Vicodin Dreams and Stranger Things

I have hurt my neck.  Shoulder.  Whatever.  Again.  This time it made me holler (for a dolla) in the shower when I tried to wash my hair (and not in some Herbal-essencey-quickie freebie way, either.). You know what that is?  Bullshit.  That's what that is.

In frustration, I went to a chiropractor.  I knew better, and no harm was done but she suggested I avoid ibuprofen and come three times a week, so...  No.  In response, I thanked her for her time, drove to work and took some Advil.  Boom.

I got a little weepy.  It hurts, and there is that, but also, it's really thefuck frustrating because everybody is all, "ooh, stop running" and "ooh, stop knitting."  I'm like, well tell me to stop breathing because that is just as fucking likely as me stopping knitting.  And as for running, I might WOULD stop but I've already paid for a fucking half marathon, and ain't no way I'm throwing out that kind of money.

I went back to my regular doctor.  Last time, I went to see him- well, his p/a- and she gave me steroids and a muscle relaxer.  Two or three days and I felt better, and very well rested, but I don't think the muscle relaxer did any good, so I told him so, this time.  "Yeah, I don't think this is muscular," he said.  I agreed.  "I think you have a pinched nerve."  Me too.  "And some bone spurs."  THE FUCK?

So...  He sent me down for some x-rays, which were unpleasant but maybe only do because I hada a prescription for Vicodin in my purse that really wanted to be taken to the CVS.  The X-Ray tech, clearly in response to my cuteness, pointed out something on some of the films (speaking the lingo, boom, I am obviously a doctor now.). Something between either the 3rd and 4th vertebrae, or the 4th and 5th, or something.  Know what it looked like??  It looked like all the fucking REST of the vertebrae.  (Aaaaaaand, there goes my medical license, just that quickly.)

The fair was that night, and I let the baby take pics which are worthy of their own post.  This is the fair that is at a school, in my neighborhood (for now, more about my house in yet another upcoming post!) (oh, the teasers!!), where there is $2.00 amber and the baby can ride all night for $30.00.  My Favorite Thing Ever.  I went, despite CVS not filling my rx just yet, leaning on ibuprofen and Abita Amber to get through the night.  Muchly I was ok, unless my littlest nephew pulled on my arm or I tried to move to the left.  It was worth it, at any rate.

I went home afterwards and began to take my medicine, a lovely mix of a Vicodin (which really does help, ain't gonna lie) and a steroid (which is now really helping so much that I no longer need the Vicodin, or, apparently, sleep) (ain't gonna lie), which brought me some crazy dreams, about house guests and my mother saying "oh, have them sleep in the Vietnam room" and doing crafts projects real quick to provide them with those neck travel pillows.

This awake at 4 stuff is kind of not my favorite, but I feel so much better today that I am looking forward to going for a run this afternoon, and then packing up a room or two of the house.  It's getting close to moving time!  As it stands, I still have 3 hours before I have to be awake, and so iI think I will go lie down in the Vietnam room (I mean, what IS that???)...

Rememberer When

I'm pining for a few things that are long gone.

Jello Pudding Pops, for one.  My God.  Best snack popsicle ever.  EVER.  Dammit, Bill Cosby, why, oh WHY did you have to allow these things to disappear?  I have children now, I have the opportunity to buy them under the guise of "for the children" and eat my little pudding-pop-loving-heart out.

Manna from Heaven.

Then we have The Littles.

I find their goofy teeth to be both insulting, a mark of poor character, and oddly adorable.  Damn these Littles.

This one cartoon, one of those Saturday morning cartoons.  It was called, "The Littles," and it always had a craft idea at the end.  Make a fancy necklace out of a button and some embroidery floss!  WHY NOT??!!  My kid has a book called "The Borrowers" that appears to be freakishly alike The Littles, but I can't bring myself to give enough of a shit to read "The Borrowers" or determine if one is based upon the other.

Really, though, for sure this doesn't have a neato how-to lesson on something crafty and awesome.

