateful that my husband will do what is necessary to ensure my health and the safety of our children.  I am grateful for my beautiful daughter, who sat next to me in bed, caring for me while I remained exhausted all afternoon. 

So, what now?  Yesterday, there was blood work.  Today, there was a C/T scan.  And now “we play detective,” the exact phrase of the physician.  We play detective … and we pray.   

I Failed; Fuck It

As most of you are probably aware, November is National Blog Post Month.  The challenge of NaBloPoMo is to add a post every single day of the month, with no exceptions for weekends or holidays.   I began the challenge with a bang, determined that I could easily complete a blog post a day, mocking other bloggers  when I visited their sites and noticed they had missed a few days.  You should not be surprised that I mocked others given my incurable Bitch Tourette’s Syndrome. 

I convinced myself that I would succeed where others had failed.  However, this meant that some of my posts would be far from my proudest writing. My weakest post probably came on Thanksgiving Day – a terrible, quite poorly thought out acrostic poem (I knew it, so I'm not mad if you thought it too).  While the post lacked pizazz, I still managed to complete the challenge despite being in the company of excessive amounts of in-laws.

Then I missed the last two days.   I had wondered how other bloggers had failed to write a post a day given there’s no rule that says every post must contain high quality writing.  Then it happened to me.  I could provide you with a number of excuses – I was tired and I was out of town.  I really don’t like the keyboard at my in-laws (true story), and I just wasn’t comfortable typing in the provided space.  I need time to myself, and I could never find that time to cozy away in a corner and get creative. Regardless of the reason, I failed.

I failed the challenge I had accepted.  I could beat myself up over this and add it to a long list of other failures in my life, goals I have failed to meet.  I still bite my damn fingernails and I haven’t lost the extra weight I gained over eight years ago, although I have sporadically attempted to do so. I will give up diet soda for months at a time, and then fall right back into that addiction.  But I decided to engage in a different approach to my failings.  I decided to just say “fuck it.”  Fuck it.  So what?  Fuck it and keep on truckin’, my friend.

I have to evaluate the consequences of the failings in my life.  I bite my nails, so I have ugly nails.  What else? I can’t think of any other catastrophic outcome to this failure.  My blog contained no new posts the past two days.  What are the consequences of this?  I don’t know that there really are any, expect some bitches may have likewise judged me on the absence of posts. I failed a challenge, but I’m still a good mother, I still contribute to my community, I still enjoyed a wonderful weekend with my friends and family.  Therefore, so what?  I stand strong, pick up from where I left up, and keep movin’ on.  Life is too short to tear down and beat up my own self-confidence.

The next time you find yourself condemning yourself for some minor failing, consider the actual impact of your action or inaction.  Was anyone severely injured or scarred by your failing?  Are you still living and breathing?  Do you still have all your teeth and have not become the victim of inexplicable internal bleeding?  If so, I say you should simply declare fuck it, shake that shit off, and move along.  I failed.  So what? Fuck it, my friends, fuck it. 

Cake is Always the Answer

I arrived at my mother’s yesterday afternoon to pick up my children after work.  I am lucky that she is able to watch them three days a week, so I don’t have the total expense of day care.  I walked in the door, smiling and happy to see my two beautiful children. 

My daughter ran up to me, looked up at my face, and gave me a great big smile.  Something was definitely different about her though.

“Mom, did you cut Emily’s hair?” I asked.

“Uhm, Emily made me do it!  She said she wanted that,” my mom returned, blaming my two year old toddler for the very crooked set of bangs that now graced her forehead.

She's still her Momma's smart, gorgeous girl!

“What happened here?” I asked.

My mother explained that she has been stressed and got distracted.   When the troubles were at their height earlier in the week, she scrubbed the floors on hands and knees and baked a homemade German Chocolate cake. This is how my mother copes -- busying herself with tasks and chores around the home to keep her mind off whatever currently has her under duress.  I understand that her stess load is enormous right now; trust that I do. However, I wanted to scream at her that chopping off my daughter’s lovely blonde locks was not the ultimate stress reliever.  “More cake, Mom! No haircuts!” 

But, my daughter is impossibly adorable in my eyes, and her hair will grow back, so instead I just took it in stride and laughed at my mother as she continued her attempts to defend herself.  “I knew you would probably be pissed because it’s crooked, so I told Emily I was going to blame it on her.  I thought about trying to fix it, but I was scared I would only make it worse and too short.  So, I said, ‘Emily, when your mom gets here, I’m telling her this was all your idea.’ Are you pissed, Angela?”

“No, mom, she’s still cute.  It’s okay,” I answered.  It’s only bangs, and we have to pick our battles.  I didn’t raise my sword to answer her scissors.  I am trying not to “sweat the small stuff.”  But I declare that cake should always be the answer to her stress.  More cake, Mom! More cake!