My own goddamn bait box that I used as a makeup box, although I cannot tell you why, in that it was so fucking heavy and enormous that it wasn't like a travel box or anything, just occupied it's own corner in my bedroom, near a mirror...

Magical.

Here I am being all nostalgic, and the thing is, there's really only one thing worth talking about which is how, you know, yesterday, I offered to pay these one people some money, and they, in turn, are letting me take a house.

A HOUSE.  I BOUGHT A HOUSE.

And it's super freaking adorable.  Yep.

And it may lack pudding pops, Littles, etc., but it has a LOT going for it regardless.  And I can create my own nostalgia.  And I probably will. 

More to come.  In the meantime, let's all go listen to A-Ha and call it a day...

Storm Chaser

Sarie loves her a good storm.  Apparently, I have a lot of company who also loves a good storm, because here is the thing:

1) I give you "Karen," who is so not-scary as to not even have a well-defined eye.

(Hi, Karen!)
(Isn't she cute?)

I predict that she will bring to me rain, some rain, a little but not a lot of wind, and some rain.  During which I STILL have to run 8 miles.

So.  Um, Karen?  Could you hold off until after I get my run in on Saturday morning?  kthanksbai

2)  I give you Karen-panic:
https://www.facebook.com/TropicalStormKaren?ref=br_tf
---She has a facebook!

Here is a sample of the commenting, so far:

Vicki Mitchell is a dumbass.

Oh, Louisiana.

What I am most looking forward to is the drinking, the cooking, the jigsaw-puzzling, the spending time with little kids that are my own, the cat-snuggling.

I may or may not have mentioned yet that I have QUIT SMOKING (again) (shut up) (this time I am sticking to it) (at least for now) and so I'm kind of dreading the quiet there-is-nothing-to-do-and-I-can't-even-go-smoke part, but otherwise, Bringy ony a little storm.

I love a storm.

Homeowner? For real?

There have been several times in the past when I have - or my then-husband and I had - considered purchasing a house.  I've met with real estate agents, obsessively watched HGTV (for ideas, and for how-to-behave-when-house-hunting) (which is to say, snotty as shit), done ride-arounds on the neighborhoods I am most interested in.

And then I always p-worded out.  Quit while I was ahead.  Never pushed the "send" button on a loan request on the internet.  And this is back when even I could get a loan.  Just shut up.

Oddly, or awesomely, in the past two years, I have worked very diligently to improve my credit score (DOING IT!) and to be financially smarter.  I've done well.  I am proud to report that I haven't bounced a check since I got my own checking account, a seriously stressful activity for me.  I have money anxiety.

Doing it.

Anyway.  So I did some math, and I realized that I have poured more than $50,000 into the (very nice, but still) house that I am renting.  I'm a good tenant, follow the rules, get along well with the neighbors, keep it decently clean and I've been there for more than four years.  In return, they haven't raised my rent, though they certainly could at any time.

In addition, a couple of months ago, a crew showed up to repair all the wooden siding on the outside of the house, paint a bunch of the outside, and fix the door. Once you get past wondering why in the HELL one would put wooden siding on a house in Louisiana, you have to wonder... why did they do all that work?

I never asked them to, that's for sure.  I can only come to one conclusion.  Looking.  To.  Sell.

It is not currently on the market, but I can see/smell the writing on the (freshly painted) wall.  Which means, this is my cue.  It's time.

I started meeting with a new, great agent a couple of months ago.  Kind of half-assed, I looked at, oh, I don't know a dozen or so houses in the school district.

And then I found one that is really pretty much perfect.  It has:  tile floors (yay!).  a pantry (omg, yay!) (says the girl who hasn't had a pantry since 2002).  a fireplace (yes, it is stupid in Louisiana but mama loves her fireplace, lights it every night that falls below 65 degrees, and besides, how else would Santa get in?).  a drinking patio.  virtually no yard (to mow.  ka-boom.)

It's much smaller than my rental, 1000 square feet smaller, which is great.  It should be cheaper to heat and cool.

I made an offer this week.  Despite my efforts, it makes more financial sense for my folks to buy this house and then sell it to me, so that's the plan.  They are all in, too.  We are all sitting on pins and needles waiting for the counter-offer (we low-balled, that's fo sho.)

I'll let you know.  Don't want to jinx anything, so I'm not going to post a picture and I'm going to try really hard to stop driving by it every single day and referring to it as "my new house."

In other news, I'm going to have to deal with moving, which totally sucks ass.

Think happy housey thoughts, everybody.  I'll let you know!

Badmin

1.  There is this lady.  She's not a client, she's like... a frenemy, I guess, of our boss.  She comes to our work, and brings her dog with her.  Her dog.  To our work.  Truth be told, it's a cute dog, but my favorite time is when that little dog runs into one of the manager's office and he kicks the dog.  She hasn't been in in a long time, but she called on Friday, tied me up for about 40 minutes.

I'm not terribly busy today, just not in the mood for that level of crazy, so when she called, I just dumped her on my boss.  Sorry, boss person.  I'm evil.

40-some-odd minutes later, my boss gets off the phone.  "Sarah, you are evil."

Told you so.

2.  I miss our temp.  She called me princess and made me coffee.  For some reason, she TOTALLY thought I was the boss of her, which I am TOTALLY not.  But whatever.  Meanwhile, we have hired a new McBaseball McSalesMcManager, and I AM the boss of him.  Only I'm not.  But nobody has told him that, so let's just keep that to ourselves, shall we?

Here's what I like about HM (ie, Hottie McBaseball).  He is a slob.  He carries crap everywhere, and leaves it wherever it lands.  I like the whole Pig Pennishness and I like that I can just collect his crap and bring it to him periodically.  No idea why this all amuses me, but it does.

Good times.

3.  I'm supposed to do the following this week:  a) find a photographer.  b) order Christmas cards.  c) re-write my boss's self-review (I know.  Seriously.).  I intend to do these things at, like, 4pm on Friday.

4.  I knitted a sweater.  This is not work-related, except in that I will wear it to work, if I can get it to shrink a little bit.

5.  Also un-work-related, but YES I DID make everybody at my work enjoy it - - - last night, the baby and I spent several minutes recording ourselves singing pop songs in the correct (ish) tune, but with only the word "meow."  "Meow, meow, meow meow meowwww meow..."  THAT is ART, people.

6.  Football is here!!!!!!  I wore purple.  With gold.  Hottie McBaseball, who went to ama-bay, wore burgandy pants with tiny little gray "A's."  Imagine.  I love the football.  I do NOT love the LSU team who thinks it is fun to jerk my cold dry little heart around.  Of course, I AM lying.  I DO love the LSU.  They just try really hard to give me a heart attack.  GRACIOUS.

And such is life.  Happy times.

Hottie McBaseball's At-Work-BFF

We hired a new Sales Manager at work.  This guy is mid-twenties, used to play pro baseball, and is 6'7".  He shall, therefore, be hereafter called "Hottie McBaseball."  For good reason.

So.  Hottie McBaseball started last week.  I began the process of acclimatizing him, teaching him how my workplace functions.  I, being the world's greatest employee, know the ins and outs of his job (of course I do) and only I am able to show him how to do it.  Because that's how I roll.

So that's fun.

But anyway.

He gets a work cell phone.  His predecessor had the same number, and so, when she left, oh, six months or so ago, I forwarded the work cell phone number to my cell phone.  So as to not miss any calls.

I forgot that I did that, though.  And this weekend?

Hottie McB's brother called.  Who sounds like Junior Hottie McBaseball on the phone.

So I sent Hottie McBaseball (sr) a text message:

"Hi!  Sorry.  Your phone number is forwarded to my phone number.  To un-forward, just dial *73, and follow the prompts."
"oh, and your brother wants you call him."

Good times.

Kryate Mom (including unicorn washer.)

First of all, let's talk about my baby.  My baby keeps a diary.  Not a journal.  He gets mad if you say "journal."  It's a goddamn diary.  Get it straight.

In said dairy, he records random musings, lists of Nintendo games and the Skylanders characters he has, stuff like that.

Occasionally, he records the lyrics of a song he loves:

"I got a filling.  I got a filling that tonight is gongea be a good that tonight is goning a good good night."

That's a funny, funny boy, is that one.  Same little boy started second grade today, only he started it with a sour face, a bad attitude, a "sore froat," and frowns.  Poor little wookie:

Second grade is going to suck.  And you made me carry my crap in a WalMart bag.

Oh, the joys of elementary school.

Same kid decided he does not want to do soccer this year, and that's fine, since his mother is not GIANTLY in love with sitting at the soccer field, being eaten alive by bugs, while wearing work clothes, and either freezing her tiny little bohonkus clean off, or boiling alive.  Because, in Louisiana, we play soccer in the winter (that's approximately 6 weeks), and in the summer (the rest of the year.)

So, instead of soccer, I asked what he WOULD like to do.

"Kry-ah-te."  He said.  "Karate?" I asked.  "Yes.  They wear cool unicorns."

Awesome.  So, my future ninja jedi has now been enrolled in Tae Kwon Do, which he will continue to call "Kryahte," and where he will get to wear a unicorn.  When it comes in.  In the meantime, he did have a private lesson.  All he remembers is that he is supposed to say "Yes, ma'am," and "No, sir," to the instructors, and he will not remember to actually say either of those things, but he WILL BE UNICORNED, DAMMIT.

I can already kick like that.

He looks like that scene in Karate Kid II (should that be Kryahte Kid II?)

Watch your nuts!

Very much on the way to falling down.  

Oh, the fun times I shall have, sitting in that Dance Moms Room in the back, behind the glass, with lady-on-her-cell-phone and various toddlers.  Oh, the fun times indeed. 

In other news, I'm a running machine, a freaking boss.  I run like the wind.  On a still day.  Well, but anyway, you get my point.  I'm running at least five days/week, sometimes six.  I'm running at least 2-4 miles per run.  The time I tried for 5, well, that was a big suck, but whatever.  It's 100 degrees here.  Seriously.  Not like, "it feels like 100 degrees," it IS 100 degrees.  And so, running ONE mile is muthafuckingrockstar material.  Right?  Right.

Here's a "before" picture from the Worst Race Ever:

Heyyyyy, cutie skinny pink girl in the middle!  Holllaaaaaa for a dolllllaaaaa!

What made it the Worst Race Ever, you ask?

Let's just say...  it was NOT the alligator:

Swear to God, there is an alligator in this picture.

Although the alligator was noted to be "aggressive," and apparently came up on the bank at one point, but not too many people were around.

Nope, not the alligator.  Also, not that I was beaten by two friends who Hardly Run Ever (fuckers) (but really, good for them) (but still, fuckers.)

Nope.

The problem was that, about a mile into the race, which was a trail race, of course, through a swamp, the rain started.  Hard.

And my shoes weren't awesome on slippery grass, anyway, so I was sliding everywhere.  And then, oh, about a 1/2 mile from the end of the race, I FELL ON MY ASS HARD. 

Yep.  That's it.

A nice guy that I was ahead of (GUY.  AHEAD OF.) stopped to make sure I was okay (I was.)  I finished the race (vs. staying in the swamp and crying.), and there were pork barbecue sandwiches (boom), but then one of my friends kind of made fun of me for being both: a) filthy, and b) a fucking crybaby (NOTE:  I DID NOT CRY), and so I was miserable.  And I couldn't leave because this was the time when they were giving out beer steins to people who had completed the series, which I had, and I NEED BEER STEINS.

So.  Worst race.  Ever.

But I got a beer stein!

And, despite being accused of being older than 40 yesterday, it's clear from the "before" picture above that I'm a fucking hottie.

So there, people.

And I still think the alligator was a cutie.